by Brenda Joyce
"Do knock and come in," Bragg remarked calmly.
Lucy flushed and entered. "I did knock, Rick. Aren't you happy to see me?" She moved to him and tugged his arm into hers and kissed his cheek. "I miss you and I thought to drag you to lunch." She smiled at Francesca. "Hello, Fran. So, the two of you are on a new case?" she asked with open eagerness.
Bragg said flatly, "Francesca is not on a case."
Francesca turned to him. "Actually, Mrs. Channing has hired me to find the ruffian who did this, Bragg."
"Do not tell me you are taking this case! You do not even have the use of both hands!"
"I already have, Bragg," Francesca said calmly. "How could I not? Sarah is miserably upset. This is her life and she is a friend of mine! Besides"—she softened and touched his sleeve—"how dangerous could this be? Someone attacked her studio, not her. For all we know, other artists have suffered the same violation. In fact, I think we should find out if there have been any other similar attacks in the city."
"I do not want you on any case, especially not now," Bragg said dangerously.
"I could not refuse. I know I can help. I promise to stay out of harm's way!" Francesca cried.
He stared at her; she stared back.
"I want to help," Lucy said, apparently fascinated.
"Absolutely not." Bragg whirled. Then he glared at Francesca. "She is worse than you. Trouble is her middle name. Besides, her husband would kill me—Apache style—should anything happen to her."
Lucy grinned. "That means a very slow death with lots of torture," she said happily.
Francesca smiled back at Lucy, although secretly she was intrigued with the notion of having her as a sidekick. "I actually have an assistant. He is a cutpurse who is eleven years old and he has been invaluable to me thus far, as he knows every inch of the city. His name is Joel."
Lucy was wide-eyed. "So you have really made this your work?"
Francesca smiled and opened her purse. Her smile vanished as she stared at the carefully folded white note that was tucked inside beside her tiny derringer, a candle, matches, a notepad, a lead pencil, some cash, and her calling cards.
"Fran?"
She inhaled and reached inside for a calling card. As she handed it to Lucy, she glanced at Bragg, consumed with fresh guilt.
Why was she so afraid to tell him about the note? He was the most understanding man she knew.
"Oh my," Lucy said on a breath. She looked up. "What a wonderful calling card. I should be intrigued if I did not know you! I would hire you instantly, too."
"Thank you," Francesca said, pleased.
Bragg made a sound very much like a groan. "Francesca, I cannot prevent you from taking on Mrs. Channing as a client. But I can ask you not to do so."
She stared. The world seemed to have stopped turning in that moment. "Please do not."
He hesitated. "If I did, what would you say?"
Her heart hurt her now. "I could not turn my back on a friend in need," she managed, stricken. She added silently, Please, do not make me choose.
"I see." He turned away from her, but there was no mistaking his expression. It was resigned, hurt, angry, and some-how he had made her make a choice. She stared. How had their happiness dissolved so quickly?
Should she turn down Sarah and Mrs. Channing? But how could she! Sarah was grief-stricken. Someone, clearly, wanted to hurt her—someone was so angry! "This isn't fair, Bragg," she whispered, agonized, to his back.
"Is life fair?" he asked darkly, whirling to stare at her.
She thought about his wife. "No."
"You must do as you will, Francesca. I do not control you, nor do I wish to," he said.
But he was angry, displeased. Francesca did not know what to do now. "I cannot bear it when I have so upset you," she said softly, in that moment forgetting that they were not alone.
He then sighed as if resigned to the inevitable and looked at his sister. "I have appointments all afternoon. And as you can see, a matter has cropped up which I should personally attend. I am afraid that lunch is not a possibility."
"I understand," Lucy said softly. Then, "Do not be too hard on Fran, Rick. She is an extraordinary woman. You should be proud of her."
His jaw flexed. Clearly he felt that the cat was out of the bag with his sister, for he said, "I am proud of her." He turned to Francesca, and he remained unsmiling. "I am going over there now, but in an unofficial capacity. I do not have time right now for another investigation, unless the situation is dire." Their eyes held and she knew he was thinking about the Cross Murders. That had been dire indeed. "Then I shall speak with Inspector O'Connor."
Francesca wasn't pleased with the sound of that. She so wanted to work with Bragg again on this investigation. "Shall I tell you what I have thus far learned?"
He finally smiled, taking his greatcoat off of a wall peg. "Actually, I was going to offer you a lift to wherever it is that you are going. You can tell me what you have discovered as we ride uptown." His regard was once again affectionate. "For I have little doubt you already have a lead or two."
She moved to him and touched his hand. "Thank you, Bragg." Then she turned. "I will accept your lunch invitation," she said.
Their eyes met. Lucy understood, and her expression was amazingly innocent. "How wonderful," she said.
"Where is Peter?" Francesca asked as Bragg drove carefully through the traffic heading uptown on Sixth Avenue. An elevated train thundered past one avenue over as they crept forward, jammed between two omnibuses and a trolley.
"At the house." Bragg looked at her. "The nanny whom your mother found is Mrs. Flowers, and unfortunately, she wears the most absurd and oversize flowers on her hat. That gave me the instant impression that she is rather silly and would be generally ineffective and useless. I asked Peter to remain behind today as I had the feeling he would be very much in demand." He sighed. "I was also afraid to leave Mrs. Flowers alone with the children."
Francesca winced and looked back at Lucy, who rode in the backseat of the Daimler, and had she been a horse, her ears would have been pricked forward. "Bragg is fostering two orphans. Their mother was murdered by a lunatic. My mother just found him a nanny," she explained.
Lucy said, "This is amazing."
Bragg glanced briefly back at her. "Not a word. They are pure mischief, a constant headache, and it is a temporary situation."
"I see," Lucy said, her fine red brows arched. "My brother loves children," she remarked.
"I would have never guessed," Francesca quipped.
Bragg shot her a look. "I was expecting to have my own children in the house, not two orphans, one of whom piddles wherever she pleases, the other who refuses to eat."
"Oh my," Lucy said, smothering a laugh. "How ever did you arrange this?"
"I begged," Francesca said, but she was not smiling, because Bragg was grim and she just knew he was thinking about the fact that he would never have children now. He had told her so himself. He despised his wife that much.
"How did you determine when the attack on Sarah's studio took place?" Bragg asked, finally driving past the trolley and quite obviously changing the topic. Now two horse-drawn carriages blocked their way. Traffic was heavy for a Saturday.
"They returned at half past ten on Thursday from an evening out," Francesca said quickly. "Sarah went back to her studio until ten past midnight." She grimaced a little, thinking about the fact that Sarah had been arranging the composition of her portrait for Calder Hart. "Sarah discovered the disaster this morning at five-fifteen, which is the time she usually begins work. The staff sleep on the fourth floor; a single doorman was on. I have already spoken to Harris, the doorman, who has been with the Channings for six years. He did not fall asleep, and he did not see or hear anything."
"Have you spoken to the rest of the staff?" Bragg asked. The park had appeared on their right. It was brilliantly white with snow, and numerous sleds could be seen on a distant hill where both children and adults were enjoying the
afternoon. Two riders were cantering across the Great Lawn, and numerous pedestrians were strolling on the track.
"There was no time," Francesca said. "I thought I should go to you directly."
"Does Sarah have any suspicions as to who the culprit might be?"
"No. She says she has no enemies. There is one other idea I have had."
"Do tell."
"She says she doesn't know the names of most of the staff; as she is always either in her studio or wandering about thinking about her work. Perhaps a servant misinterpreted her manner as being insulting and rude; perhaps a servant was deranged enough to decide to vandalize her studio."
"A servant would certainly have easy access," Lucy remarked.
Bragg and Francesca turned to look at her. She smiled at them both.
Then Lucy said, "But what about a jilted debutante? If your brother is a catch, I would not be surprised if we found out that some spoiled young woman had become furiously angry over such a lost opportunity, enough so to attack Sarah's studio."
He raised a brow at her. "If we found out?"
Lucy grinned. "If the two of you found out."
"You and Evan should put your heads together and see what comes up," Bragg said to Francesca. "Evan could prove very helpful in this instance."
She smiled at him. "I think we shall do just that."
"Perhaps there is a displeased client," Bragg remarked.
Francesca stiffened.
He looked at her, pausing for a group of gay, laughing pedestrians, young men and women, all with skates slung over their shoulders. "Well?"
She hesitated and, oddly, gave Lucy a nervous glance.
"What is it?" he asked, driving forward.
"She really has no clients. Sarah has not sold her art." She wet her lips. "Yet."
He gave her a long look.
She faced him. "Do not be angry!" she cried.
"I shall try not to be. What is it that you are not telling me?"
"I had nothing to do with this," she warned.
Suddenly he pulled over to the curb, a bit forceful on the brake. "Oh, ho. Let me guess. Hart is involved in this!"
Her heart lurched and fell. Then it beat like a drum. "Bragg, he isn't really involved."
"Why are you white?" he demanded.
"All right! He is Sarah's client. Her only one. Recently, he commissioned a painting from her!" she cried, praying he would not ask about the commission, yet knowing he would find out, sooner or later, and she had better tell him the truth.
Bragg stared at her. "That's it?"
She hesitated, licked her lips, and nodded. "Not exactly."
He waited.
She closed her eyes, wishing she could disappear, at least for a moment or two. But then, none of this was her fault. She turned and looked at him. "I had nothing to do with this—really."
"Somehow, I doubt that."
"The painting Hart commissioned? It is a portrait." She swallowed. "Of me."
Francesca trailed behind Bragg as he strode into the same large, over decorated salon that she had been in earlier. Lucy was at her side. Bragg hadn't said another word since he had learned of Hart's commission, much to Francesca's dismay. He was clearly angry. Lucy had tried to engage him in conversation, and his replies had consisted of monosyllables.
Now Francesca tore her gaze from his rigid shoulders and glanced at Lucy. The redhead gave her a soft, sympathetic smile, then leaned close and whispered, "Don't worry. I am sure things will work out. He is jealous."
Francesca tried to smile back and failed. Bragg had whipped around to glare at them, so she could not tell Lucy that he had nothing to be jealous of.
Mrs. Channing had led the way into the parlor, and now she sank into a huge, throne like chair, which dwarfed her. She had not stopped talking since they had arrived, and she was going on and on about how distressed Sarah was, how maddened someone must be, and why would anyone do such a thing?
"I do need to speak with Sarah," Bragg said firmly.
Mrs. Channing's hands fluttered nervously. "She is coming down, Commissioner. She has already been sent for." Tears filled her eyes. "My poor dear has been so happy. You know, with the engagement and all. And to have some madman come along and ruin it all this way!"
Francesca turned to Lucy. "The engagement to my brother was a recent one."
"How wonderful," Lucy said. "Shouldn't he be here?"
Francesca hesitated, wondering what to say. "He doesn't know what has happened," she finally said.
Lucy's look told her everything. She knew that the match was not about love.
"Have you employed anyone new recently?" Bragg was asking Mrs. Channing.
"No. We have had no change of staff this year, certainly not that I can remember."
"I should like a list of your entire household. With mailing addresses for everyone," Bragg said. "Both current and previous. I should also like for each servant to list his or her previous employment and spouses, if there are any."
Mrs. Channing blinked. "Oh."
Francesca understood. He wished to determine if any of the staff had suspicious or criminal backgrounds or connections. It would be a laborious task indeed.
"Commissioner?" Sarah said softly, from behind Francesca.
She turned. Sarah was terribly pale, but she had clearly composed herself, as her bearing was ramrod-straight. Her cousin, the Countess Bartolla Benevente, stood beside her, a flamboyantly beautiful auburn-haired woman clad in a gown more suitable for evening than day, with a huge sapphire necklace about her throat. Bartolla had her arm around Sarah. Tall and statuesque, the countess dwarfed the petite artist.
Bragg moved to her. "I am terribly sorry about this, Sarah," he said softly.
She nodded, fighting to keep her composure.
Bragg nodded at Bartolla politely. She smiled at him. "Good morning, Commissioner." She was a natural flirt, but Bragg had never seemed to notice. "Hullo, Francesca. I heard you were here earlier. How is your hand?"
Francesca kissed her cheek. "Much better, thank you." She had once thought to dislike Bartolla, but it had proved impossible, as she was a very daring and unusual woman, who courageously defied convention—in the most public manner. However, she had walked in on Francesca and Bragg while they were passionately entwined on the sofa at the Channing ball. She had assured Francesca that her secret was safe. Francesca was face-to-face with the other woman for the first time since that night. It was impossible to decide whether she could trust Bartolla or not. Just then, it was as if Bartolla had never caught her in a compromising position. Could she have forgotten?
Perhaps, Francesca thought, the incident was insignificant to her, as she was a wealthy widow and a woman of the world.
The notion was a comforting one.
However, Francesca had to stare at the auburn-haired woman. She and Leigh Anne Bragg were friends.
The countess had told her so.
But surely Bartolla had not said anything to Leigh Anne, as she was also Francesca's friend.
"Sarah, Bartolla, this is Bragg's sister, Lucy Savage. Bartolla is Sarah's cousin and an Italian countess," Francesca added, feeling rather as if she had been struck by an object right between the eyes.
At the Channing ball, Bragg had commented that Bartolla had not liked the attention Francesca was receiving. He had also said that she was not really a friend.
Francesca realized she must speak with the other woman and attempt to draw her carefully out.
Now Lucy smiled at Sarah, but when she turned to Bartolla her expression changed, closing instantly. Bartolla's smile had also vanished. The two women, both tall, both voluptuous, both impossibly beautiful, the one red-haired, the other auburn, looked at each other as if they had become two female cats, claws out, fur on end, fangs apparent. A silence fell.
Francesca looked from Lucy's cool expression to Bartolla's even colder one and thought, My God, they are both so stunningly beautiful, and they cannot stand each other because of it
. It was instant sheer dislike, a mutual hatred at first sight.
"Sarah? Have you had any new thoughts on the vandalism of your studio?" Bragg cut into the tension quietly.
Sarah shook her head. "I keep thinking about it. My mind seems to be going round and round in circles. I think of all the servants here, but I find it hard to believe that I have so offended someone in this house that he or she would take such extreme action against me. But now I also keep recalling the reception I have been receiving... since my engagement. Before the engagement, I was a bit like wallpaper. People would glance at me and then it was as if I were not even present. Now ladies are falling all over themselves to congratulate me on my good fortune, include me in then-conversation, and invite me to too many events to consider. I am beginning to wonder," Sarah said.
Bartolla moved to stand beside her. "She makes no demands. I have never seen anything like it. She fetches her own tea, her own mail; she forgets to ask for help when she is dressing; she gives her clothes to the housemaids.... She is always kind; she never loses her temper. The staff adore her, Commissioner."
But Francesca moved to Sarah and slid her arm around her small shoulders. "You wonder what?" she asked softly.
Sarah met her gaze. "It has been unreal. Surreal. A sea of smiles, stretched wide—and tight. Perhaps I am overwrought now, but I wonder if those smiles are merely that, a stretching of the mouth, a purely physical act, that has nothing to do with anything at all."
Francesca stared. "Are you saying that you think everyone around you is false?"
Sarah shrugged. "No one cared about me before; why should they suddenly care now? Perhaps there is a jealously maddened woman out there who is furious with my so-called good fortune."
Francesca looked at Bragg, and he returned her gaze. "I will speak to Evan immediately," she said. He was an incorrigible flirt. Perhaps he had misled a too-hopeful debutante.
"Please do. Shall we go down and take a look at your studio, Sarah?"
Sarah hesitated, once again extremely distressed. Finally, she nodded.
