by Brenda Joyce
Francesca fought to contain her temper. “If you wish to think Hart so immoral as to keep a mistress while engaged, so be it. But I find it hard to believe you have come all this way uptown to discuss Hart’s private affairs.”
“But that is exactly why I have come, Miss Cahill,” Kurland exclaimed. He was eager now. “Good lord, the man’s mistress—all right, his ex-mistress!—has been murdered. This smacks of being a true crime of passion. Hart wouldn’t be the first man to rid himself of an un wanted mistress.”
Francesca trembled, her fists clenched. “Did you come here to accuse my fiancé of murder?”
He sobered. “Nope. I came here to ask you how you feel about it—the murder, I mean, of such a rival.”
She inhaled. “Daisy was my friend,” she lied. “We were friends before I ever became engaged to Hart, and I am going to find her killer.” She still could not decide just how much Kurland knew. “But I do agree with you on one point. I saw the body. It was a vicious and brutal crime of passion.”
“You saw the body?” Kurland repeated eagerly.
Francesca was relieved. He obviously had no details of the murder. Of course, eventually he would uncover every detail, she had no doubt, but she would take all of the time that he could give her. “I found the body,” she said, then she corrected herself. “Actually, we found the body.”
Kurland whipped out a notepad and pencil. “We?” he echoed. “Surely you do not mean you and Hart?”
“I do,” Francesca said smoothly, although her cheeks felt hot. “Hart and I had been out to supper. He had some papers to drop off at Daisy’s. You surely know that she was living in a house he provided. In spite of the end of their affair, he had agreed she could stay on until July.”
“So I’ve heard,” Kurland said. “And at what time did you find Miss Jones?”
“It was about midnight.” Francesca described how she had found Daisy, but did not mention Rose’s presence. “We left the body and split up to look for the killer, but he or she was long since gone. When we returned, Rose was with Daisy.”
Kurland stared. “This is very interesting, indeed! And where did you say you had dinner?”
Francesca smiled. “It was a private affair.” She had no friends who lived downtown who would fabricate for her, but a maître d’ could be paid off. “We took a private room at Louis’,” she said, using the correct French pronunciation of the formal downtown restaurant.
Kurland suddenly smiled and shook his head. “So you are Hart’s alibi, and he is yours.”
“Excuse me?”
“Miss Cahill. Surely you must realize, with all of your vast experience, that you are as much a suspect as Hart?”
Francesca stared, her heart accelerating. “Just what are you trying to say?”
“I heard the rumor that Daisy’s body was discovered independently by Hart and by Rose Cooper. I have heard no whispers that you were with Hart, although I had been told you were at HQ last night, looking into the case.”
“I don’t know who your sources are,” Francesca said flatly, “but I would not rely too heavily on them. And no one has pointed a finger my way.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t imagine Bragg allowing that,” Kurland said with heavy significance. “But I bet he wouldn’t mind pointing the finger at your fiancé.” He grinned.
Unfortunately, Kurland had caught her and Bragg in a somewhat compromising situation, well before Leigh Anne had returned from Europe to reconcile with him. “I am not involved,” Francesca said. “You may think what you want, but in the end, the truth will out.”
“Yes, in the end, I will learn the truth—every grisly aspect of it.” Kurland slipped his notepad into his jacket. “I do appreciate your candor, Miss Cahill.” He tipped his fedora at her.
Francesca turned to walk him to the door. In the hall, he paused, and Francesca tensed.
“Of course, I have only just begun to dig,” he said. “And there is one more possible theory.”
“I’m sure there are many theories,” Francesca said.
“Perhaps you and Hart conspired to murder Miss Jones together?” he asked pleasantly.
“Hart has conspired to murder no one, Mr. Kurland, but if you wish to cast stones at me, so be it. I am not afraid of your slander,” Francesca said. She did not wait for the doorman, but jerked the heavy front door open herself. “Good day.”
“I hardly mean to upset you, Miss Cahill, but you and Hart had the most to gain from the death of his mistress.”
“Good day, Mr. Kurland.” She finally lost her compo sure and slammed the door closed in his face. Then she stood there, staring at the beautiful grain of chestnut-hued wood, her heart hammering hard and fast. Kurland would probably learn the real facts of the case by the end of the day. He might be scum, but he was a tenacious and skilled reporter. That did not give her much time to unearth a valid suspect. Francesca had little doubt that if she did not find someone other than Hart with motive and means, to morrow’s headlines would be very distasteful, indeed.
“Francesca!”
Francesca stiffened in disbelief. Her mother could not be standing behind her now. Although Julia was an early riser, she never left her rooms before eleven, preferring to take care of all of her correspondence in the mornings.
“Francesca!” Julia clasped her shoulder from behind.
Francesca turned, aghast, to face her stricken mother. “What—what are you doing up and about at this hour?”
“I wanted to speak with your father before he left the house,” Julia cried. “Hart’s mistress is dead? Murdered?”
Francesca’s mind raced. Her mother knew everything that happened in society. Of course, she would know about Hart’s relationship with Daisy. Yet she had been Hart’s biggest supporter and was so favorably disposed toward their marriage that Francesca had some how assumed that she hadn’t known about Daisy. She managed, “She was his ex-mistress, Mama. And yes, she was murdered last night.”
Julia moaned. “And you and Hart are suspects?”
“Mama!” Francesca put her arm around her. “We are not suspects! Hart discovered the body, but Daisy’s friend, Rose Cooper, actually found her first. Mama, I am investigating the case. So far, there are no suspects. We don’t even have an autopsy report.”
But Julia was shaking her head. “How could you allow that man into the house! His articles are scurrilous!”
“I know. I wanted to make certain he did not jump to the wrong conclusions.”
Francesca knew what her mother was thinking—that Francesca wanted to make certain he did not suspect Hart. “Mama, please don’t worry. I am going to find Daisy’s killer.”
“Don’t worry. Of course I am worried. And not just because you are about to put yourself in all kinds of danger once again. Francesca, this scandal will be too much to bear!”
“Mama! Hart is innocent!”
Julia gave her an anguished look. “When the scandal breaks, it won’t even matter.”
FRANCESCA DECIDED TO TRY to catch Hart before he left for his offices, which were at the tip of Manhattan on Bridge Street. Hart had recently built a huge home for himself a dozen blocks farther uptown from the Cahill home. It had cost millions, and it rose up out of the wilderness of upper Manhattan like a royal palace. Sweeping lawns and lush gardens surrounded the house, and farther back on the property was a large pond, tennis courts and a redbrick stable. When Francesca had first met Hart, he had been living alone. She hadn’t been able to understand how any human being could reside by oneself in such a huge home, with only staff for company, or why anyone would even want such a secluded and lonely existence. Had Hart not been so arrogant, she would have felt sorry for him.
He did not live alone now. His stepfather and step mother, Rathe and Grace Bragg, had recently returned to the city, and were currently building a new and very modern home of their own. They had moved in with Hart some time ago. His nephew, Nicholas D’Archand, had also moved to the city and was attending Columbia U
niversity, and from time to time his various stepbrothers or his stepsister would also appear. Francesca was thrilled for Hart. He might deny it, but she felt strongly that being surrounded by family was the best thing possible for him.
Now, with the coach Hart had bought for her parked in front of the house, Francesca rapped on the front door. Hart worked long hours and slept little, but often he would work at his home in the early mornings. Still, it was a quarter to nine now and she was afraid he was already gone.
Alfred greeted her almost instantly. “Miss Cahill!” He beamed, clearly pleased to see his employer’s fiancée and no longer trying to hide his feelings about their union. “Do come inside.”
“Good morning, Alfred,” Francesca said, dashing into the huge front hall where a great deal of Hart’s art collection was displayed, including a shocking nude sculpture and a very sacrilegious Caravaggio. “Have I missed Calder?”
“I am afraid so. In fact, Mr. D’Archand has already left for the day and Mr. and Mrs. Bragg are in Newport for two weeks. However, Mr. Rourke is in residence. He arrived two days ago and he has yet to leave,” the dapper, balding butler replied.
Francesca bit her lip, debating whether to send Hart a note. She had too much on her agenda for that day to travel all the way downtown to Lower Manhattan—even on an elevated railway, the trip would take a good forty-five minutes or so.
“Shall I summon Mr. Rourke? He is in the breakfast room.”
“Alfred, that’s quite all right.” Francesca smiled. “I am on an investigation. I will show myself into the library and write Hart a note.” Hart should be told of Kurland’s visit. Thus far, Francesca had tried to avoid letting Hart know how bothersome and even malicious the newsman was. She had been afraid that Kurland would reveal the extent of her past relationship with Rick Bragg, but that did not matter now. Mama was right. If a scandal broke, it could destroy everyone. “But I do have a question or two I should like to ask you.”
Alfred seemed surprised. “Of course, Miss Cahill.”
“You were here, were you not, when Mr. Hart arrived home last night?”
“I most certainly was. I let him in.”
That was a relief, Francesca thought. “Do you recall the hour?”
“It was a minute or two after the hour of eight o’clock—I happened to glance at the clock in his study, which is where he went directly upon arriving.”
“And then what, Alfred? Did you bring him supper? Did you help him hail a cab when he left?”
“He told me he did not wish to be disturbed.”
Francesca did not like the sound of that. “Do you know what time he left the house last night?”
Alfred shook his head. “I did not see Mr. Hart again until this morning, Miss Cahill. When he gives an order to be left alone, it is my responsibility to ensure that no one—not even family—intrudes upon his privacy.”
Francesca almost moaned. Her heart raced. “You are telling me that no one in this house saw him after he arrived at eight?”
“I am the only one who saw him come in, Miss Cahill, and yes, he secluded himself in the library for the evening. Frankly, I had no idea that he even went out.”
Francesca felt despair.
“Miss Cahill?” Alfred was clearly bewildered and worried now.
She stared at him, wondering if she dared ask him to lie for Hart. “Alfred, the police may wish to speak with you. They may ask you the same questions I have.”
His gaze widened. It was a moment before he spoke. “I see. And what should I say to them?”
Was she really going to do this? She believed in the truth and the law! But Hart was innocent, and until the real killer was found, he was in jeopardy. “Perhaps you might suggest that you waited on Hart that evening,” she heard herself say. “Once or twice. He did go out that evening—he went out at half past eleven.”
“Very well,” Alfred said with resolve.
“Thank you,” Francesca whispered.
Almost unable to believe what she was doing to protect her fiancé, Francesca went down the hall. She had to find the real killer immediately, so these lies could stop. Hart’s library was a huge, dark but pleasant room. Books lined three of the walls, but a number of windows and glass doors opened out onto the back gardens, showing a view of the tennis courts. His desk was at the far end. Francesca turned on a lamp and went to it.
The jacket he had worn the night before was on the back of his chair. Francesca hesitated, her gaze drawn to the stain on the right side of it. It was obviously dried blood.
Last night, he had gone into this room before going upstairs to bed. Francesca could imagine him removing his jacket, rolling up his sleeves and pouring himself a Scotch, the drink he preferred. Her eyes now found an empty crystal glass. Had he sat there, hunched over his drink, brooding about Daisy’s death?
She shook her head. Of course he had. She wondered if he had thought about her, too. Had he regretted their argument? Had her doubt been on his mind? Or had he been too preoccupied with Daisy’s murder?
Francesca told herself not to return to that place of doubt and insecurity. Instead, she briskly went behind the desk, reaching for a piece of paper. She scribbled a quick note, telling Hart that a reporter had been to see her that morning and that they should meet that evening to discuss the case. She added that she was on her way to interview Rose, and that the first thing she had to do was establish a timeline for the murder.
“Francesca?”
She started and looked up, only to meet Rourke Bragg’s warm gaze and equally affectionate smile.
He seemed mildly bemused. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said, coming into the room. He was Hart’s stepbrother but Rick Bragg’s half brother, and like his half brother and father, he had dark blond hair, amber eyes and a golden coloring. He was a medical student in Philadelphia and Francesca genuinely liked him.
Francesca straightened. “Rourke, I’m sorry! You didn’t frighten me. I was so absorbed I did not realize you were there.” She quickly came around the desk and he clasped her hands and kissed her cheek. “Are you on break from medical school?”
“The semester is over, actually, and I am waiting to see if my transfer to Bellevue Medical College has gone through,” Rourke said easily. “And how is my favorite soon-to-be sister-in-law?” But his gaze was carefully searching.
Francesca hesitated. A tremor swept through her as she thought about the murder and Hart and she knew he felt it, because he became very alert. “You haven’t heard.”
Warily, he said, “I haven’t heard what?”
“Daisy is dead. She was murdered last night.”
He was clearly shocked.
“You haven’t seen Hart?”
“I was out last night when he returned from his business trip. What is it that you are not telling me?”
She inhaled. “Hart found the body.”
Rourke made a sound and looked away. Then, facing her, he said, “Don’t tell me. He is the prime suspect?”
“I hope not! Rose also found Daisy, but independently, before Hart arrived at the scene. Or at least, that is how it appears. Rose is also a suspect.”
Rourke shook his head grimly. “Is there any chance that you were with Hart last night at the time of the murder?”
“I wish I had been, but no. Rose actually sent for me. I found them both at the house with the body around midnight.”
Rourke walked away, his expression hard. Then he hesitated, glancing at Francesca. “At midnight? What the hell was Calder doing at Daisy’s at that hour?”
Francesca flushed, wondering if he was thinking what Newman and Bragg had thought. She walked back to Hart’s desk and sat down in his chair.
Rourke hurried to her. “Francesca, I did not mean that the way it sounded! We both know he had a good reason for being there. I just don’t happen to know what that reason is.”
“I should like to know, as well.” Seeing Rourke’s grim expression, she added, “Rourke! He was not
there to rekindle their affair. Surely that is not what you think? Bragg and Newman think so, and the fact that he will not explain why he was there isn’t helping his case.”
Rourke paled. “No, I don’t think he went to Daisy’s for such a purpose.” He sat down on the edge of Hart’s desk. “Calder won’t explain his actions? That hardly makes any sense.”
Because Rourke had become such a good friend, she said, “I wish he would confide in me. For the life of me, I cannot imagine what could be so secretive. But in a way, he is right. He is entitled to his privacy. However, the police do want an explanation. And sooner or later, he shall certainly have to give them one.”
Rourke smiled at her. “I am pleased to see that you remain as calm and sensible as ever.”
She rolled her eyes. “It is a facade—I am worried. But not because I doubt Hart’s innocence. Rourke, I wish Hart hadn’t been at Daisy’s last night—and I wish he would tell me why he went to see her in the first place.”
He regarded her for a moment, as he absorbed what she had said. “Francesca, give him some time. I believe that Hart is in love with you. He has never been this involved before—or involved at all, really. He may not know how to confide in you. He may not understand that you need to know why he went to Daisy’s last night.”
Francesca was startled. Rourke’s words made sense. Hart had been reluctant from the first to share his real feelings with her. He kept a large part of himself closed off. He was adept at showing the world an arrogant facade, but Francesca knew it was only that, a front to hide the very complicated man behind it. Perhaps he didn’t know how to be himself with her—and he certainly wasn’t accustomed to having to account to anyone for anything.
“I know one thing,” she said slowly. “Hart needs my trust. It is probably the greatest gift I can give him. So if I have to wait to discover his secret, I will do just that.”
“I happen to agree. No one has ever believed in him before,” Rourke said. He gave her a look. “Patience might be worthwhile in this instance, Francesca.”
“Obviously, we both know that patience is not my strong suit.” She sighed. “I am resolved to be patient now, but I am worried, Rourke. He lied to the police. I can’t imagine why, but obviously he felt it was necessary. And I even lied to the police to cover for him.” And now Alfred would lie, too.
