Francesca felt as if she had been run over by a lorry. She wondered how she might navigate an evening when Hart would be present—and when Bragg would also be present. Of course, unlike Hart, Bragg did not sulk like a spoiled child and did not hold a grudge. His nature was a sunny one, just as his character was optimistic. He would undoubtedly have forgotten about their argument or realized the cause—Hart’s commission—was hardly worth it. Still, his father had seen Hart storming away. How much had he heard and what did he think?
She had so wanted to make a good impression. By now, Rathe had already told Grace about her and Hart. Francesca could not even smile at Jonathon, the young and handsome doorman, as she handed him her coat. “Have you seen my disreputable brother?” she asked. In spite of her own personal feelings, she did have a case to solve.
“I do believe Mr. Cahill is with your father, Miss Cahill. They adjourned to the library some time ago.”
Francesca was about to head down the hall, for she wished to speak with Evan about her second theory, that a rejected debutante was insane enough and vicious enough to vandalize Sarah’s studio. But before she could do so, she heard two very familiar voices coming from the stairwell. Francesca saw her mother and Maggie Kennedy descending slowly, her mother magnificently dressed in a crimson ball gown, with rubies about her throat and diamond earbobs. The gown was a Poiret. Maggie wore a plain navy blue skirt and a shirtwaist. She was using a cane, which she leaned heavily upon.
The redhead was pale and clearly still weak from the stab wound she had suffered earlier in the week.
Francesca reversed direction and rushed toward the wide alabaster staircase. “Mrs. Kennedy! Should you be up and about?”
“I have asked her the exact same question,” Julia said, pulling on elbow-length black gloves. Her hair had been waved with hot tongs, and she was a very elegant and beautiful older woman. Francesca was fully aware that her mother still turned heads.
“I am much better, thank you,” Maggie said, rather out of breath. “Dr. Finney said I should walk about a bit now, to gain back my strength.”
“But going up and down stairs is another matter indeed,” Francesca said bluntly.
Maggie smiled at her. “I do need to get my strength back, Miss Cahill. You see, I was just explaining to Mrs. Cahill that I will go home tomorrow.”
Francesca stared in surprise. Maggie Kennedy was the mother of her sidekick, Joel. She was a seamstress who worked at the Moe Levy factory by day while sewing custom garments for private clients at night. Francesca had liked her the first moment they had met, about a month ago. Then, in her last investigation, she had realized that Mrs. Kennedy might be the Cross Murderer’s last victim.
Francesca and Bragg had persuaded the pretty seamstress to move into the Cahill mansion with her four young children. And after being stabbed on Tuesday night, she had remained there in order to recuperate.
“That is nonsense,” Julia said firmly, now. “My dear Maggie, you are clearly not able to return to your home. You cannot even navigate these stairs!”
“My mother is right,” Francesca began, dismayed and concerned.
“I have imposed quite enough,” Maggie said, a pink flush now marring her porcelain and perfectly flawless skin. She had been invited to stay at the Cahill mansion when it had become obvious that her life was in dire danger. Francesca
had been the one to invite her and her four children to stay with them. Julia had graciously risen to the occasion. “I think your brother has had quite enough of my four little rascals,” Maggie said with a slight smile, “and I shall lose my job at Moe Levy if I do not return to the factory on Monday.”
“Has Evan said something about the children?” Julia asked with her slender brows arched.
“Evan adores your children,” Francesca said. He had been squiring them about the park and to the zoo and even to an indoor bowling lane ever since they had become guests at the house.
“It isn’t fair,” Maggie said softly. Then she flushed. “I am so worried about my employment, Miss Cahill.”
“But Francesca,” she said automatically, “the police commissioner spoke to your manager, explaining the circumstances. You will not lose your work.”
Maggie simply looked at her. “Are you certain? Because I do not think Mr. Wentz cares whether or not the police commissioner wishes me to be employed.”
Francesca hesitated. “Mrs. Kennedy? Let me be singularly bold. Bragg can cause trouble for the factory if you are dismissed.”
She stared. Then, “I do not think he would ever do such a thing, Miss Cahill. Not on my account.”
“Yes, he would. If I insisted,” Francesca said, and then she realized what she had said and how it sounded and turned to face her mother.
Julia wasn’t pleased. Her blue eyes said,
We shall talk, and soon, Francesca
, and clearly there would be a lecture involved.
Francesca sighed.
Julia said, surprising everyone, “Maggie, you are not well enough to go back to work, I shall not allow it, but on Monday I shall go down to the factory and speak to your manager myself.”
Maggie paled. “Oh, I could not let you do such a thing!”
“Nonsense. And not only shall I go myself; I shall make it clear that I am ordering new uniforms for my entire staff
and for the Montrose household as well.” She smiled.
Maggie gaped.
Francesca whooped and embraced her mother in a bear hug. “Mama!”
“Francesca, what are you doing?” Julia said sternly, trying to disengage her daughter, but her eyes were smiling, even if her expression remained firm.
“You never cease to surprise me,” Francesca said, giving her another huge squeeze. “Now, I am off to speak briefly with Evan, and then I am to supper at the Plaza with the Braggs.” She started back down the hall.
“We will speak more later, Maggie,” Julia said. Then, “Francesca!”
She turned. “Yes, Mama?”
Julia approached. “We need to speak,” she said.
Dismay filled her. “Can’t it wait? I must be at the Plaza at seven and I am already going to be late.”
“No, this is about your sister,” Julia said, her voice low so she could not be overheard. “She and Neil were supposed to join us this evening, but apparently she is in her bed with some kind of migraine—yet she refuses to see Dr. Finney.”
Francesca stared. “I saw her this morning.”
“I know. What is wrong? Is she ill?”
Francesca hesitated. “The only thing wrong with her is that she has a broken heart. But perhaps she does have a migraine, Mama.”
“Since when does your sister have migraines?” Their gazes locked. “I feel like I don’t know my own daughter anymore.”
Francesca took her hand. “She seemed quite normal this morning. Except for the fact that it was well after nine and she was in her nightgown. Maybe Connie is changing a bit? Maybe she does have a migraine.”
“I don’t know whether to hope her excuse is truthful or not,” Julia said. “You know I have never interfered in your sister’s marriage. But I am tempted to do so, now.”
Inwardly, Francesca cringed. “She will get through this. I suppose she needs time. She has always loved Neil. I feel
certain that has not changed. And … Neil truly loves her. He regrets all that he has done. Give them some time, Mama, to sort out things.”
A look of anger appeared briefly in Julia’s eyes, and then it was gone. “It is a bit late for him to cry over spilled milk,” she said.
Francesca was taken aback. Her mother adored Montrose. In the past, he could do no wrong. But there had been no mistaking the anger she had just seen.
“I am going to have a bit of a heart-to-heart with your sister,” Julia decided flatly. “The two of them have been at odds for too long. I shall put my two cents in.”
Francesca hesitated. She did not know if this was a good idea or not. Her entire life, Connie had been pushed and prodded by Julia to be a perfect child, a perfect debutante, and now the perfect wife, mother, and socialite. On the other hand, if Julia could help Connie regain her happiness, if her relationship could just go back to the way it had been before his affair, it would be wonderful. “Well, tread gently, then.”
Julia gazed at her in surprise. “That is extremely good advice, Francesca.”
Francesca was thrilled with her mother’s praise. It was so rare. “Thank you, Mama.”
Julia patted her shoulder. “So why have you been running about the city all day when you are supposed to rest? And what is this about a dinner with the Braggs?”
Francesca froze.
Julia sighed. “I am entirely suspicious, Francesca. But even you would not be involved in police affairs so soon after your brush with a fiery death.”
“Of course not,” she managed.
“And I am delighted you shall be dining in such good company.” She kissed her cheek. “Wear your new turquoise gown. I am sure it will be a wonderful evening.”
The door to her father’s library was wide open. The room was Francesca’s favorite in the entire house, as it was a warm room with wood paneling and soft gold tapestry cloth covering
the walls. The windowpanes were stained glass and the same rich, dark oak wood that formed ribs across the ceiling. Her father’s desk was also dark oak, but with a leather-inlaid top. They kept their telephone there.
Now there was nothing warm about the library, in spite of a fire that roared in the hearth. Because Evan’s face was flushed with fury and he was saying angrily, “And if you do not change your mind, you are the one who shall pay the consequences!”
Andrew was as flushed. “You threaten me?” he gasped.
“Yes, I do,” Evan said coldly. He was six foot tall, with the fair Cahill complexion but raven-black hair. His blue eyes were murderous. “After all, it is a tit for a tat, is it not, Father? Doesn’t blackmail deserve threats?”
Francesca was aghast. She rushed into the room. “Stop! What is happening! What is this?” she cried, reeling from the utter hatred on her brother’s handsome face.
“He dares to threaten me!” Andrew cried, a distinct and unflattering shade of crimson. He was a portly man with a benevolent face and thick whiskers.
“I am simply stating my case. He wishes to ruin the rest of my life by forcing me to marry a woman I will never love—or even like. If he does not change his mind, then rest assured, our relationship as a father and son is over.”
Francesca felt as if she had been struck. Clearly Andrew felt the blow as well, for he seemed to be reeling. She ran to his side and grabbed his arm, as if to steady him. “Evan, you do not mean that.”
“I mean it. In four months he will have me exchanging vows with Sarah Charming. In four months my life becomes one of manacles and chains, of unhappiness and anguish. And I will not take it.” His blue eyes were nearly black.
Andrew Cahill shook Francesca off. “You haven’t spoken to me in almost a month. Now you dare to come in here and tell me that you will cease being my son if I do not call off this wedding?”
“Yes. I dare.” Evan did not back down.
“I am doing this precisely because you are my son! I am
doing this because you are almost twenty-five and you have no direction in your life except for gambling halls and dens! And cheap women!”
Evan folded his arms across his chest. “We cannot all be like you, Father. We can’t all grow up impoverished and illiterate but with such a burning ambition that we shake off those shackles with sheer fortitude and wit. I am truly sorry I have not grown up on a farm, milking cows and plowing fields the way that you have done. I am sorry that I did not go to work for a butcher at the age of twelve and that I did not spend the rest of my childhood working myself to the bone and saving every penny earned so I could buy that damned butcher shop! I am sorry I did not do so, and then continue on to buy my competitors out, one by one, until Cahill Meatpacking was born! I am not you! And I never will be you!” he shouted.
“No one expects you to be exactly like Father,” Francesca began.
“You do not have to grow up on a farm on a diet of milk, butter, and bread in order to have some kind of ambition, some sense of direction, and some glimmer of responsibility,” Andrew snapped. “Or have you forgotten that the reason you are so currently
shackled
is because you have gaming debts which total almost two hundred thousand dollars?”
Evan’s flush increased.
“Papa, don’t,” Francesca whispered. “He regrets those debts; he truly does!”
“Does he?” Andrew moved behind his desk and almost tore a drawer from it. He held up a handful of papers. “These debts are new and they have just come to my attention. Last week you incurred another eighteen thousand dollars of damned debt!” he shouted.
Francesca turned huge eyes upon her brother. Had he been gambling again? But he had promised that he would never do so again. How could he?
He met her gaze and looked away, with clear guilt. Then he looked up at Andrew. “Do not make me marry this
woman. I will pay off my debts, somehow. Over time. But do not shackle me to Sarah Channing.”