Deadly Kisses

by Brenda Joyce

  “I love them,” she whispered, more tears falling. “Oh, Rick, I am so afraid. And Katie is afraid of that man—I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “He bullied her mother,” Bragg said. “I don’t want you to worry. I am going to take care of this. And I left a message for Feingold, so I will undoubtedly hear from him tomorrow, too.”

  Leigh Anne nodded, finally releasing his hand. She looked uncertain.

  “Leigh Anne,” he said softly. “I am the commissioner of police. O’Donnell is a lout, but he’s not a complete fool. He knows better than to antagonize me.”

  “Have you told me everything?” she whispered.

  He hesitated. “Yes,” he lied.

  She looked away, then back. “Rick? What if he is not lying? What if he has found God? What if…?” She stopped, unable to continue.

  “What are you asking?” he said, his heart sinking. His wife was very clever, and clearly, she knew or at least suspected the truth.

  “What if he wants the girls?” she cried. “He is their uncle. A judge would certainly decide that blood is thicker than water!”

  He had to take away her fear and pain. He took her face in his hands. “He hasn’t found God and he does not want the girls. I want you to trust me,” he said.

  She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. When she opened them, she said, “I do.”

  He still held her face in his hands, and now his heart changed its beat. She knew, because he felt her tense.

  He almost kissed her, anyway. Instead, he let her go and stood. “Let’s have that drink,” he said.

  “FRANCESCA!” CONNIE exclaimed, her face filled with worry as she rushed into the front hall.

  Francesca had not moved after Evan crossed the hall and disappeared into the salon. She remained stunned, simply stunned, by his pronouncement. Now, of course, she understood. However, knowing Bartolla Benevente, she felt certain that nothing had been accidental.

  She turned to her approaching sister. Connie was clad in a silk evening gown the color of moonlight with a triple-tiered diamond necklace around her slim throat and matching chandelier earrings. Connie was one of the most elegant women Francesca knew. She was also lovely. People often remarked that the sisters could have been twins, except for the fact that Connie was fairer in complexion and hair color than Francesca. If Connie favored ivory hues, Francesca chose golden ones. “Am I interrupting?” Francesca asked.

  Connie grasped Francesca’s hands. “We have several guests, but I don’t care!” Her blue eyes were wide with concern. “Mama told me about Daisy Jones. Are you all right?”

  Connie was Francesca’s best friend, even though no two sisters could be more different. Connie had been a debutante while Francesca had been a student at Bar nard College. Currently, she was a socialite, a society hostess, a mother and wife. Francesca was considered eccentric by most of society and she was now a renowned sleuth, which only heightened her reputation of strangeness. Yet somehow, they had always been confidantes. There had never been a time when Francesca had not been able to turn to her sister when in need, and that had always worked both ways. “I think I am beginning to recover from what has been a terrible day.”

  Holding her hand, Connie tugged and the two sisters ran down the hall, past the salon, where Francesca glimpsed a very important leader of the Progressive movement, and into the library. Connie closed the door and Francesca just stood there, preparing for a confession.

  Connie took one look at her and pulled her into her arms. “You are putting up a brave front, Fran, but I can feel how worried you are.”

  Francesca hugged her back. “I am worried, but I am feeling much better than I was an hour or so ago.”

  Spending the past hour in Hart’s arms had reminded her of how terribly in love she was and confirmed that her decision to stand by him, no matter what, was the right one. When they were alone together, she could feel the almost magnetic bond that coursed between them. In such moments, she had no doubts that he cared deeply for her.

  Hart desperately needed her now. He had let his facade slip and she had seen how grief-stricken he was over the loss of his child. After their lovemaking, he had once again retreated into a somewhat cold and distant formality. Francesca could chalk some of his behavior up to grief, but she also knew he was at war with himself. His guilt over his behavior when first confronted by Daisy with the fact of the pregnancy—and his grief—were reflected in his eyes and there was no mistaking it. Francesca also suspected he continued to think that she would be better off without him now.

  Connie led her to the gold velvet sofa, where they both sat down. A small fire leapt in the fireplace beneath an intricately carved wood mantel that had once graced the great hall of a sixteenth-century Austrian palace. Connie held both of Francesca’s hands. “I am so sorry, Francesca. This is so terrible! But what, exactly, happened? Do you know who killed Daisy? Please, do not tell me that you and Hart are really suspects!”

  “So Mama told you that Hart and I are suspects?” Francesca asked.

  “Yes, and already word is out. I overheard two ladies at the luncheon counter at Lord & Taylor whispering about the murder and wondering if Hart had done it.”

  “He is innocent,” Francesca said firmly, “but I am afraid he is a suspect. I, however, have a solid alibi.”

  “Thank God for that! Francesca, Hart would never murder anyone,” Connie said, but her tone made it a nervous question.

  “Connie, he is innocent and I am going to prove it. I am just hoping I can find the killer quickly, before this scandal becomes full-blown.”

  Connie stared at her for a moment. “What haven’t you told me?”

  Francesca had come to see Connie because she wanted to confide in her sister. “Even though I am certain that this will become news at some point, promise me that you will not say a word, not to anyone, not even to Neil—and certainly not to Mama.”

  “Very well, although I am quite nervous now. What bombshell is about to drop?”

  “Daisy was pregnant with Hart’s child when she was murdered,” Francesca said.

  Connie dropped Francesca’s hands, turning starkly white. “Francesca!”

  Francesca looked at her lap, surprised that she still ached in her heart over the unpleasant fact.

  Connie inhaled. “Dear God! And the police think Hart killed the mother of his unborn child and that child?”

  Francesca looked up very seriously. “He did not kill Daisy. That is one fact I am sure of. They also suspect a woman, Rose Cooper.”

  It was a long moment before Connie spoke. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  Francesca knew exactly what she meant, but she said, “I am going to find the real killer. I have a lead, and I am going to Albany in the morning.”

  Connie seized her wrist. “That isn’t what I meant and you know it.”

  Francesca met her gaze. “I was crushed at first. I was hurt and I felt betrayed. But Connie, Daisy became pregnant in February, before Hart and I became a couple—well before we became engaged!”

  “Francesca, I do not care about the timing. No woman wants to learn that the man she loves has had a child with someone else.”

  “But the timing does matter. Connie, Hart has never lied to me about his past. When we became friends, I knew everything about him! He never tried to paint himself as a perfect gentleman. He even warned me that it was worse than I could imagine.” Francesca gave a shaky laugh. “Of course, I never expected this.”

  Connie gave her a look. “That is hardly a relief, and this is no laughing matter.”

  Francesca barreled on. “And I knew all about Daisy when I accepted his proposal. The point is, he has never lied about his past and who he was. I agreed to marry him knowing that he’d had many affairs. Daisy’s pregnancy was an accident. And, Connie, Hart needs me now. He is grieving over his lost child, even though he won’t quite admit it. And he needs me to prove him innocent.”

  “Fran,” Connie said, “have you e
ven considered leaving him?”

  “I love him,” Francesca said, stiffening.

  “Fran, he is accused of murdering both his mistress and his child! This is so serious. Even if he is proved innocent, how will polite society ever accept him again?”

  Francesca was overcome with dismay. “Hart has never cared very much for polite society, and neither have I. Connie, he needs me—and I need you, now more than ever!”

  Connie moved closer and put her arm around her. “I know you do,” she said, and tears filled her eyes. “But this is unacceptable, Fran. Thus far, society has been able to ignore Hart’s philandering. Now it will be the talk of the town.” Connie looked closely at her. “Worse, people will debate whether he murdered his pregnant mistress or not!”

  Francesca knew her sister was right. “Hart won’t care.”

  “Really? And what about you? Won’t you care what they are saying behind his back—and yours?”

  Francesca inwardly cringed. “No, I won’t care,” she said, but the words felt hollow. She wanted to be strong enough not to care about any whispers, but the truth was, she did care.

  Connie stood. “I don’t believe you. It was only a few months ago that I would see you at a large charity event or a ball, standing by yourself, because other young ladies thought you odd and eccentric. Their gossip hurt you and you know it, Fran.”

  Francesca had to admit it. “Yes, their whispers did hurt, but I managed.”

  “So you are going to stand by Hart and marry him?” Connie was incredulous.

  They shared a long, desperate look. Finally Francesca whispered, “But he didn’t do it. I could never leave him now, when he is in such trouble. I will find the real killer, and eventually the scandal will be forgotten.”

  “Will it? Will it ever be forgotten? Hart has never tried to be a gentleman! You know as well as I do that he has always deliberately flaunted his inappropriate behavior to those who would object. He has delighted in doing so! This is their chance to get back at him. They are going to delight in his downfall,” Connie cried. “I can feel all the knives coming out, and the points are being sharpened even as we speak!”

  It was true. Until now, Hart did as he wanted and he had been accepted by society, anyway, because of his tremendous fortune. But he had spent most of his adult life mocking society openly. He had certainly flaunted his numerous affairs. His hosts and hostesses had turned a blind eye. But now his pregnant mistress was dead and he was a prime suspect. Francesca shuddered. No one would open their doors to Hart now. He would say he did not care, but the rejected child who still lived inside the man was going to be hurt very badly by this last rejection. “You have been in favor of this match. Have you changed your mind?” she asked slowly.

  Connie did not hesitate. “Oh, Francesca! I will support whatever you decide to do. But society will have a field day with this! Hart is ruined. If you marry him, you will be tainted by association. I know that your life is sleuthing, but could you really live that way? And what about Mama and Papa?”

  Francesca tried to imagine a future as Hart’s wife, the two of them in his huge mansion, an island unto themselves. An image of Andrew came to mind, aggrieved and disappointed. His image was followed by Julia, who had been Hart’s biggest supporter. Even her mother would be shocked by the scandal.

  But they didn’t need the rest of the world, as neither one of them cared about supper parties, balls and teas. He would continue his business affairs, she would continue to sleuth, and they would travel. And maybe, one day, they would have a family. She felt herself almost smile at the thought. Then she thought about that eventual time when the gossip reached their children’s ears, and her smile froze.

  “Mama and Papa will unite against your union, of that I have no doubt,” Connie said. “Will you elope? I know you and Hart already discussed it.”

  “Eloping will be a last resort.” Francesca knew that Connie was right. “And that is why I need you as an ally more than ever. I need you to help me win Mama and Papa back over.”

  Connie studied her with obvious resignation. “I have one more point to make. What if Daisy and the child had lived? Would you have been able to cope with Hart’s having another family?”

  Francesca winced. “What does it matter?” she asked, suddenly imagining Daisy, alive, with a small child in her arms.

  “It matters. What if, one day, some other past lover appears—with his bastard in tow?”

  Francesca’s heart lurched. What would she do? Would there even be a choice? “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “Maybe we would have raised the child together, if Daisy would have allowed it.”

  Connie gave her a look. “Only you would come up with such a selfless solution.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Daisy is dead. The child is dead. It’s a terrible tragedy, but I am going to focus on the investigation at hand.” Francesca stood.

  Connie also rose to her feet. “You are so brave,” she said. “How does Hart feel about your involvement?”

  Francesca hesitated. She was afraid to tell her sister this last part.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” Connie asked slowly.

  Francesca turned away, fighting the desire to confide the entire truth to her sister. But she had never needed a best friend more than she did now. She faced Connie again. “Hart’s first reaction was to push me away. Hart doesn’t want me involved, or hurt by association with him. He almost ended our engagement tonight, Con.” She trembled at the recollection.

  It was a moment before Connie spoke. Even then, she did so with care. “I would be very pleased if Hart forced you to withdraw from the investigation,” Connie said. “And, at least temporarily, from his life.”

  Francesca worried now. “I should go,” she finally said. “Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

  Connie stopped her. “Fran? Please think very carefully about what you are doing. I know you love him, I really do. But you are about to become the victim of a monstrous scandal. Do you really need the heartache and the grief?” Connie bit her lip. “I hate to be the one to say it, but I love you, so I will. You should think about a future without Calder Hart in it.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Wednesday, June 4, 1902—5:45 a.m.

  RAOUL DROPPED FRANCESCA AND Joel off at Grand Central Depot. As they hurried with the crowd toward the entrance of the huge limestone building, she heard a street vendor hawking newspapers. “Come an’ read all about it! Murder’s the name of the game! Come an’ read all about it! Mistress slain!”

  Francesca stumbled, praying she had misheard the young man. She turned, instantly locating a gangly adolescent boy in a felt cap, standing with a stack of news papers, accepting a nickel from one gentleman. He started to shout at the rushing throngs again. “Come an’ read all about it! Murder’s the name of the game!”

  “Miz Cahill? We got a train to catch,” Joel said urgently.

  Francesca heard him but did not reply, for she was already racing toward the newspaper boy. Before she reached him, she could see that he was selling the Sun—and she could see the prominent headline. Her heart lurched in dismay.

  Ex-Mistress Slain; Calder Hart Suspect

  Francesca seized the newspaper, instantly noting that Arthur Kurland had written the piece.

  “Miss? That’s five cents,” the newsboy protested.

  Francesca realized she would have to read the article on the train. She dug into her purse, the steel of her small gun hard against her gloved fingertips, and handed him the coin. Then she glanced toward the central tower of the depot where a huge clock faced the arriving world. It was ten minutes to six.

  “Francesca,” Hart said.

  She gasped, whirling to face him. Hart was attired similarly to the other gentlemen on the street for a day of business, in a dark suit, white shirt and tie. He never wore a hat, and his black hair glinted in the early-morning sun. He did not smile at her. “What are you doing here?” she cried in alarm.

  “I need to spe
ak with you,” he said, taking her arm.

  “Hart!” She had a terrible inkling of what he wanted to say. “Not now! I need to make a six-fifteen train!”

  “I know. You told me so last night.” His eyes were dark and filled with unfathomable shadows.

  “Don’t do this!” she whispered.

  “I care too much for you to hurt you this way,” he said. “We can’t go on, Francesca. I am a murder suspect. Today, the scandal erupts. And I won’t have you a part of it.”

  “No,” she protested frantically. “Damn it, Hart, I am not leaving you!”

  His gaze became moist. “No, you’re not. I am leaving you. Goodbye, Francesca,” he said roughly. Before he turned to leave, he paused. “You are a miracle, Francesca.”

  She was in shock. She watched him pushing through the crowd, somehow comprehending that he had just ended their engagement—and their relationship. But he could not do this, because she would not, could not, let him. She ran after him, seizing his arm from behind. “I am not giving up on you!” she cried as he faced her grimly. “I am not abandoning you, not now and not ever!”

  He disengaged himself, his face so taut it seemed in danger of cracking. He did not speak. He just looked at her, long and hard, and his eyes filled with tears. Then he turned away again. This time, his stride was brisk, carrying him swiftly away from her.

  She was shaking like a leaf as she stared after him until the crowd swallowed him up. Tears were blurring her vision and she cursed, swiping at them. How could he do this? Why? But she knew why—he thought to protect her.

  “Miz Cahill,” Joel said tersely.

  She recalled that Joel was present and that she had a case to solve—she had Hart’s name to clear. She in haled, wiping away the last of her tears, never having had more resolve. “Come on, we have a train to catch.”