by Brenda Joyce
At the bottom of the stairs, Francesca told Joel to hide behind an ornamental urn. “If you see anyone come in, make a ruckus so I can try to slip out without being detected. I am going upstairs to Daisy’s private rooms.”
Joel grinned and took a beautiful porcelain box off a nearby side table. He slipped it into his pocket and said, “Don’t worry. I got my story all fabry-cated.”
She patted his back and raced upstairs.
Once there, she quickly found Daisy’s suite of rooms. Her sitting room was an elegant blend of cream, ivory and gold tones, just as Daisy had been. For one moment, as she paused on the threshold, she could see Hart standing by the white marble mantel, a Scotch in hand, with Daisy sensuously seated on the sofa in some kind of revealing peignoir. She shook her head to clear it of such provocative thoughts.
She had work to do. If something was here, some clue as to Daisy’s past or the killer’s identity, she in tended to find it. She did not know how much time she had. A glance at the gilded clock on a side table told her it was a minute before 2:00 p.m.
Francesca crossed the room to where a secretaire stood. It was a delicate seventeenth-century piece of furniture, and she quickly checked the three drawers and the six cubbyholes. She did not think Daisy would stash any important information about herself in such an obvious place, and her search was a cursory one.
Most of the papers were bills, but one drawer was filled with bank statements. Francesca stared at the neatly wrapped stack, tied with a red ribbon, and a tingle swept over her. Hart had been keeping her; he must know all about her finances. Still, she could not help herself, even though she felt as if she were somehow violating his privacy. She took the bundle of bank statements.
Setting them aside, she began to search for a calendar. Everyone kept a calendar, but Francesca could not find one in the secretaire. Maybe Daisy had kept her agenda downstairs in the study, where she had died.
Francesca continued her search. She checked under the sitting room’s furniture, beneath pillows and cushions, behind the pale cream-and-gold velvet draperies. Francesca swiftly moved into the bedroom, glancing at the gilded clock once more as she did so. It was eight minutes past two.
The bedroom gave her pause, her gaze instantly drawn to the canopied bed in its midst. It was covered in gold silk covers, with gold-and-burgundy velvet pillows and gold-velvet hangings. Hart had spent a number of nights in that bed.
She hated the very notion. She did not want to keep thinking about their affair. It had been over for months. Why had Bragg so cruelly suggested that it wasn’t over? If only Hart would tell them why he had gone to see Daisy last night!
Trying not to think about it, Francesca glanced grimly around the rest of the spacious and elegant bed room. She saw the armoire and the closet; if she were to hide something very important, it would be in one of those two places. She went purposefully to the armoire and rifled through a dozen silk underthings and several dozen peignoirs, trying to shut down her mind now. And beneath a neat pile of lacy white drawers and matching garters, her hand touched cardboard.
She jerked. This could be interesting, indeed.
Francesca shoved all of the underwear aside, revealing a cardboard box. It was about eight or nine inches wide by eleven or twelve inches long—the kind of box that could accommodate standard sheets of papers or standard business documents.
Her heart racing, she took the box, saw it was not sealed and removed the cover. A jumble of folded news papers met her wide gaze.
Francesca went to the bed, removing the first piece of newspaper. It was a newspaper clipping, an entire page that had been carefully cut out of the Albany Times. It was dated February 3, 1902, and there were several articles on the page, all political in nature.
She reached for the next page. It was also from the Albany Times, but dated a year earlier. The name Judge Richard Gillespie leapt out at her. Hadn’t she seen that name in the first clipping? She went to the first clipping, and saw a small paragraph about Gillespie’s recent court decision.
The next clipping was from the New York Times, dated 1899, and it was a social page. One column was devoted to a charity event held by the Astors. Judge Richard Gillespie from Albany, New York, had been an honored guest.
Francesca did not want to interfere with the order that the clippings had been placed in the box, as it seemed to be chronological, so she carefully looked at three more pieces of newspapers. Most were from the Albany Times, but one was from the Tribune. Every page had an article about or mentioning Judge Gillespie.
She had hit the jackpot.
Francesca replaced the clippings in the order in which they had been removed, trembling with excitement. She had no idea why Gillespie was important to Daisy, but she would find out, oh yes, and soon! In fact, she would read every single article in the box, as quickly as possible. And if she had to, she would take the next train to Albany and speak with Gillespie directly.
But that plan, of course, was jumping the gun. Still, there was a connection. Now she merely had to reveal exactly what kind of connection it was. Replacing the cover on the box, Francesca heard a huge crash coming from the front hall downstairs.
Her heart skipped. Joel was making the ruckus she had requested, which meant that someone was downstairs. She hoped it was not a police officer.
The box in hand, she ran into the sitting room, seizing the bundle of bank statements. Then she rushed to the closest window and peered outside.
She was on the second floor, but the window of the sitting room opened onto the back gardens. Francesca quickly put the bank statements in the box, using the red ribbon to tie the box closed. Then she pushed the window open, and holding her breath, she let the box fall. She was relieved when she saw that it had landed in a shrub, the bush breaking its fall. The box had not opened, and it remained perched precariously there.
She slammed the window closed and fled across the room. She began to dash out the door, but as she did so, Rose came inside, causing both women to collide.
“What are you doing here?” Rose cried.
Francesca steadied herself, scrambling for an answer.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tuesday, June 3, 1902—2:15 p.m.
FRANCESCA DECIDED THAT THE truth would have to do. “What do you think I am doing?” She tried to appear calm at being caught in Daisy’s rooms. “I am looking for clues.”
Rose appeared at once angry and disbelieving. “I asked you to find Daisy’s killer, Francesca, but on second thought, I don’t think you are the one who should be on this case.”
Francesca smiled tightly and walked past Rose, wanting to leave the room. “And why is that? Because you have already tried and convicted Hart?”
Rose followed her into the hall. “Actually, that is exactly why! Do the police know you were here, searching the house? Is that legal? Or did Bragg send you here?”
Francesca faced her at the top of the stairs. “What I am wondering is if the police know that you were here last evening, between 6:00 and 7:00 p.m., before you met your client, the gentleman you have thus far refused to name?” She smiled sweetly.
Rose paled. “What are you talking about?”
“I have a witness, Rose, one who will testify that you were here last night at that hour.” Rose’s expression remained frozen in surprise. “Oh, haven’t you heard? Daisy was murdered between seven and nine with a bowie knife. That places you here at the time of her murder. How odd.”
Rose began to shake. “Just what are you saying, Francesca? Are you somehow accusing me? And if so, of what?”
“This was a terrible, brutal, vicious crime of passion,” Francesca said harshly, leaning close to Rose. “The killer used a medium-size knife, one with a blade five inches long and almost two inches wide! Bowie knives are used for hunting animals, Rose. They are used for gutting carcasses.” She stared, holding Rose’s gaze. Francesca actually knew nothing about knives, much less bowie knives, and she was making up every word to provoke th
e other woman. “Daisy was stabbed six times, at random, some of the cuts so deep the killer had to have used both hands.”
“Stop it!” Rose gasped.
Francesca seized her shoulder. “The two of you were together for eight years. Then Calder came along, took her to bed a few times, paid for her every expense, and she was in love. Isn’t that what happened?”
“Stop it!” Rose screamed. She started to cry. “It wasn’t love! She needed the safety he offered her!”
Francesca froze. What did that mean? She leaned even closer, for if Rose would break, the case would be over. “Daisy chose Calder’s bed. She chose Calder.”
Rose hugged herself, the tears streaming. “It was a temporary infatuation! He had wealth—she had never been cared for so well! He gave her freedom, Francesca, freedom! But that was all. She would have be come tired of him, I know it. What we had, he could never replace!”
“Did you argue with her last night, about Calder? Or were you arguing about the fact that she would not let you move in with her here? Did you really have a client that night?”
Rose wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “We were not arguing. But you are right, I was here. I stopped by on my way to visit my john. I begged her to reconsider what she was doing and move out immediately.”
Francesca felt a surge of satisfaction. Rose had lied. Francesca had her suspect. “What time did you stop by?”
“Between six and seven. I didn’t stay very long. I had my engagement—and she had one of her own, as you know.”
Francesca studied Rose and could not decide if she was lying about her client or not. “What time did you meet this supposed gentleman of yours?”
“I told you, at seven. Or maybe a few minutes past.” She flushed. “There is nothing supposed about him. But if Daisy was killed between seven and nine last night, I couldn’t have done it.”
Francesca wondered if the heightened color in Rose’s cheeks was a sign of deception. “Rose, you need to tell me—or the police—the name of the gentleman you spent the evening with. Simply insisting that you were with someone else will not convince anyone of your innocence.”
She shook her head. “I can’t do that.”
“You can’t, or you won’t?” Francesca pressed.
Rose glared at her. “You are not the nice person that you pretend to be!”
Francesca did feel like a heel, but she was not going to give up. She wanted a confession. “Until you give us that name, you are as much a suspect as Hart—if not more so.”
Rose whirled, shaking her off. “I have to go. I have to get back to the house.”
Francesca knew when to take a step back. She followed her down the stairs. “What did you mean, when you said Calder gave Daisy safety? Was she being threatened? Was someone frightening her in some way?”
“I never said that. I said Hart gave her freedom—because of him, she got out of prostitution, Francesca, a life she hated.”
That gave Francesca pause. She knew Rose had said Hart gave Daisy safety. But safety from what—or whom? And what could have made her run away from home and take up a life she hated, as Rose said?
“Earlier you said an old family friend was going to call on her the night she was murdered. Was it Richard Gillespie?”
Rose looked bewildered. “I have no idea who it was. I knew better than to ask. If Daisy had wanted me to know, she would have told me. Who is Richard Gillespie?”
It was clear that Rose had no idea who Francesca was talking about. “A judge from Albany,” Francesca said. “Have you considered what I asked you earlier? Have you thought of anyone who might feel so passionately about Daisy that he or she could want her dead?”
Rose sighed, appearing very worn and tired. “She had three clients, Francesca, that she was seeing for years. Their names are John Krause, George Holstein and David Masters. I happen to know that Krause is incapacitated—he had a stroke a few months ago. But these other two? They saw Daisy regularly before she moved in with Hart. Both men were very involved with her, despite their stellar reputations and their families.”
“They saw her regularly for years?” Francesca asked with some excitement.
Rose nodded. “Masters has been around since the start, Francesca. As for Holstein, he appeared in her life a few years ago. I can get their addresses for you when I get back to the house.”
“Please, maybe it will be helpful. Send a messenger to my home. Where is the house, Rose, that you are now living in?” Francesca was referring to the brothel.
“Off of Fifth Avenue, not far from here, on Thirteenth Street,” Rose said. She folded her arms across her chest, sullen and perhaps worried. “Do the police really think I could have killed Daisy?”
“I won’t lie to you,” Francesca said. “You are a prime suspect.” She watched her closely.
Rose flushed anew. “Of course I am—after all, I am a woman and a whore! But Hart, who had every reason to want Daisy dead, is off the hook, because he is a man and because he is filthy rich.”
Francesca said, “The truth is, Hart is hardly off the hook, either.” She suddenly gripped Rose’s arm. “Rose. Did you kill Daisy?”
Rose’s gaze held Francesca’s. “No,” she said firmly, “I loved her.”
And Francesca almost believed her. For one more moment, the two women stared at each other before Francesca released her. “I have to go. If you think of anything, you know where to reach me.”
Rose hesitated. “Okay. Francesca? Thank you.”
Francesca was surprised, but started down the stairs without responding. Rose watched her from the landing. “Francesca! What did you find in your search?”
Francesca waved up at her as she joined Joel. “Nothing at all.”
ONCE SAFELY INSIDE THE carriage with Joel, Francesca asked Raoul to wait and she began to peruse the newspaper clippings. She quickly learned that Gillespie had been a New York State district judge for ten years. He had been born in Hartford, Connecticut, and seemed to come from a fine old family. Two years ago, the New York Grand Old Party had held a birthday celebration for him—he had been fifty years old. His wife, Martha, remained alive, and they had one unmarried daughter, Lydia.
“Miz Cahill?”
Francesca carefully closed the box. She would read every article that night and take notes. “I think we may be onto something. In any case, this is a lead that must be followed. We are going to Albany, Joel.”
“Albany?” His eyes popped.
Francesca opened her door and poked her head out. “Raoul? Headquarters, please.” Then she closed the door as Raoul started to drive off. “Albany is many hundreds of miles northwest of the city, but we will take an express train. I imagine we can make the trip in four or five hours. Of course, you don’t have to join me if you don’t want to,” she added teasingly.
His response was what she had expected. “I never been out of the city,” Joel said, clearly excited at the prospect. “How long will we be gone?”
“I hope no more than a day, but it depends on the train schedule and Judge Gillespie.” She sat back against the plush velvet seat, trembling with anticipation. Gillespie was obviously very significant to Daisy. Francesca hoped he was a relation, or even her father or uncle. Tomorrow, she would certainly find out.
A few minutes later she rushed into headquarters, Joel choosing to wait outside. Bragg was in his office, on the telephone, when she poked her head inside.
He seemed surprised to see her, but he waved her in and gestured for her to sit as he finished the call. Francesca pretended not to listen but quickly realized he was speaking with Low’s chief of staff and that the conversation was about the recent newspaper headlines. To her chagrin, she had forgotten all about the mudslinging press and the pressure he was under. A moment later he hung up the receiver and faced her.
“Now, this is unexpected,” he said with a slight smile, as if their earlier confrontation had never occurred. “You are glowing—I know the look. What have you foun
d?”
She leapt to her feet, holding out the box.
“What is this?” he asked, standing and taking the box. He opened it and Francesca explained.
“I found this hidden in Daisy’s bedroom. Every single newspaper clipping contains an article about Judge Richard Gillespie or a mention of him. Bragg! This has to be the lead to her past that we are looking for. I am going to Albany on the next express.”
He looked up, his expression serious. “My men obviously missed this.”
“Yes, they did. Before you chastise me, I know I should have asked for permission to search the house, but you were so occupied when I left here earlier. Is Leigh Anne all right?” she asked impulsively.
He hesitated. “Francesca, do you remember Mike O’Donnell?”
“Of course I do. He was Mary O’Shaunessy’s brother and Kate O’Donnell’s husband—a suspect in their murders. Why?”
“He called on Leigh Anne and the girls this morning.”
Francesca felt a sudden dread. “What did he want?”
“According to Leigh Anne, he was very proper and very polite. However I expect extortion will be his game.”
“He’s an uneducated thug!” Francesca exclaimed, recalling nothing proper or even likable about the man.
“He claims that the death of his wife and sister changed him, that he has found God.”
Francesca did not like the sound of that. “Do you believe it?”
“No. But I will have a better idea of what this is about after I speak with him.”
She plucked his sleeve. “Do you want me to come with you?”
He met her gaze, his expression softening. “That is very kind of you, but I think you are right—you should go to Albany and check Gillespie out. Obviously, Daisy felt strongly about him. However, keep in mind that the connection may not have any relevance to our case.”
