Deadly Kisses (31 page)

She gave herself a moment of pure release and sank deeply into the plush blue velvet sofa. She was so tired. The truth was, the strain of this separation from Hart was frankly unbearable. Thus far, she had been focusing on the case and avoiding any thought of the future. But now she could not help think about it. She had not been able to identify herself as Hart's fiancée to Robert Miller. Fear twisted inside her, edged with panic. What if she had really lost Hart? What if he never came back to her?

There had to be a way, when this was all over, to convince him that letting her go served no one, that it was
not
in her best
interest. But she knew him so well now. Once Daisy's murder was solved, there was still the issue of her missing portrait. Francesca knew he had been blaming himself for ever commissioning that portrait. And even though she had agreed to pose nude, he insisted that it was his fault. She knew he was not going to change his mind and share the blame.

He could be such an impossible man. She missed him. She had never missed anyone more.

“Miss Cahill?” A short, slim man with a goatee approached, smiling. He was immaculately dressed and had an unmistakable air of authority. “I am Robert Miller,” he said, extending his hand. “I am very pleased to meet you.”

She realized he knew who she was. “Thank you. Calder directed me to you, Mr. Miller, in regards to the current case I am on.”

He nodded. “Come onto my office,” he said, and they traversed the spacious hall where a few customers were at the long, gleaming counter, conducting their banking affairs. “May I be so bold as to ask how Mr. Hart is?”

“He is doing as well as can be expected, considering the nature of all that has happened,” Francesca said as he closed the door behind him. His office was a smaller version of the public room outside. “And he is innocent, of course.”

Miller smiled. “I had no doubt. How can I help you?” he asked as they took seats.

“Miss Jones made two unusually large deposits into her account in May, for eight and then twelve thousand dollars. We need to know where that money came from,” Francesca said.

Miller stood. “As a favor to Mr. Hart, I will see what I can find out. Why don't you make yourself at home? I will be right back.”

Five minutes later he came back with a file in his hands. “I think I may have some useful information for you, Miss Cahill.”

“Do you know where the money came from?”

“Yes, I do. Miss Jones deposited two bank checks from First Federal of Albany.”

Francesca felt her world still.
The money had come from Albany.
“Is there any way to find out who drew those bank checks in the first place?”

“Yes, but it will take some time. And you would have to approach First Federal directly. I think they might need the police to request the action, Miss Cahill.”

“Consider that done.” Her excitement grew. “How much time?”

“Days, I should think. You would need to send someone to Albany to go over the bank records there.”

“Can we send a telegram and wire instructions to the bank there?”

“I suppose so.” He hesitated. “Miss Cahill, what is this about?”

Her day had become exceedingly bright. “This is about uncovering the identity of a murderer, Mr. Miller.” And as she left his office, she was almost ready to skip her way out of the bank. Clearly, Judge Gillespie had sent Daisy the money. Now the only question was why.

She paused outside of the bank, unable to stop smiling. Daisy had never let go of her father and the clippings were proof of that. As far as was known, Gillespie had been to see her twice in May—but not at any other time. Only in May had she received money from him. Francesca was ready to conclude that Gillespie hadn't known his daughter's whereabouts until then. Had he merely been giving his long-lost daughter funds to supplement any allowance she was already receiving? After all, that was what fathers did for their children.

On the other hand, Daisy had been a huge embarrassment to him, and his lying about knowing her when she had first con
fronted him in Albany was proof of that. Had she been enough of an embarrassment for him to murder her?

It was a leap, but Francesca was close to the truth now and she could feel it. She
had
to discover the real reason Daisy had left home in the first place. It was the missing puzzle piece.

She needed to see Bragg. Maybe they could decide on a plan in which to pressure the judge. And of course, the police had to contact the Albany bank. She had yet to learn about the knife discovered at Hart's last night. By now, that report should be in. She started toward the curb, raising her arm to signal Raoul to bring her coach from farther down the block, where he had found a place to park.

The person passing by her turned around. From the corner of her eye, still focused on her driver and coach, Francesca saw a gloved hand being raised, a dark object there, but it was too late. Pain lanced the back of her head and, with it, the realization that she had been at tacked. Then there was only darkness.

Thursday, June 5, 1902—6:00 p.m.

F
RANCESCA LAY ON THE
sofa in her sister's home while Rourke took her pulse for the third time. An ice pack was beneath her head, which ached and throbbed. The moment she had been struck from behind, Raoul had rushed to her aid, apparently having seen the tail end of the attack. But instead of pursuing the assailant, he had helped her into the coach. Unfortunately, the blow had been damaging enough that she had lost her wits for a moment and had not been able to identify her attacker. However, within moments, she had recovered enough to instruct Raoul to tell her everything that he had seen and to search the area, where she had found a small sterling shaving cup. It was dented, and clearly, it had been the weapon with which she had been hit.

“How is your headache?” Rourke asked with a kind smile, while Connie fussed over her sister.

“It isn't as bad as earlier,” she admitted. “I am fine, Con. It was just a tap on the head with a little cup. Could you call Bragg? I have to speak to him.”

“You are not fine!” Connie cried, as pale as an alabaster statute. “Rourke, should she be investigating this case now?”

“Absolutely not,” Rourke said firmly. He closed his black satchel, but before he stood, Francesca seized his hand.

“I need to talk to Rick. It is urgent—it cannot wait.”

“Francesca.” He said patiently, sitting back down by her side on an ottoman. “If you are right and you were hit with that
shaving cup, it is quite serious, indeed. You have some swelling on the back of your head. You may have a slight concussion. You can consider yourself fortunate that the cup did not cause a gash, which might have required stitches. You need to rest, but you must stay awake for the next twelve hours.” He glanced at Connie. “Someone needs to stay with her through the night. I do not want her falling asleep. She can have plenty of liquids, but only something very light to eat—maybe some jam and toast.”

Connie nodded, her expression fearful. “Neil and I will take turns,” she said.

Francesca was not about to give up. “Raoul managed a glimpse of my attacker. He needs to tell Bragg what he saw. He thinks the attacker was a very slim man, or it might even have been a woman. In any case, he or she was wearing a large overcoat and a fedora, a man's fedora—and this in June!” She could not help but wonder if Gillespie had been her attacker. He was only of medium height and build. After all, she had been investigating his transfer of funds to his daughter.

“I will be back in the morning,” Rourke said in a friendly manner. He patted Francesca's shoulder. “Francesca, it is six at night. You are not going to solve the mystery of your assailant this evening. Whatever you need to do, it can be done in the morning—after I check on you.”

She was annoyed. “Then come early, if you please.” In a way, Rourke was right. No one would be at the First Federal Bank of Albany at this hour to receive a telegram. Of course, Gillespie could be interviewed. Francesca was very impatient to hear just what he had to say about his visits to his daughter in May, and about the money he had obviously sent her. And where had he been an hour ago, when she had been struck on the back of the head? She shivered. She was lucky to not have been seriously hurt. “Rourke? Are you on your way back to Hart's?”

“Yes.”

She hesitated. By now, he should have been released on bail.
Wouldn't he come running to her side if he heard about this mishap?

“I am not sure what you are thinking, Francesca, but I have every intention of telling Calder what has happened. He would want to know. Besides, I don't want to risk my neck by withholding this kind of information. Now, try to rest—but do not fall asleep.”

Connie walked with Rourke to the salon door, and Francesca heard them exchanging a few words she could not distinguish in a low tone. When Connie returned to her side, as worried as ever, Francesca met her gaze. “I saw Calder today. Nothing has changed, Connie. He remains as recalcitrant as ever.”

Connie understood. “Fran, if that man doesn't come running to see you after what has happened, I will be amazed.” She sat down on the ottoman Rourke had vacated. “You could have been badly hurt—what if you had been killed?”

“But I wasn't, was I? You do know what this means, don't you?” Francesca gazed at her sister. “I am very close to solving this case, Con. And Daisy's murderer knows it.”

“Fran! I hope you are wrong, because if you are not, that means that the murderer wishes to stop you!”

Francesca sobered. Her sister was right and she had to proceed with caution. From that point forward, she would be armed, wary and very defensive. “The sooner I close this case, the better.” She thought about Hart and her heart tightened. “Hart can be so stubborn! Connie, he doesn't see himself the way that I do. He has always claimed he is not good enough for me and that I deserve someone far nobler. Now Daisy's murder has become some kind of excuse for him to break off the engagement. I am afraid that even when this is over, he will not come back to me.”

Connie was thoughtful and sad. “Then he doesn't love you enough, Fran. Either that, or he loves you too much.”

Francesca started.

“You know I supported this match. But I must tell you, to be
with someone who has such a reputation and such a past seems a bit daunting. And he is so difficult! I don't know how you manage sometimes. I found him very intimidating when I spoke to him yesterday.”

“He can be difficult,” Francesca admitted. “But when he becomes cold and even cruel, that is his way of lashing out, because he is really scared.”

Connie's pale brows lifted. “I cannot imagine Hart frightened of anything.”

“Beneath the arrogance, behind the wealth, and power, he can be very vulnerable,” Francesca said.

Connie gave her a look, one that said she clearly did not believe that. The salon doors were open and they both heard the knocker on the front door of the house. Connie grimaced. “I do hope you won't be too angry with me.”

“Why would I be angry with you?” Francesca asked warily.

Connie hesitated, and their mother's voice could be heard in the hall outside. “Where is Francesca?” Julia was demanding, her heels clicking on the marble floors as she approached.

Francesca groaned. “Why did you call her? She worries excessively.”

“Because you were hurt and she is our mother!” Connie said, standing as Julia rushed into the room.

Julia took one look at both her daughters and hurried to Francesca's side. “What happened?” she cried, clasping Francesca's hand.

“I am fine, Mama. It was just a little tap on the head.”

Julia's blue eyes were wide with worry. “Have you seen a doctor? Connie, is she telling me the truth?”

Connie stood beside their mother. “It was more than a light tap on the head, Mama. But Rourke was here and she seems to be fine, nevertheless.”

Julia sat down, still holding Francesca's hand tightly.
“You know how afraid I am for you when you are on these investigations. Why does every case have to be come violent?”

“Mama, I am fine,” Francesca stressed. “You do not need to worry.”

“How can I not worry? You are my precious daughter, my youngest child. I worry day and night! It is my duty to keep you safe—it is my duty to worry about you! When will you come home, Francesca? Your father and I are brokenhearted. We both miss you so much.” Tears had gathered in Julia's blue eyes.

“I can't move back,” Francesca said. “I am so sorry, but nothing has changed. I love Calder and I intend to marry him. If Papa cannot support my decision, I have no other choice. Mama, it hurt me terribly to move out.”

Briefly Julia closed her eyes. “Do you now how much he adores you? Do you know that you are his pride and joy? Do you know how proud of you he is, how he boasts about you at every party?”

“I love him, too,” Francesca said quietly. “And I already feel guilty, so you do not need to make me feel more so.”

Julia smoothed her hair. “That is not what I am trying to do. But it hurts me to see Andrew in such a state, just as it hurts me to have somehow lost you.”

“Mama, you haven't lost me! I have merely moved out. And while I may marry against your wishes, that doesn't mean we are not family.” Francesca's secret fear leapt out at her now. “Please, do not let Papa disown me the way he did Evan.”

“Darling, he would never do such a thing!” Julia cried.

Francesca somehow nodded. “I love you both so much,” she said shakily.

“Then come home,” Julia whispered, her tone pleading. “Please.”

It was so tempting, especially now, with her head throbbing and her heart hurting over the breakup with Hart. “I can't.”

Julia was grim. “I really don't understand why you are doing
this. I saw the announcement in the paper. We both did. Your engagement is off. So why not come home?”

“It is temporary,” Francesca whispered. “I am going to get him back.”

Julia regarded her daughter and a long moment passed. Julia said very quietly, “If you are so deter mined, if you trust Hart so much, if you love him this much, then I will support your marriage, Francesca.”

Francesca sat straight up. “Mama! Thank you!” She flung her arms around her mother, holding her hard.

Julia's gaze was moist. “I have always adored that man, anyway.”

Francesca smiled brightly, relieved. “I know. And he is innocent.”

“I never thought him guilty!” Julia exclaimed. “That wasn't the point. The point is that this scandal will follow him forever. And if you are with him, it will hurt you, too. Are you really prepared to be ostracized from polite society?”

Francesca could not tell her that Hart's breaking off the engagement hurt far more than any nasty gossip. “We will still have your invitations, Mama,” Francesca said. “I do care what people say behind our backs, but I care even more for Calder. I know we may never be invited out again. If that is the case, we will manage.”

Julia regarded her sadly. “You are very brave. I just want you to be certain that this is the life you want.”

“I am certain.”

“Then I will do everything I can to help.”

“Will you help me persuade Papa?”

“Yes, I will make certain your father changes his mind. And if I have to spend my entire life campaigning among society to see you included again, then that is what I will do.” Francesca saw that her mother had a new cause. She was one of society's
reigning matrons, and in the past, no one had ever been able stand in Julia Van Wyck Cahill's way.

“Thank you,” Francesca whispered. She had never loved her mother more.

 

“S
IR,
C
OMMISSIONER
B
RAGG
is here to see you.”

Hart did not look up. He sat on the sofa that was in front of the fireplace, staring at the dancing flames, a letter in his hand. He hadn't intended to go through his mail tonight. He had only done so to try to get his mind off the dismal grayness that threatened to overtake his life. The letter had just arrived—and it was from the dead.

T
HE LETTER WAS DATED
May 30. Daisy had written him after he had stormed out of her house, furious by the news that she was pregnant.

There was so much anguish that he simply could not stand it. Faced with Daisy's death he could not careless that she had dared to blackmail him, much less demand one of his favorite oil paintings.

“Sir? Commissioner Bragg is here and he wishes to see you. Should I tell him you are unavailable?” Alfred asked, his tone edged with worry.

Hart closed his eyes, fighting for composure, but the grief that had been welling up in him, the grief he had so resolutely shoved aside, felt like hot lava in a volcano, about to erupt.

Hart won the battle. As he stood, he wondered how many more battles he could actually win with himself. Placing the letter in the interior breast pocket of his jacket, he faced his butler. “Send him in,” he said. Maybe Bragg had good news—he could certainly use a single lucky break.

Bragg appeared on the library's threshold a moment later. Hart took one look at his tight expression and ravaged eyes and knew there was no good news. Trying not to succumb to dread, he nodded in greeting. “Scotch?”

“Thank you,” his half brother said.

Hart walked across the room to the gilded bar cart, where he poured two doubles. Then he handed his brother a glass with what he hoped was at least the shadow of a smile. The police would have a field day with that letter, he thought grimly. It was as if fate were determined to punish him for the sins of his entire life with a crime he hadn't committed.