Francesca ran to Sarah, putting her arm around her. “Are you all right?” she demanded in return.
Sarah nodded, but she was trembling. “Mr. Hoeltz is dead. He murdered Hoeltz,” she gasped.
“Did you see it?” Bragg asked sharply.
Sarah shook her head negatively. “No, I did not. He was lying there dead when I arrived.” She shivered violently.
“He ruined my sister,” Neville said furiously. But he was beginning to sway precariously upon his feet from loss of blood. “He got what he deserved! They all did! Only you, Miss Cahill, escaped your just deserts.”
Bragg kicked him in the knee. Francesca was stunned as Neville collapsed in a heap, his face turning white, gasping for breath. Bragg crouched over him. “I intend to see to it that you get the electric chair,” he said, low. “You are finished, Neville. Finished.”
Everyone stared at Thomas Neville, who lay bleeding and handcuffed on the floor. Francesca was aghast.
“She’ll get hers. Whores always do,” he spat. Blood was in his spittle.
“Don’t!” Francesca cried, afraid Bragg would strike him again. His brutality stunned her—but she had seen it once before, on another case, when he had almost killed a thug named Gordino. But then, the life of a small boy had been at stake.
She rushed over to them both. “Tell me one thing,” she asked, kneeling over Neville, who seemed close to passing out. “How did you think to frame Hoeltz for it all?”
“I made him write a confession and a suicide note,” Neville choked. He was choking on his own blood. He was dying.
“But he was in jail when I was attacked,” Francesca said.
Neville met her gaze. “. . . didn’t. . . . know.”
Francesca straightened. “He needs medical attention.”
Bragg simply looked at her.
“He’s dying!” she cried.
“Do you care?” he asked.
“Where is Melinda?” Francesca whispered to Neville, not moving any closer, and shocked at Bragg’s hard and cruel response.
Neville’s gaze shuttered.
“Where is Melinda?!” Francesca cried.
Bragg dragged him to his knees by his coat collar. “Is she alive? Where is she, you sonuvabitch!”
“In the basement,” he gasped. “I’ve been keeping her in the basement here, all this time, right under Hoeltz’s nose.”
Francesca did not wait to hear any more. She ran across the room and through the first exhibition hall. As she left the gallery, she saw Inspector Newman and Brendan Farr coming up the stairs. Her gaze locked with Farr’s. His gaze was ice-cold.
“It’s Neville. He’s in cuffs, but he is dying,” she said. “He needs a doctor.”
She rushed past the two men and down to the basement level. The door there was padlocked. She rattled it wildly. “Melinda? Miss Neville? Can you hear me? Are you in there?”
“Yes! Oh, God, help me! I am a prisoner here!” the other woman cried frantically.
Suddenly Bragg was at her side. “Stand back,” he said.
She stepped aside instantly and he jammed his body shoulder-first into the door. The door snapped open, the chain of the padlock instantly breaking. Francesca rushed past him and in the shadows of the cellar saw the small dark-haired woman tied to a chair.
Melinda began to cry.
Francesca rushed to her and held her while Bragg untied her bonds.
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 1902—6:00 P.M.
Francesca walked into Bragg’s office, followed by Bragg. She hung her coat on a wall peg, tossed her gloves on his desk, and turned anxiously to study him. He was hanging up his own tan greatcoat.
“Let me do that!” she cried, rushing to him.
He smiled weakly—pained—at her. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.
She took his coat and hung it up. He had finally been treated at the St. Francis Hospital, and now his right arm was in a sling, his shoulder bandaged beneath his bloody shirt. The bullet had lodged itself in a fleshy area just beneath his collarbone, and it had taken almost an hour to remove it and sew the wound up. Bragg looked terrible and not simply exhausted. His face remained garishly white, he had stubble of growth on his jaw, and deep lines of pain were etched about his mouth and eyes. The wound might not have been a life-threatening one, but the procedure had been a surgical one, he had lost some blood, and he had been advised to go home and rest for several days to prevent the onset of infection.
Neville had also gone to St. Francis, but he had died shortly after arriving there.
Francesca took Bragg’s arm. “You should go home. Why don’t I drop you off in a cab?”
He shook his head. “I want to make a preliminary report while today’s incident remains fresh in my mind.”
“Oh, Rick. It can wait,” she said, wanting nothing more than to see him home and resting in his bed.
He smiled a little at her, went to his desk, opened a drawer, and produced a bottle of Scotch whiskey and a glass. He poured, his hand unsteady. “Thank God Melinda Neville is alive. Traumatized, but alive.”
Francesca wished he would offer her a scotch. “I feel so terribly for her,” she said. Melinda had broken down in grief upon learning of Hoeltz’s murder. Francesca had tried to comfort her the best that she could, but it had been impossible. A police officer had taken Melinda to a friend’s after she had given her statement. Apparently, other than to terrorize her, her brother had not harmed her. Melinda, however, was convinced that he had ultimately intended to murder her.
Bragg sank down into his chair, looking on the verge of collapse.
Francesca quickly moved behind his desk, beside him. “A report can wait,” she said urgently. “You are in pain! You lost blood! They had trouble finding the bullet; you were in surgery for almost an hour! Please, Rick.”
He stared up at her. “Why are you calling me Rick now?”
She hesitated. “Because we have both made our choices.”
He was silent, staring.
His door flew open. Francesca was expecting an officer, but Leigh Anne rushed in, her face devoid of all color, her eyes wide with fear. “A newsman told me! Rick, are you all right?”
He straightened, his eyes on his wife. “I am fine.”
Francesca’s heart turned over, hard, with sudden anguish. As Leigh Anne rushed over to Bragg, apparently stunned by his bloody shirt, Francesca stepped away from him. She could not look away from the domestic scene she was witnessing.
“You are coming home this instant!” Leigh Anne exclaimed in a burst of anger.
“I have work to do.” But he did not look away from her.
“You always have work to do! You can do it in the morning! You’re hurt and you’re coming home.” She was so upset that two bright spots of pink colored her cheeks—and tears welled in her eyes.
Francesca sighed, surprised by how sad she suddenly felt and reminding herself that this was as it should be. Rick Bragg needed to give his wife another chance. That much was so very clear. A real chance. A chance to win his heart one more time.
“Why didn’t you send for me when you were on the way to the hospital?” Leigh Anne suddenly cried. “I’m your wife! I should have been at your side!”
“You haven’t been at my side for four years,” Bragg said dryly.
Francesca turned away just as Peter appeared in the doorway. She smiled at the big Swede. “I think Bragg might need some help getting home,” she said softly.
Peter nodded.
“Peter! Help Rick with his coat. He is going home and that is that,” Leigh Anne said, and finally she looked at Francesca.
Francesca could not smile. “The wound was not a serious one,” she said. “He will be fine in a few days.”
Leigh Anne stared at her, and then, as Peter retrieved Bragg’s coat as Bragg gulped down his scotch, she started toward Francesca. Francesca tensed. Leigh Anne faced her grimly. “Thank you for all that you did today on my husband’s behalf,” she said, her emerald
green gaze holding Francesca’s. It did not waver. It was earnest.
Francesca somehow twisted her lips into a smile. “He is my friend,” she said.
Leigh Anne studied her closely. “I am beginning to see that.”
Francesca could not speak.
Leigh Anne turned and raced back to Bragg, who was now on his feet, his coat draped around his shoulders, and instructing Peter to take several files from his desk. She did not look pleased to see that he was taking his work home. “God, we have to get that bloody shirt off of you!” she cried.
“It looks worse than it is, really,” Bragg said. His gaze moved past his wife and to Francesca. His regard was also sad, and it was searching.
Francesca turned away and walked out.
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 24, 1902—9:00 A.M.
“Thank you, Ellie,” Francesca said as the beaming woman placed a tray of hot chocolate and still-steaming pastries on the table before the window.
“My pleasure, madam,” Ellie said.
“Please, ‘Miss Cahill’ is fine,” Francesca returned, still in a simple cotton nightgown and a pretty floral wrapper. Bette had finished drawing open every single drapery in the room, and now the young maid began fussing over the table Ellie had just set, placing the single rose in its bud vase first in the center, then to the side.
“Thank you, Bette,” Francesca said, clasping her shoulder. “You needn’t fuss so.”
Bette said, “She forgot your orange juice, Miss Cahill. I will bring it right away!” She glared at Ellie and rushed from the room.
Ellie’s happy face fell. She looked aghast.
Francesca went to her. “Actually, I do not need any juice today. You have done a wonderful job, Ellie. One would think you had been employed in this house your entire adult life.”
“Really?” Ellie was hopeful, her eyes uncertain but shining.
Francesca nodded and escorted Ellie out. Then she leaned against her bedroom door, extremely thoughtful.
She had not slept at all last night.
Last night, with the Case of the City Strangler solved, she had spent every restless moment thinking the unthinkable, fighting the urge to do the unthinkable.
She quickly walked over to the breakfast table so prettily set up in her bedroom and sat down, sipping her hot chocolate and staring out across the white, frozen lawns that swept away to Fifth Avenue. The snow was beginning to melt. The avenue had become slushy, ice turning to mud and water, and the passing carriages and coaches sent up sprays of slush. What if?
She was so scared. Hart’s handsome image with his sardonic eyes haunted her mind. Other images followed, a tormenting and teasing kaleidoscope—Hart and Daisy, Hart in his office, Hart on his knees, cradling her face in his hands.
She set her cup down and hugged herself. She was fatally attracted to him; there was no more denying that. Call her a fool then, as were hundreds of other women, but she had spent most of last night recalling his taste, his touch, and wishing desperately to be in his arms. How she had wanted to unburden herself and tell him all that had happened and how they had solved the case. And they were friends. They were good friends, even if they did not have very much in common.
Friendship and passion were not the worst basis for a marriage.
She shivered, amazed that she had been contemplating doing what she had promised herself she would never do with any man.
She reminded herself that she did not love him.
The man she loved—the man she would always love—belonged to another woman, and rightfully so. In fact, Francesca was certain now that Leigh Anne really loved Rick Bragg. Her fear for him yesterday had proven that. And Francesca so wanted him to be happy, and she wondered if, given time, he and Leigh Anne might not find happiness together. He deserved happiness. No one deserved it more. And the more Francesca thought about it, the more she felt that she must intrude and encourage him to give his wife a second chance at his love.
But for him to have that chance at genuine happiness, she must stay far away from him. As sad as that thought was, she knew too much affection remained between them, and it would hurt his chances for a real reconciliation. They would remain friends, but even their platonic relationship had already changed. After all, she was a woman and he was a man, and now Leigh Anne had turned a relationship of two into a far more complicated affair.
If she married Hart, it would be so much easier to attain a more casual and less threatening friendship with Bragg.
Her cheeks heated. So did every inch of her body. Hoping to disengage oneself from a former love interest was a terrible reason to marry.
But Connie was right. Hart would, eventually, marry. Francesca didn’t even have to think about it to know that she would be terribly jealous and furious when he did.
Would it really be so bad to become Hart’s wife?
Hart wasn’t a reformer, he did not give a whit about politics, and Francesca knew all of his donations went to museums and libraries. She felt quite confident that he would donate as she asked him to, and while there was nothing wrong with charities involving the arts, she felt strongly that the poor should be taken care of first. Still, there would be no political debates, no political fund-raisers, and he would never share her burning desire to change the world.
Perhaps it was a terrible match, she mused, her heart sinking. Because it was a match that would be made for a lifetime.
And what about the day that must eventually come, when his eye wandered to another younger, prettier woman? If they had the bonds of love there between them, that day would not be threatening. Without those bonds, Francesca knew she would be terribly hurt by any disloyalty or worse on his part.
Of course, she did not have to make a decision now or at any time in the near future.
But she was trembling with fear and anticipation, with trepidation and excitement.
“Fran? Thank God you are up!” Connie cried, racing into the room.
Francesca had been reaching for her hot chocolate, which she almost spilled. “Con? What a wonderful surprise!” She could hardly believe her sister was up and fully dressed and it was only nine in the morning. Not only that; she was wreathed in smiles. In fact, she was flushed, her eyes sparkling—and Francesca instantly became suspicious.
Connie closed the bedroom door and grinned. “I thought you should be the first to know. Neil and I are taking a holiday.”
Francesca prayed that what she was thinking was true. “What?”
Connie laughed, the sound happy. “We have decided to go up to Newport for a long weekend. But we shall go to Paris in the spring.”
Francesca began to smile. “Connie, it’s frigidly cold out. No one goes to Newport in the winter.”
“We are. We shall bring fur throws and knit socks and our skis and we will drink hot cider and roast marshmallows and do other things.” She laughed.
“You have reconciled!” Francesca cried, rushing to her.
Connie nodded and they embraced, clinging and rocking. “I am so in love,” she whispered when they drew apart.
Francesca put her arm around her. “I can see that. I am so happy for you. Connie, Neil adores you. He always has. He always will.”
“I think so, too.” She was beaming. “Anyway, we will leave town on Wednesday. Can you help me shop? I think I need some wool breeches and some very heavy sweaters.”
Francesca raised her eyebrows at her. “That’s all?”
Connie turned a delicate shade of pink. “Well, I was also thinking of something French and lacy and sheer.”
“I will definitely help you shop,” Francesca laughed.
When he awoke, he was surprised to find himself in a nightshirt in his bed, his entire right shoulder and side, almost down to his waist, throbbing in pain. The curtains were slightly parted and he could see that it was late in the day. And as he struggled to sit up, the events of the previous day flashed through his mind. He had been shot, but the City Strangler was dead and the case was finally off
icially closed.
Leigh Anne suddenly came into the room, an angelic vision in a rose gown, impossibly gorgeous, somehow appearing innocent and demure. He stiffened. She was carrying a tray with a covered bowl, and the savory aroma of chicken soup drifted to him. She smiled at him. “You’re finally awake.”
He panted with the effort of sitting, every small movement burning his shoulder, his arm. What new act was this? “What time is it? Why didn’t you wake me!” He was dismayed; he had work to do—more than a single man’s share—for it was Monday.
Her smile faded as she set the tray down on the small nightstand by his bed. “Rick, it’s almost four o’clock. Finney wanted you kept on laudanum for the pain. He wanted you to rest. I want you to rest.”
He turned to stare at her, angry and incredulous, both at once. “I have work to do,” he gritted. “How dare you interfere with my duties?”
She stiffened. “That is not fair.”
“Very little in life is fair,” he snapped, wishing she might disappear from his room, his home, his life. She thought to coddle and care for him now? It was a bit late. Four years too late, in fact. “I am going to work,” he said, managing to stand. He gritted against the stabbing pain in his shoulder and upper chest. It felt like a knife, and a hundred times worse than yesterday. Then, he supposed, he had been in shock and oblivious to the extent of his wound.
“No,” she said firmly. “You are not going to the office today.”
He had misheard. He turned and faced her. “Excuse me?”
“You are staying in bed,” she said firmly but breathlessly, her eyes wide and locked with his. She appeared vulnerable now. He hoped she was frightened of him—as she well should be. For he felt like bodily ejecting her from his room.
“You dare to tell me what to do?” he asked very softly—dangerously.
She nodded. “Yes, I do. Finney says you are to stay home and in bed for three days—at least.”
“Like hell,” he snarled.
“You’re hurt!” she cried.
“Not that hurt. I have work to do. Or have you forgotten the extent of my responsibilities?” He stalked past her, flinging open the armoire.
Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] Page 34
