Deadly Vows (26 page)

Sorrow filled his eyes. “We have never been able to communicate, Francesca. Not the way that you and I do.” He removed his hand from hers.

Wednesday, July 2, 1902
9:00 a.m.

S
HE WAS IN
Hart's arms, and his smile was filled with warmth and affection. Francesca sighed, realizing that everything would be all right—that Hart had changed his mind, that he still loved her. She was so happy, and she did not want to ever leave his embrace. But she heard the insistent knocking on her door.

“Francesca Cahill, I must have a word with you,” Julia said sternly, standing over her bed.

Wide-awake and terribly disappointed that she had only been dreaming, Francesca blinked up at her mother. A maid pulled open her draperies, letting bright morning sunlight into the bedroom. As the last remnants of her dream faded, she immediately remembered that little Lizzie Kennedy had been abducted. “I have overslept,” she cried, sitting up. She threw the covers aside. She had so much to do!

Julia had both hands on her hips. She was already dressed in a striped pink ensemble, meaning it must be terribly late. “If you think you are rushing off to meet Rick Bragg, you are wrong.”

She had one bare foot on the floor, and she glanced at the gilded clock on her bedside table. It was only nine. Relief began. It wasn't as late as she had thought. Clearly, she had been exhausted, to sleep so long. “I know you
must want to talk to me,” she said, standing. “I mean, you are supposed to be in Saratoga Springs, yet here we are, still in the hot city.” She tried a warm smile on her mother.

Julia scowled. “You are, as usual, rushing about the city on some madcap criminal investigation and neither your father nor I know all the details about what really happened on Saturday. Do you ever intend to tell me?”

“Mama, you know I cannot reveal the details of an ongoing criminal investigation, but hopefully, we are close to solving the case.” She then added, no longer smiling, “Did you hear that Maggie's little girl was abducted yesterday evening?”

Julia paled. “No, I did not. Poor Maggie!”

Francesca was grim. “Time is always of the essence in any investigation, Mama. As the trail gets colder the longer it takes to solve a case. We need a good lead now.”

“We?” Her brows rose and her tone was cutting. “When did you last see your fiancé, Francesca?”

She bit her lip. “Could we have this conversation after I finish dressing?”

“No, we are going to have it right now. I saw Calder yesterday.”

Francesca felt her heart lurch with dread. Yet while Julia was angry, she was not livid or in hysterics. Wouldn't the ending of their engagement cause fury or a huge drama? Francesca knew she would genuinely be undone by their estrangement. “I believe I mentioned that he is somewhat angry with me.” Why was she bothering to hedge? After talking to Hart, her mother had to know everything.

“He adores you—even after being stood up at the altar.”

Francesca straightened her spine, disbelieving. “He said that?”

“I was terribly relieved. I expected him to end the engagement. But how much can a man put up with? No gentleman would care for his intended to run around with another man, Francesca. I want you to turn this investigation over to the police, entirely, and then you and Calder can join Andrew and I in the Springs.”

She was astonished. What had Hart said to Julia? Why hadn't he told her mother that they were through? Had he been protecting her from Julia's wrath or did he truly intend for them to reconcile at some point?

She came to her senses. He had meant his every word when he had told her that the engagement was off and it was best for them both. He had meant his every word when he had said she deserved someone as virtuous and morally upstanding as Rick Bragg. But no one was as charming as Hart; no one could play a game as well. Why would he wish to antagonize her mother, when he meant for their friendship to endure? Carefully, she said, “Did you invite Calder to the Springs?”

“Actually, I have just sent him a note, in spite of your father's displeasure.” Julia was grim. “You know how hard it's been to manage Andrew, Francesca. There is no doubt in my mind that he is relieved that your marriage did not take place. You and Hart need to reschedule the nuptials for the fall, immediately, before Andrew is lost to our cause with even more conviction.”

Francesca simply stared, a smile plastered on her face. It had always amazed her that Andrew had come around. He disapproved of Hart entirely.

Finally, Julia smiled and took her hand. “Do not misunderstand. I remain appalled by your behavior. I have done nothing but think about how to put an immediate end to this scandal—and you may be sure, it is a scandal.
Everyone is talking about your jilting Hart. However, I am thrilled that Hart remains smitten with you. But, Francesca, you must come to your senses. Even Hart will only put up with so much. I am a wise woman, and you really must consider what I am saying.” Julia kissed her cheek and marched for the door. There, she turned. “We will stay in the city until you and Hart have made your summer plans. Hopefully you will join us and we can all plan another wedding together.” She frowned. “Rick Bragg called.”

Her heart slammed. What had happened? She prayed Lizzie had been found. Then she prayed that they had had a major break in the case of her stolen portrait. “Is he at police headquarters?” As she rushed to pull on a wrapper, she wondered why she had bothered to ask. He dreaded going home.

“Has anything I have said made any sense at all?” Julia barred her way. “Are you going downstairs to speak on the telephone dressed in your nightclothes?” She was incredulous.

Francesca flushed. “Mama, no one can see me when I am on the telephone. What if Lizzie has been found? Don't you want to know? This could be the break we have been waiting for!” Francesca had already darted around her mother and was racing into the hall.

“You don't even have your slippers on,” Julia cried. “Only Hart could be smitten with such behavior!”

Francesca raced downstairs, ignoring her mother's last remarks. Jonathon was on duty at the front door, and he did not bat an eye as she flew through the front hall and into the corridor. Her father was in the study, on the sofa with the
Sun.
He smiled warmly at her.

She kissed his cheek. “Good morning.”

“I am glad to see that you have slept in. I cannot recall when you last did so.”

“I was tired,” she confessed. “Papa, I have to call Rick.”

“I am aware of that.” He rattled his newspaper and returned to reading it.

Unlike Julia, he did not mind her racing about town with Bragg. She was afraid that meant he was turning against Calder again. She sighed, going to the telephone and lifting the heavy receiver. She would worry about her father and Hart later. Francesca asked the operator to connect her to police headquarters, chatting pleasantly with her for a moment about the weather, never mind that Beatrice kept asking about her fiancé.

“Francesca?”

“Bragg! Have we had a break?” she cried hopefully. She was aware of Andrew glancing at her over his newspaper. “Please, has Lizzie been found?”

“I'm afraid not, but there has been a major break in the case of your stolen portrait,” Bragg said. “I received the visitors' logs from Blackwell's Island this morning. Bill Randall paid Henrietta a visit on Saturday, April 26, at a quarter past one.”

Francesca inhaled. Bill Randall had been in the city on the day her portrait had last been seen by Sarah, which might have been the day it was stolen. He had been in the city this past Saturday, when her portrait had resurfaced. “But Marsha Moore didn't recognize him. Perhaps the man waiting for Daniel Moore wasn't the thief.”

“I wonder how clearly Mrs. Moore was able to see that night,” Bragg said. “Randall was on the train from Philadelphia, arriving here at noon. He would have arrived at Grand Central Station and gone directly to the pen. He also went to great lengths to fabricate an alibi for that evening.”

“True. That is incriminating, obviously.” Francesca
wished they could apprehend Randall and speak with him at length.

“Moore has also produced a receipt for the sale of a thousand-dollar painting on the Thursday prior to your wedding day. Apparently I was wrong to believe that the funds came from the thief.”

She was dismayed. “We must speak with Randall. I'd even like to speak with Moore again—and Rose. I would like to know where she was on Saturday evening.”

“Yes, I agree with you. I have issued a warrant for Bill Randall's arrest. But he didn't return to the old Randall residence last night.”

“He is onto us,” Francesca said grimly. Randall was in hiding, which made him seem even guiltier. “Will we meet at Maggie's? Or are you otherwise preoccupied today?”

“Finding Lizzie is my main concern right now. I will see you shortly at Maggie's,” Bragg said.

Francesca smiled to herself and hung up—only to find both her parents staring at her.

 

B
RAGG WAS STANDING
on the sidewalk in front of Maggie's brownstone when Francesca arrived. He was speaking to the corner grocer, and Joel was at his side. Francesca's heart broke as she got out of the cab. Joel was pale and his expression was anguished. Maggie must also be frantic and devastated, she thought.

She paid the driver, thanking him, and hurried over. Bragg smiled at her, his gaze sliding over her trim shirtwaist and dark gray skirt. She smiled back. “Any news?”

“Mr. Schmidt saw the children last night as he was closing up, Francesca. And he says his last customer was a big fellow with gray hair and a gray cap.”

Francesca cried out. “Did he by any chance give his name?”

The grocer, a lumbering fellow with reddish hair, shook his head. “He bought chewing tobacco, Miss Cahill, that is all.”

Francesca was familiar with the grocer. His daughter had been an important witness in a previous investigation. Bragg said, “He had a wad of cash—what seemed like an excessive amount for a simple laborer.”

Of course, the thugs were hired. Bragg thanked Schmidt as Francesca put her arm around Joel. “We will find Lizzie,” she murmured.

“Yeah, we will,” he cried furiously. “An' I'll kill the sod who took her!”

“Joel!” Francesca was aghast, because Joel had meant his words.

“I'm gonna go sleuth on my own,” he said, shrugging her off.

Francesca and Bragg watched him stride off, his hands in the pockets of his knickers. She turned, noting that Bragg seemed as tired as ever. “Maybe Joel will turn up a clue. How is Maggie?”

“I haven't been up yet,” Bragg said. He gestured and Francesca preceded him up the grayish red stone steps of the brownstone and into the small dark foyer.

She paused as he shut the heavy wooden door behind them. It was terribly dark in the tiny hall. “I overslept this morning.”

He smiled slightly. “That must be a first.”

“I was exhausted,” she said, not moving to the stairs. “Did you catch any sleep at all last night? I am very worried about you.” Rick could not go on like this.

He sighed. “You know me well. No, Francesca, I hardly slept at all. I got home very late and I tossed and turned most of the night, worrying about Lizzie—and you.”

“I will be fine. We will either break Daniel Moore and learn who leased his gallery, or we will apprehend Randall at any moment. Hopefully, he is our man.”

“I pray we will recover that damn portrait—but even so, will you be fine?”

How adeptly he had turned their conversation onto her problems, she thought. “Hart didn't tell Julia that we are off, Bragg.”

His face hardened. “Have you reconciled?”

She inhaled. “I haven't seen him since Monday night. I have little doubt that he remains set against me—against us. But he is fond of my mother and he probably wishes to remain on good terms with her.”

“I know you don't want to hear it, but it is for the best.”

She decided not to tell him how worried she was. The silence was becoming ominous. Then he took her hand and said, “No matter how much you think you love him, there will only be more pain if you do reconcile.”

“Are you speaking from personal experience?”

He dropped her hand. “You are a ferret sometimes.”

“I worry about you as much as you worry about me. I assume you got home after Leigh Anne was asleep, and you did not speak with her.”

He hesitated. “I am thinking about letting her take the girls to Sag Harbor by herself, and staying on here in town to finish up police matters.”

She gasped. “You cannot do such a thing!”

“I have no intention of leaving town if we have not found Lizzie and recovered the portrait. The time to apprehend the thief is now. And Lizzie must be discovered while we have a trail to follow.”

She was aghast. “Of course we must find Lizzie immediately, well before Friday!” She could not imagine the child being missing for much longer. “But you are
using this case as an excuse to avoid the weekend with your wife. You need the holiday.”

“I need to solve this case and the case of your stolen portrait.” He started past her, but she seized his arm before he reached the narrow stairwell.

“Rick, maybe it will be a wonderful weekend. You will never know if you don't go.”

He met her gaze. “I cannot imagine sharing that small cottage with her.”

She wanted to cry for him.

“And I don't imagine you will be running off for the weekend, either, not if Lizzie isn't home. Not if your portrait is still at large,” he said.

“We will find Lizzie very shortly.” She was firm. They had to find the little girl. “But if we haven't found the portrait, you're right. I couldn't possibly leave the city.”

He suddenly took her hand. “If you stay in the city this weekend, have dinner with me.”

She was stunned.

And then he flushed. He released her and gestured at the stairs. “We have a child to locate.”