Deadly Kisses (9 page)

She stubbornly refused to concede to his many critics now. There was an explanation. She knew it, the way she knew he was a good man. Surely he had a good reason for this last deception. She would bide her time, she would not push him, no matter how she wished to. She knew from experience that any impatience on her part would backfire. She would trust him as she worked on this case, because one day he would truly trust her in return
and explain everything. No matter what, she was not giving up on Hart, and not this easily.

Joel appeared in front of the tenement building where he lived with his mother, his two brothers and little sister. He was a thin, short boy with a shock of dark hair and very fair skin. He grinned at her as he climbed up into the coach, allowing Raoul to open the carriage door for him. Joel had come a long way, Francesca thought, smiling with affection at him. Clearly, he enjoyed Raoul treating him as if he were a little prince, when just a few months ago he had been stealing purses.

“Thanks,” he said to Raoul.

Raoul almost smiled and shut the door firmly before climbing onto the driver's seat.

Even though it was June, Joel wore a knit cap over his black hair, and Francesca tugged on it. “Good day, Miz Cahill,” he said.

“We are on a new case,” she told him as Raoul lifted the brake and clucked the two handsome bays on. “A murder investigation.”

He grinned. “My favorite kind of case. Think it will be dangerous?”

“I hope not! And I also hope I am not jading you,” Francesca said seriously. She sighed. “You know the victim, Joel, as do I.”

He was all eyes. “Who got iced?”

She was not up to correcting his slang now. “Miss Jones.”

He understood right away. “Mr. Hart's er…lady friend?”

“Hart's ex-mistress, yes.”

His eyes bulged. “Ma'am! What happened?”

Francesca filled him in. “When we get to Daisy's, I will interview Rose. As usual, I need you to canvas the ward and find out if anyone saw anything suspicious between ten and midnight last night. To the best of my knowledge, we have lost the murder weapon, a knife. You can keep your eye out for that, too.”

He nodded gravely. “Do we got any suspects?”

Francesca hesitated. “Not exactly. But I am afraid both Hart and Rose are at the top of the list right now.”

Joel adored Hart. It was obvious that he clearly ad mired the man, as they had both come from the same desperately impoverished background. “Why would Mr. Hart off Miss Jones?”

“He wouldn't,” Francesca said firmly. “But in a crime like this—I am sure the autopsy will reveal numerous stab wounds—the police always look at family and friends first. Whoever murdered Daisy, Joel, knew her and wanted her dead. We must find the real killer, and quickly.”

“Before Mr. Hart gets in trouble,” Joel said, nodding grimly.

Francesca tugged on his cap again. She had become as fond of the boy as if he was her little brother, but then, she was very fond of his mother. Maggie Kennedy had been acting somewhat oddly lately. Francesca had taken tea with her twice, and the Kennedy sparkle had been missing from her stunning blue eyes. “How is your mother, Joel?”

He grimaced. “I dunno. Something's bothering her. She's so sad all of the time. I mean, she pretends not to be, but I can tell.”

Francesca hesitated. A month ago, she had witnessed her brother Evan saving Maggie from an insane killer, and there had been no mistaking his concern for her. As she had already suspected romantic sparks flying between the two, she had been delighted, never mind that an up town gentleman should not dally with a downtown seamstress. Evan was currently living at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. He had been disowned by their father, much to Francesca's dismay, but the bright side was he seemed to have abandoned his notorious gambling ways. He was now making an honest living as a law clerk, and Francesca was very proud of him for standing up to their father.

While Evan was a ladies' man with a rather large reputation,
Francesca knew he would never compromise Maggie, and she was certain he had strong and genuine feelings for her. Hart had advised her to stay out of the affair, reminding her that Evan was courting the Countess Benevente. Most of society thought he might marry her, although Francesca wasn't so sure. She could not imagine Bartolla Benevente marrying a law clerk. But then, she was a wealthy widow, so Francesca could be wrong. “Joel? Has my brother called at all?” She simply had to know.

Joel scowled. “I thought we were friends! He used to come by all the time with all kinds of goodies an' gifts. I ain't seen him since Father Culhane tried to kill my mother.” He was angry now. “I know what's up. He's too busy with that
countess
to bother with me, Paddy or Matt.”

Francesca reached for him but he pulled away. “He's having a rough time these days,” she said gently, and it was the truth. “Imagine how you would feel if your father disowned you and you had to move out of the house. Imagine what it would be like if your father refused to call you his son.”

“I don't have a father,” Joel said sarcastically. “He's a grown man, not a boy, so it don't matter, anyway.”

Francesca sighed. Joel had come to care far too much for her brother, and maybe Maggie had, too. She should not get involved, but if ever there was a time to interfere, it was now. If Evan was not going to pursue a relationship with Maggie, he should have never treated her as he had when she had been in so much danger. Francesca decided she would call on him later in the day. And then Daisy's Georgian brick home came into view. She tensed, instantly forgetting all about her brother. An image of Rose, grief-stricken and holding Daisy's mangled body, came to mind. Francesca was sobered by the recollection.

Joel had learned to wait for Francesca to alight from the carriage first. When she had done so, he leapt to the street. “I'll start talkin' about,” he said.

“And don't forget Daisy's servants,” Francesca reminded him
as he started off. She had discovered long ago that witnesses spoke differently to different interrogators. Often she could get more information than the police, and Joel would certainly be handier with the staff.

This time, the front door was firmly closed and her knock was promptly answered by Daisy's butler, Homer, a white-haired man of middle age. He ushered her inside, looking positively stricken. Francesca thanked him and handed him her card. “Good morning. I don't know if you remember me, but I was a friend of Miss Jones. I am a sleuth.”

Homer read her card. It read:

“I do recall, Miss Cahill. I am afraid that…” He stopped, unable to continue, clearly distressed.

“I was here last night,” she said gently, laying her hand on his shoulder. “I am so sorry about Miss Jones.” She would begin her investigation with Homer, she decided.

“Thank you,” he whispered, ashen. “She was a good employer, ma'am. She was very kind to me and the staff.”

“I know,” Francesca said softly, although of course she had not known. “I came to see Miss Cooper, but I should like to speak with you first.”

He nodded, not at all surprised. “Are you going to find her killer?”

“Yes, I hope so.”

“Good! She did not deserve to die,” he cried. “I know she sinned, but she wasn't a bad woman.”

Francesca patted his shoulder. “Maybe you should sit, Homer. May I call you Homer?”

He nodded. “I am fine. It's just the shock….”

“I know. At what time did you finish your duties last night?”

“At half past five.”

That was very early and Francesca was surprised. “But what about supper? Or did Miss Jones go out?”

He shook his head. “She was staying in with a guest. She dismissed me, Annie and Mrs. Greene,” he said.

Francesca was surprised. It seemed that Daisy had been planning a private evening with someone. But she had to make certain she had not misunderstood. “When Daisy was entertaining, she dismissed the staff?”

He flushed. “Last night she wished for a private evening, Miss Cahill.”

Francesca stared. What was he not telling her? “But this was her pattern of behavior?”

His color deepened. “When I first came to be employed here, she would dismiss us when Mr. Hart called.”

Francesca's insides lurched and tightened. She should have been expecting that, she realized grimly. “And after Mr. Hart and I became engaged?”

“She entertained Miss Cooper a few times, but other wise, she would go out, which was usual, or stay in alone.”

Francesca blinked. “Miss Cooper does not live here now?”

Homer seemed surprised. “No, she does not. But she calls once or twice a week.”

It did not sound as if Daisy and Rose had resumed their former relationship. Or, if they had, it sounded as if it had lost some of its fervor, Francesca thought. “Who did Miss Jones see last night?'

“I don't know,” he said apologetically.

Francesca's mind raced. Before she and Calder had become engaged, he had called on Daisy and she had dismissed the staff. On a few occasions, she had dismissed the staff in order to see
Rose. Calder, of course, had arrived at Grand Central Station at seven o' clock—she had the ticket stub to prove it—so he could not have been her caller last night, for Daisy had dismissed everyone at half past five. Surely she had been expecting someone by six or seven o'clock. Had she been expecting Rose? “Perhaps she was going out?” Francesca had to rule this possibility out.

“Oh, no! She had me prepare a small supper, which she said she would take later. She also asked that I chill champagne and ice two glasses. It was odd, because the supper was for one.”

Francesca tried to breathe. Daisy had intended to have drinks with her caller, but not dine with her or him. This was another fantastic lead! “You went to your rooms at half past five? And that is when Mrs. Greene went home and Annie went to her room?”

“Yes.”

“And this morning? Was the champagne gone? Had both glasses been used? Had she eaten her supper?”

He met her gaze. “No one drank anything last night. I had opened the bottle for her, and two glasses had been poured, but neither had been drunk. Her supper was untouched.”

Francesca tried to fight her excitement. If Homer had been instructed to open the bottle of champagne before retiring for the evening, then Daisy's caller had been expected shortly after five-thirty. Had Daisy greeted the killer with champagne? If so, she had seemed to intend an intimate rendezvous with her murderer. And if the drinks and her supper had not been touched, had she just narrowed down the time of her murder? “Did she say at what time she was expecting her caller? And did you see or hear anything last night?”

“She made no mention of when she was expecting her caller.”

Francesca said, “And you did not see or hear anyone?”

“I went out for a while, Miss Cahill, to take a drink with some friends. When I returned, it was well past eight—it was close
to nine-thirty or ten. The house was dark, which I found it a bit strange, but I saw some lights upstairs and I decided it wasn't my business. I was tired and I went to bed. Mr. Hart awoke me at midnight.”

Francesca's mind raced. “So you did not hear anything when you came in at nine-thirty or ten?”

“No.”

Francesca's thoughts veered. “Hart has admitted that he came to see Daisy last night.”

“It was very odd, him calling like that,” Homer said.

“Why? Why was it odd?” Francesca asked quickly.

“Well, he hasn't called in months.” He blushed. “I am sorry, Miss Cahill, but this is so awkward, with this being his house and you being his fiancée.”

“Please, Homer, do not fret on my account! When I accepted Hart's offer of marriage, I was well aware that he was keeping Daisy, and as we both know, he stopped seeing her at that time.”

Homer glanced away.

Francesca did not like that. “That is what you said, isn't it?”

“Except for last week,” he amended somewhat glumly.

Francesca tensed. “Last week? He came here last week?” And a treacherous image arose of Daisy smiling at Hart and handing him a glass of champagne.

Homer hesitated, wringing his hands. “I don't know what I should say or do,” he said. “He is my employer.”

She fought the dismay. “He called on Daisy last week.”

Homer's brows shot up. “Not that way, Miss Cahill! He came in the afternoon, last Thursday, I think. The visit was a brief one, and there were no refreshments. Miss Jones made it clear she did not wish for them to be disturbed. I don't think he stayed for even a half an hour. I don't know what they discussed,” he added hastily.

There was relief, but on its heels came fresh dismay. What affair had they been conducting? “You didn't hear anything?”

“She sent me away. No. I didn't hear anything.”

Francesca inhaled. Hart's call had been the day before he had left on his business trip.

“Miss Cahill?” A woman whispered, her tone tentative.

Francesca saw a housemaid approaching, her dark eyes huge in her pale, freckled face. “Are you Annie?”

Annie nodded, appearing frightened and stricken. “I heard them,” she said hoarsely. “I heard them shouting—arguing—and I heard Miss Jones crying.”

Francesca froze. “What were they arguing about?”

“I don't know. But Mr. Hart was furious when he left. He was so angry that he broke the door—I saw him do it. And Miss Jones? She collapsed on the sofa, weeping.”

Tuesday, June 3, 1902—11:00 a.m.

M
IKE
O'D
ONNELL STOOD ON
the threshold of the small parlor, a weather-beaten man with a suntanned face and hands and bleached-blond hair. He was not a gentleman, Leigh Anne saw instantly, as he wore a flannel shirt tucked into corduroy trousers, and the boots of a workman. An older woman accompanied him, plump and pleasant in expression, also dressed in the drab clothes of a working woman. Katie had not rushed over to him. Instead, she stood near Leigh Anne, wide-eyed and tense. She clearly recognized him.

“Why don't you sit down, Mr. O'Donnell?” Leigh Anne said graciously. She had been returned to her wheeled chair and Mr. Mackenzie stood behind her, ready to move her at her command.

“I should like to do that, ma'am,” he said very deferentially. “An' thank you for lettin' me an' Beth in to see Katie an' Dot.” He went to sit on the sofa, holding his knit cap between his hands.

The heavy older woman smiled at Francesca. “My nephew has no manners, Mrs. Bragg. I am Beth O'Brien, his aunt—Katie's great-aunt.”

Leigh Anne was ill with fear and dread, but she smiled. “Do sit down, Mrs. O'Brien.” She glanced at the door, where Peter stood. “Peter, please bring some refreshments for our guests, and ask Mrs. Flowers to bring Dot down.”

The big man left.

But Beth O'Brien did not sit. She beamed at Katie. “You don't remember me, do you? But then, I haven't seen you since you were five years old, when I came to visit your mama for the Christmas holiday.”

Katie just shook her head.

“I was living in New Rochelle until last month,” Beth told Leigh Anne amiably. She had warm brown eyes with a kind sparkle to them. “But my mistress died and I came to the city to find a job. I decided to look Mike up—and Mary, my niece and the girl's mother. I was stunned to learn that she had died,” Beth added, no longer smiling. “How tragic for the girls!”

“It was very tragic,” Leigh Anne managed to say. What did these two want? Surely they only intended a brief visit! “But my husband and I have been caring for the girls for some time. They are well fed, Katie is in school, and they are very happy.” She looked at Katie, desperately trying to keep her composure. “Isn't that right, darling?”

Katie nodded, reaching for Leigh Anne's hand. She clung to her.

“That is so generous of you and your husband,” Beth said. “We are so grateful, aren't we, Mike?”

“Very grateful,” Mike O'Donnell said. He suddenly stood and approached Leigh Anne and Katie. “Hello, Katie. Aren't you going to give me a hug? I know you remember me.”

Katie's grip on Leigh Anne's hand tightened. She did not move—she did not seem to breathe—and Leigh Anne knew she was more than simply shy.

She was afraid of her uncle.

“So you are close to the girls?” Leigh Anne said quickly, wanting to avoid his pressuring Katie.

“I was very close to my sister, their mother,” Mike said. “But before her death and the death of my wife, I did not appreciate the family God gave me.” He shook his head, disparaging his own past.

“I am sorry, I did not realize you had lost your wife, too,” Leigh Anne said, wishing Peter would hurry with the refreshments.

“Their deaths changed everything,” Mike said softly. “I miss them both, very much. But God works in mysterious ways, and I have come to accept that.”

Did he also miss his nieces? Leigh Anne wondered. “Yes, God seems to have answers only He knows.”

“The Lord has changed me, ma'am,” Mike O'Donnell said. “I've given up drink, given up cards and, if you beg my pardon, other forms of entertainment. I've been praying, ma'am. I pray every day, two or three times, for His help and His guidance.”

“So you are a religious man,” Leigh Anne managed.

O'Donnell only smiled, but Beth spoke for him. “My nephew was a bit of a rascal. But since Mary's death, he has found God.”

Leigh Anne could only nod, sickened.

“I really needed to see my nieces,” Mike said. He knelt, smiling directly into Katie's face. She did not smile back. “They are my family, my only family, and I miss them, I really do.”

Leigh Anne put her arm around Katie, whose skinny body was frozen. “I am sure you do. Well, you may visit anytime,” she said, lying through her teeth. She did not want Mike O'Donnell or Beth O'Brien in the girls' lives.

“That would be so fine,” Mike said with a grin. “Wouldn't it, Katie?” He touched her cheek.

She flinched, tears coming to her eyes.

 

F
RANCESCA GREW AWARE THAT
someone was behind her, watching her. Filled with dread over Annie's revelation, she slowly turned. Rose stood on the stairs, a few steps from the ground floor, ashen in spite of her olive complexion. Her stare was hard and focused. She had pulled her dark hair tightly back, but tendrils were wildly escaping. That, coupled with her gaunt,
haunted look, gave Francesca pause. The glint in Rose's eyes was almost frightening.

She turned back to the servants. Hart and Daisy had been arguing very emotionally just a few days ago, but Francesca could not dwell on that now. “Homer, thank you. And thank you, Annie.”

They nodded and left.

Francesca turned back toward Rose, who was now approaching. “I am so sorry for your loss, Rose.”

“I doubt it,” Rose said coldly.

Francesca tensed. Rose had been very hostile toward Hart ever since Daisy had become his mistress, and some of that hostility had been directed toward Francesca, as well. But now she seemed to be seething. “I am sorry. Daisy did not deserve to die—”

“Daisy was murdered,” Rose hissed, confronting Francesca. “And I am certain Hart did it.”

Francesca was rigid. “I will find the real killer,” she said carefully, “but you are jumping to conclusions. That will not help anyone—and it certainly will not help the cause of justice.”

“Such fancy words,” Rose cried. “You heard Annie! Hart was furious with Daisy last Thursday—just four days before she was murdered. And we both know that Daisy had been causing you some sleepless nights recently, now, don't we?”

Francesca was grim, her heart racing. “Rose, I am not going to try to hide the fact that Daisy seemed to want Calder back. She said some nasty things to me, more than once. You know as well as I do that Hart had no intention of returning to their affair. So if anyone has a motive, it is me.”

“You would never kill anyone in cold blood, Miss Cahill, and the world knows it. And anyway, your dear friend the police commissioner would never charge you with such a crime. I know it was Hart. You heard the maid!”

“People argue all the time, and usually no one dies for it. Rose,
I understand that you are trying to make sense of this ghastly killing. But as angry as Calder was, he would never murder anyone.”

“You don't understand—no one understands—and somehow, I don't think you know your fiancé all that well,” Rose said harshly.

Francesca decided to retreat to a safer subject. “Have you given your statement to the police?”

“I gave it last night,” Rose said.

That gave Francesca some pause. The police were a step ahead of her now.
Rick
would be a step ahead of her. But they were on the same side, weren't they? Not because they were friends, but because, in times like these, they were always partners. And no matter how Rick felt about Hart, they were half brothers. In the end, he would fight to prove Hart's innocence. Wouldn't he?

“I meant what I said,” Francesca said briskly. “I am going to find Daisy's killer. If you wish to believe—conveniently, I might add—that the killer is Hart, so be it. But I am going to bring the real killer to justice. So I would like to ask you some questions.”

Rose hesitated before nodding. “I need to sit down.” She had become gravely ashen.

Francesca took her arm. “Did you sleep at all last night? Have you had anything to eat?”

Rose leaned on her. “How could I sleep? You know how much I loved Daisy! How can I survive without her now? How?” Rose clearly fought the rush of tears.

“It won't be easy, but you will survive. In time, you will be able to cope with your loss,” Francesca said, leading her into the smaller of the two salons. Rose sat on the sofa and Francesca brought her a glass of water.

“I don't need your pity,” Rose said with some heat.

“You don't have my pity, you have my sympathy and my condolences,” Francesca said gently.

Rose looked away.

“Do you know why Hart and Daisy were arguing last Thursday afternoon?”

Rose shook her head. “That was the first I have heard of it.” Rose's expression turned ugly. “Maybe they were arguing about their relationship—or about you.”

“Why don't you tell me exactly what happened last night?” Francesca asked, ignoring that barb.

Rose paused. “All right. I was out with a gentle man—a client. I entertained him in his rooms at a hotel I prefer not to name. I left him at half past nine exactly—he was asleep and I looked at the clock.”

“I have to ask, what was his name?”

Rose started. “I am afraid I cannot reveal his identity.”

“Why not?”

“Francesca, he is a gentleman. Gentlemen do not wish to have their liaisons with women like myself made public.”

“Didn't the police ask for his name?”

“I told them what I told you.”

Francesca decided not to push. For the moment, Rose did not have a solid alibi, and that increased her significance as a suspect. Francesca knew she should not be relieved, but she was. “Go on,” Francesca urged.

Rose shuddered now. “I took a cab back to the house. Daisy and I had agreed to meet later. There were no lights on and I was alarmed, Francesca. The moment I saw that, I knew something was wrong—I knew some thing had happened!”

“And you found Daisy?”

Rose nodded, covering her face with her hands. “I was in a panic. I ran inside and started calling her name. I ran from room to room and then I found her, on the floor, dead!”

Francesca went over to her, placing her hand comfortingly on her shoulder. Rose wept. “Why didn't you turn on the lights?”

Rose tried to speak. “I tried the first lamp, but it didn't work. I was so afraid—all I could think of was finding Daisy.”

“Did you see Hart? Did you hear anything, or any one?”

“No! I sat with her, my heart broken. I stayed until I realized we needed help, and that was when I wrote that note. The only time I left her was to go to the desk, write the note, and then I ran outside. I paid a cabbie to deliver it for me. Then I went back to her and waited for you to come. I didn't see Hart until he came into the study with you.”

If Rose had left her john at half past nine, she had probably been at Daisy's by ten. Francesca had received her note two hours later, meaning Rose might have sat with Daisy for quite some time before recovering enough to write and send a note—if she was telling the truth. Rose's story confirmed that Hart had entered the house while Rose was looking for a cabdriver. “Why didn't you call the police?” Francesca asked.

Rose seemed taken aback by her question. “Those pigs don't care! They hate us—they
use
us. They would never try to find her murderer!”

“Rose, this is important. Do you know who Daisy was seeing last night?”

“She never told me who she was seeing, but I gathered it was some kind of old friend.”

Francesca started. “Do you mean a friend from her previous life?”

Rose stiffened. “I don't know what you mean.”

Francesca saw, in her dark eyes, that she understood quite well. “I mean, was it an old friend from the life she had before she became Daisy Jones?”

“I don't know!”

Francesca considered Rose's intense reaction. “Was Daisy still entertaining clients, Rose?”

“No. She left the business the day she moved in here.”

That, of course, made sense. Why would Daisy continue to
solicit customers when she had no financial need? “Can you think of anyone she used to entertain who might have been so passionately involved with her that he wanted her dead?”

Rose was finally surprised. “You think a john murdered her?”

“It would hardly be the first time a prostitute was murdered by her client.”

“I don't know. I need to think about it.” Her face tightened. “Of course, there is one client we both know who had all the passion necessary to do the deed.”

Francesca refused to do battle over Hart now. “What was Daisy's real name?”

Rose instantly turned away. “I don't know.”

Francesca did not believe her. “You were best friends, and she never told you her real name?”

Rose stared into the distance. “No,” she muttered.

Francesca decided to give that up, for the moment, anyway. “It was always obvious to me that Daisy came from a genteel background. She was well mannered, well spoken, clearly educated and as graceful as any lady from Fifth Avenue.”

Rose did not respond.

“Why aren't you helping me?” Francesca cried. “Someone wanted Daisy dead—someone who knew her well. I have to uncover her real identity and her entire past.”

“We both know who wanted Daisy dead,” Rose said harshly.

“And what if you are wrong? What if Hart is not the killer?” Francesca demanded.

Francesca saw the conflict in Rose's eyes. She finally cried, “She never told me her real name, I swear! She was running from her old life, Francesca. She never spoke of it—ever.”

That was very odd, Francesca thought. “How did you meet?”

Rose met her gaze, her own eyes turning moist. “Oh, God, that was so long ago!”

“How long?”

Rose smiled through her tears. “It was eight years ago. Daisy was such a beautiful young woman. She was fifteen, but she was really still a child. She was so innocent, so naive. I had been turning tricks for years—I was so much older than she was, although not in years. I was sixteen, Francesca, when we met and became friends.”