Deadly Kisses (3 page)

Francesca took a deep breath for courage, once more wishing she had her gun, and she started forward, trying to make as little noise as possible. She heard footsteps approaching—each footfall slow and cautious. She froze.

Her grip on the paperweight tightened. She debated turning to flee, but in a moment whoever was beyond her would appear and see her. Instead, she pressed against the wall, waiting. The shadowy form of a man appeared, carrying a candle. He saw her against the wall, halted in midstride and lifted the candle higher.

Francesca was illuminated—but so was he.

Standing there in the hall was her fiancé.

Tuesday, June 3, 1902—12:45 a.m.

F
RANCESCA WAS DISBELIEVING.
Hart was the very last person she had expected to see. What was he doing in the city?

And then she saw the dark stain on Hart's white shirt, where his suit jacket was unbuttoned. “Calder?”

He hurried toward her, his own surprise fading. “Francesca!” he exclaimed, and his expression changed, becoming displeased. “Why am I not surprised to find you here?”

“Are you hurt?” she demanded, but the beginnings of a terrible fear had crept into her mind. Somehow, she knew the blood was Daisy's. She stiffened, staring up at his dark, handsome face.

“I'm not hurt.” He took her arm, as if to steady her. “Daisy is dead, Francesca.”

She met his probing regard, her mind scrambling to sort through the confusion. “I know.”

“The blood is hers, Francesca, not mine. I found her in the study. She had been stabbed.”

Their eyes met. All of Francesca's shock suddenly vanished. He was supposed to be in Boston. When had he returned to town and why hadn't he called her? What was he doing here at Daisy's, in the kitchen and servants' quarters? Given the blood on the front of his shirt, he had held Daisy, too, the way Rose had. Some thing sharp and distasteful filled her: dread. “Calder, Rose said she found Daisy. In fact, she sent me a note asking me to come here.”

“When I arrived, Rose wasn't here.” His regard held hers. “I found Daisy on the floor of the study, very much alone.” He looked away from her now. His composure was usually rock solid, but Francesca saw that he was struggling to maintain it. “She was already dead.”

Francesca swallowed, feeling ill. “You checked for a pulse?”

He met her gaze. “Yes.”

Francesca felt as if she were interrogating a suspect. Of course, that was not the case. “When did you arrive here, Calder?”

His look was sharp. “I left my home around eleven,” he said. Then, softly, with warning, he added, “I do not want you involved, Francesca.”

Francesca's tension rose. She was already involved, because Daisy had once been Hart's mistress, because she had once been Francesca's friend and because she had recently been her rival.

“Francesca,” he said, his tone pointed, and he took her wrist.

She looked into his eyes. “Daisy is
dead,
Hart. She has been
murdered.
I think we are both involved.”

He turned away, but not before Francesca saw the anguish in his eyes. She was shocked. Had she imagined it, or did Calder have some feelings for Daisy still, after all of this time?

He slowly faced her. “You are staring.” His tone had softened and his hand slipped to her palm. “Francesca, I am also in shock. We had better summon the police.”

Her heart raced with painful force. If she had seen anguish in his eyes, it was now gone. He seemed grim, but not grief-stricken. Of course he would be distraught that a woman he had once known intimately was dead. “Calder, what are you doing here?”

He hesitated, his expression hardening. “I finished my affairs in Boston earlier than expected. I arrived at Grand Central at a quarter to seven this evening.” He met her gaze directly. “After I found Daisy, I decided to look for the killer. I was about to do
so when Rose came into the house. She was not wearing any wrap—clearly she had just stepped out. I hid. She went directly to the study, Francesca, directly to Daisy. I followed her. She was not surprised to see Daisy murdered.”

Francesca's mind raced. Calder had not answered her question. He had not told her why he was at Daisy's in the first place. Any affairs that remained between him and Daisy were of a financial nature. Such concerns could have waited. It was well after midnight now.

If he had left his uptown home at eleven, he would have arrived at Daisy's perhaps an hour ago. What had he been doing in the house for all of that time? Her pulse quickened with fear. She did not have to be thinking all that clearly now to know that Hart could be in trouble with the law. “And then what happened?”

“I left her and went to search the house.” He released his hand from hers and tilted up her chin. “You're upset. I am, as well. We'll get through this, Francesca.”

Francesca tried to smile at him and was fairly certain she had failed. “Of course we will. But Daisy is dead, Calder. As malicious as she was toward me, toward us—she did not deserve to die, and certainly not so violently.”

His face tightened and something dark and deep flared in his eyes. “No. As much trouble as she caused us recently, she did not deserve to die.”

Suddenly Francesca recalled that day last month out side of the church. After taunting her, Daisy had walked away. Hart had come outside, the memorial service over. He had been grim and resolute, and he had told her in no uncertain words not to worry.

I will take care of Daisy.
Those had been his exact words. Now Francesca felt a surge of fear and she tried to think if anyone might have overheard his statement. Of course, Calder hadn't meant he would murder Daisy; he had meant he would make sure that she no longer bothered either one of them. But Daisy
had been his mistress until a few months ago, and he continued to support her financially. Francesca had investigated enough crimes of passion to know that Hart should be kept out of this case. “Calder, you should leave right now. I will find a roundsman and alert Bragg. Did any one else see you? Did Rose see you?”

He gave her an odd look. Softly, he said, “Are you trying to protect me, Francesca?”

She stiffened, but that single look caused her heart to skip. “Very well, I confess. Yes, I want to protect you. You should stay as far away from this house and the murder scene as possible.” It crossed her still-dazed mind that she would have to lie to the police, if no one was to know that Calder had been at Daisy's that night. She didn't know how she would manage telling such a lie to Rick Bragg.

Hart's eyes smoldered. “I already spoke to Homer, the butler, and the housemaid. They are in their quarters, where I told them to remain. They both know I am here. I don't think Rose saw me. I found Daisy murdered, Francesca—I didn't murder her myself.”

He was angry and she knew it. Quickly she took his hand but he shook her off. “Hart! I know you didn't kill her!” Of that, she had no doubt. “But you were here on the night of her death. You could be implicated.” Francesca hoped that the coroner would discover that Daisy had been killed before a quarter to seven that evening.

“You don't need to protect me, Francesca,” he said. “Besides, half the city knows I have been keeping her. I cannot deny our relationship. But remember, Rose was here before me.”

“That is your word against hers.” Francesca rubbed her temples, which throbbed. No good was going to come of this. A crystal ball could not have been clearer! If she did not find another suspect, and quickly, the police were going to consider Hart a prime suspect. She looked up and found him regarding her steadily, his gaze far too intent.

Suddenly he softened. He reached out and touched her cheek. “Why are we arguing? You don't need to protect me, Francesca, as I have done nothing wrong. And I have been fending for myself since I was a small boy, stealing scraps of food on the streets. And I have missed you,” he added even more softly, and his tone was impossible to resist.

“I have missed you, too,” she whispered shakily, moving into his arms as he reached out to her. She stood there, still grieving yet overcome with relief, pressed against his hard, powerful body. This was where she most wanted to be. Something terrible would come of this case, she just knew it. She was afraid for him, for her, for them both. But as afraid as she was, she had never loved him more.

Hart held her silently for a long moment, and she felt his strong heart begin to increase its beat. Her own pulse could not help but skip and dance when she was in his arms. Francesca lifted her face.

He touched her lips with his, once, twice, three times.

Beneath the gentle brushing, Francesca sensed his urgency and need. In response, as always, a fire roared to life in her veins. Their eyes met and held. Then Hart stepped back. “We should respect the dead,” he said seriously.

“Yes, we should.” Francesca folded her arms across her chest and gave herself a moment to refocus. “Rose is with…the body.”

“Rose,” he repeated. “Could she have murdered the woman she loved? Might she have already been here when I arrived? When did she send you this note, Francesca?”

Francesca could not imagine Rose killing her best friend, but she would consider it, of course. “The note arrived at my home before midnight. Let's estimate that it arrived by a quarter to the hour. Rose wrote and sent the note around eleven or shortly thereafter. She was undoubtedly sending me the note, which came by cab, when you walked in.” It crossed her mind that most
of the suspicion could be directed at Rose. “
She
found the body before you did.
She
was first on the scene.”

He stared for a moment. “I have never trusted Rose. Why did she send for you, of all people? There was no love lost between any of us.”

Francesca hesitated.

“Let me guess,” he said sarcastically. “She wants you to find the killer?”

Francesca bit her lip. “Calder,” she began, deter mined to head him off at the pass. Even though he was always supportive of her investigations and proud of her success in them, she knew why he did not want her on this particular case—and the reason was Daisy. “This is a crime of passion. I do not think it will be hard to find the killer. From what I saw,” she added, an image of Daisy's mutilated chest coming to mind, “someone stabbed Daisy repeatedly in a fit of anger.”

“You cannot predict the nature of this investigation!” Hart exclaimed. “Do not mistake me now, Francesca, this is one case where I do
not
want you involved.” His look was uncompromising.

“But I
am
involved. She was your ex-mistress and I am your fiancée.” Francesca tried to be firm and gentle at once.

He made an angry sound and took her arm. “I am asking you, this one single time, to leave the investigation of Daisy's murder alone.”

That terrible feeling of dread rose swiftly up again. Francesca stole a look at Hart's angry expression, her heart sinking. Now was clearly not the time to tell him that nothing and no one—not even Hart—could stop her from finding Daisy's killer. But why did he want her off the case so badly? Surely he had nothing to hide, not from her.

“This is too personal for us both,” Hart said in a calmer tone, as if that explained his reasoning, but it explained nothing at all.

“Yes, it is personal for us both,” Francesca said noncommittally. She was aware of the exasperated look he cast at her, but now she was wondering about Rose. She had yet to ask her exactly when she had found Daisy. Given the extent of her grief, it was possible she had sat with her dead friend for quite some time before writing Francesca the note. One fact was clear—Daisy had been murdered before eleven or half past eleven p.m., when Rose had sent Francesca the note.

Together, they moved toward the study, where the candle continued to flicker. As they approached, Francesca's steps slowed, as did Hart's. His grasp on her hand tightened, but with reassurance, not warning. Francesca glanced at him and he tried to smile at her, but the curve of his firm mouth could not extinguish the sadness in his dark navy blue eyes.

He was far more upset than he was letting on, she thought with dismay. God, what if he still had feelings for Daisy? Could she possibly manage that, when Daisy had always felt like a threat to her relationship?

Rose was now sitting on the sofa, curled up like a child, her knees to her chest, the dark green evening gown she wore stained with blood. Daisy remained on the floor, covered from head to toe with the throw. Hearing their footsteps, Rose looked up.

She shot to her feet, pointing, her hand shaking. “You! I should have known! You goddamned bastard! You killed her!”

I
N DISGUST
, R
ICK
B
RAGG
swept all three newspapers from his desk, cradling his head in his hands. His head ached and he was impossibly tired. He had never felt more worn, and that had nothing to do with the fact that the grandfather clock in the hall had just chimed a single time, indicating it was one in the
morning. Right now, he almost regretted accepting the mayor's appointment, an appointment that had initially been filled with excitement and hope. He was the first police commissioner since Teddy Roosevelt to attempt the monumental mission of reforming the city's notoriously corrupt police force. But the hottest issue of the day was his undoing, especially as the mayor had tied his hands behind his back, refusing to allow him to do his job as he wished to do it.

Bragg sighed and reached for his bourbon. Mayor Low was already afraid of the vast German vote and had decided to ask the police not to enforce the blue laws, which required the closing of saloons on the Sabbath. Yet every reform group in the city was in favor of such closings. But after a series of crackdowns, Tammany Hall had made it a point to stir up as much trouble for Bragg and his force as possible. The German workers of the city were in an up roar, demanding their rights in protests and petitions. Afraid of losing reelection, Low had told Bragg to back off.

Low was good for the city. He was a man dedicated to social and political reform and he was courageous enough to oppose Tammany Hall. He was also Bragg's boss. There was no way Rick could refuse his orders, even if it meant compromising his own oath to uphold and obey the law.