by Brenda Joyce
“Don’t let her get away!” Mary shouted wildly.
Francesca ran through a dark and unlit dining room and into a brightly lit kitchen. She heard Randall curse and set chase. The maid who had answered the door earlier was drying plates and putting them in a cupboard. “Help! Call the police! They have murdered their father!” Francesca shouted at the stunned girl, dashing across the kitchen.
Bill Randall was just entering the room, Mary behind him. “There’s nowhere to go, Miss Cahill!” he shouted.
There was a back door. Francesca was on her way to it when it crossed her mind that the yard out back might be closed off and she would truly be trapped if she went outside. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw several cast-iron pots and pans on the stove. She did not even think. She grabbed one, whirled, and struck out at Bill Randall, who was directly behind her, as hard as she could.
The fry pan hit him squarely on one side of the face, and the blow halted him in his tracks.
Their eyes met, his wide with shock.
And then he collapsed to the floor.
“You have killed him!” Mary screamed from the dining room doorway.
Francesca thought she might be right, but never mind that now. Clutching the big heavy iron pan, she looked up from the unconscious, or dead, man sprawled at her feet. Mary faced her, yards away, as white as a sheet. The housemaid had disappeared, Francesca hoped to scream her lungs out for the police. Mary and Francesca stared at each other. Neither moved.
A rigid silence fell.
Francesca knew she had to do something, but what? She elevated the pan threateningly as a plan occurred to her. “Do not move. Or you shall be next.”
Mary remained frozen.
Francesca wondered how long she could hold the heavy pan in such a manner, and she also did not think she could actually hit Mary with it—the girl remained just barely out of reach. But Mexican standoffs could be broken. She said, “See if your brother is dead.”
“No,” Mary said. Her tone was ice-cold. “Do you take me for a fool, Miss Cahill?”
“No,” Francesca said, not quite calmly, “I take you for a ruthless murderess.”
Mary smiled. “How clever you are. But can you prove it? And will you?”
Francesca wet her lips. “I don’t think I will have to.”
“I shall never confess,” Mary returned, her eyes glittering. And she reached into her bodice.
Somehow, Francesca knew a small derringer was there. And as Mary pulled the dainty but deadly pistol out, Francesca heaved the cast-iron pan. The gun went off, the pan struck Mary’s temple, and the girl crumbled at Francesca’s feet.
Francesca cried out, swaying uncontrollably from the momentum of her blow.
Francesca stared down at them both. She began to shake. Oh, God. Had she killed them both?
Someone groaned. It was Bill Randall. And then Mary tried to get onto her hands and knees, but she failed, collapsing once again.
Henrietta appeared in the kitchen doorway. She looked at her daughter and son, both lying in a heap on the floor, and burst into tears.
“It is over, Henrietta,” Francesca said, as kindly as possible. “I know you were trying to protect Mary, but she must pay for her crimes.”
“I never wanted to hurt anybody!” Henrietta cried. “But dear God, something is wrong with my daughter, terribly so.”
Francesca agreed silently with that—in fact, something was wrong with everyone in the Randall family—but she did not voice her opinions aloud. Instead, as Bill stirred again, she tightened her grasp on the frying pan when there was a movement in the opposite doorway. She looked up and her gaze locked with Bragg’s.
His golden eyes were wide and riveted upon the kitchen scene—upon her.
Just in the nick of time, she managed to think, lowering the pan at long last.
Behind him stood several officers. Relief flooded her now. “I have found your killer, Bragg,” she said.
Slowly, looking at the heap of humanity at her feet and then back at her face, he smiled. “Yes, I can see that,” he said. And then his expression changed. “Jesus, Francesca! You are bleeding!”
She looked down, saw red, and realized he was right.
TWENTY-TWO
Francesca realized that she had rubbed her wrists raw in the process of freeing herself. But before she could tell Bragg that she was fine, he was at her side, holding her hand up so he could inspect it. He stared at the abrasions and then looked up. “I thought you had been shot,” he said grimly.
Francesca now saw Mary’s small gun lying on the floor, not far from where she had fallen. “No. I...” She hesitated.
“Thank God you are all right,” he said, his amber eyes on hers.
Her heart melted and sang all at once. “I am truly fine, Bragg,” she said softly. There was no mistaking his concern for her welfare. But then it flickered through her mind that his concern changed nothing and that Hart was right—they were star-crossed lovers now.
Randall’s murderer was about to be arrested. The crime had been solved. She had narrowly escaped God only knew what fate, and she was with Bragg. Her pleasure had been intense, and now it started to crumble, piece by piece and slowly.
His gaze did not waver. “You are going to tell me why you are here and what happened,” he said. “Of course.”
She smiled. “Of course.”
Bragg nodded to his men then. “Escort Bill and Mary Randall to headquarters. Put them in separate cells. There is to be no conversation between them.” He turned to Henrietta, who had sat down in a kitchen chair and was as white as a ghost. “Mrs. Randall, will you wait for me in the parlor? I am afraid we must speak.”
She nodded with resignation.
“Murphy, escort her, please.”
The burly detective went over to the plump woman, helped her to her feet, and guided her from the kitchen.
“They may need a physician,” Francesca remarked. Mary was moaning now, but she hadn’t moved.
“Undoubtedly,” Bragg said. Then, “How did you realize that the killer was Mary?”
“At first 1 thought it was Henrietta,” she said. “It was the way both Georgette and Anthony claimed their innocence. But after speaking with Henrietta, I realized she was innocent, too, and trying to protect her daughter. The giveaway was the glance she exchanged with Bill over Mary’s head when I was trying to speak with her. I realized they both sought to protect Mary. I also saw how frightened Mary was, and the truth was crystal clear.” She dreaded having to tell him everything that had happened that evening. But of course, she must.
Bill Randall was recovering consciousness, and two officers had him on his feet. Mary still lay prone. Briefly Francesca and Bragg turned to watch Bill being pushed and dragged out. He did give her an ugly look before he disappeared from view.
“You have made an enemy,” Bragg said flatly. “Francesca, this sleuthing penchant of yours will not do.”
“But I solved the case, Bragg,” she said with real satisfaction. Then, upon seeing his look, she added quickly, “With your help.”
“Of course.” He shook his head. “What happened to your wrists?”
Bill Randall was going to be charged for his efforts to conceal his sister’s crime. If Francesca did not tell Bragg what he had done to her, he would not be charged for assaulting her. “He hit me over the head, knocked me out, and tied me up,” she said lightly.
“What!” he exclaimed, a shout. His eyes were wide with shock.
She was wide-eyed with what she hoped was both nonchalance and innocence. She kept a bright smile in place. “But I am fine. As you can see. No worse for wear. Not at all.” She decided not to tell him that her head hurt and that she had to see a doctor.
“Francesca, you are not fine; your wrists are bruised and bleeding, and you could have been seriously hurt. Mary shot at you, too, did she not? I can smell it,” he said.
The acrid smell of the fired gun did hang in the air. Francesca was meek. �
��Well, you have jogged my memory. Yes, she did try to shoot me.”
“What am I going to do with you?” he cried. “How can I convince you to cease this crime-solving profession you have taken to?”
She met his gaze. He was so concerned for her welfare. She was fiercely—foolishly—glad. “Bragg, surely you agree that I am a good sleuth?”
“I refuse to agree,” he growled. “And if your wrists weren’t raw, I would grab them and shake some sense into you. Instead, I am directing you home. Put salve on them— at once.”
“Yes, Commissioner,” she said with a smile and what she hoped was a properly obedient tone.
“Am I amusing you?”
“Never,” she said. She hesitated, her eyes sparkling, and said, “We did it again, Bragg.”
He sighed.
Tuesday, February 4, 1902—2:00 P.M.
Francesca was on time for the lunch date she had made with her sister that following day, but Connie had arrived early and was already seated at their linen-clad table in the large high-ceilinged and elegant dining room of the Plaza Hotel. Connie smiled as Francesca sat down opposite her. She looked very well, stunning, in fact, and Francesca hoped it had something to do with the fact that she had returned home.
The restaurant was full, as it was well into the lunch hour. Francesca smiled at her sister. “You look so well. How is it possible? I could barely sleep all night—I am a wreck.” She had been thinking about the events of the evening, replaying them in her mind, and she had been thinking about Bragg.
“You appear a bit tired,” Connie said, her blue regard scanning her. Then she noticed the slight scabs forming on Francesca’s wrists. “Fran! What happened!”
“Con! Last night I found Randall’s killer!” Francesca exclaimed with a grin.
Several heads turned in their direction.
“You did?” Connie’s eyes widened with surprise. “Who was it? And what happened to your wrists?”
Francesca lowered her voice. “First of all, I am not going to tell you why my wrists are bruised, because you will tell Mama.”
Connie was taken aback. “That’s not fair.” Then, her eyes narrowing with suspicion, “What have you done?”
The truth was, Francesca was dying to tell Connie everything, including the fact that Bragg had a wife, albeit a horrid one. She leaned forward. “Swear on the Bible that you will not tell anyone.”
“You are so dramatic!” Connie complained. “All right. I shan’t tell a soul, not even Neil.”
Francesca took a good hard look at her sister, who realized what she had said and looked away. “How is Neil?” Francesca whispered.
Connie studied the napkin on her lap. “Fine.” She looked up, clearly not about to discuss her private life. “So? Why are you hurt?”
Francesca wanted to know more, but she would wait until Connie wished to tell her. “I am not really hurt.” Dr. Finney had examined her head and told her she was quite fortunate, as she did not have a concussion, just a small bump. Because Francesca had not wanted him to visit her at home, she had gone directly to his house from the Randalls’. Finney had been the family doctor ever since they had first moved to the city, and, still excited from the evening, Francesca had told him everything. He had sternly advised her to give up sleuthing, ordering her to rest for a few days.
Francesca quickly told Connie what had happened, the version an annotated one. Then, as her sister gaped at her speechlessly, “It will be in the afternoon papers, I am sure. Can you believe it was Mary? Apparently she went berserk when she learned he had a mistress, and she followed him to Miss de Labouche’s house and shot him right in the back of the head.”
Francesca was breathless. “That is premeditated, Con.”
Connie stared, ashen. “Fran, you could have been killed by that horrid Bill Randall!”
“I don’t think he would have gone that far,” Francesca said. “And then Mary went running to her brother, who had come home for the weekend, begging him to help her dispose of the body and hide her ghastly crime. But Miss de Labouche had already come to me, as I was leaving Stanford White’s party. As I had sent for the police, it was too late for Bill and Mary to get rid of their father’s corpse.” Francesca shook her head, excited even to be discussing the case. “Apparently they both hate their father, or at least his memory, as he has left them nothing in the way of an inheritance.”
“Good lord,” Connie said again. Then she reached out and clasped Francesca’s hand. “Please tell me that this is the end of your sleuthing?”
“How can it be!” Francesca cried passionately. “I am an excellent crime-solver. Even Bragg admitted that.”
Connie stared, anxiety written all over her face. Finally she sighed. “And how is your romance with our handsome and interesting police commissioner proceeding?”
Francesca sat back in her chair. Briefly, for a few minutes, she had somehow forgotten about Bragg’s wife and the fact that Bragg and she must now remain just friends. She thought about how upset he had been last night when he had thought she had been shot. She had not told Connie about that. She sighed. She still carried the pain of grief with her like a hand weight used by gymnasts and muscle men. “Bragg is married.”
Connie’s eyes popped. “What?!”
“Bragg is married; he has a wife.”
Connie sat there, stunned, and then she took Francesca’s hand from across the table. “Oh my God. And he has kept this a secret from society?” She was stricken, aghast.
And Fran felt her anguish surge forth, for it had only been buried, relegated to some deep hiding place within her. “He hasn’t seen her in four years, Con. She lives in Europe. They are separated, and they have been since the first few months of their marriage. There is no love between them.”
Connie squeezed her hand. “I am so sorry, Fran. I confess, 1 had no idea.... I am in shock.” Suddenly she flushed. “He is a terrible man! You would think he might have found a moment to tell you this, weeks ago, when the two of you first met!”
Francesca stiffened. “We were only friends, and we did not meet until January eighteenth. Neither one of us was looking for a romance.”
“You defend him now?” Connie was incredulous. “You should be angry, no, furious!”
Francesca did not hesitate. “We are still friends.” She was not going to tell her sister or anyone how painful the marriage was for Bragg or how awful his wife was. That was his private affair.
Connie stared. “No, Fran, you are still in love, and that will not do! The man is in politics. He will never divorce, so unless his wife suddenly dies, there is no hope. You must forget him now and move on.” She was firm.
“The way you have forgotten Neil?” The words just popped out.
Connie flushed. “That is different. We are married, and we have two children.”
“Love has many guises,” Francesca said, meaning it.
“Oh, God. You are the most stubborn person I know! I am afraid for you now!” Connie cried.
And deep in her own heart, Francesca was also afraid, for herself, for Bragg. Because the bond between them felt somehow stronger with every passing moment, not the other way. But she removed her hand from her sister’s, so she could pat Connie’s reassuringly. “Don’t worry about me. I am fine.”
Connie eyed her, then said, “Did you see the Sun this morning? Apparently he struck a reporter last night at police headquarters.”
Francesca had seen the article, and she was dying of curiosity and eaten with apprehension to know just what had transpired. Diverted from her own personal fate, she said, “I saw. I know the reporter. I am certain the article was a highly distorted version of the truth.”
“Yes. I cannot imagine Commissioner Bragg striking anyone. He is quite the gentleman—or so I thought, until today.”
“He is a gentleman,” Francesca said firmly. And he was, even though he had grown up on the Lower East Side in a tenement and had belonged to a gang. A few weeks ago she had seen him in a
brutal fight with the thug Gordino. Bragg was capable of losing his temper and his better judgment, and he knew how to fight with the most vicious sort. But that did not change the fact that he was a man of honor. Still, Francesca felt there was a bit of truth to the article, and she hoped, fervently, that if there was, it would not cost him his job.
“There was a suggestion in the article that the man who was attacked might sue,” Connie said.
“I know; I read it. Don’t you think we should order?” Francesca asked, worried about Bragg. Perhaps she would make a trip downtown to headquarters to find out what was happening now with the Randall case—and to learn what had really happened with that miserable Arthur Kurland.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” A familiar and oh, too sensual drawl caused Francesca to start and look up.
Calder Hart smiled at her and her sister, standing beside their table, a dashing figure in a dark gray business suit.
“Mr. Hart!” Connie cried, smiling as if very pleased to see him. “What an unexpected surprise.”
His gaze moved over her slowly, as if relishing the view, before he spoke. “And I do hope it is as pleasant for you as it is for me, Lady Montrose. You are, beyond a doubt, the loveliest woman in this dining room.”
Connie flushed. “How could it not be a pleasure to see you?” she murmured.
And Francesca looked from Hart’s smiling countenance to her sister’s blushing one and she was stunned. What was this?
And had Hart not noticed that the two sisters were almost identical? Indeed, strangers often assumed them to be twins!
“And you do flatter me overly, I fear,” Connie added.
“I am a connoisseur of many things, including beauty,” he remarked. He turned toward Francesca. “And how are you today, Francesca?”
She felt herself flushing as well. She stared at him. “Very well, thank you.”
“You look tired.” But his eyes were warm.
She did not rate the flattery her sister did? “I am tired.” Her expression felt mulish now.
