by Brenda Joyce
She flinched, tears coming to her eyes.
FRANCESCA GREW AWARE THAT someone was behind her, watching her. Filled with dread over Annie’s revelation, she slowly turned. Rose stood on the stairs, a few steps from the ground floor, ashen in spite of her olive complexion. Her stare was hard and focused. She had pulled her dark hair tightly back, but tendrils were wildly escaping. That, coupled with her gaunt, haunted look, gave Francesca pause. The glint in Rose’s eyes was almost frightening.
She turned back to the servants. Hart and Daisy had been arguing very emotionally just a few days ago, but Francesca could not dwell on that now. “Homer, thank you. And thank you, Annie.”
They nodded and left.
Francesca turned back toward Rose, who was now approaching. “I am so sorry for your loss, Rose.”
“I doubt it,” Rose said coldly.
Francesca tensed. Rose had been very hostile toward Hart ever since Daisy had become his mistress, and some of that hostility had been directed toward Francesca, as well. But now she seemed to be seething. “I am sorry. Daisy did not deserve to die—”
“Daisy was murdered,” Rose hissed, confronting Francesca. “And I am certain Hart did it.”
Francesca was rigid. “I will find the real killer,” she said carefully, “but you are jumping to conclusions. That will not help anyone—and it certainly will not help the cause of justice.”
“Such fancy words,” Rose cried. “You heard Annie! Hart was furious with Daisy last Thursday—just four days before she was murdered. And we both know that Daisy had been causing you some sleepless nights recently, now, don’t we?”
Francesca was grim, her heart racing. “Rose, I am not going to try to hide the fact that Daisy seemed to want Calder back. She said some nasty things to me, more than once. You know as well as I do that Hart had no intention of returning to their affair. So if anyone has a motive, it is me.”
“You would never kill anyone in cold blood, Miss Cahill, and the world knows it. And anyway, your dear friend the police commissioner would never charge you with such a crime. I know it was Hart. You heard the maid!”
“People argue all the time, and usually no one dies for it. Rose, I understand that you are trying to make sense of this ghastly killing. But as angry as Calder was, he would never murder anyone.”
“You don’t understand—no one understands—and somehow, I don’t think you know your fiancé all that well,” Rose said harshly.
Francesca decided to retreat to a safer subject. “Have you given your statement to the police?”
“I gave it last night,” Rose said.
That gave Francesca some pause. The police were a step ahead of her now. Rick would be a step ahead of her. But they were on the same side, weren’t they? Not because they were friends, but because, in times like these, they were always partners. And no matter how Rick felt about Hart, they were half brothers. In the end, he would fight to prove Hart’s innocence. Wouldn’t he?
“I meant what I said,” Francesca said briskly. “I am going to find Daisy’s killer. If you wish to believe—conveniently, I might add—that the killer is Hart, so be it. But I am going to bring the real killer to justice. So I would like to ask you some questions.”
Rose hesitated before nodding. “I need to sit down.” She had become gravely ashen.
Francesca took her arm. “Did you sleep at all last night? Have you had anything to eat?”
Rose leaned on her. “How could I sleep? You know how much I loved Daisy! How can I survive without her now? How?” Rose clearly fought the rush of tears.
“It won’t be easy, but you will survive. In time, you will be able to cope with your loss,” Francesca said, leading her into the smaller of the two salons. Rose sat on the sofa and Francesca brought her a glass of water.
“I don’t need your pity,” Rose said with some heat.
“You don’t have my pity, you have my sympathy and my condolences,” Francesca said gently.
Rose looked away.
“Do you know why Hart and Daisy were arguing last Thursday afternoon?”
Rose shook her head. “That was the first I have heard of it.” Rose’s expression turned ugly. “Maybe they were arguing about their relationship—or about you.”
“Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened last night?” Francesca asked, ignoring that barb.
Rose paused. “All right. I was out with a gentle man—a client. I entertained him in his rooms at a hotel I prefer not to name. I left him at half past nine exactly—he was asleep and I looked at the clock.”
“I have to ask, what was his name?”
Rose started. “I am afraid I cannot reveal his identity.”
“Why not?”
“Francesca, he is a gentleman. Gentlemen do not wish to have their liaisons with women like myself made public.”
“Didn’t the police ask for his name?”
“I told them what I told you.”
Francesca decided not to push. For the moment, Rose did not have a solid alibi, and that increased her significance as a suspect. Francesca knew she should not be relieved, but she was. “Go on,” Francesca urged.
Rose shuddered now. “I took a cab back to the house. Daisy and I had agreed to meet later. There were no lights on and I was alarmed, Francesca. The moment I saw that, I knew something was wrong—I knew some thing had happened!”
“And you found Daisy?”
Rose nodded, covering her face with her hands. “I was in a panic. I ran inside and started calling her name. I ran from room to room and then I found her, on the floor, dead!”
Francesca went over to her, placing her hand comfortingly on her shoulder. Rose wept. “Why didn’t you turn on the lights?”
Rose tried to speak. “I tried the first lamp, but it didn’t work. I was so afraid—all I could think of was finding Daisy.”
“Did you see Hart? Did you hear anything, or any one?”
“No! I sat with her, my heart broken. I stayed until I realized we needed help, and that was when I wrote that note. The only time I left her was to go to the desk, write the note, and then I ran outside. I paid a cabbie to deliver it for me. Then I went back to her and waited for you to come. I didn’t see Hart until he came into the study with you.”
If Rose had left her john at half past nine, she had probably been at Daisy’s by ten. Francesca had received her note two hours later, meaning Rose might have sat with Daisy for quite some time before recovering enough to write and send a note—if she was telling the truth. Rose’s story confirmed that Hart had entered the house while Rose was looking for a cabdriver. “Why didn’t you call the police?” Francesca asked.
Rose seemed taken aback by her question. “Those pigs don’t care! They hate us—they use us. They would never try to find her murderer!”
“Rose, this is important. Do you know who Daisy was seeing last night?”
“She never told me who she was seeing, but I gathered it was some kind of old friend.”
Francesca started. “Do you mean a friend from her previous life?”
Rose stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Francesca saw, in her dark eyes, that she understood quite well. “I mean, was it an old friend from the life she had before she became Daisy Jones?”
“I don’t know!”
Francesca considered Rose’s intense reaction. “Was Daisy still entertaining clients, Rose?”
“No. She left the business the day she moved in here.”
That, of course, made sense. Why would Daisy continue to solicit customers when she had no financial need? “Can you think of anyone she used to entertain who might have been so passionately involved with her that he wanted her dead?”
Rose was finally surprised. “You think a john murdered her?”
“It would hardly be the first time a prostitute was murdered by her client.”
“I don’t know. I need to think about it.” Her face tightened. “Of course, there is one
client we both know who had all the passion necessary to do the deed.”
Francesca refused to do battle over Hart now. “What was Daisy’s real name?”
Rose instantly turned away. “I don’t know.”
Francesca did not believe her. “You were best friends, and she never told you her real name?”
Rose stared into the distance. “No,” she muttered.
Francesca decided to give that up, for the moment, anyway. “It was always obvious to me that Daisy came from a genteel background. She was well mannered, well spoken, clearly educated and as graceful as any lady from Fifth Avenue.”
Rose did not respond.
“Why aren’t you helping me?” Francesca cried. “Someone wanted Daisy dead—someone who knew her well. I have to uncover her real identity and her entire past.”
“We both know who wanted Daisy dead,” Rose said harshly.
“And what if you are wrong? What if Hart is not the killer?” Francesca demanded.
Francesca saw the conflict in Rose’s eyes. She finally cried, “She never told me her real name, I swear! She was running from her old life, Francesca. She never spoke of it—ever.”
That was very odd, Francesca thought. “How did you meet?”
Rose met her gaze, her own eyes turning moist. “Oh, God, that was so long ago!”
“How long?”
Rose smiled through her tears. “It was eight years ago. Daisy was such a beautiful young woman. She was fifteen, but she was really still a child. She was so innocent, so naive. I had been turning tricks for years—I was so much older than she was, although not in years. I was sixteen, Francesca, when we met and became friends.”
“Where did you meet?”
Rose sniffed. “On the street.” She looked at Francesca. “Can you believe it? Daisy was standing on the street corner, here in the city. She was so beautiful, Francesca, I can’t even describe it.” She bit her lip. “I had never been in love, not with anyone, but I was stunned by her beauty, even then. I could tell she was lost—she was bewildered—and she seemed so sad. I had been shopping with one of the other girls. I made an excuse—somehow I didn’t want my friend to meet Daisy, to know about her. And then I went over to try to help.” Rose hugged herself.
“What happened?”
“She was near tears. I saw that she was trying to sell her body to the gentlemen passing by, and that she had not a clue as to how to do it. She was so innocent. And obviously, she was desperate for funds. I couldn’t understand—she was beautifully dressed.”
“Had she run away?”
“Yes. She told me that much later. I couldn’t stand to see her trying to sell herself like that, when she was so upset and inexperienced. I bought her a sandwich. We chatted a little and I could see she was frightened, and so relieved to be having a meal and not on the street, soliciting men. I told her she could come stay with me, and she did. I tried to hide her from the madam, Francesca. And I did, for about a week. I hid her in my room. When I had a john, she hid in the closet—or beneath the bed. We became friends that week, until she was discovered. And then I couldn’t protect her anymore.”
Francesca was moved. How could she not be? “And the madam forced her into that life?”
Rose nodded. “But it didn’t matter that much. We had each other now. I was already in love with her, Francesca. I fell in love with her right away.”
Francesca paused to reflect on Rose’s and Daisy’s life. What could have caused a young lady to run from home and choose a life of prostitution over a genteel existence? She simply could not imagine. It was heartbreaking. “And she never told you where she had come from or why she was running away?”
“No! She refused to discuss her past, and do you know what? I was glad! Because I was terrified that one day she would come to her senses, go home and leave me.”
“But she never did.”
“No, she never did.” Rose stared tearfully at her. “Daisy liked you,” she said abruptly. “Before she got involved with Hart.” And the tears began to fall.
Francesca tensed. She had come to believe that Daisy had developed actual feelings for Calder. Handing Rose her handkerchief, she said, “Daisy came to care for Hart, didn’t she? That is why you hated him so much.”
“I hate him because he took her away from me!” Rose cried.
Francesca studied Rose, who was wiping away more tears with her kerchief. Very quietly, she asked, “You were jealous, weren’t you?”
Rose gave her a hard look. “What do you think? Daisy made you jealous, didn’t she?”
Francesca intended to ignore that dig. “Did you fight about Hart?”
Rose became wary. “Daisy never stopped loving me,” she said hoarsely. “But I admit that I was jealous—that I hated her being here, that I hated his keeping her. But you already know that. What are you getting at?”
“So you and Daisy fought when she was Hart’s mistress.”
Rose stared, breathing hard. “Yes. We fought.”
Finally they were getting somewhere, Francesca thought. “Did you continue your relationship while she was with Hart?”
“What does it matter?” Rose asked hotly.
Francesca decided to press her. “Why don’t you admit it? For a time, Daisy left you. She left you for Hart,” Francesca said.
“She never left me!” Tears began to track down Rose’s cheeks. “He refused to allow her to see me—he was that jealous, that controlling. How can you stand him?” she cried.
Francesca tried not to show her feelings. Hart could be very jealous, and she had not a doubt he could be controlling, but he had never tried to control her. “Rose, did you and Daisy reconcile?”
Rose turned away, crying. “She loved me,” she wept. “And I loved her.”
Francesca felt terrible, but she continued, “I know she loved you. I know you loved her. But your relationship changed, didn’t it, the moment she became Hart’s mistress? From that moment, it changed irrevocably, and it never returned to the way it was. According to Homer, your visits were once or twice a week. You didn’t reconcile, did you?”
Rose covered her face with her hands.
Francesca clasped her shoulder, feeling very sorry for the other woman. But now she had to really consider the unthinkable. Until that moment, she had wanted Rose to be on the list of suspects simply to keep attention away from Hart. Now Francesca had to carefully think about the other woman’s state of mind. Rose had been Daisy’s lover, and she remained deeply in love with her. She was furiously angry with Hart, for supposedly stealing Daisy from her. And while she was blaming Hart for everything, she had been first at the scene of the crime—or so it appeared.
Rose was an angry, jealous and jilted lover. Could she have murdered Daisy? Had she done so? She would not be the first woman to resort to murder, either contemplated or not, in such an instance.
Rose turned her teary gaze on Francesca. “We did reconcile, Francesca. But it wasn’t the same. As always, you are right,” she cried bitterly.
Francesca dropped her hand, standing. She had to know the truth. “Was Daisy in love with Calder?”
Rose looked up. “Daisy wanted the life Hart could give her. She did not want to go back to being a whore, and she was determined to wait him out and get that life back.”
Francesca was shaken. It was impossible not to feel some relief now that Daisy was out of their lives forever. She was instantly ashamed and guilty for feeling that way, even the slightest bit.
Rose’s expression changed. “How can you be so calm about all of this? We are talking about the woman I love and the man you claim to love. Doesn’t it hurt you that he once slept here? That he bought Daisy so he could use her as he willed?”
“Yes, it does hurt me, it actually hurts me very much,” Francesca said sharply, finally admitting to her feelings. “But I wasn’t with Calder when he and Daisy were having their affair, and I continue to remind my self of that. And no one forced Daisy to be Hart’s mistress. S
he wanted to be here.”
“Oh, that’s right—at that time, you were in love with his brother, Rick Bragg!”
“That was a lifetime ago,” Francesca said far more calmly than she felt. She understood Rose’s pain, and that she was lashing out wherever and however she could. “Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, astonished with the twists and turns my life has taken, but there is no going back. I love Calder, Rose. And I know how much you loved Daisy. I know you are grieving, and that you are angry. But the more you tell me, the faster I can get to the bottom of this case.”
“How can you be so blind?” Rose accused. “Daisy wasn’t murdered because of her past. You heard the maid! Hart was furious with her, so furious he broke down a door! He was furious because she had been trying to get him back. He was furious with her for trying to hurt you, for trying to interfere in your engagement, for refusing to leave this house. No one wanted her out of the way more than he did.”
Everything Rose had said was the truth, but it was also crystal clear that Rose was enraged with Hart. Francesca wondered how angry she had been with Daisy. “Is this what you told the police?”
Rose lifted her chin. “Of course. I told them everything.”
Francesca’s heart lurched with dread. “What does that mean?”
Rose smiled and it was vicious. “I was at Kate Sullivan’s funeral. I heard him, Francesca, as clear as day—I was standing behind you both.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Francesca lied.
Rose stood. “He told you he would take care of Daisy, and his meaning was clear. He would do anything, anything, to stop her. And last night, that is exactly what he did.”
ROURKE LOITERED IN THE large front hall of the Channing home, the large trophy head of a white wolf snarling down at him. A servant had gone to inform both Sarah and her mother of his call and he was oddly anxious, as if he were a suitor. He reminded himself that he was merely a friend of Sarah’s, although they had certainly been through quite a bit together. Francesca had provided the close connection. Once, Sarah had been engaged to Evan Cahill in a terrible mismatch that had made them both miserable. Rourke had never understood how either family had thought to match such a reckless rogue with someone as sincere and privately ambitious as Sarah Channing. The world thought her to be as eccentric as her father had been, and labeled her a recluse, but it was clear to Rourke that the world was wrong—she was a committed and brilliant artist. Her art was her passion and he understood completely, as he was privately driven, too. His intention was to heal the world’s least fortunate, if he could.
