Deadly Kisses (19 page)

He smiled at her, but it was taunting. “I'd offer you a drink, but I feel certain you would decline.”

And she knew then what made him irresistible. It was his anger, his wounded anger. It rippled through the man, making him unpredictable and dangerous. That was what the ladies found so fascinating, she decided. “Calder, are you all right?”

He saluted her and drank. Clearly he had no interest in providing her with an answer.

She bit her lip, wondering if she should have followed Neil's advice and stayed out of this affair. Then she took a step toward him. “Francesca told me everything last night,” she said. “I am sorry for your loss.”

He put his glass down and she saw that his hand was shaking. “Really? Forgive me, my lady, if I simply do not believe you.”

She was thoroughly taken aback.

He smiled, but it came out a sneer. “Lady Montrose,” he said, his tone as soft as silk, “we both know you are loyal to your sister. You must be thrilled that my mistress—excuse me, my ex-mistress—and my bastard are dead.”

Connie hated being there. “Calder, I could not wish anyone dead, and especially not your child.”

He shook his head. “As if you hoped my bastard would survive. And what then? Francesca and I should live happily ever after, with such a constant reminder of my black past?”

Why was he doing this? Connie wondered. She could see now that he was in pain. Fran had said he was grieving for his child, and she certainly understood that. “Francesca told me she would have raised the child with you,” Connie said carefully. “You know how Fran is. She would have welcomed your child into her home.”

He stared at her, his face stricken, and then he turned away from her, his body so rigid she thought it might snap. “Why the hell are you here?” he demanded, his back to her.

He needed comfort, she thought, and only Francesca could give it to him. Now was not the time to ask him to take a very high road, indeed. He was already down. How could she beg him to put Francesca first and break his engagement to her?

Because she loved her sister and she could not stand by and watch Francesca's life go up in flames.

Connie walked up to him, shaking with fear. She laid her
purse on a small table and put her gloved hand on his back. “I am sorry for your losses,” she repeated, meaning it. “I am very sorry, Calder.”

He whirled, clearly astonished by her gesture. Then his dark, gold-flecked eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What are you doing?”

She backed up. “I want to help.”

“Are you thinking to seduce me?” he asked, angry and incredulous at once.

She was so shocked by his words that she gaped. She covered her mouth with her hand. Suddenly it was be yond amusing, and she was so nervous she laughed. “Calder! My sister loves you! I happen to love Neil! I was only offering you comfort!” She laughed again, helplessly, and then the laughter turned to tears.

He stared, noting the tears slipping down her cheeks. Finally, slowly, without anger, he said, “Women never offer me anything other than their bodies, Lady Montrose. Except for your sister, of course. So please forgive me for failing to appreciate your kindness.”

She looked at him through her tears. He finally seemed sincere. He was odd, she decided, if he could not accept a simple gesture of sympathy from a woman without jumping to erroneous conclusions. Then she realized that
odd
was not the right word. He was jaded and terribly cynical—making him as different from her hopeful, optimistic sister as night and day. How did Francesca man age a relationship with such a dark man? “I understand,” she said. “It doesn't matter. Calder, I know this is not the best of times, but I am terrified for my sister.”

As if he hadn't heard her, he walked behind his desk. Connie watched him rummage through the jacket hanging on the back of the chair there. When he returned, he handed her a handkerchief, his initials embroidered on it.

She accepted it, wiping her eyes.

“Why are you here?” he asked harshly.

She finished drying her tears. “I know you are very fond of Francesca. I think you are even in love with her. I have been so happy for her—for you both.” She prayed he would understand what she was about to say.

He waited.

She swallowed hard. “Calder, I can't stand by and watch my sister become a social pariah. If you really care for her, if you love her, you will surely break the engagement, so she does not go down in the flames of this scandal with you.”

She thought she saw grief, anger and frustration all cross his face, shadowing his eyes. She knew she saw resolve. He finally said, “You are too late. I broke the engagement this morning. Your sister is finally free.”

He strode past her to the door. There, he opened it widely, clearly wishing for her to leave.

Connie's heart beat madly. She understood his anguish now. Clutching her purse she went to the door. There, she dared to pause to face him, even though her instincts urged her to escape.

“Francesca has told me how good you really are. I can see that now. Thank you, Calder, thank you for protecting my sister.”

His jaw ground down. “Get out.”

Connie fled.

 

A
LBANY WAS COLD.
As Francesca and Joel traveled from the train station in an open horse-drawn buggy that was being passed off as a cab, she wished she had brought a coat with her. Although the sun was shining in a mostly cloudless sky, the pastures surrounding their route were muddy, and according to the loquacious cabdriver, last night it had snowed. “Might snow tonight, too,” he cheerfully added. He turned to look at Francesca, several front teeth missing from his smile. “Ye need a coat.”

“I have become rather aware of that,” Francesca said. “How
far are we from the courts?” They continued to pass through a very rural area consisting mostly of dairy farms. Black-and-white cows grazed contentedly be side the road.

“Maybe five miles. The city's spread out, but all that's important is real close to itself.”

Francesca quickly learned that the district court where Gillespie was seated was located in the city's civic center. A few moments later they reached the small two- or three-block area, where a handful of stately brick buildings had been built a century earlier. A quick inquiry to a passing gentleman yielded the information that the judge's offices were in the court building on the second floor. Several gentlemen, all carrying attaché folders, were coming and going as she and Joel climbed the wide front steps of the courthouse. Inside the spacious lobby, where several plaster columns formed a rotunda, Francesca saw a number of closed doors. Clearly, several court proceedings were in session. Above her, she saw gentlemen passing by on the mezzanine. To her right was a wide wooden staircase. She and Joel started up the stairs, Francesca hoping that Gillespie was not in session.

A moment later she found his office, his name engraved on the brass nameplate beside the door. Francesca told Joel that he could wait outside in the hall. A clerk with graying hair and spectacles opened the door to the office. “I am here to see Judge Gillespie,” she said.

He seemed surprised. “I don't think the judge has any appointments scheduled for today, miss.”

Francesca followed him into the antechamber where the clerk had a small desk. An equally small sofa was against one wall. The judge's dark wood office door was closed. The clerk went to the calendar on his desk. “No, he has no appointments today. I thought he might be in session until late.”

Francesca glanced at the closed door. “But he is out of court?”

“Yes, but I am sorry. He won't see you without an appointment. However, I can make an appointment for you for next week.”

Francesca smiled, handing him her calling card. “I am afraid that won't do, and I am sure the judge will see me. I am here to investigate a murder and I have traveled all the way from New York City today. More important, I am working with the police on this matter, as I frequently do. Commissioner Bragg encouraged me to meet with the judge. We both feel he could be helpful in solving this case.”

The clerk was wide-eyed. “You're that female—I mean, that lady sleuth I read about!”

Francesca could not help being pleased. “Yes, I am. And this is terribly urgent. I'm afraid it cannot wait until next week.”

“Let me ask the judge if he will see you,” the clerk said to her. “I will do my best.”

Francesca thanked him and paced nervously. Only an instant passed when Gillespie's door opened and he came out with his clerk.

The judge was of medium stature and build, with features that had remained distinguished and handsome in spite of his years. He had graying hair and blue eyes, and he greeted Francesca with some surprise and bemusement. “I am afraid I have not read about you as my clerk has,” he said, shaking her hand and then glancing at her card. “But he tells me you are a very famous investigator and that you have solved some sensational cases.”

“I am not certain I am all that famous,” Francesca said with a smile. “But I have solved a number of cases. In each one, I worked very closely with the police, and I am assisting Commissioner Bragg now. Might I have a few moments of your time, Your Honor?”

“Of course,” he said, seeming pleasant enough. He gestured, and she preceded him into his office. Unlike the Spartan antechamber, his office was wood-paneled and one wall contained a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with tomes. Behind his desk,
a pair of windows looked out over the city square between the city government buildings. It was a lovely view of the small park, with some pedestrians passing through, and the horses and carriages queued up on the street.

Gillespie closed the door behind them, offering her a seat. Francesca took it and he sat down behind his desk. “How can I help you?”

Francesca spoke directly. “Do you know Miss Daisy Jones, Your Honor?”

He looked at her blankly. “I do not recall the name. It is unusual,” he said, “almost comical, so I should think if I had heard it, or if I had met Miss Jones, I would at least vaguely recall it.”

His blank look was at odds with his previous expressions—or so she thought. His denial almost seemed as if it was forced.

She had the strongest feeling that Judge Richard Gillespie knew Daisy Jones. “I have a sketch, made by a newspaper artist. Maybe you will recognize her.”

He seemed indifferent. Francesca handed him that morning's
Tribune,
which she had snatched up just out side of her train's gate. A beautiful rendering of Daisy was on the front page, next to the headline, Prostitute Stabbed to Death. Anyone who knew Daisy would recognize her from the portrait.

Judge Gillespie took the page, glanced at it, and Francesca saw his hand begin to shake. He knew her—he was lying.

He quickly handed the front page back to her. He had become pale, but he smiled at her. “I am afraid I do not know Miss Jones,” he said. His tone was strained.

Francesca slowly stood. “Your Honor, I am afraid I do not quite believe you,” she said.

He gripped his desk, not rising.

Francesca thought he seemed distraught. “She knew you, and well, I think,” Francesca said more softly. “I found an entire box
of news clippings in her bedroom, and every single one of them contained a mention of you, Your Honor.”

He continued to grip the edge of his desk, his knuckles white. “I did not know Miss Jones.”

Francesca leaned over the desk toward him. “She was brutally murdered two nights ago, Judge Gillespie. Someone viciously stabbed her to death six times with a bowie knife. I am going to bring her killer to justice, but I need some help. If you knew her—and I am certain that you did—then help me find her killer. You are a judge. Your life is dedicated to the pursuit of justice!”

He did not look up at her. “I did not know her,” he whispered harshly now.

Francesca felt her temper rising. “Well, she certainly knew you!” She took another card and laid it on his desk, not far from his hands. “I feel rather certain that the New York Police Department will want to speak with you. Whatever you know, we need to know it, too.” She hesitated. “Daisy did not deserve to die.
Her child
did not deserve to die.”

He flinched and looked up at Francesca. “She was with child?”

“Yes, she was.”

And Gillespie moaned and covered his face with his hands. His shoulders began to shake. Stunned, Francesca realized he was weeping. She went behind him and laid her hand on his shoulder. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I am so sorry for your loss. But please, help me now, so I can find her killer.”

He pulled away. “You may be right. I think—” He choked, unable to continue.

Francesca was puzzled. “What do you think?”

“I think that she is my missing daughter.”

Wednesday, June 4, 1902—Noon

I
N SPITE OF HER CONFUSION,
elation swept through Francesca. “You think she's your daughter?” Was this the connection to Daisy's past that she had been hoping for?

Gillespie choked on a sob. “She looks exactly as Honora did, but Honora, she…she left home…many years ago.”

Francesca was almost certain that Gillespie had known that his daughter was Daisy Jones from the start. From the moment she had mentioned Daisy, his behavior had subtly changed. She was operating on instinct now. If he had known that Honora was Daisy, then he had probably known that his daughter had left home to become a prostitute, Francesca thought. But she wasn't sure he had known that she was dead. He appeared to have been genuinely shocked by the news of her murder.

Francesca could comprehend why he had denied knowing Daisy. He was a judge with a reputation to guard. He would not want to admit that his daughter had become a woman of the streets.

“Sir, if Daisy was your daughter, I am terribly sorry for your loss,” she said sincerely.

He inhaled. “Thank you.”

Francesca hesitated. “You are very distraught. But before you grieve, we should decide whether or not Daisy Jones really was Honora.”

He looked at her, ashen. “I know she's dead,” he whispered. “I just do.”

“Because you knew she had become Daisy?” she had to ask.

His jaw tightened. “I didn't know. She left us, with out a word. There was not a single letter— God, it was as if she hated us!”

Francesca absorbed that. “May I sit? Can we try to discern whether or not Daisy and Honora was the same person?”

“Yes, of course, we must do just that.” Suddenly his eyes filled with tears. “Martha—my wife—how will I tell her?”

Francesca waited for him to compose himself. He seemed truly shocked by Daisy's murder, but she knew very well that appearances could be deceiving. “I knew Daisy. We were friends.”

“You knew her?” He seemed surprised.

“Yes, but not well,” Francesca said. “I met her when I was on a case. Sir, it had always been obvious to me that Daisy came from a very genteel background. I learned from another friend of hers that she first came to the city eight years ago, having run away from home. You just said she left you?”

Gillespie replied. “Honora left home when she was fifteen years old. That was eight years ago—eight years and two months. She vanished in April.”

This was the proof, Francesca thought. The dates could hardly be a coincidence. “Her friend told me that she was fifteen when she first arrived in the city. Given those facts and her resemblance to Honora, I think we can agree that Daisy was your daughter.”

Gillespie just sat there. Francesca knew she was going to have to press him, but that could wait. His wife didn't even know about Daisy's—Honora's—death yet.

Gillespie finally said, “It's Honora. That sketch—it's identical to my daughter. I have a portrait of her at the house, painted on her fifteenth birthday, just two months before she went away. You'll see.”

Francesca had to speak with the rest of the family, anyway. “I should love to see it, Your Honor.”

He suddenly looked her right in the eye. “I want to know who did this to my daughter,” he cried. “I want the murderer brought to justice.”

“The killer will be brought to justice, have no fear,” Francesca said. “Sir, I want to respect your grief, but there are many questions I am going to have to ask if I am to find this killer. This was a crime of passion. Someone who knew Daisy well, wanted her dead, and was very angry when he or she killed her. I am afraid this investigation will be a highly personal one.”

“I understand completely,” he said. “He or she? You think she may have been killed by a woman?”

Francesca paused. She had to consider the possibility that Gillespie
hadn't
known Honora was Daisy. In that case, he hadn't known she was a prostitute until Francesca showed him the telling headline, and he didn't know that his daughter had a female lover, either. Even if he had known where Honora was and how she had been living, Francesca felt sorry for him. There was little doubt that he had loved his daughter and that he was grieving now.

“Miss Cahill.” He was sharp. “You seem uncertain—or is it reluctant? What are you keeping from me?”

“Quite a bit,” she said grimly. “I should like to let you grieve with your family before you learn all of the facts of this case, but it is very sensational, and the city press is all over it. If you read any of the New York newspapers, which I am sure that you do, you are going to learn these facts, sooner rather than later. They will be difficult for you to understand. Maybe you should go home, sir, and speak with your family. We can continue this conversation tomorrow.”

He slowly rose to his feet. “I want to know what you're not telling me. I want to know all of these so-called facts.”

Francesca did not want to wait until tomorrow to continue
her investigation; too much was at stake. “As you saw from the headline I showed you, Daisy—Honora—was a prostitute.”

“A prostitute,” he echoed, as if he had never before heard the word. “What are you trying to say, Miss Cahill?”

“She was a very expensive, very exclusive prostitute. Recently, she was a mistress. Your Honor, why would she choose such a life, when she could have had a life of comfort and privilege in society?”

The office had become so oddly silent that Francesca could hear her own breathing. “Dear God. I don't know.”

Francesca could not decipher the look in his eyes. “There had to have been a reason that she left home,” she began.

“What does that have to do with her brutal, vicious murder?” he cried.

“I don't know,” Francesca returned softly. She would tell him about Rose at another time, she decided. And she was not about to reveal that her fiancé had been the man keeping Daisy.

“This will destroy my wife,” he said grimly. “Martha has been my anchor all of these years. She already suffered so vastly when Daisy disappeared from our lives. But now? I don't know if she can manage this. And my other daughter, Lydia, adored her older sister…she will be devastated. We have to bring Daisy home,” he added as he started to cry. His tears were very real. But if he had already known that Honora was turning tricks in the city, then he could be a suspect, too.

“Your Honor, I am sure you will be able to bring Daisy home. And your wife will find out if you do not tell her. It is in all the city newspapers.”

“No!” Gillespie held up his hand. “I will tell her—when the time is right.”

“Was Mrs. Gillespie close to her oldest daughter?” Francesca asked.

He began to struggle for composure. “Of course they were close. They were very close. She adored Honora—as did I, and
as did her sister. Honora was beautiful and perfect in every way.” He paused.

“I want to see my daughter.”

Francesca thought that was a very good idea. She wanted Gillespie in New York City, where she and Bragg could interview him at length. In fact, she wanted the entire family there.

“I think the police will want a statement from you, sir,” she said. “I happen to have a train schedule—”

He waved at her. “I am in the city frequently and know when the trains run.” He finally walked away from his desk to stare out of the window at the city square. “I have to go home and tell Martha that our daughter is dead,” he said. “Dear God, how did this happen? Why did she have to leave us in the first place?”

“You said she did not leave a note when she ran away?”

“No. She just left. At first, we worried that she had been abducted from her own bed.” He faltered. “She was so perfect, Miss Cahill, and so beautiful. She was graceful, witty, charming and kind. Everyone who knew her loved her. We had such plans for her. She would have been a debutante the following year, and one day, a great society hostess. There were no doubts that Honora was special.”

Francesca could imagine Daisy as a young lady and felt that Gillespie had not exaggerated. “There must have been a reason for her to leave like that. Perhaps your wife knows, or your other daughter?”

“It has been years,” he cried. “Why does it matter?”

“It might not matter—or it might be extremely relevant to her death,” Francesca said. “I am afraid that, at this point, I can leave no stone unturned.” She gave him a chance to assimilate that. “I suppose the police ruled out an abduction?”

He turned away.

“Judge?”

“She went to bed that evening and was gone in the morning. Lydia saw that she had taken a bag with clothes and jewelry.
So we immediately knew that it was not an abduction, Miss Cahill.”

“You did not call the police?” This was very interesting indeed!

“It was bad enough that she was gone. I wanted to spare my wife and younger daughter any scandal.”

Was that true? Or had he hoped to spare
himself
a scandal—protecting his own reputation at the expense of finding his daughter?

“We even considered that she might have run off with some young man—although Martha and I felt certain she hadn't been seeing anyone. Lydia assured us, as well, that there was no young man in Honora's life.”

“I will have to speak with your wife and daughter at length, as soon as possible.” She didn't add that she would also interview him again.

“They don't even know that she was in New York all of this time, selling herself to the highest bidder!”

“When will you be going to New York?”

“Tomorrow. I will be on the first train. I have to see her!”

“Maybe you can bring your wife and daughter with you.”

His gaze widened. “I don't know. I can't seem to think clearly—yes, perhaps they should come.”

“It would be very helpful to the investigation,” Francesca told him, firmly but gently.

“I will take that into consideration,” Gillespie said, very much speaking as if he were on the bench. “Miss Cahill, I need some time alone before I go home.”

She understood completely. “Of course you do. Judge? I am very sorry. I liked Daisy very much. In spite of how she lived, she was a lady.”

He brushed the rising tears. “Thank you.”

Francesca nodded and started for the door.

“Miss Cahill? I will be staying at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. You may reach me there.”

 

T
HE COUNTRYSIDE HAD CHANGED.
Francesca stared out of the window of the speeding train, Joel napping beside her, his cheek on her arm. Farms and pastures were finally giving way to factories, busy cobbled and dirt streets, shops and tenement buildings. Working men and women with sacks of groceries were rushing on foot to their homes. They had reached the Bronx, but there would be no more stops until they arrived at the Grand Central Depot. She hugged herself, her heart aching terribly.

She had made copious notes about the case, until she could no longer avoid the huge hurt she had buried deep inside her chest. She would be home in an hour or so—and just ten blocks from Calder Hart's. Very, very shortly, she would be back in the city, and she could no longer avoid her feelings—or him.

She didn't see a single building, a single wagon, a single person or tree as the train raced on.

I am not leaving you.

No, you are not. I am leaving you, Francesca.

In the three months of their engagement, she had learned that his first response to a personal crisis was to withdraw from her and try to push her away. He did not like discussing his feelings, and certainly not his fears.

She had seen his guilt and grief and knew he was afraid of the future. These were matters she wished to discuss, and she was not giving up, even if this rejection had felt so final. Surely, when this case was closed and the real killer had been brought to justice, Hart would come back to her.

But Francesca could not deny her feelings. She was filled with doubts. She was very afraid. One of the problems with Hart was that he was so unpredictable. Only last month, he had confessed to her that he was falling in love with her. Francesca had been thrilled. Now she realized her elation should have waited. Leave it to Hart to refuse to admit to solid feelings of affection. If he had been falling in love with her, had he now simply changed his mind and resolutely brought that process to a halt? No one
could be more stubborn and more effective than Hart. It was a reason she so admired him; now it was the reason she was so afraid.

This morning, he had meant what he had said, that their engagement was off. She had seen the anguish in his eyes, and knew it hadn't been easy for him.

She had told him she would never give up on him. In her mind, this was a temporary separation. Had he understood that? And if so, where, exactly, did that leave them?

She already missed him. Was she still allowed to call on him at whim? Why should she wait for their paths to cross when she desperately wanted to see him? When she desperately
needed
to see him? More importantly, once she saw him, she would have a better idea of the mood he was in. Maybe he was having regrets and a change of heart.

Her decision was made. She would make a quick stop at home to change her clothes—she wanted to look beautiful and attract all of his male interest and attention—and she would go directly to Hart's. Her train was arriving at half past six; she should be at Hart's shortly after eight o'clock.

 

F
RANCESCA WAS SO INVOLVED
in her decision to call on Hart that she had not thought about the morning's newspapers. But the moment she started through the spacious front hall of her home, her mother appeared, stepping out of the dining room. Julia was as pale as a ghost, her distress apparent. Instantly, Francesca remembered the terrible headlines and she halted, one foot on the bottom step, her hand on the brass railing.