Deadly Caress

by Brenda Joyce

  Francesca quickly spoke up. "Please press upon Detective Hickey the need for discretion."

  "He's discreet. You don't need to worry about him. C'mish, sir? We found three art galleries in a ten-block radius from the scene. Hickey an' me are going to start interviews when they open. Seems likely she might be known in a gallery close to her home."

  "Good work," Bragg said with a smile, clasping Newman upon the shoulder. He seemed more than pleased—had he been four-legged and shaggy, he would have rolled over.

  They turned to the business at hand. Francesca knocked again. A servant opened the door a moment later and ushered them in. "Any leads on the whereabouts of Thomas Neville?" Bragg asked over his shoulder. The manservant asked them to wait, hurrying off to find either Mrs. Channing or Sarah.

  "No, sir. We been havin' trouble finding his old landlord, sir. George Holiday seems to be in a bit o' debt and on the run from the banks. But we'll catch up with him sooner or later."

  "This will slow down our investigation," Bragg murmured to Francesca.

  She agreed wholeheartedly.

  His words were barely spoken when Abigail Channing came pitter-pattering toward them in her low-heeled slippers and a huge burgundy velvet gown. She wore rubies to complement the dramatic gown, more suitable for evening than for day. But she was a very wealthy widow. "Commissioner! Francesca! What a wonderful surprise," she cried in her breathy, childish voice. Her delight was childish as well. Francesca knew, however, that she meant no harm.

  "Hello, Mrs. Channing." Francesca smiled somewhat fondly at her.

  The strawberry blonde quickly gestured them to enter a huge, exotically furnished salon—every time Francesca entered the room she expected the bear rug on the floor, complete with a head and fangs, to leap up at her—and offered them refreshments.

  Bragg declined. "Mrs. Channing, we are still investigating the incident in Sarah's studio last week. We do need to speak with your daughter," he said.

  "How is Sarah?" Francesca added.

  "She is much better," Mrs. Channing said. "She was up and about quite early this morning. That Rourke Bragg is a wonderful doctor!" She beamed. "And so handsome, too!"

  Francesca decided not to correct her, though Rourke was not quite a legitimate doctor yet. When she had gone to get Sarah, Francesca said to Bragg, "There is something I have been thinking about."

  He smiled. His amber eyes were soft and warm. "Do tell."

  She smiled back, her heart stirring at the look he was giving her. "The roses in Miss Neville's apartment. They were fully opened. One or two were dying. That would make me conclude that they had been bought a day or two before. Two days before seems more likely, which would make it the day of Miss Conway's murder. Someone brought Miss Neville flowers, Bragg. She has an admirer."

  "Unless the vase was empty, and Miss Conway was carrying the roses when she was murdered," he said. "And it should not surprise me if the flowers had been hers, considering the box of admiring mail we found in her flat."

  He had a point. "Bragg, I am bothered now. Could Miss Neville be in hiding? It has occurred to me that perhaps she saw Miss Conway murdered—and that she knows the killer's identity."

  "Francesca, we do not know that she is in hiding or that she saw anything. Perhaps she came home before the murder and then went out again." But his expression told her he did not believe his last theory.

  "Then where is she? Why hasn't she come home? Is she with a lover? Surely one of her neighbors might know if she has that kind of friend." A new thought struck her. "We should go round to the art galleries until we find someone who knows her!"

  "I have already put that task on Newman's list. He'll start with the galleries on Broadway, closest to her flat, and work his way out from there."

  Francesca now wondered if Hart knew of Miss Neville.

  "What is it?"

  She hesitated, aware of her cheek warming.

  "Francesca?"

  "I should speak with Hart. As he knows just about everyone in the art world, he might prove very useful to us in this investigation."

  Bragg didn't appear thrilled. "Yes, I should speak with Calder," he said. "And I intend to do so before the day is out."

  Francesca decided to drop the subject. Of course, sooner or later she had to speak with Calder on behalf of her brother and she could easily kill two birds with one stone. Now, however, was not the time to think of Calder Hart.

  I always get what I want... whether the object of my desire is a painting... a sculpture. Or a lucrative shipping contract... .Or a woman.

  She shivered, his face implanted there in his mind, dark skin, high cheekbones, dark eyes, and flashing white teeth. The problem was, he wasn't merely arrogant, for she believed his every word.

  But this time, of course, he was in for a big surprise.

  "What is distracting you, Francesca?" Bragg asked, taking her arm. "Is it Evan?"

  She started. "I am very afraid for him," she breathed, then realized she had lied to Bragg, in a way, for her worries had been about Hart in that moment and not about her brother.

  "I am going to pay a call on Andrew LeFarge and make my position very clear," Bragg said softly, steel resolution in his eyes. "If he should be so foolish as to harm a single hair on your brother's head again, he will have this city's entire police force after him."

  She melted. Hart disappeared from her mind. "You would threaten him, using your position as commissioner to do so, for me?"

  "Yes."

  Their gazes locked. This was why she loved Rick Bragg—he was always there for her no matter what.

  And then Sarah and her mother appeared on the threshold of the salon. Instantly Francesca rushed forward to embrace the petite brunette. Sarah looked much better than she had the other day. The color had returned to her cheeks, light to her dark eyes. She had taken all of her wonderful waist-length Pre-Raphaelite curls and coiled her hair into a severe bun, which detracted from her small, fine features. As always, she was wearing an ensemble that did not suit her at all—this one was a dark green suit and it made her look sallow. Black silk braid crisscrossed her short fitted jacket and excessively flounced skirts. A cream-colored shirtwaist was beneath. Lace frothed from the collar and cuffs. Francesca knew that Sarah was oblivious to her appearance and to fashion in general, and she knew also that Mrs. Channing ordered her daughter's clothes. While Francesca applauded disinterest in fashion in general, almost every time she first saw Sarah, she winced. Sarah was small and delicate and the gowns she wore simply overpowered her. Francesca wondered now if she might convince her sister to take Sarah shopping, as Connie had the most elegant taste in clothes.

  Sarah smiled now. "This is a wonderful surprise, Francesca," she said softly. "Hello, Commissioner. How are you?"

  "Very well," he said with a smile. "I see you have recovered from your recent bout with fever?"

  "Yes, I am doing quite well," Sarah said evenly. "The next time you see your brother, do give him my thanks."

  "He stayed up with her all night when she was feverish!" Mrs. Channing exclaimed. "I thought poor Sarah might expire, she was so ill! He ordered me to my rooms, saying he would manage everything and that I should not distress myself. And lo and behold, when I got up that next morning, Sarah was well on her way to recovery." Abigail Channing beamed. She then sighed, dramatically. "If only I were ten years younger. You do know, Commissioner, that the two of you look wonderfully alike. How old is Rourke?"

  Francesca hid a smile. Ten years would not do it, oh no.

  Bragg said, amused, "He is twenty-two or -three, I think. May we speak with Sarah alone, Mrs. Channing? This is official police business."

  Mrs. Channing's face fell. Her expression became distinctly worried now. "Oh, I do hope we have seen the last of that, that ruffian who so upset my daughter and who dared to come into our home and destroy her studio! Not that I am not a bit pleased that Sarah has finally taken some time away from her art, but really, I should not like such an event
to occur again."

  Francesca took Mrs. Channing's arm and guided her to the door. "It is unlikely he would return, Mrs. Channing," she said soothingly. "But he does need to be brought to justice, do you not agree?"

  "Oh, yes! Wholeheartedly! And it is so wonderful of the commissioner to be taking such an interest in our tiny little case." She beamed from the other side of the threshold now.

  "It is my pleasure," Bragg said gallantly.

  As Francesca began to close the door, Abigail waved.

  "Oh! Commissioner! Might you and your wife be inclined to dine with us one evening? I am so looking forward to meeting her."

  Francesca's heart lurched. So word had traveled, and swiftly, but how? Leigh Anne had only arrived in the city yesterday, and then Francesca corrected herself. No, she had learned of Leigh Anne's arrival yesterday but did not really know how long she had been in town. Who had spread the news of her advent? Francesca wondered if it had been her own mother. Now Francesca resolved not to think about the dramatic meeting she had had when Leigh Anne had come to call on her in her own home. But finally coming face-to-face with Bragg's wife had been so unpleasant and so adversarial that Francesca doubted she would ever forget the meeting.

  Bragg managed a polite smile. "I am extremely immersed in police affairs, but hopefully, we shall have the opportunity to do so, and soon."

  Francesca shut the door on a pleased Mrs. Channing and turned to regard Bragg. She knew there was little else he could have said in response to such an invitation; still, she was disturbed, dismayed, and even jealous.

  Sarah interrupted her thoughts. "Has something happened? Something has happened, hasn't it—for the two of you to be here on such an insignificant matter!"

  She was distressed. Francesca rushed to her, but not before sending Bragg a warning glance. "We would like to take a second look at your studio, Sarah. And ask you a few more questions."

  Sarah shrugged free. "Francesca, I have already told you everything. I discovered my studio at five-fifteen in the morning in a shambles. Someone brutalized all that I hold dear in this world. And we still have not a clue as to why. I am haunted by that question!" she cried.

  Bragg approached. Calmly he said, "Could you come with us?"

  Sarah nodded, appearing extremely grim. Francesca slid her arm around her. "Sarah? Perhaps another look at your studio will jog your mind a bit."

  "Perhaps," Sarah said. "But has something else happened?"

  Francesca and Bragg exchanged a swift look. Francesca quickly decided that as Sarah was far stronger than she looked and extremely intelligent—not to mention that her life might be in danger—she should know the truth. Apparently, Bragg had reached the same conclusion, for softly, he said, "Did you know another female artist, Miss Melinda Neville?"

  Sarah shook her head, her brown eyes dark with intensity. "No."

  "Her studio was vandalized in a very similar manner to yours," he said.

  Sarah stared at him. "What does this mean?"

  "There is more," Francesca said gently, taking her arm very firmly. But as she did, Sarah cried out, as if in pain.

  "Are you all right?"

  She nodded, but it was a moment before she could speak. "I bruised my arm. It is very sore—and quite purple, I might add."

  Francesca now recalled Rourke's comment, as he had seen the bruise, perhaps when he had examined Sarah when she was ill.

  "What is it that you are afraid to tell me?" Sarah asked.

  Francesca hesitated, glancing at Bragg. He nodded at her. She said, "A woman was found murdered in Miss Neville's studio, Sarah."

  Sarah turned white. She quickly sat down on the closest object of furniture, the edge of a plush green sofa. "Oh, God. Miss Neville?"

  "No, it was an actress, Grace Conway."

  Sarah was bewildered. "I don't understand."

  "Nor do we," Francesca said with what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

  Sarah stared, and after a pause, asked directly, "Am I in danger?"

  Francesca hesitated.

  Bragg said, "I don't know. But for safety's sake, I am leaving two police officers here, one outside and one just inside the front door."

  Sarah nodded, appearing flustered, breathless, and anxious all at once. "Was this actress's murder an accident, perhaps?"

  "Perhaps," Bragg said. "Shall we?" He gestured at the door.

  Sarah stood, and she and Francesca followed Bragg out. Francesca hadn't expected Sarah to know about Miss Con-way's involvement with Evan and was relieved that she did not. And even though she knew that Sarah's engagement would be ended, and soon, by her brother, to both his and Sarah's relief, at that moment they were still officially affianced, and Sarah had to be told about Evan's injuries. As they went down the hall, Francesca said, "I don't want you to worry, but Monday afternoon Evan was in a bit of a brawl."

  Sarah halted while Bragg swung open the door to her studio and went inside. "A brawl?"

  "Yes," Francesca said, having no intention of telling her about Evan's debts. "He was a bit smashed up, and he is in bed, but he will be fine in no time."

  "Oh! Poor Evan! I shall have to call on him immediately, of course." She stared at Francesca.

  "I am sure he should like that," Francesca said, knowing it hardly mattered to him.

  "I will do so this afternoon, of course," Sarah said firmly. Then her expression changed, becoming worried, and she looked past Francesca and at the open doorway of her studio. "I wonder if I will ever want to paint again," she murmured, more to herself than Francesca.

  "Of course you shall!" Francesca cried, meaning it. "You are too brilliant to ever stop doing what consumes you, Sarah!"

  Sarah's smile was wan. She shivered and did not move forward.

  Francesca did. She paused on the threshold of the studio, which was filled with midday light. Nothing had been touched. And the room remained a scene of carnage and wreckage, with paint splashed everywhere, canvases overturned, and one canvas mutilated. That canvas was a portrait of the stunning countess Bartolla Benevente, Sarah's cousin.

  Francesca saw everything in a glance and looked straight at the wall. There, amidst splatters of red and black paint was a crude letter. It looked like this: f

  Francesca stared. The letter could be a B, an F, an E, or perhaps even a K. It was not necessarily an F.

  "Francesca," Sarah whispered.

  Francesca turned and saw that Sarah's face was pinched with tension and fright. She left the studio, joining her in the hall. "What, dear?"

  "I have such a pounding headache," Sarah whispered, clasping her hands over her ears.

  "Maybe you should go upstairs and lie down," Francesca suggested.

  Sarah shook her head, dropping her hands to her sides. "I can't. I am afraid I might fall asleep," she said.

  Francesca could not understand what that comment meant.

  "I have been having the oddest nightmares! There is paint everywhere, and when I turn to run away, I run right into a man. And the moment I do, he grabs my arm, and then I wake up, screaming." She stared at Francesca now.

  Francesca stared back, highly alerted now to a possibility that had not yet been considered. "And this is a dream? Can you see the man's face? Do you know who this man is?" she cried.

  "That's just it," Sarah whispered. "The moment he grabs my arm, I look at him, but then I am awake, and I am looking at my bedroom," she said. "Francesca? It feels so real. It feels like deja vu."

  When Francesca did not speak, Sarah added, "It feels as if it really happened."

  * * *

  Only one other apartment was occupied by any tenants at Number 202 East 10th Street. That apartment was Number Two on the ground floor. Francesca and Bragg were greeted by a matronly woman with a grim expression and unsmiling eyes. Peering at them through the slightly cracked door, she said, "Yes?"

  "Mrs. Holmes?" Bragg smiled.

  "I don't want to buy anything," she said, closing the door abruptly.

  Francesc
a lifted her brows as Bragg knocked again. "I am afraid I am an officer with the police and I am here on official business," he said to the closed wooden door.

  This time the door was opened by a young woman a few years older than Francesca. Francesca gazed into a pair of soft and worried brown eyes, framed by auburn hair that was tightly drawn back from her face. The woman opened the door fully. "I am Catherine Holmes. I beg your pardon; my mother doesn't care for unexpected callers," she said softly.

  "We are sorry to intrude, but we must ask a few questions," Francesca said with a slight and equally soft smile.

  Catherine Holmes met her gaze, nodded, and let them into a modestly furnished flat. Her gaze returned to Bragg. "I've seen your caricature in the newspapers. You are the police commissioner."

  "Yes, and this is Miss Cahill," he said.

  Remaining anxious, Catherine Holmes offered them a seat in the small parlor, clasping her hands repeatedly in her apron, which she wore over a dark serge skirt. "Is this about poor Miss Conway?" she whispered.

  "I am afraid so," Bragg remarked.

  "She was very pleasant—and very beautiful," Catherine Holmes said, perching on a chair. "I cannot think of who would wish to do such a terrible thing." Tears filled her eyes.

  Francesca leaned forward to touch her hand. "Were you friends?"

  Catherine Holmes shook her head. "No. But we did pass from time to time in the entry hall. For an actress, she was a very nice lady."

  Francesca hesitated. "Did you also see her male friend from time to time?"

  Catherine Holmes blinked, straightening. "Yes," she said slowly. "He was here often. I couldn't help but notice him, as he was so handsome."

  Francesca thought that the cat might get out of the bag rather quickly, should the press ever interview the neighbors about Grace Conway. Evan would undoubtedly be identified almost immediately. Which meant they must find the killer even more quickly, to spare her brother any more pain.

  "Can you think of anyone odd who has been lurking about Miss Conway?" Bragg asked.

  Catherine Holmes shook her head again. "She had only the one visitor, the gentleman. She really didn't stay in very much—she was almost never home."