Deadly Illusions (11 page)

 

F
RANCESCA CHANGED INTO AN
evening gown in record time. She had donned the new one, made by Maggie Kennedy, a turquoise silk. Grabbing her purse, she dashed toward the stairs, amazed that Calder had not yet arrived. She was about to descend when she saw Julia coming up.

She skidded, panting, to a stop.

Her mother frowned at her as she ascended to the landing where Francesca stood.

Francesca grimaced. She was in trouble now.

She had not spoken a single word to Julia since the prior evening when she had arrived late for the supper party—since Hart had used that foolish excuse that she might faint to take her from the party so that they could have a private moment to gether. When he had decided he should leave, preparing to
make his excuses to her mother, Francesca had simply fled upstairs.

Dressed for supper in a dark red evening gown, rubies at her throat, Julia looked her up and down. “Calder just arrived. So has that little hoodlum, Joel Kennedy.”

Francesca promptly forgot about the way she had avoided her mother last night. Had Joel found a lead? Why else would he have come all the way uptown to see her? “Joel is here?” she asked, starting past her mother eagerly.

Julia detained her. “You aren't wearing any jewelry, Francesca.” Her tone was brisk.

Francesca touched her throat and found it bare. She sighed, knowing full well that her lack of jewels was not the real issue. “I did not want to keep Hart waiting,” she began.

“I have wanted to speak to you all day,” Julia exclaimed. “But you were gone at the crack of dawn and arrived home just moments ago. You are on another investigation, aren't you?” Julia accused, her blue eyes darkening.

Francesca grimaced. “Mama,” she began.

“Do not Mama me!”

“I guess I had better get a necklace and some earrings,” Francesca cried, hoping to avoid a battle. There was no winning if she dared to take a direct stand against her mother.

Julia took her wrist. “Are you going to answer me?”

Francesca met her gaze. “Please don't worry. This case won't be dangerous, I assure you.”

Julia cried out in dismay, turning pale.

“Mama, please consider that I have successfully solved several cases since the new year and I am in one entire piece,” Francesca tried brightly. “And your dearest dream is coming true—soon I shall marry, and the best catch in town at that.”

“You are barely in one piece! You have been held prisoner, you have been shot at, a knife has been held to your throat and you have been burned! You will wind up a corpse before a bride!”

Francesca paled. “Mama, that's a terrible thing to say.”

Julia realized it, because she clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and shimmering with tears. “I love you so,” she whispered. “And you terrify me with your reckless adventures. Why was there blood on your jacket and skirt last night? Why? And need I add that several of the ladies remarked on your appearance? The gossip at lunch today was simply delightful. Mrs. De Witt suggested that Hart would break off the engagement if you continue your sleuthing ways.”

“Is it really my safety you are concerned about or is it my reputation—and yours?” Francesca said before she even thought about it.

Julia stiffened. “I demand an apology,” she said.

“I'm sorry!” Francesca cried, meaning it. “That was a thoughtless thing to say. I know you fear for my welfare. But I also know you fear for my reputation.”

“Your welfare is my primary concern. What mother is pleased when some murderous thug holds a knife to her daughter's throat?”

Francesca winced. That had happened on her last investigation into a child-prostitution ring. “That was a threat, Mama. He never meant to hurt me.”

Julia made a desperate, scoffing sound. “And you think to console me with that interpretation?”

“Oh, Mama,” Francesca whispered, wishing she could somehow soothe her mother's fears.

“Of course, when you marry Hart—if you live to do so—your reputation will hardly matter. No one will ever close their salon to you once you are his wife. But, Francesca, I truly fear that your wedding day may never come, not if you continue this frightening new inclination of yours.”

Francesca inhaled and debated having it out with her mother. She debated telling her that sleuthing was no mere inclination or hobby, that she had found the profession she wished to practice for the rest of her life. Then she decided to postpone such
a terrible confrontation. The time to tell her mother was after she was wed.

But her mind raced. Her father was as disapproving of her sleuthing as Julia was. It had become tiresome, not to mention difficult, working on each and every case while living in their home. And the way things were progressing, it would be a year before she married Hart and had the freedom to come and go as she pleased. She sighed.

Her life would be so much easier if she had her own flat. She was instantly excited at the idea. Her parents would not agree, of course, but they really could not prevent her from moving out if she decided to do so. The question was, did she dare?

“Francesca? I can see that you are concocting some scheme,” Julia said sternly.

Francesca swiftly smiled. She would raise that issue at another time. “Mama, I promise to be careful but I cannot quit my investigation now. The police have asked me for their help, as I am somewhat personally involved in this latest crime.”

Julia stared, her face tight. “And what crime is that and how are you personally involved?” She shuddered with dread as she spoke.

Francesca grimaced. “A woman was murdered. A woman who lives two doors from Maggie Kennedy. You know how fond of her I am. I don't like the fact that she lives so close to the crime scene. A killer is loose in her neighborhood, Mama…” She hesitated. “We think it is the Slasher.”

Julia cried out.

Francesca took both of her hands. “I am working with Bragg again. I have the entire police force behind me. I won't get hurt. But that madman must be brought to justice before he takes another life!”

Julia erupted. “Now you are working with Rick Bragg again? And don't you care that his wife remains in the hospital? His wife, Francesca. W-I-F-E,” she said, spelling out the four letters.

“This is not a romantic involvement,” Francesca cried. “I am engaged to another man!”

“You were in love with Rick Bragg until a few weeks ago. I am no fool. I know very well that you accepted Hart on the rebound,” she said firmly, turning away.

Francesca ran after her. “What are you going to do?”

Julia did not answer her directly. “You are late. Hart is waiting.”

Francesca followed her downstairs, worried now.

“Does he know about this latest investigation of yours?” Julia asked, not glancing back, her hand on the gilded railing.

“Yes, he does,” Francesca said.

“And he approves?”

“Hart has no wish to mold me into a stereotype,” Francesca said as they reached the ground floor. “He will never put me in shackles and chains. You know he admires me for my courage and my intellect.”

“I doubt he
approves,
” Julia said.

Francesca now sighed. “I admit that it is more like he
tolerates
my penchant for sleuthing,” she said. “But if it will make you feel better, I promise to let the police manage the bulk of the matter. I will limit my involvement to asking a few questions of Maggie and her neighbors.” She knew she was pleading now.

Julia faced her and shook her head in exasperation. “I know you mean well, Francesca, but I also know that you will never bow out of anything that claims your interest. We will continue this discussion later, because Hart is waiting—as is that hoodlum.”

Francesca did not move. “Joel doesn't pick purses anymore, Mama,” she said, and then she cried, “What are you going to do?”

“I am going to put an end to this nonsense,” Julia said flatly, and she walked away.

Francesca did not like the sound of that. She knew how much her marriage to Hart meant to her mother. She should
have never mentioned that she was sleuthing once again with Bragg. Hurrying somewhat grimly through the marble-floored reception hall, she found Hart and Joel conversing in the gold salon. They stood before the fire that crackled below the marble mantel of the hearth. She skidded to a halt and they both turned at once.

She clung to the door, trying to catch her breath and her composure. Hart was a devastating sight in his white dinner coat and black evening trousers, a black bow tie at his throat. He was such a seductive man—his magnetism was simply inescapable. A slow smile spread across his face and his gaze slipped as slowly over her, from head to toe.

She wished she knew what plan Julia had up her sleeve.

“I am late,” she gasped. “I am sorry!”

He strolled to her and pulled her close, whispering, his mouth on her ear, “I don't care how late you are as long as you are finally here with me.”

She melted immediately, forgetting Joel was present, and could think of nothing but his large, strong hands on her waist, his firm lips on her ear, his musky scent and the cloak of male virility and power he had somehow enveloped her in. She drew back and their gazes touched. The expression on his face seemed oddly tender, though the gleam in his eyes was not. Her heart skipped.

“Sometimes you do say the most romantic things,” she teased, but her heart beat like mad and she wished they were dining alone at his house, not at the Waldorf-Astoria. And then she thought about his ex-mistress and their conversation earlier.

Francesca stiffened. She did not want to worry about the veracity of Daisy's comments now.

“Is that what you consider romantic?” he asked with amusement, his grip on her waist tightening.

She met his gaze and could not manage a smile.

His smile vanished; his gaze became searching. “What is it?”

She wanted to blurt, Will you love me forever? But of course she did not, as love was not in the promise he had made to her. He had offered her friendship, respect, admiration and fidelity, but not love. Never love. He had made it clear that love was for fools, and the one thing Hart was not was a foolish man. She swallowed hard. “Nothing,” she managed to say, trying to pull away from him.

But he did not let her go. “Something is bothering you.”

She bit her lip so hard that it hurt. “Mama and I had it out in the corridor upstairs. She wants to end my sleuthing once and for all, I think,” she whispered, painfully aware that while she was telling him the truth, she was also lying to him. A part of her so wanted to tell him about the encounter with Daisy. But another part of her refused to do so—the proud, sensible part. Hart would not admire a jealous, insecure woman.

He stroked her cheek once as he released her. “Really?” There was vast skepticism in his tone. “And that is what is bothering you now?”

She wished he were not so astute. “No,” she whispered roughly. Then she forced a smile. “I have so looked forward to this evening, Calder, please. I don't have to share my deepest darkest secrets with you, do I?”

He stared far too thoughtfully at her. It was a moment before he spoke. “Of course you don't, darling,” he said, but there was something odd and clinical about his tone.

She shivered. He wasn't happy with her right now and she could sense it. And that was not how she wished to begin their precious evening alone.

Then his finger moved down her neck to linger about her collarbone. “I see that you rushed to dress tonight,” he said flatly.

It was almost as if he was withdrawing from her. “Yes.”

“And how is your latest case progressing?” he asked, clearly aware that her investigation was the cause of her tardiness.

“Well,” she said with a genuine smile, “we have learned that it is the Slasher at work, Calder, and we must work frantically now to find him before he strikes again this coming Monday,” she said eagerly.

He gave her a sidelong look, smiling very slightly.

And she knew that even though he said nothing, he was thinking about who “we” was. It was a moment before he tore his speculative gaze from hers. Looking reflective indeed, he put his hands in the pockets of his satin-trimmed trousers and strode slowly toward the fireplace.

Francesca felt that the evening was in a downward spiral. But before she could go over to him and make light of the fact that she was working with the police—and his arch rival—she saw Joel, standing not far from her. The boy was almost hopping from foot to foot, he was so eager to speak with her.

She had entirely forgotten that he was present. “Joel!” She rushed to him. “Joel, what have you found out?” she asked eagerly. “Did someone see a man leaving Margaret Cooper's?” How she hoped that was the case!

“Sorry,” he said ruefully. “No one seems to have seen anything, Miz Cahill.”

“Then why have you come uptown at this late hour?”

“It's Miz O'Neil. Bridget's mum.”

Francesca started. “Has something happened? Bragg and I were with her only a few hours ago.” Then she winced and glanced at Hart. But he merely smiled at her, his real feelings impossible to discern.

“I dunno. But I went to see Bridget, an' Miz O'Neil spent the entire time standin' in the kitchen, cryin' her eyes out. She's so scared!”

Francesca stared. “Did she say anything?”

He shook his head. “No. But she kept going to the window and lookin' out on the street, then runnin' back into the kitchen.
Like she was lookin' fer someone outside, but was afraid to be seen herself. I dunno. I have a real bad feeling, Miz Cahill. Something ain't right.”

Francesca had a very identical feeling as well. Gwen had seemed jumpy when she and Bragg had last spoken to her, and she had also seemed distressed, although no more so than the day before. Had something happened that she had failed to mention earlier when Francesca and Bragg had been at her flat? Francesca was used to people hiding facts from the police and sometimes it was easier to conduct an interview without an official police presence. Of course, there were times when the strong arm of the law was exactly what was needed.