Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (8 page)

“I am sorry, Mother.” He meant it and patted her hand.

“Your father has been up all night as well. We both regret everything! You must change your mind about leaving the house. I will make sure your engagement to Miss Channing is off.”

“It is off, because I decided so,” Evan said evenly. “Let’s talk about this unpleasant subject another time.”

Julia was still. “Surely you do not think to still move out?” she finally said, eyes wide.

“As soon as I am able. I am sorry, Mother, but this isn’t simply about Sarah. It is about my entire life up-to-date. And it is about Father.” He was firm.

And Francesca was so proud of him. She had never realized how difficult it had been to be Andrew’s only son. She stepped forward. “Mama? Evan isn’t going anywhere for some time, as he has quite a bit of recuperating to do. Might I speak with him privately? I haven’t had the chance to do so since, the . . . er . . . brawl.”

Julia nodded, tears shimmering in her eyes. Francesca went into shock, as her mother was the strongest woman she knew and simply did not cry. Instantly Francesca took her hands. “Everything will be fine!” she exclaimed.

“Will it? Andrew is still angry with me, Evan is leaving his house—and he is lucky to be alive. Connie and Neil remain at odds, with Connie dejected.” Neil Montrose was a titled Englishman, whom Francesca’s sister Connie had married four years ago. Recently he had been unfaithful, and Connie had learned of it. “And you are in love with a married man, never mind that his wife has returned to town to prevent a sordid affair! Will everything be all right, Francesca?” Julia demanded with some anger now.

Francesca could only stare in shock. She must never underestimate her mother again. Julia knew everything that went on in town—and in this house. Francesca finally said, “I am not having a sordid affair.”

“Well, praise be for some common sense at last,” Julia snapped, and she walked out.

Francesca did not move, and then she met Evan’s unwavering and speculative stare. She turned and closed the bedroom door, then went swiftly to his side. She sat down on the bed. “Are you better today?”

“Much, actually. Through the haze of pain and laudanum, I heard Doctor Finney tell Mother yesterday that I am young and strong and that I’d be up on my feet in a few days. Yesterday I did not believe it, but today I rather think he might be right.”

“I am glad,” Francesca said, patting his hand.

He eyed her. “So you have given up your love affair with the commissioner?”

She sighed. “I love him. I always will. But it was the most terrible experience of my life to actually meet his wife, Evan. Until then, I think I didn’t really believe she existed. When she was tucked away in Europe—where she had a number of lovers, I might add—she seemed so distant, almost unreal. But she is real. She exists. And not only is she terribly beautiful; she is determined to reclaim her marriage. I am filled with guilt for loving the man who is her husband. Yet I cannot change my feelings. But I can change my behavior, and I have. We will remain friends, but nothing more.”

He took her hand. “I think you believe every word you have just spoken, but I know you, Fran. You are a creature of impulse, and sometimes, sadly, your judgment is lacking. I am worried about you.”

She instantly recalled her suspicion, shared by Bragg, that an angry creditor had done this to Evan. And she also recalled the reason they must speak. “And I am worried about you. Evan? What really happened?”

He looked away. “I was drunk. I got into a fight. And that’s the gist of it.”

“You’re lying.”

His gaze slammed to hers with heat. “I don’t like the accusation, Fran.”

“I am your sister! I love you! I want to help, Evan. And I can. The one thing I am good at is helping others and you know it! Is this about the money you owe?”

Their gazes locked. He did not look away. “Yes.”

“Oh, God.” Francesca stood. She stared down at him in fright. “Did they mean to kill you?”

“No. He wants his money, Francesca. This was a warning.” He was grim now.

Francesca stared. “Who, Evan? Who wants his money?” Evan looked away, clearly refusing to answer.

“And if you do not pay up?” Francesca had to know what might happen. She knew her brother’s debt totaled almost $200,000.

“Then I suppose I will wind up far worse.”

“Worse? How much worse could it get?” she cried.

He just looked at her now.

Of course it could get worse before he died—he could lose his legs, his arms, his mind. “Evan, we must go to Papa. He will pay off this brute! He would never allow you to remain in such danger.”

“No.”

“Evan!”

But her brother was furious now. “He dared to blackmail me into marrying Sarah Channing by refusing to pay my debts! I am finished with him, Francesca. I would rather die than beg the cash from him now.”

“You fool! For if you continue on this course you will die!” she shouted.

“Keep your voice down,” he advised.

Francesca stared. And she saw the resolution in his eyes. “You will not yield on this, will you?”

“No, Francesca. I am quitting the company, my engagement is over, and I am moving out. And I will find a way to raise something to begin to pay off LeFarge.”

“LeFarge? That is his name?” she asked quickly.

He groaned. “Stay out of this, Francesca.”

But she filed that bit of important information away.
“How much money do you need, right now, to stave off this man?”

“What?” He struggled to straighten as he sat.

“I will help you raise the money, Evan. And I promise you, I will not go to Papa.”

He stared. “Fifty thousand would be a good gesture.”

She had known the sum would be vast; still, she reeled. How on earth would she raise $50,000—and instantly? Who did she know who had such an amount of money on hand?

“I know. It is a vast sum.” Evan was glum.

It was as if electric lightbulbs went off inside her brain.

“Fran?”

She sat down. Calder Hart was extremely wealthy. In fact, he had written her a check for $5,000 for one of her charities without even thinking about it. But did she dare ask him to loan her such a sum?

When he refused to back down on the subject of their marriage?

She wet her lips. “I can get the money, Evan. I am certain.”

He gazed at her, amazed, and then he shook his head, beginning to smile. He winced instead. “Ow! Only you, Fran, could pull such a rabbit out of your hat.”

Her heart beat hard now in anticipation of the vast favor that she must ask. But other matters now demanded her attention. She stared at him, hating having to tell him about his mistress. But know he must, and there was simply no avoiding it.

“Why are you so grim? Fran . . . what is wrong?”

She inhaled and took his hand, clasping it hard. “Evan, something terrible has happened and there is no easy way to tell you.”

She saw his mind race. He leaned forward, grimacing. “Bartolla?”

She now winced. “No, Bartolla is fine.” So that was where his heart now lay. “There has been a murder, Evan,” she said.

His eyes widened. “Not . . . Sarah?!” he cried.

“No, not Sarah. Although the murder took place in a studio that was vandalized very much as hers was.”

He was confused. “I don’t understand. I do not know another artist. How does this affect me?”

“Grace Conway was murdered. Evan, I am so sorry.”

What little color Evan had drained from his face. Francesca held his hand and at first did not hear the knock on his bedroom door. He stared blindly at her. “How can this be?” he finally managed. And she saw tears rising up in his vivid blue eyes.

“Evan, we don’t know. The investigation had only just begun,” Francesca said gently.

He touched his head, looking away from her. “She was such a wonderful woman. She was full of life . . . and she was funny! Was . . . I can’t believe I am saying
was
.”

This time, Francesca started when the knock sounded on his door yet again. “I was in shock when I realized it was she,” Francesca said hastily. She leaped up and rushed to the door, only to find her mother standing there with Bragg.

Julia was too polite to scowl; still Francesca recognized her grim reluctance now. Francesca’s gaze met Bragg’s. While she did not smile, her heart quickened with pleasure. “Good morning,” she said. “I have just broken the news.”

“Good morning,” he returned, his gaze lingering upon her for one more moment before moving past her, to her brother.

“What news? What is going on that I do not know about?” Julia asked firmly.

Bragg turned to her. “As I said, I must speak with your son on official police business, Mrs. Cahill.”

Julia stared with concern. “This is not about his injuries?”

“No, it is not. Grace Conway was found murdered yesterday evening.”

Julia’s expression did not change.

“Mama,” Francesca said softly, taking her hand. “Miss Conway was Evan’s mistress.”

Julia started and jerked her palm from Francesca’s grasp. “I hardly think so!”

Francesca exchanged a silent look with Bragg. From the bed, Evan said, “It is true. She was my mistress, Mother.” His tone was hoarse.

Francesca gave up and ran to his side. “What can I get you?”

“Nothing.” He clasped his chest with his right hand. “How this hurts. She was so full of life . . .” he trailed off. Then, angrily, “No one deserved to live more!”

Bragg faced Julia. “I’d like a few words alone with Evan, please. Perhaps he can be useful in this investigation,” he said.

Julia finally nodded, wary now. “And Francesca?”

Before Bragg could reply, Francesca piped up briskly, “She was found in an artist’s studio, Mama, one vandalized as Sarah’s was. So you see, the cases seem to be connected. I am afraid I am working on Miss Conway’s murder with the police.”

Julia made a harsh sound, and Francesca did not like the look in her eye. It seemed to say,
Not for very long you’re not
. Julia left the room, but not before saying, “I expect to be apprised of this terrible affair before you leave my home, Commissioner.”

Bragg nodded.

When they were alone, he approached Evan. The tip of his nose had turned red. A tear stained his cheek. Bragg said, softly, “I am very sorry, Evan.”

Evan glared at him. “I want to know who did this! And I want to know why!” he cried angrily.

“We intend to find the killer, Evan,” Francesca interjected.

He glared at her now. “You should not be involved and you know it!”

“But I am involved,” Francesca said quietly. “Because you are my brother and Sarah is my friend.”

Evan stared, and then his gaze shot to Bragg. “Is Sarah in danger? And what do you mean, Gracie was found in an artist’s studio? Was it Sarah’s?”

“No,” Bragg said, keeping his tone gentle. “She was
found in the apartment directly across the hall from her own, Number Seven, which belongs to Melinda Neville. Do you know Miss Neville, Evan?”

“No. But I have seen her about from time to time. Gracie was in Miss Neville’s apartment when she was murdered? I did not even know Miss Neville was an artist,” he said, in clear anguish. He suddenly covered his face with his hands.

“Apparently she was. As she has yet to return to her apartment, could you give us a description?” Bragg asked.

Francesca looked at him. “She hasn’t returned?”

“No.” They exchanged a significant glance.

“Did you locate Thomas Neville?” she then asked, after a moment of reflection.

“No. He vacated the address on the letter six months ago. However, I expect to have learned his forwarding address from the landlord, whom Detective Hickey is on his way to see even as we speak.”

Francesca nodded. “I read his letter, Bragg. He was fairly ordinary. Apparently Miss Neville spent a year in Paris. He wished to know when she was coming home when he wrote it.” She shrugged.

Bragg met her gaze. “I find it odd that she kept the letter and never read it.”

Francesca was surprised. “The letter was sealed when you found it?”

He nodded.

“That’s easy,” Francesca said quickly. “She probably tossed it in the drawer of her bureau and forgot about it. Still, I cannot get a feeling of what their relationship was really like.”

“I think he missed her.” Bragg faced Evan. “Evan? A description of Miss Neville would be very helpful.”

He let out a harsh breath and stared up at the ceiling. “She was small, boyish. A severe expression, short dark hair, big dark eyes. That is all I recall,” he said woodenly.

“Can you think of anyone who might wish to harm either Miss Neville or Miss Conway?” Bragg asked.

“Absolutely not!” he cried. “I mean, I know nothing
about Miss Neville, but as for Gracie, those who knew her loved her! She was amusing—she made everyone laugh! After dinner she loved to sing—and everyone loved her to do so! And she was kind, Bragg. She did not have a mean bone in her body. Well,” he amended, and stopped.

“Well what?” Francesca asked quickly.

“She was extremely upset with my engagement to Sarah, no matter how I explained that I did not love, like, or find Sarah in the least bit attractive. We fought a few times over that particular subject, but I really do not want to think about those times now.” Tears filled his eyes. “I would rather think of all the good times we shared. We were together for almost a year and a half,” he added.

“So you met when? And when did you begin keeping her?”

“We met the summer before last. I began keeping her right after the Fourth of July.” He smiled, as if recalling a particularly pleasant memory. Then he looked at Bragg. “How in hell would Grace and Sarah be connected? I don’t understand any of this,” he said.

Francesca clasped his shoulder while Bragg said, “Unfortunately, you are the only connection here, thus far.”

“What?” he gasped. And then he paled. “You are right. Two women close to me—well, Sarah was not close, but one would think so, in the light of our engagement. . . . Oh, God! Is this somehow my fault?”

“It is not your fault,” Francesca said firmly.

He cast wild eyes at Bragg. “Did LeFarge do this? And if so, why . . . when he has already done this to me?”