by Brenda Joyce
Francesca recovered. "I have come to discuss a new lead with ... your husband," she said briskly. "But I can see that I have come at an inopportune time."
"Oh!" Leigh Anne had paused before her, handing off her silver chinchilla fur coat to Peter. She wore a silver gown beneath, one gorgeous in its design and one that revealed her perfect yet petite figure—and a great deal of surprisingly voluptuous bosom. Of course Bragg would remain attracted to her. What man wouldn't?
"Well, why don't you and Rick go into the parlor and I shall send in some refreshments?" Leigh Anne smiled pleasantly. "I don't really know what is lying about in the kitchen, as I have only just moved in, but I am certain I can come up with something. Peter? Do help."
She had moved in. Francesca was not surprised. She had known it the moment she had seen those bags. It was really, truly, finally over.
Leigh Anne had started for the dining room doorway. Bragg came forward, draping his greatcoat on the chair beside the side table. "Francesca," he said urgently.
"I think this can wait until tomorrow," she managed, and she hurried past him, through the entry hall, and out the door into the night. The sorrow overwhelmed her then. What had she been thinking, to carry on even if only emotionally with a married man? But could she really let go? Did she even want to?
"Francesca!" Bragg cried, chasing her.
She turned to face him. "I am happy for you, for you both, Rick. You deserve a marriage, a family—you deserve happiness." And that noblest part of her meant it.
"It is only for six months," he said.
"What?" Hope flared. And past his shoulder, she saw Leigh Anne in the doorway of his house, watching them.
"Leigh Anne offered me an arrangement. One I am getting in writing, Francesca," he said, his tone low and urgent. "She will live with me for six months, and then I am free. Then she will give me a divorce," he said in a rush.
She was stunned. "I don't understand."
He grimaced. "I do believe she thinks that after six months, I will change my mind."
Her mind sped and raced, but uselessly, in confusion. Until she realized that Leigh Anne was probably right. "Of course you will. You still love her."
"That's not true," he said angrily. His eyes flashed. "I despise her. She is very clever, that is all. My feelings for you haven't changed," he added.
She stared. It was a long and even sadder moment before she spoke. "No, Rick, I think you should face the truth. You love her, not me. And that is as it should be."
"You dare to tell me who I carry with me in my heart, minute by minute and day after day? It is you, Francesca. You are the one I think about, yearn for, dream of. You are the one who makes me laugh and smile. You have always been the one to put a smile in my heart." He added, "And I hate it when you call me Rick!"
She finally pulled away from him. "Don't do this. Not now. Not anymore." And Hart's knowing, mocking image filled her mind. It clearly said, I told you so.
"I am not asking you to wait," Bragg said. "But damn it, I am not going to lie to you, either."
"You are lying to yourself. I simply do not know why," she said, but she was torn. A part of her wished to discourage his marriage—to tell him what he wanted to hear. "Hatred and love—both extreme passion ... and, as Calder has said, the opposite sides of the same coin."
He stared, his eyes agonized. "Not in this case."
"Have you slept with her?" Francesca asked, and then could not believe the burning question had popped out. But she had to know. And terribly, she recalled the fact that just an hour or so ago, she had finally been kissed by Calder Hart.
He was clearly taken aback. "No."
Francesca shook off her sudden guilt. But what had happened at Hart's was not the issue, not now. And she would analyze that incident later. "But you will. Don't deny it. I see the way you look at her."
"Francesca, men are different from women. A man can sleep with a woman he has no feelings for."
"I am aware of that. But more important, we don't get to choose whom we fall in love with," she said sadly.
"You are being as bullheaded as ever," he snapped. "I am allowing Leigh Anne to live in my household for exactly six months. And after that, she will agree to a divorce and I shall be free. I should have told you. But we concluded this arrangement only today. For God's sake! I have been in shock myself, trying to adjust to the fact of my wife's return—and her very clever manipulations."
"I think she still harbors love for you, too." In fact, Francesca had little doubt now.
"She loves only herself." His anger vanished, his tone became pleading instead. "I don't want you leaving this way. No matter what happens, we are friends."
She realized she was hugging herself. She glanced past him and saw that his wife had left the door and it was now closed. And suddenly she wondered if she and Bragg could really remain friends. It now seemed a monumental task.
She knew he wanted reassurance from her—that she would be his friend no matter what happened—but she was not up to the task of offering comfort now. She tried a small smile instead. "I'll drop by headquarters tomorrow. There is a new development you should know about. It's late. I have to go, Bragg. If my mother sees me when I come in, I am in serious trouble."
He didn't smile. He clearly couldn't.
Francesca hesitated, kissed his cheek, felt her heart suddenly break, and walked off to Hart's waiting carriage.
Friday, February 21, 1902—10:00 a.m.
She knocked gingerly on his closed office door. Headquarters was oddly silent that morning—no telephones were ringing, and she had heard only one telegraph. Voices were kept low, in a murmur. It was as if everyone were in mourning. Or was she the one in mourning and the atmosphere prevailing her imagination?
Bragg briskly called out. "Come in!"
She opened the frosted glass door hesitantly. She had spent most of the night tossing and turning, first thinking about him and then, against her will, considering Hart. She had gone over and over the memories she and Bragg had made. Every few moments, Hart's nearly black eyes would intrude, their message clear: I told you so. He had been warning her that she was headed for ruin as long as she loved Rick Bragg for some time now—ever since they had first met. Then his eyes would change, turning to gray smoke. Furious—not wanting to think about the sensual interlude of that evening—she would jerk her thoughts back where they belonged. Hart's dire predictions were wrong. She wasn't ruined, not in the traditional sense of the word, but her heart had been broken, not even once but several times over, in fact.
She had decided just last week to stand back and be Bragg's friend and support his marriage and his career. She simply hadn't known how difficult that resolution would be to keep. A night of brooding had not changed anything. She remained sad, the sense of loss insistent, but she was also confused—and afraid.
It felt as if her entire life was in upheaval once again. It felt as if nothing was ever going to be the same. It was as if she were on a terrible precipice. One step and the past would be forever out of her reach; one step and an endless fall would begin. If only she knew where she might land— and if she could survive the leap.
Now, she halted in the doorway as he looked up. Their gazes leaped together, locked. The moment of seeing him now felt terribly awkward.
He shot to his feet. "I wasn't sure you would come downtown after all."
She managed a smile. "We have a killer on the loose, Bragg. That hasn't changed."
He smiled a little, tentatively, his gaze searching. "No, that hasn't changed."
She hesitated. "I won't appear at your door again at such an ungracious hour."
He rushed around his desk. "Francesca! You may appear at my home at any time of the day or night!"
"I don't think your wife will like that."
He eyes were hard. "I don't care what she likes."
She realized he meant what he said—or he thought that he did. She almost told him that perhaps he should care about w
hat she liked, then decided not to interfere in his marriage. That was a certain recipe for disaster.
Besides, somewhere deep down in her soul she knew he was never going to divorce Leigh Anne.
"So, are you bringing me a fresh clue?" His tone was light, as was the touch on her elbow. But the awkwardness remained.
She turned. "Bertrand Hoeltz, the owner of Gallery Hoeltz on Fourth Avenue, is Melinda Neville's paramour, Bragg."
His eyes widened. "Well," he said after a significant pause.
Francesca finally smiled. "Is that all you can say?"
He smiled back, his expression suddenly easing. "When did he last see her?"
She was relieved that they had somehow broken the tension. "Monday morning. They shared a light breakfast and then she was returning to her studio to work. He seems quite frantic." Francesca thought about Bertrand Hoeltz and added, "If he is dissembling, I cannot tell. Joel's theory is that Hoeltz might have killed Melinda because of jealousy."
"Over whom?" Bragg asked quickly.
"We do not know."
"Does he know Sarah?"
"He said he did not."
"You doubt him?"
"No. I have no reason to doubt anything that he has said, at this time," she said thoughtfully.
Suddenly Captain Shea was knocking on the door. His eyes were wide. "C'mish, sir! I think you might want to come downstairs, right now!"
Bragg rushed forward, Francesca following, more than curious. "What is it, Shea?" Bragg asked.
"Thomas Neville is at reception, shouting for his sister."
Bragg strode through the door, Francesca running to catch up with him. They exchanged glances, ignoring the elevator, as the cage was clearly on the ground floor. He took her arm as they hurried down the concrete steps, Shea on their heels. "Well, this is a positive development," Francesca said breathlessly.
They hit the ground floor landing, where they could see past the elevator cage and into the busy reception area, where policemen were booking various crooks and hoods, and where two gentlemen were filing some kind of civilian complaint. Francesca saw Neville instantly, standing alone at the front desk, pounding his fist on it, O'Malley facing him, apparently trying to calm him. "That's him!" she cried. "I saw the portrait his sister painted at Hoeltz's gallery."
They hurried forward.
Thomas Neville was close to Francesca in age. As in the portrait, he had raven black hair, dark eyes, a large nose, and thin lips. Unlike the portrait, she hadn't realized he was so tall. He was several inches taller than Bragg, and although his shoulders weren't narrow, he was as lean as a beanstalk. He was attractive in a distinguished way.
A big man with no eyes and no mouth.
Francesca shoved Ellie's voice out of her mind. Ellie had been drunk and hallucinating or dreaming. Besides, Thomas Neville was very tall, but big? That was not a word Francesca would ever use to describe him. He was tall, but thin and gaunt.
"Mr. Neville, may I help you?" Bragg approached, his tone calm.
Neville turned, dark eyes flashing with annoyance. "Who are you?" he snapped.
Bragg extended his hand. "I am the commissioner of police, Rick Bragg."
That took Neville aback. Then, recovering from his surprise, he said, "I have not seen my sister in days, Commissioner! I have become frantic. I think she may be missing! I had assumed she was very involved in her work—she is an artist—but now there is no possible reason for her not to have come home. I think she has disappeared!" His tone had risen into hysteria.
"Please, be calm," Bragg said quietly. "We happen to be aware of the fact that Miss Neville is missing."
Neville inhaled, and he was trembling. Then his gaze narrowed with sudden suspicion. "You are? How do you know she is missing?"
"Her apartment has been the scene of a murder," Bragg said. "Did you know her neighbor, Miss Conway, the actress?"
"A murder!" Neville stared, blanching. "Who—someone was murdered in her apartment? But... that's impossible!"
"Miss Conway was found murdered there, Mr. Neville."
He stared. It was a moment before he spoke. "How— why—how was she murdered in my sister's flat?"
"We're not certain," Bragg said. "Did you know her?"
"I only knew her in passing. We nodded at one another in the hall. She was cold, not like when she was onstage. Cold and unfriendly," he added.
Francesca stiffened with interest. Cold? Every single person whom they had spoken to said Grace Conway was warm and wonderful and beloved by all.
"Let's move over to a desk," Bragg said, his smile friendly, taking Neville's elbow.
Neville nodded grimly. Then, "I simply cannot believe this," he said. "Why would anyone murder Miss Conway? And in Mellie's flat!"
They moved behind the reception counter and into a large back room filled with desks and police clerks at their typewriters. Bragg offered a seat. Neville took it. He had now lost all of his coloring. He appeared rather greenish, in fact. "Please do not tell me that Mellie is in danger," he begged. "Good God, her disappearance isn't related to the murder, is it?"
Francesca smiled reassuringly at him. "We hope not. I am Miss Cahill," she said, handing him her calling card.
His heavy black brows lifted as he read it. He looked up. "Since when do women sleuth?"
"Since I have helped the police solve four very ghastly crimes," she said, keeping her smile firmly in place.
He handed the card back to her.
"Do keep it. When did you last see your sister, Mr. Neville?"
"Sunday." He was now abrupt.
"At what time?"
He gave her a dark look. "Why are you asking me?!"
"It is important," she said softly. "Please, we want to find her as much as you do."
He sighed. "I last saw her Sunday evening."
Francesca started, as Melinda Neville had spent Sunday night with Hoeltz—or so the gallery owner claimed. Had she gone over to the gallery after a visit from her brother? Or was one of the two men lying?
Bragg was apparently on the same track. He said, "And what time was that?"
Neville looked at them both. "Does it really matter?"
"Yes, it does," Bragg said firmly.
"It was about six p.m. I had hoped we might share a light supper, but she had other plans."
Francesca exchanged glances with Bragg. "Other plans?" she asked.
Neville suddenly covered his face with his hands. "She didn't say. She had other dinner plans."
"Were Melinda and Grace Conway friends?" Francesca asked after a reflective pause. Didn't Thomas Neville know about his sister's love affair? Could he have possibly been oblivious?
"They liked one another immensely," he said instantly. "Mellie returned from Paris very recently, and somehow, they became bosom buddies. In fact, Mellie met Miss Con-way the very day she was moving in. I was helping her with her trunks. They became friendly at once. I actually think they forgot my very presence." He smiled slightly then, the memory a fond one. "I suppose they had a bit in common, an actress and an artist. God knows Mellie was raised very traditionally, but at heart she was a bohemian."
"So you approved of her friendship with Miss Conway, even though you did not like the actress yourself?" Francesca asked.
"I was thrilled that she made a friend so quickly!" he exclaimed. "And I did not say I did not like Miss Conway. I did not know her at all. When I was present, she would leave. I doubt we ever exchanged more than a dozen words. But she was all laughter around Mellie."
Francesca nodded. "I see." Not that she did. "And Hoeltz? Did you approve of your sister's friendship with him?"
Neville shot to his feet, flushing now. "Hoeltz? I do not know who you are speaking of," he said.
He was lying, Francesca was certain of it.
Bragg touched his arm. "Do sit down, Mr. Neville. So you never made the acquaintance of Bertrand Hoeltz?"
Neville did not sit. His cheeks remained red. He lowered his voice to a whis
per. "Mellie is a good girl. She had nothing to do with Bertrand Hoeltz!"
"So you have met him," Bragg said.
"They are friends—casually speaking. He is representing her work," Neville said, his chin up, his posture and tone defensive. "She is my only family, Commissioner. Our mother died when we were children. Our father died a year and a half ago. She is all I have and I am begging you to find her."
"We shall do our best," Bragg said, clasping his shoulder. "These questions are necessary, Thomas. Please, do bear with Miss Cahill and me. We are almost done." He smiled.
Thomas Neville sat down. Now, he looked as if he might weep.
"Do you recall where you were on Monday morning?"
Neville blinked. "Of course I do."
"And where was that?" Francesca asked quickly.
He turned his gaze upon her. "I work at the Seamen's Savings Bank on Pearl Street. I am a clerk. I start at nine and finish at five, Monday through Friday," he said.
Francesca thought about the possibility that Grace Con-way could have died before nine Monday morning or after five that evening. Not that she thought Thomas Neville the murderer, but with the sheer poverty of suspects she would add him to their short list. "What time do you leave for work?" she asked.
"At a quarter past eight," he said, "I take the trolley downtown."
"Can you think of anyone who might wish to harm Miss Conway?" Bragg asked.
"I told you, I hardly knew her," Neville said.
"Do you know anyone who might wish to harm your sister?"
"Do you think someone has hurt Mellie?" Neville cried, blanching.
"We don't know what to think," Bragg returned evenly.
"Everyone loves Mellie," her brother said. "Everyone!"
Francesca leaned close. "Not everyone, Mr. Neville. For your sister is missing, and that upon the heels of the murder of her good friend. I think she may have seen something. I think she may have witnessed the killing. I think she may have run away."
And Thomas Neville's eyes bulged. "No, no," he whispered, trembling.
"Think!" Francesca cried. "Do you know of anyone who might wish to kill Miss Conway? Or someone who hated your sister enough to destroy her studio and perhaps even attack Miss Conway accidentally—thinking her to be Mellie?"
