Deadly Kisses (6 page)

“Calder!” She was shocked that he would speak so ill of the dead. But her mind quickly grasped the fact he had just tossed her way. Francesca sat up straighter. “Did she ever tell you anything of her background?” she asked. She had also realized upon first meeting Daisy that she was from society, although Daisy had never once referred to her background.

“It never came up. Frankly, I wasn't curious, not at all.”

Francesca began to plan her next day. “This was a crime of passion, Calder, not some random killing. The killer knew Daisy and I think he knew her well. I must find out who she really
was—where she came from, and why she left that life to become a prostitute.”

He sighed. “I can see how determined you are. Well, if anyone can uncover the truth about her life, I am sure that person is you.”

She barely heard him. She had so much work to do—and the sooner, the better, so she and Calder could get past this terrible tragedy and get on with their lives.

He tilted up her chin and their eyes met. “You lied for me tonight, Francesca,” he said quietly. “I was at that house by half past eleven, an hour or so before you ever got there. You did not arrive until half past twelve.”

She tensed. “I know what I did, Calder.”

“You lied to Rick.”

She bit her lip. “And I hated doing it. But you were at Daisy's for perhaps an hour after discovering her dead. And the police will think that terribly bizarre.”

He took her hand again. “I told you—after Rose came in, I was looking for her killer.”

“I know. And I believe you. I just want you off their list of suspects.”

“You lied to Rick for me.”

“I hated lying to him, but we are engaged,” she said softly. “I will always be on your side, first and foremost.”

His gaze moved slowly over her face. “I think I am finally beginning to understand that, Francesca,” he said. He hesitated. “I am grateful.”

She smiled warmly at him. “I don't want your gratitude.”

He stared another moment, then faced his window, his face becoming a hard, tight mask of controlled emotion.

Her smile vanished. She knew his thoughts had veered away from her to the murder—and perhaps to the private matter he had wished to discuss with Daisy—and she could not help thinking that Hart was hiding something from her.

She was afraid.

 

F
RANCESCA PASSED A MOSTLY
sleepless night. At eight in the morning, dressed in her usual no-nonsense navy blue suit, she stared at her pale reflection in the mirror of her boudoir. She had thought about Daisy's gruesome murder all night, endlessly analyzing the little evidence she currently had. Maybe today Hart would tell her why he had called on Daisy. Maybe she would find a new lead, one that would point her in the direction of the real killer. As distasteful as it was, she had to acknowledge that Rose's behavior that evening had been odd and suspicious. Francesca could not come to terms with the concept of Rose murdering her best friend and lover, but she was clearly on the police's list of suspects and she would have to be considered a possible perpetrator. She could certainly deflect attention from Hart. Instead of worrying about what Hart might be hiding, she was going to focus all of her attention and efforts on finding the brutal killer. Sooner rather than later, she would interview Rose at length.

Francesca added some pins to her jaunty blue hat and left the dressing room, her long dark skirts swirling about her. She grabbed her reticule as she left the bedroom, having already placed her small derringer inside. A servant was coming up the corridor toward her. “Miss Cahill? You have a caller.”

Francesca was taken aback. A call at eight in the morning was unheard of. This had to be urgent. “Is it Hart?”

The servant handed her a business card. “It is a Mr. Arthur Kurland, ma'am.”

Francesca was filled with surprise and anger. Kurland was a newsman from the
Sun.
Usually he accosted her outside of her home or on the street. He had never dared to call in such a social way before.

“Should I send him away, ma'am?”

Francesca was certain he had learned of Daisy's murder. Half of the city's newsmen kept shop in a brown stone right across the
street from headquarters, on the lookout for a hot scoop. As he seemed to have some kind of personal animosity toward Francesca, he had surely come to gloat over the fact that the murder victim was Hart's ex-mistress. Francesca had no doubt he had come to pry for information.

Oh, she would see him, all right. She would carefully feed him misinformation that pointed him in any direction but Hart's. “No. Where is my father?”

“He is in the breakfast room.”

Francesca quickly led the way downstairs. She did not want Andrew learning of Daisy's murder, not until the police had an official suspect, other than Hart. Francesca had little doubt that if Andrew learned of the murder now, it would put the final nail in the coffin of his disapproval of her engagement. He would never give Hart another chance. “I'll entertain Mr. Kurland in the Blue Room, Mary. Bring two cups of coffee, please.” As she entered the spacious front hall, she pinched her cheeks, regretting her earlier decision to forgo rouge.

She must not let Kurland suspect that
anything
was wrong. So she smiled, sailing forward to where he waited at the hall's other end, by the front door. His brows slowly rose as she paused before him and he carefully scrutinized her face.

Francesca hoped she did not look exhausted or distressed. “Good morning, Mr. Kurland. My, this is a surprise.”

He was a slim man in his thirties with brownish hair and wearing an ill-fitting, equally brownish suit. He grinned. “I think the surprise is mine. You're not going to give me the boot?”

“If you are calling in such a pleasant manner, there must be an interesting matter to discuss.” She gestured and he preceded her into a pale blue room with mint-green ceilings, gilded paneling and several lush seating arrangements. He paused before the large white-and-gold marble fireplace. Francesca closed the mahogany doors behind her.

“I don't know if murder should be described as interesting,
except that maybe it is interesting to you, because you are a sleuth.” He smiled widely. “Come, do not play innocent with me!”

“Are we discussing the terrible, untimely demise of Miss Jones?” Francesca asked in a neutral tone.

“Yes, we are discussing the murder of your fiancé's mistress,” Kurland said, regarding her closely.

Francesca's smile felt so brittle she did not know how long she could maintain it. “Mr. Kurland, everyone knows that Hart ended his affair three months ago, when we became engaged.”

He rolled his eyes. “For such a smart investigator, you are awfully naive.”

She tried to control her slowly rising temper. “I do believe I know Mr. Hart a bit better than you do. I would hardly agree to marry him if he were the cad society thinks him to be.”

“Indeed, I'll bet a month's wages that you know him better than me!” He laughed, the implication clear.

Francesca fought to contain her temper. “If you wish to think Hart so immoral as to keep a mistress while engaged, so be it. But I find it hard to believe you have come all this way uptown to discuss Hart's private affairs.”

“But that is exactly why I have come, Miss Cahill,” Kurland exclaimed. He was eager now. “Good lord, the man's mistress—all right, his ex-mistress!—has been murdered. This smacks of being a true crime of passion. Hart wouldn't be the first man to rid himself of an un wanted mistress.”

Francesca trembled, her fists clenched. “Did you come here to accuse my fiancé of murder?”

He sobered. “Nope. I came here to ask you how you feel about it—the murder, I mean, of such a rival.”

She inhaled. “Daisy was my
friend,
” she lied. “We were friends before I ever became engaged to Hart, and I am going to find her killer.” She still could not decide just how much
Kurland knew. “But I do agree with you on one point. I saw the body. It was a vicious and brutal crime of passion.”

“You saw the body?” Kurland repeated eagerly.

Francesca was relieved. He obviously had no details of the murder. Of course, eventually he would uncover every detail, she had no doubt, but she would take all of the time that he could give her. “I found the body,” she said, then she corrected herself. “Actually, we found the body.”

Kurland whipped out a notepad and pencil.
“We?”
he echoed. “Surely you do not mean you and Hart?”

“I do,” Francesca said smoothly, although her cheeks felt hot. “Hart and I had been out to supper. He had some papers to drop off at Daisy's. You surely know that she was living in a house he provided. In spite of the end of their affair, he had agreed she could stay on until July.”

“So I've heard,” Kurland said. “And at what time did you find Miss Jones?”

“It was about midnight.” Francesca described how she had found Daisy, but did not mention Rose's presence. “We left the body and split up to look for the killer, but he or she was long since gone. When we returned, Rose was with Daisy.”

Kurland stared. “This is very interesting, indeed! And where did you say you had dinner?”

Francesca smiled. “It was a private affair.” She had no friends who lived downtown who would fabricate for her, but a maître d' could be paid off. “We took a private room at Louis',” she said, using the correct French pronunciation of the formal downtown restaurant.

Kurland suddenly smiled and shook his head. “So you are Hart's alibi, and he is yours.”

“Excuse me?”

“Miss Cahill. Surely you must realize, with all of your vast experience, that you are as much a suspect as Hart?”

Francesca stared, her heart accelerating. “Just what are you trying to say?”

“I heard the rumor that Daisy's body was discovered independently by Hart and by Rose Cooper. I have heard no whispers that you were with Hart, although I had been told you were at HQ last night, looking into the case.”

“I don't know who your sources are,” Francesca said flatly, “but I would not rely too heavily on them. And no one has pointed a finger my way.”

“Yeah, well, I can't imagine Bragg allowing that,” Kurland said with heavy significance. “But I bet he wouldn't mind pointing the finger at your fiancé.” He grinned.

Unfortunately, Kurland had caught her and Bragg in a somewhat compromising situation, well before Leigh Anne had returned from Europe to reconcile with him. “I am not involved,” Francesca said. “You may think what you want, but in the end, the truth will out.”

“Yes, in the end, I will learn the truth—every grisly aspect of it.” Kurland slipped his notepad into his jacket. “I do appreciate your candor, Miss Cahill.” He tipped his fedora at her.

Francesca turned to walk him to the door. In the hall, he paused, and Francesca tensed.

“Of course, I have only just begun to dig,” he said. “And there is one more possible theory.”

“I'm sure there are many theories,” Francesca said.

“Perhaps you and Hart conspired to murder Miss Jones together?” he asked pleasantly.

“Hart has conspired to murder no one, Mr. Kurland, but if you wish to cast stones at me, so be it. I am not afraid of your slander,” Francesca said. She did not wait for the doorman, but jerked the heavy front door open herself. “Good day.”

“I hardly mean to upset you, Miss Cahill, but you and Hart had the most to gain from the death of his mistress.”

“Good day, Mr. Kurland.” She finally lost her compo sure
and slammed the door closed in his face. Then she stood there, staring at the beautiful grain of chestnut-hued wood, her heart hammering hard and fast. Kurland would probably learn the real facts of the case by the end of the day. He might be scum, but he was a tenacious and skilled reporter. That did not give her much time to unearth a valid suspect. Francesca had little doubt that if she did not find someone other than Hart with motive and means, to morrow's headlines would be very distasteful, indeed.

“Francesca!”

Francesca stiffened in disbelief. Her mother could not be standing behind her now. Although Julia was an early riser, she never left her rooms before eleven, preferring to take care of all of her correspondence in the mornings.

“Francesca!” Julia clasped her shoulder from behind.

Francesca turned, aghast, to face her stricken mother. “What—what are you doing up and about at this hour?”

“I wanted to speak with your father before he left the house,” Julia cried. “Hart's mistress is dead? Murdered?”

Francesca's mind raced. Her mother knew everything that happened in society. Of course, she would know about Hart's relationship with Daisy. Yet she had been Hart's biggest supporter and was so favorably disposed toward their marriage that Francesca had some how assumed that she hadn't known about Daisy. She managed, “She was his ex-mistress, Mama. And yes, she was murdered last night.”

Julia moaned. “And you and Hart are suspects?”

“Mama!” Francesca put her arm around her. “We are not suspects! Hart discovered the body, but Daisy's friend, Rose Cooper, actually found her first. Mama, I am investigating the case. So far, there are no suspects. We don't even have an autopsy report.”

But Julia was shaking her head. “How could you allow that man into the house! His articles are scurrilous!”

“I know. I wanted to make certain he did not jump to the wrong conclusions.”

Francesca knew what her mother was thinking—that Francesca wanted to make certain he did not suspect Hart. “Mama, please don't worry. I am going to find Daisy's killer.”

“Don't worry. Of course I am worried. And not just because you are about to put yourself in all kinds of danger once again. Francesca, this scandal will be too much to bear!”