Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (7 page)

“Good.” He leaned toward her. “I have changed my mind about one thing, however.”

“That is?” she asked warily.

“I want you to pose nude.”

She stared, speechless.

“We will probably be wed, my dear, by the time I get my portrait.”

She melted in a heap. “I don’t mind. You won’t hang it . . . ”

“Publicly? Of course not. I intend to hang it in my private rooms.” He smiled at her in a way that made her skin begin to burn.

The coach jounced wildly and Francesca realized they
had turned into the driveway in front of the Cahill mansion. The grounds sweeping up to the limestone house were now muddy instead of snow-laden, and lights flickered in the two lower stories of the twenty-room house. Francesca looked back at Hart, flushing wildly. “I am flattered,” she managed.

He grinned. “I am sure that you are. Other ladies would be insulted. You do realize that?”

“I do.” She hesitated, aware of how pleased she was that he wished to admire her portrait at any time of night or day. Then, “I am not voluptuous, Calder.”

He laughed as the coach halted in front of the wide steps leading up to the front door. “I know exactly what you are, Francesca; have no fear of that.” His grin was a wicked one.

He helped her to alight from the coach and he walked her to her door. There they paused. Francesca trembled and moved closer, but he gripped her elbows and did not pull her into his arms. His gaze was oddly speculative now.

“My parents can’t possibly be home,” she said huskily. “It’s far too early, Calder.”

“Anything is possible,” he said. Then he added, “And tomorrow? Will you enlist the aid of the police?”

She hesitated. Hurting Rick Bragg was the last thing that she ever wished to do. And she thought he would also be very angry. Facing him tomorrow would be terrible. She did not know if she could do it.

But she had no choice. She needed his help; of that she had little doubt. Because time was of the essence and in order to find a real lead they had to move swiftly now.

She tensed. “Yes.”

“You should,” Hart said dispassionately. “If you intend to canvass the entire neighborhood, you will need the help of his men. You also need the additional manpower to get a timely clue.”

She asked warily, “You don’t mind?”

“I hardly said that.”

“After tonight, he may not be inclined to help my investigation,” she said tersely.

“I wouldn’t,” Hart said. “But we both know he will. Remember, he would never let an injustice go unattended, and that is a major difference between us.”

“You sell yourself short,” she said swiftly. “I think you are more concerned with injustice and suffering than you let on.”

“And you remain hopelessly naive and romantic. Another aspect of your charm,” he said, and he kissed the top of her head as if she were a child. “Good night, Francesca.”

“I am not as naive as you think,” she protested.

Hart knocked and the Cahill doorman opened the door. “Well, let us put it this way—you are not as naive as you were several months ago.”

She blushed.

He smiled and turned away, striding swiftly back to his coach. Francesca did not move, watching as the elegant barouche swept around the circular drive and finally exited back onto Fifth Avenue. Then, finally, she shivered.

A nude portrait. She would be the talk of the town if anyone ever found out.

She smiled.

Perhaps she would sit for Sarah tomorrow.

F
RIDAY
, M
ARCH
28, 1902—8:00
A.M
.

I
N ORDER TO LEAVE
the city—and when Francesca had left in late February she hadn’t had any idea of how long she would be gone—she had finally given in to what now seemed inevitable. She had sent the dean of students at Barnard College a letter advising her of her immediate withdrawal. She had worked very hard to secretly enroll in the exclusive women’s college, and her sister had helped her with the tuition. The enrollment had been kept secret because Julia never would have allowed it had she known—as she already rued Francesca’s previous reputations, as a bluestocking, an eccentric, and a reformer. However, Francesca had decided that withdrawal was for the best; since embarking upon her new calling as a sleuth, there had been no time to study, and she had repeatedly missed classes.

Today was Friday, and had she not withdrawn, she would have been at a political studies class, her favorite, undoubtedly engaged in heated debate. Francesca smiled
now at Joel as they paused before the grocery on the corner of 11th Street. “Why don’t you post those reward posters up and down this block and the next one as well?”

The poster read:

WANTED:
INFORMATION ON THE DISAPPEARANCE OF EMILY O’HARE
LAST SEEN IN THE VICINITY OF AVE. A AND IOTH
MONDAY, MARCH 24, AROUND 4 P.M.
THIRTEEN YRS, DARK HAIR, BLUE EYES, PRETTY
POSTED: $IOO REWARD
HONEST WITNESSES ONLY NEED COME FORTH

Joel was holding a dozen handwritten pages, a hammer, and a tub of nails. “Right away,” he said with a grin.

Francesca watched him dash off happily, and then she faced the door of the grocery. A sign hanging inside the window said:
OPEN
. Through the clear glass she saw a heavyset man fussing with some items on a long oak counter. She smiled grimly and entered the shop.

Inside, it was neat and clean, the rough planked floors swept bare of any dust or dirt, the counters scrubbed and gleaming with wax. Big sacks of flour and sugar were lined up alongside the counter, while on top of it were loaves of fresh bread and platters of smoked meats. Tins of lard and butter were also present. Several aisles contained other dried food items, soaps and candles, and even some spices. The grocery was a very small shop, as much merchandise as possible crammed into its confines.

“Mr. Schmitt?” Francesca asked, approaching him as a young woman came out from the back.

“Can I help you, miss?” Schmitt smiled. He had a thick German accent.

Francesca took another glance at the young woman, realizing that she was far younger than she appeared—and Francesca now guessed she was probably about fifteen. The girl, who was quite plain and unremarkable, met her gaze and smiled. Francesca returned the friendly gesture and
turned back to the grocer. “I do hope so.” She handed him her card, waited while he read it, and said, “I am working on the Emily O’Hare investigation.”

Schmitt looked up, silent, his gaze impossible to read.

Francesca was puzzled. “You do know that the O’Hares sent Emily here to your store, last Monday, around four, but she not only never bought the bread she was sent for, she was never seen again.”

“I know. Beth, please go and start unpacking the dried fruit that just came in.”

Something was amiss. Francesca turned and saw Beth, now very flushed, staring at her. She instantly rushed behind the counter and into a back room.

Schmitt smiled proudly. “That’s my daughter,” he said. “I’m really sorry about little Emily. “But I told Brian, I never saw her that afternoon; she never came in.”

“Can you think about who your customers were that day? Particularly that afternoon?” Francesca asked. “Perhaps one of them saw something.”

He started. “Young lady, I have a booming business. To try to remember who was in my store on a particular afternoon—that’s impossible!”

“You won’t even try?” Francesca asked. But she was getting another impression. This man did not want to speak to her, but she did not know why.

His jowls shook. “You make it seem as though I do not want to find Emily. Of course I do. Very well.” He scowled and folded brawny arms across his thick chest. “Monday afternoons I have some regular customers. Mrs. Sarnoff, Mrs. Polaski, and Mrs. O’Brien. They come in every Monday afternoon for a week’s supply of potatoes, flour, and sugar.” His look seemed to suggest that it was time for Francesca to leave.

“Where do they live?” Francesca asked, taking a small notepad and a pencil out of her purse. In it she also carried several other useful tools of her trade. She had learned the hard way to always carry matches, a candle, a small knife, and a gun.

Schmitt practically sighed. Then he reached into a drawer for a notebook, and Francesca copied the addresses down. “Thank you. If there is anything else you think of, please, get in touch with Joel Kennedy, Maggie’s son. He lives right up the block.”

“I don’t know anything more,” Schmitt said, turning his back to her.

Francesca left the store, unsettled. Why would this man be so unhelpful? Was he withholding information from her? Did he associate her with the police? Or perhaps her stature as a wealthy young lady made him resentful or even anxious. Still, Francesca could not justify the treatment she had just received.

The sun was warming the morning outside. It looked as if spring would come early to the city that year—several of the apartments in the buildings up and down the block had flower boxes, and Francesca saw dandelions and daffodils just breaking the soil. Above her, the sky was surprisingly clear and blue. She unbuttoned her navy blue coat and was rewarded with a draft of pleasant air.

But she did not smile. As soon as Joel was finished posting her reward notices, they would go a few blocks uptown to 300 Mulberry Street. That is, she would go to police headquarters and seek aid from Rick Bragg.

If he was still speaking to her, that is.

Police headquarters was housed in a five-story brownstone building just around the corner from one of the city’s worst slums—Mulberry Bend. As Francesca paid the cabbie, she saw Bragg’s handsome motorcar parked on the street, a roundsman in his blue serge and leather helmet discreetly watching it. Other roundsmen were leaving the building; a police wagon was coming down the block. Her heart tightened. She hated the moment of confrontation that must surely come. If only last night could be undone.

Then she let herself think about Calder Hart and her heart tightened even more, in a different way, and her skin
tingled and she blushed. She forced herself to concentrate on the investigation at hand. “Will you come up?” she asked Joel, who, given up his recent occupation as a “kid”—a child pickpocket—despised and distrusted the city’s finest with a passion.

“Don’t think so,” Joel said, scowling. “I bet we could find Emily on our own, Miz Cahill. We really don’t need any coppers on our tails.”

“I disagree, and you
do
work for me,” Francesca said, patting his shoulder. “If you need me, I will be upstairs in the commissioner’s office.”

Joel nodded, walking over to a sickly elm tree, which he leaned against, and began whistling tunelessly.

Francesca hurried into the reception room. There, a long counter faced her, behind which were several officers, all of whom she now knew quite well. An officer was on her side of the counter with an elderly lady, apparently discussing a complaint that involved the theft of her purse. Two men in ill-fitting suits and bowler hats were seated on benches, in handcuffs. To the far right there was an empty holding cell. And in the background there was the ever-constant pinging of telegraphs, the pounding of typewriters, and the ringing of telephones. The noise was more than familiar to Francesca; she realized with a pang that she had come to enjoy the intrusive sounds. In fact, she thought, smiling, she had missed not just the sounds of the precinct, but being there on an active investigation as well.

Captain Shea was the first officer on duty to remark her. He stopped what he was doing, smiling. “Miss Cahill! It has been a long time. How are you?” he asked.

She smiled, coming quickly forward then. “Hello, Captain,” she said. “I’m afraid I had to go out of town.”

“Yes, we heard,” Shea returned, adjusting his hornrimmed glasses.

Sergeant O’Malley, a stout fellow, approached. “Headquarters hasn’t been the same without you, Miss Cahill,” he said.

“I missed it, too,” she said, suddenly happy. This was
where she belonged, in the midst of a criminal investigation, among these good, honest men.

“Are you on a case?” Shea asked.

“Yes, actually, I am. Is the commissioner in?”

“He’s upstairs,” Shea said, glancing oddly at O’Malley. “I’ll go up and ask if he will see you.”

Francesca was surprised. Shea walked out from behind the wood counter, going upstairs on foot, ignoring the iron cage of the elevator. She was accustomed to coming and going in police headquarters as she pleased; she had been going up to Bragg’s office without any formalities for months now.

“It ain’t you,” O’Malley said, low. “The c’mish is in a mood, he is. No one’s ever seen him like this before.”

Francesca stiffened. “A bad mood?”

“Like a thunderstorm,” O’Malley said with a nod.

Oh, dear. She certainly knew why he was in such a foul humor—she knew it was because of her engagement to his half brother.

“And look at what the spring breeze blew in.”

The tone was just barely hostile and just barely mocking. Nevertheless, as always, the sound of Brendan Farr’s voice curled the hair on her body, and even her toes. Francesca slowly turned to face the city’s recently appointed chief of police. She still did not know why he disliked her so, but their enmity had become mutual. “Hello, Chief.” She was terse.

“Long time no see,” he said flatly. He was a very tall man, perhaps six-foot-four or even more, with steel-colored hair and steely eyes. He was smiling politely. Francesca had never, not even once, seen a smile in his eyes.

“I have been out of town,” she said stiffly.

“Really? Business or pleasure?” His smile remained.

“Neither,” she said, smiling as coolly in return. She knew he wanted information, and she would never give it to him.

“And what brings you to headquarters? Oh, let me guess. The commissioner—or is it another investigation?”

The less this man knew about her affairs, the better. “I wish a word with the commissioner. I shall go up. Thank you, Sergeant. Good day, Chief.” Francesca did not wait to be told that she could go up. She quickly hurried past the two men, passed the holding cell, and went up the single flight of stairs.