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Chapter One
Thursday, February 6, 1902-9 AM
"What do you think of this one, Miss Cahill?"
Francesca Cahill stood as patiently as possible, no easy task. She glanced down at the shimmering piece of apricot-hued silk fabric that Maggie Kennedy was holding up. "Why, that one is just as lovely as the others," she said. Was it already nine o' clock? Had her father noticed that one of his morning papers was missing? Vanished, as it were? And would they ever be finished with this fitting? Francesca had two classes to attend uptown at Barnard College, a very exclusive institution dedicated to the higher education of women, in which she had secretly enrolled--and thus far, not been found out by her mother, who abhorred her youngest daughter ever being labeled a blue-stocking.
For being an intellectual and a reformer with a capitol R could only interfere with Julia Van Wyck Cahills plans to marry Francesca successfully off-and the sooner, the better.
Francesca sighed, loudly.
"This blue does suit you, too, Miss Cahill," Maggie murmured from where she knelt at Francesca's feet. Francesca remained in her undergarments, with pins, a pincushion, and a measuring tape scattered about her.
"Please, Miss Kennedy, Francesca will do," Francesca said with a genuine smile, glancing down at the redhead.
Maggie returned the smile tentatively. "So you wish for the blue? I would do it as a day ensemble for you. The fabric is a bit stiff, and would be most flattering in a fitted little jacket and a skirt."
"That's perfect," Francesca said, hardly caring. By now, surely, Andrew had gone down to breakfast and discovered that he had only The Times and The Tribune to peruse. Good God. Had she been insane to allow those reporters an interview last Tuesday while at the Plaza? Apparently her pride had overtaken her common sense. But hopefully, no story would come out of that interview now. Yesterday's news had been filled with the details of the Randall Murder, but no mention had been made of her name. In spite of the fact that she had solved the case, oh yes.
In spite of her better judgment, Francesca stewed-just a little.
"Would you consider a Chinese red for an evening gown? It is a color most blondes cannot carry off, but you are so golden, it would be lovely on you," Maggie said, standing.
"Oh, I do love red," Francesca said.
Maggie looked at her oddly, as if sensing that she hardly cared about the ten new gowns she was ordering.
"I mean, I have a passion for red,' Francesca said, wincing a bit. It was hardly true, and after both the Randall Murder and the Burton Abduction, the color red now reminded her of blood.
Maggie walked over to Francesca's large, canopied bed, which was covered with fabric samples. The bed dominated a large and beautiful bedroom, and faced a seating area and a fireplace. She fingered the various silks, wool and chiffon.
Instantly, Francesca was alert. "Is anything wrong, Miss Kennedy?"
"No." Maggie faced her, clutching a stunning piece of dark red fabric. "I was so surprised when you actually called and told me you needed so many new garments."
Francesca smiled brightly. "My mother will be in heaven when she learns I have finally taken an interest in my wardrobe," Francesca said, and that was the truth.
Maggie looked at her. She was a faded redhead who had once, undoubtedly, been stunning, but a life of hardship had made her look ten years older than Francesca, who was twenty. Francesca guessed she was perhaps twenty-three or four. But she had four children, and the eldest, Joel, who was eleven, was Francesca's new assistant. She had recently hired him, as he had been indispensable in solving both the Burton Abduction and Randall's murder, and he had even gotten her out of two severe and life-threatening predicaments. He knew almost every inch of the city's underbelly and Lower East Side-as she certainly did not. He had even taught her how to bribe a person in order to gain important information. "Joel speaks about you constantly, Miss Cahill. He does admire you so," Maggie added.
Francesca smiled. "He is a wonderful boy."
Maggie did not smile in return. "He is often in trouble with the police."
"I know." Her own smile faded. "But he is not bad. Not at all. Quite the opposite, I think."
Maggie seemed relieved. Francesca wondered if she knew the extent of Joel's activities. He was a kid-a child pickpocket-and the police had his photograph in The Rogues Gallery. "I am glad you think so." Maggie held up the dark red fabric. "You will be the belle of the ball in a gown made from this brocade."
Francesca looked at the bold fabric-it hardly suited her character, which was serious and intellectual, and although she had accepted every fabric sample thus far shown, she hesitated, thinking about Rick Bragg, the city's Police Commissioner. Her heart skipped a little. She hadn't seen him since Tuesday, when they had spoken intimately on the steps of the Plaza. "Do you really think I can carry off such a seductive color?' She asked, sobering.
"Oh, yes," Maggie cried, her eyes brightening. And when she smiled like that, the years of hard work seemed to fade from her face, and she looked young, vibrant and pretty.
Francesca knew she should not imagine wearing such a gown for Bragg's sake. After all, they were friends, and nothing more. They could never be anything more-he was a married man. Of course, his wife was a horrid and selfish creature who loved in Europe with her various lovers; Bragg hadn't seen her in four years. He didn't want to see her. He supported her selflessly, while she spent his every hard-earned penny, not caring one whit that a man in public service earned a moderate income. Thank God she was abroad, Francesca thought with heat.
She had never met Leigh Anne. She hoped never to do so. But she despised her, and she did not care if she were being unjust.
"Maggie, I know this might not be possible, but there is party next week, on Thursday. My brother's fiancee, Sarah Channing, is having a ball in honor of her cousin, Bartolla Benevente. Apparently the countess is newly arrived in the city and-"
Maggie smiled. "You know I work at night. I think I can have the gown ready for you, but we must plan on a final fitting Wednesday morning."
"Really?" For the first time since Maggie had arrived for the fitting, Francesca felt genuine enthusiasm. She could imagine the look in Bragg's golden eyes when he saw her descend the stairs in that bold red gown. In fact, she felt more than certain he would not be able to take her eyes off of her. "The gown should be rather daring," she said.
"It must be back-less and low-cut," Maggie said briskly. "I have a pattern that would be perfect. Here, let me show it to you." She walked over to her worn leather valise.
Of course, Francesca knew that she must not think this way, and she must not care if he admired her in any manner, much less in that dress. Still, it was easier to command herself to think a certain way than to actually do so. She sighed, suddenly and immeasurably saddened.
"Are you all right?" Maggie asked softly, the pattern in her hands.
Francesca smiled. "I am fine." She glanced at the bronze clock on the marble top of a bureau. God, it was nine twenty now. She had to leave for school shortly. "Is that it?"
Maggie held it up. "This is the bodice. It is rather low, but I can make it higher. I can also put two tiny sleeves on it if that would make you more comfortable." She held up another piece of the pattern. "The back can be made higher, as well."
Her heart skidded now uncontrollably. What was she doing? Thinking? "I rather like it that way," she said, flushing. Would she be able to be so daring?
And had Bragg seen The Sun? Had he seen what that cur, Arthur Kurland, had written about her? And how had Kurland known about her role in the conclusion of the Randall Murder? He hadn't even been present when she had given all those reporters an interview!
Maggie tucked the pattern pieces away. "Well, I am done for now. You have ordered two suits, two skirts, three shirtwaists, two day gowns, and one evening gown. I should love to match shoes for you, Miss Cahill," Maggie said earnestly.
Francesca was about to tell her to do whatever she wished, when there was a knock on her door. Before she could even answer, the door opened, and her sister Connie walked in. Instantly, the beautiful blonde's eyes widened in surprise as she stared about the room.
"What is this?" Connie asked, looking from Francesca to Maggie to the items on the floor and then to all the fabrics scattered on the canopied bed. She was almost identical to Francesca in looks; they were often mistaken for twins. Connie, however, was twenty-two, and her hair was a champagne blond, her complexion ivory. Francesca's skin was several shades warmer in hue, and her hair a rich, honeyed gold. Otherwise, their features were very similar. Wide blue eyes, perfect, high cheekbones, a small, sloping nose, and full rosy lips. Universally, they were considered to be beauties.
"I am having a fitting," Francesca said, hoping her sister would not let this particular cat out of the bag. "I have ordered a few dresses from Miss Kennedy. Con, Miss Kennedy. Miss Kennedy, my sister, Lady Montrose."
Maggie blinked at Connie, who, unlike Francesca, was extremely glamorous, not to mention that she had married an Englishman and gained a title. Connie stood in the doorway in the most stunning pale blue suit, one delicately pin-stripped. It was only nine in the morning, or rather, about half past, but she wore three delicate strands of blue topaz in a choker around her neck, the brooch in the middle a cameo. Her glorious hair was pulled back and pinned securely at the nape; she wore a matching hat with two dried flowers adhering to the brim. Even her gloves, which she carried, were a powder blue kidskin and stunningly stitched. A huge yellow diamond ring winked from her left hand. Her skirts revealed the frothy French lace of her expensive petticoat.
"Hullo," Connie said with a pleasant smile. She shook her head. "You have ordered gowns, Fran? What is this? A transformation of character? Has there been a full moon or some such thing? Or has sleuthing permanently damaged your nature?"
Francesca gave her an annoyed and warning look. "Mama has asked me to order new gowns for at least a year," she began.
"I do believe it is more like two," Connie returned, serene.
"I simply have not had the time," Francesca started.
"Or the inclination," Connie finished.
"I had been intending to order a new wardrobe for quite some time," Francesca said, becoming annoyed.
"Oh, when? Before school, after sleuthing, or while sleeping?"
"SSh," hissed Francesca.
Connie laughed at her. "Oh this is good, Fran, truly well and good. I cannot wait to find out what-" she stopped. Her gaze went to the red fabric on top of the pile in Maggie's hands. "You have ordered that?"
Francesca folded her arms across her breasts. "Miss Kennedy assures me it will be stunning."
"I begin to see," Connie said, arch. "It is Bragg."
"It is not," Francesca said, heated and aghast. She glared. "Con, by the way, Miss Kennedy is Joel's mother."
"And I do have to get going," Maggie said, looking from the one sister to the other. "I called in sick this morning, but I promised my supervisor that I would be in at noon. I'd like to order these fabrics before I go into work," Maggie told Francesca. She worked by day at the Moe Levy Factory. By night, she sewed for private customers at home. Her diligence amazed Francesca to know end. In fact, she did not need any new gowns. But she was determined to somehow help the Kennedy family.
"Thank you so much for the fitting, especially at the last moment," Francesca said, walking her to her bedroom door.
"No, thank you, Miss Cahill," Maggie said warmly, smiling just a little. It erased the tiny lines around her eyes.
Francesca clasped her elbow. "Please, do call me Francesca. I should like it so."
Maggie hesitated. "I will try, Miss Cahill," she said. And she flushed.
"That's all right," Francesca said, and she watched as Maggie left.
Connie stared at her. She was not smiling now.
"Do not begin," Francesca erupted.
"Very well, I won't. But I do hope you are not becoming a peacock for a married man?" Her gaze remained unwavering. "I know how stubborn you are, Francesca. Please, please tell me this is not about Bragg."
"It is not," she lied, a little. "We are friends." And that was the truth. "That is all there is, and all there can ever be," she said firmly. It hurt when she spoke. But with the hurt there was now resignation. In the past few days she had come to accept what could not be changed.
Or had she?
For he would never divorce his wife. He was too honorable, and his political aspiratins were too great.
Francesca shared those aspirations for him.
"Well, if you are not strutting for him, then this must be a charitable endeavor," Connie said, eyeing her cautiously.
Francesca sighed. "I give up. She works so hard to support her four children-"
"Say no more. I thought so." Connie walked over to her and hugged her, hard and surprisingly. "You are the kindest person I have ever known." "Con," Francesca took her hand. "Are you all right? How…" she hesitated. "How is Neil?"
Connie took a deep breath and looked away. "He is fine." She smiled brightly at Francesca. "Let's forget what happened last week. After all, it is passed. The present and the future are what is important now." Her smile seemed lacquered into place.
Francesca could only stare. Surely Connie was not suggesting that they pretend that last week she had not left her husband, even if for just two nights? With her two daughter? Or that he had committed adultery-the cause of Connie's taking her daughters and going to a friend's? "Have you and Neil had a chance to speak?" Francesca asked finally.
"Why, we speak every day," Connie cried, too loudly. "Just last night we discussed Reinhold's new opera, and the city's current fiscal condition. Everything is fine, Francesca, just fine." She smiled again-and she never called her sister Francesca. It was always Fran.
Francesca studied her with worry, but Connie turned quickly away. If only Connie would express her feelings, Francesca thought. She knew how she would feel if Neil had been her husband and she had found out that he had taken a lover. Neil Montrose was not just titled, he was a gorgeous, proud and intelligent man, a doting father, and until recently, an adoring husband. Had Neil been her husband-and when Francesca was younger she had wondered what it would be like to be the older sister and to be married to such a man--she would want to die. And then, probably, she would truly hate him.
But maybe not.
Francesca did not know what had happened between Neil and Connie, but up until the past few weeks, she had admired him, thinking him an honorable man. Who was she to decide how Connie should act, or feel? Especially as she did not know what had truly happened between them?
Perhaps she would call on Neil later, and test the waters, trying to comprehend if all was as well as Connie claimed. Francesca did like that idea. She switched her thoughts. "You are here early. Are we having breakfast?" And as she spoke, she wondered why Connie was not sipping coffee and reading the Tribune at her own breakfast table, with Neil at its head, as was customary for her.
"We most certainly are, so get dressed," Connie said. "Oh, and by the by, Papa is quite annoyed. He cannot find today's Sun, and you know how devoted he is to all three morning papers."
Francesca smiled, and it was false. "Poor Papa. The paper boy must have made a mistake. Or perhaps we have anew boy on our route."
"Yes, that must be the case," Connie said.
Francesca's fingers were crossed behind her back. What were the odds, she wondered, that Papa would not see a copy of that day's Sun at the office or on a newsstand?
Because if he did, it would be almost impossible for him to miss the headline glaring across the front page. In fact, the paper and its headline were under her own canopied bed. But Francesca felt no guilt.
For the headline read:
MILLIONAIRE'S DAUGHTER CAPTURES KILLER WITH FRY PAN
****
Above her head, the Ninth Avenue Ell thundered past, leaving a cloud of smoke and soot. Francesca winced until the elevated train had passed.
She stood on the corner of Twenty-Third Street, having just gotten off the train. The street was icy and the snow mostly black; wagons loaded with wares rumbled past her, while the pedestrians moving about the street were mostly immigrant workingmen. In this neighborhood, German was spoken as frequently as English. Two women in drab brown coats with scarves on their heads hurried into a brownstone, which Francesca knew was a factory. But those women had been speaking Russian. She glanced around for a cab.
It had been the worst morning. She had not been able to concentrate, worrying about the feature story in The Sun. On Thursdays, Francesca had two classes, Biology and French Literature. She was behind now in both courses, due to the past two cases she had helped Bragg solve. Her Biology teacher had actually given her a warnign that her grades were dropping at a precarious rate. Francesca had nto gone to all the trouble of secretly enrolling and scrapping together the tuition, some of which she had borrowed from Connie, in order to fail.
It was extremely hard being a student and a sleuth at the exact same time, she thought grimly.
She stared into the sun, hoping for a cab. A horse-drawn omnibus approached, and she considered taking it. She just knew her father was going to see The Sun, and if that were the case, Francesca did not think that she could cajole him to keep her recent endeavors a secret. Not this time, and never mind that she was the apple of his eye and he was immensely proud of her. He would go directly to Julia, and God only knew what would happen next. Francesca was truly worried. Her mother would be furious, and Julia Van Wyck Cahill was not a woman to cross. She was a woman who moved mountains when she so chose, she was renowned for bringing various parties together within society for social, financial and political purposes, all to everyone's gain. Had she ever failed in a cause, or lost a battle? Francesca did not think so.
But what could Julia now do? After all, Francesca was a grown women, and punishments were for children. And even as a child, Francesca had been exactly as she now was-determined, a champion of the underdog, and a budding bluestocking. At the age of six she had begun to read, anything that she could, and it had begun her lifelong love affair with the written word. At seven, she had realized that there were children in Chicago, which is where her family was from, that were hungry and without families. She had sold lemonade for a year outside of her church to raise money for those orphans.
She had only been punished once. Shortly after relocating to New York, when she was eight, she had stolen out of the house alone to explore her new city. There had been hell to pay for that. Francesca had actually been made to stay home from school for two days-and no punishment could have been more effective, as she had loved school the way most children hated it.
Francesca saw a black coach with a bay in the traces. Her hand shot up and she dashed out into the street-only to slip wildly on a patch of dirty gray ice and fall hard on her backside. "Darn it," she breathed, shaking her head to clear it. Perhaps she should have gone directly home from the Barnard library. She had a feelign this day was only going to become progressively worse.
"Are you okay, Miss?" A hand closed on her elbow.
Francesca looked up, into the eyes of a middle-aged man clad in a brown suit, coat and bowler hat. "Yes, thank you," she said, allowing the gentleman to help her up.
"You should be more careful," he said, but politely, and he tipped his hat and walked off.
The cab had stopped besides her. Francesca opened the door and settled inside, her left hip aching. "300 Mulberry Street, please," she said, her heart racing as she spoke.
"In't that Police Headquarters?" Her driver asked with a distinct Irish brogue.
"It most certainly is," Francesca said, smiling widely.
The cabby turned and glanced back at her. "You seem terribly chipper for a lady going to the coppers," he said.
Francesca merely grinned at him. And as she settled against the leather squabs, the mare's hooves softly clopping on the snowy street, a trolley going by them from the opposite direction, she smiled a little, her body tense with anticipation. She had not seen Bragg in two days. In a way, it seemed like two years. She had never called casually before at Police Headquarters. In the past, she had always come by with a new clue pertaining to a case, one that could not wait, one that Bragg was eager to see.
She did not think Bragg would mind a social call now. Of course, it was terribly bold. But it wasn't even a social call, now was it? He had to have seen The Sun, and he would commiserate with her, perhaps even advise her on how to diffuse the situation with her parents. He would want to talk to her about the story, she knew.
And perhaps he was even worried about her.
She was somewhat breathless as she walked into the frenetic lobby of the police station, trying to appear brisk and business-like. Police Headquarters was housed in a squat brownstone building in a neighborhood filled with hooks and crooks, as well as pimps and prostitutes. It never ceased to amaze Francesca that the neighborhood's thieves, swindlers and trollops carried on with their sordid and illegal affairs right beneath the police's nose. In fact, it amazed most of the city, and since his appointment, Bragg had doubled the roundsmen working Mulberry Bend.
Inside, the telegraph and telephones were pinging and ringing. Several sergeants stood behind the long desk, dealing with civilian inquiries and complaints. One shabby and drunken man was being booked at the other end of the room, not far from the elevator cage. And two newsmen were standing behind the criminal, note pads posed in their hands, firing questions at the arresting officers.
Francesca recognized one of them as Arthur Kurland, who had come to be her nemesis in the past month. He was also the one who had put her story on the front page of The Sun.
She had been about to pause at the front desk to ask if she could go up, as one did not just prance into the Police Commissioner's office, but now, she wanted to race for the stairs before Kurland saw her. For the man seemed to be present every time she called on Bragg, and he might very well begin to make something of it.
He might very well begin to suspect the truth.
Kurland's back remained to her, as he spoke with one of the arresting officers, hunting for a story. Francesca hurried forward, ignoring the chaos around her. Francesca reached the stairs, and walked calmly up to the first landing. As she turned the corner, she glanced down into the hall below.
Kurland had detached himself from the officers, the other reporters and the criminal, and he now stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring thoughtfully up at her. He was a slim man in his thirties. Their gazes met; he smiled and waved at her.
Francesca felt herself flush and she quickened her steps. He would, she knew, make more of her visit to the Police Commissioner than he had any right to. She would probably find a story in tomorrow's Sun: Millionaire's Daughter Enamored of Married Police Commissioner….
Her heart lurched as she reached the second floor and she dismissed Kurland from her mind. Thus far he was an irritation, but no more. Perhaps in the future she should actively try to avoid him. And perhaps, now that she knew Bragg was married, she should not be such a frequent visitor at Police Headquarters.
That thought was sobering. Nor was it a happy one. She was determined not to lose his friendship now. How could she? He was a reformer as she was. He was one of the most noble and civic-minded men she had ever met. She admired him so.
And they made a great investigative team, oh yes, indeed.
Before Francesca was a long hallway lined with doors. One of the very first was Bragg's office, across from it was a conference room. At the farthest end of the hall was an open area filled with desks where most of this precinct's detective force worked. Now, it was fairly quiet, consisting of the hushed murmur of voices, a typewriter's staccato sound, and someone's brief and coarse laughter.
The door to his small office was open. It contained two desks, including the one where he now sat and worked. He lolled in his cane-backed chair behind it, on the telephone. The moment she paused in the doorway, he saw her and their eyes met.
Francesca smiled, not moving.
He smiled back, not looking away.
As he finished his conversation, Francesca studied him. His grandfather was part Apache, or some such thing. It was evident in his nearly olive coloring and his achingly high cheekbones. But his hair was a tawny, sun-streaked gold, and his eyes were amber: he had the most unusual coloring. She had seen the way other women eyed him. There was no question that his looks were striking. He was the kind of man who turned heads and made hearts flutter, yet he was also the kind of a man who walked into rooms with a quiet power and authority, the kind of a man who gave people pause and made conversation stop.
Bragg had removed both his jacket and vest, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. His lack of attire revealed just how muscular and fit he was. For he was a broad-shouldered man with a very trim waist and small hips, and unlike most men, he had not an ounce of fat anywhere on his body. His body was, in fact, hard and powerful. She knew that for a fact.
She knew that from having been in his arms, not once, but twice. Of course, that must never happen again.
He put down the telephone and stood. His gaze did not waver, and a smile was there, in his eyes, one that was so warm it could surely melt ice.
Francesca felt her own answering smile. It crossed her mind that her feelings were so powerful that maybe this was just too dangerous, at least for her, if not for them both. But then she dismissed her thoughts, because she could see no alternative to the friendship they now had.
She closed the door behind her.
"Francesca," he said, moving out from behind his desk. "This is a very pleasant surprise."
She smiled back at him. "I hope you don't mind my calling this way. I do not have a case for us to discuss, Bragg."
"Thank God," he laughed.
She laughed a little too.
"So this is a social call?" He asked, touching her arm lightly.
Francesca removed her mink-lined coat, which he hung upon a wall peg. "Yes, I suppose it is. I was on my way home from college, and I decided to say hello." She wondered if he would put his vest on, at least. He did not, and it was somewhat distracting.
"And how is my favorite blue-stocking?" He asked with a teasing tone, instead.
Her smile faded and she felt it. Bragg knew about her studies, too. "I am quite behind. I may soon fail Biology."
"You? Fail? I doubt that. You would never fail at anything," he said, his gaze upon her. "Not because of your intelligence, but because of your determination."
"You have so much faith in me," she returned, but she was flushing with pleasure at his words.
"Yes, I do," he said evenly.
She just looked at him and he simply looked back.
It was too much to bear. The innocence of friendship vanished, replaced by something that was so much more. How close they stood to one another now. Francesca wished, fervently, that he were free. If he were a single man, undoubtedly he would pull her into his arms for an extremely intimate kiss.
"I imagine you are behind," he said, somewhat unevenly. He cleared his throat. "When do you have time to study? You are either studying, raising money or solving murders-that is hardly conducive to attaining a higher education."
"It is very hard, being reformer, a sleuth and a student," she said seriously.
"Yes, it is. Francesca, what is wrong? I can see that something is bothering you. I hope it is your schedule and nothing more." His golden gaze was penetrating.
She wondered if he was referring to the truth that now lay, acknowledged, between them. The truth of the fact that he had a wife. Or was he referring to The Sun? "How could I have given an interview Tuesday? How, Bragg?" She asked. "Have you seen The Sun?"
He seemed amused. "Yes, I have. You earned that interview, Francesca. Are you in trouble?"
"Not yet. I hid today's paper, and I have heard that Papa was very annoyed. I cannot even begin to explain to you what his morning papers mean to him. If he and Mama ever see that story, I am finished. I feel certain of that."
"Perhaps you should sit down," he said, appearing amused.
"Is this funny?" Francesca cried.
He guided her to an overstuffed and shabby chair; the tweed wool fabric was torn in places. "No, I am sorry, not really."
She sat and twisted to look up at him. He remained light-hearted and even amused. "Bragg, if I am punished like some small child, this will hardly be a subject for laughter."
"I am sorry. But you were in danger, Francesca." And he gave her a penetrating look, and he was no longer smiling.
Even though the subject they had turned upon was now a serious one, his golden gaze did odd things to her heartbeat. She gripped the arms of the chair. "I was briefly in danger," she said.
"So now you rebut? Francesca, you were tied up! To a bed-and by a killer and the killer's accomplice, I might add." His eyes flashed.
"I hardly knew what would happen when I went over to the house," Francesca said.
"You were in danger, Francesca, and you know that even I do not approve of that. Perhaps you should rethink this new hobby of yours. Sleuthing, clearly, can be dangerous work and you are a young woman."
"But we are partners. And I am a good sleuth. You said so yourself."
"You are an excellent detective." He admitted grimly.
"I cannot just quit, now. Are you working on a new case?" She asked suddenly, brightly.
He settled one muscular buttock on the edge of his desk. She felt herself blush and she looked away. He said, "My detective bureau woks on all investigations, Francesca. You know that. My personal involvement with Eliza Burton precipitated my interest in that case, and the fact that Randall was Calder's father assured my involvement there."
Calder Hart was Bragg's half-brother. They shared the same mother, Lily Hart, who had died of cancer of the bowel when Bragg was a boy of eleven, Hart two years younger at the time. Bragg's father, Rathe Bragg, alerted to the existence of an illegitimate son, had taken both boys into his own, rather large family. At the time, Rathe was a political appointee of President Grover Cleveland, and the family was residing in Washington, DC. Later, the Braggs returned to New York, but briefly, for their daughter Lucy's wedding brought them to Texas. Francesca had over heard that Rathe and Grace were soon returning to New York, with several of their five children. She assumed the oldest ones were living on their own.
Calder Hart had been a suspect in his father's murder, as he had grown up hating the man who had refused to ever acknowledge him or their relationship.
Bragg sighed a little. "Why don't you take a sabbatical from your new profession? That would be the best way to manage your parents, I think, should they learn of what happened in the Randall Murder, and it is also the best way to improve your grades."
"So there is no new case?" Francesca asked, somewhat glum.
Bragg sighed. "Francesca, my immediate agenda is to appoint a Chief of Police, which I have yet to do after being in office for an entire month."
She sat up straighter, her interest piqued. "And have you found an honest man for the job?"
His eyes twinkled. "There are a few honest men in the force, Francesca."
"Then I am glad," she returned with a smile. The city's police was notoriously corrupt. Bragg was a part of a reform administration, and police reform was on the top of the administration's agenda. Graft and corruption ruled the day amongst the police, although last week, Bragg had demoted three hundred wardsmen while reassigning them to different wards, all in the hope of breaking the stranglehold of those officers in their precincts. "Do you have a genuine candidate in mind?"
"I am thinking of promoting Captain Shea."
"Shea?" She was surprised. He was often at the front desk downstairs, and he seemed a mild fellow, indeed. "Doesn't an Inspector usually get the job?"
"Until now," he said with a wink. "But Shea is honest, although not very forceful. I believe he might do well, with the right encouragement and incentive."
Her heart turned over with her admiration for him and her smile failed and she looked at him and wished he were free.
And he felt it too, for he did not look away, and in the long moment that ensued, the space between them closed, becoming small and tense. How she wished that things might be different between them. If only he had not been so foolish and impulsive when he had been younger, when he had become infatuated with Leigh Anne. He had married her without knowing her, but that could not be changed.
Bragg stood abruptly, as if to increase the distance between them. Francesca gripped her purse and did not move. Suddenly it was so terribly obvious--she wanted more than friendship. Instantly, Francesca was aghast at herself. She must never think in such a way again.
"Of course, you are right. Temporarily, I should cease and desist with sleuthing." She sounded a bit frantic to her own ears, and he turned to face her now, his glance calm but searching. Bragg would never miss a trick, especially from her.
"I would be extremely pleased should you do that, Francesca," he said softly.
She knew he worried about her. She knew he did not like her putting herself in danger. She also stood up. His desk separated them. It was a huge, cluttered and bulky obstacle between them. "But we do make a wonderful team," she said.
For one moment, he did not answer her. His hands were fisted on his hips. She now noticed his posture of tension. When had that happened? He had strong hands, powerful arms. She glanced from his whitened fists to his forearms. They were bare, dusted with dark hair, and all tendon and bone.
"We make a good team," he admitted, causing her to start, flush and look up. "Francesca, may I advise you?"
'You may always advise me, Bragg. You need not even ask." She clutched her purse more tightly.
"Concentrate on your education now. So few women attain a university degree. I know you haven't had time to study with all the investigative work you have undertaken, and while justice has been served, perhaps, now, you might want to serve yourself and calm your parents down." He smiled at her. "And then I should not have to race about the city, chasing after you."
"But it is so nice when we chase about the city together," she said. And it was even nicer when he worried so, to chase about after her.
He no longer smiled. "Yes, it is. There, I have admitted it. You are unique, and working with you has been a unique and exceedingly pleasant experience. But again, the danger that accompanies the job is just too much for any woman, even you, Francesca. And, fortunately, women do not work for the police, except occasionally as a secretary."
Francesca studied him. "I am going to concentrate on my education, as I am falling behind in my studies, so that leaves me with little choice. So you win, Bragg. For now, I shall behave in a most ladylike and decorous manner."
He grinned. "We shall see how long this intention of your truly lasts. Shall we wager?"
"Bragg! You are corrupting me!" But she was laughing.
"I think so."
"A dollar? No, wait. I have a better wager."
His gaze narrowed. "It is…?"
She swallowed, refusing to analyze her motivations now. "Escort me to that new musical. I believe it is playing at the Waldheim Theatre."
He seemed only slightly startled, and he quickly recovered. "Very well. I give you, oh, two weeks."
She blinked. Then, "Done. I am going to throw myself into my studies for the rest of the month," she said.
Now he laughed. "We shall see."
She didn't laugh. She had to win this wager now. He would escort her to the theatre, and perhaps they would have a late supper afterwards. He would be in a tuxedo, she in her new, bold red dress. It would be a glorious evening, even if they were only friends. Perhaps they would even dance afterwards, in one another's arms….
His smile had vanished. "Francesca?" His tone was somewhat rough. As if he knew what she was thinking.
She realized she had been smiling dreamily and she bit her lip. Neither one moved, their gaze holding. Did he suspect the depth of her feelings? In the past few weeks, she had become a woman, one aware now of the meaning of desire, and the difference between desire and need. She wanted him physically, as a lover, but even more, she needed him as a friend, but as a man.
Of course, they would never be lovers. And she would never be able to think of him merely as a friend, either.
He turned and gazed down at his desk, fiddling with a folder. The silence felt heavy now, and fraught with tension, and maybe danger. This was getting harder, she realized, not easier. Perhaps calling like this had been a terrible idea. But then, they would nto have this wager-which she intended to win. Would it ever become easy, seeing him, loving him, and being mere friends? Suddenly she was afraid; suddenly she had an inkling, one she hated and feared. For she did not think so.
"So," he said tersely, glancing sidelong at her. "As much as I enjoy your company, I must get back to work."
In a way, she was relieved by the change of topic. On the other hand, the glint in his eyes excited her to no end. "And I must go home and ocntinue studying," she agreed, her voice unusually hoarse.
He walked briskly over to her coat, removing it from the wall peg. Francesca let him help her on with it, aware of his hands upon her as he did so. Their eyes met and moved apart. He walked her to the door and there, they paused, without his opening it.
She could not help herself. She thought about their conversation on the steps of the Plaza Hotel, just before the newsmen had surrounded her. "Do you regret what you said the other day?" She asked softly.
He hesitated. "No."
Her reaction was instantaneous, she was inwardly thrilled. But she kept her expression as passive as possible. "Nor do I, Bragg," she said softly.
He nodded gruffly at her; she left.
****
"You have a caller, Francesca."
Francesca halted at the sound of her mother's voice, having just handed off her coat, hat, muff and gloves to a servant. She slowly turned, with dread.
For her voice had been sharp. Now, disapproval covered Julia's attractive face. She was an older image of both of her daughters: blond, blue-eyed, with classic and fine features. Although over forty, she remained slim and glamorous; many men her own age often eyed her in a covert manner.
"Good day, Mama," Francesca said nervously. She had seen The Sun. Francesca would wager her life on it.
Julia Van Wyck Cahill was magnificently attired, clearly dressed for an early evening affair. Her sapphire blue gown revealed a slim and pleasing figure, while two tiers of sapphires adorned her neck. Before she could answer, Andrew appeared on the stairs, in a white dinner jacket and satin-trimmed black trousers. He took one look at Francesca and his expression became pinched, with disbelief and accusations warring in his eyes.
"I can explain," Francesca whispered.
"What can you explain?" Andrew demanded, halting besides his wife. "That you have made the front page of The Sun? That you once again immersed yourself in a dangerous affair? One belonging, I believe, to the police?"
Francesca inhaled. How to begin? Before she could speak, her mother interrupted.
"I am aghast. I am aghast that my daughter would confront a killer and place herself in unspeakable danger. This shall nto continue, Francesca. You have gone too far." Julia turned and nodded at a sewrvant, who was holding her magnificent sable coat for her. She allowed himt o slip it over her shoulders.
"I am beginning to wonder if my brilliant daughter has truly lost her mind," Andrew said.
Francesca cringed. Papa never spoke to her in such a manner. "I helped the police enormously," Francesca murmured. The fact was, she had solved the case at the eleventh hour.
"You have been up to your ears in police affairs ever since Bragg arrived in town," Julia said sharply. "Do you think I am blind, Francesca? I can see what is happening."
"Nothng is happening," Francesca tried, stealign a glance at her father. He knew about Bragg's married state, she thought sudenly. This was the secret he had been keeping. But why hadn't he told her?
"We are on our way out for the evening, but we shall speak tomorrow morning, Francesca." Julia gave her a look that was filled with warning. Julia did not look at her again as Andrew donned his coat. But her father met her gaze, shaking his head, looking so terribly grim, that Francesca knew she was in the kind of trouble she had never dreamed of. There was no relief when they stepped out of the house. But what could they do? She was a grown woman.
Francesca relaxed slightly. She would worry about her parents tomorrow. She turned as Bette handed her a delicately engraved calling card on a small sterling tray. Francesca studied the card for a moment, curiously. She did not believe she had ever met a Mrs. Lincoln Stuart, and she thanked Bette and entered the far salon.
It was beautifully appointed but small, and used for more intimate gatherings, such as a single caller. It was painted a pale, dusky yellow, and most of the furnishins were in various shades of yellow or gold, with several red and navy blue accents. The moment Francesca entered the room, she saw Mrs. Lincoln Stuart. She had been sitting on a sofa at the room's other end, but upon espying Francesca, she instantly stood. Francesca smiled and approached.
Mrs. Lincoln Stuart twisted her hands.
Francesca saw that she was a few years older than she was. She was rather plain in appearance, her features usual and unsurprising. But her hair was a beautiful cascade of chestnut curls, and it was what one noticed first. She was very well dressed, in a green floral suit and skirt, and she wore a rather large yellow diamond ring. Her husband was obviously wealthy. And she was nervous and distressed.
"Miss Cahill. I do hope you do not mind me calling like this," Mrs. Lincoln Stuart said in a husky voice, one filled with tension. Worry was expressed in her eyes.
Francesca smiled warmly, pausing before her. "Of course not," she said politely. "Have we met?"
"No, we have not, but I was given this by a boy the other day." And Mrs. Stuart handed her a card.
Francesca recognized it instantly--how could she not? Tiffany's had printed the cards at her request upon the conclusion of the Burton Affair. It read:
Francesca Cahill, Crime Solver Extraordinaire,
No. 810 Fifth Avenue, New York City.
All Cases Accepted, No Crime Too Small.
"My assistant, Joel Kennedy, must have handed this to you," Francesca mused, pleased. She had recently assigned him the task of drumming up business for her. She glanced up at Mrs. Stuart. Was she a prospective client? Francesca's heart thudded in anticipation.
"I don't know the boy's name, I only know that I am frightened and I have know one to turn to," Mrs. Stuart cried, her eyes wide. Francesca saw that they were green and lovely. Mrs. Stuart was the kind of woman who had a quiet kind of beauty, one that was not instantly remarkable, she decided.
Francesca also realized that she as on the verge of tears. She took her arm. "Do sit down, and I am sure I can help you, Mrs. Stuart," she said. "No matter what your problem might be." There was no doubt now-Mrs. Stuart had come to her for help-this would be her second official case!
The woman dug a handkerchief out of her velvet purse. It was hunter green, like the trim on her elegant tea gown. "Please, call me Lydia," she said, dabbing at her eyes. "I saw today's article in The Sun, Miss Cahill. You are a heroine, a brave heroine, and when I realized that you are the same woman on this card, I knew it was you to whom I must turn."
"I am hardly a heroine, Lydia," Francesca said, barely containing her excitement. "Excuse me." She rushed to the salon door and closed it, so that no one might overhear the conversation. Her resolve to take a "sabbatical" from sleuthing had vanished. IN fact, she forgot all about her studies now. She hurried back to her guest-her client-and sat down. What could this woman's problem be? And was she truly going to have, for the very first time, a paying client? In the past, she had offered her services for free.
Lydia managed to smile at her, and she now handed her a small piece of paper, upon which was two names. Rebecca Hopper, and an address, 40 East 30th Street. "What is this?" Francesca asked.
Lydia Stuart's face changed, becoming filled with distaste. "Mrs. Hopper is a widow, and that is where she lives. I believe my husband is having an affair with her, but I want to know the truth."
Francesca stared.
"And I have no doubt that he will be there tonight, as he has said he is working late and he will not be home for supper,' Lydia added.
****
Mrs. Hopper's residence was a corner one, and while all of the lights were on downstairs, only one bedroom upstairs was alight. It had been years since Francesca had climbed a tree, and now she was sorry that she had not gone further downtown to locate Joel to do her evening's work for her. He would have been very useful indeed-especially as he did not have cumbersome skirts to deal with.
Huffing and puffing, her hands freezing as she had stripped off her gloves, she sought another foothold in the huge tree she was climbing, clinging to the trunk.
She had decided to tackle Lydia's case head on. It was nine p.m., and a quick look at the house had shown her that if she climbed the big tree in the yard, she might very well be able to locate and spy upon the lovers directly. In fact, if Lydia were right, this case might be solved before it was even begun.
Francesca made it to the large, higher branch. She clung to it, one leg atop it, both arms around it. Her skirts were in the way, but she had not had the foresight to wear men's clothing, for she had not had the psychic ability to know she would be climbing trees this night. With great effort, she somehow moved her other leg onto the thick branch, and then she hugged it with all of her might, afraid she was going to fall. She glanced down.
She was not sure she liked heights. When she had been upon the ground, in the yard, the tree had not seemed so tall. Now, looking down, her cheek upon the rough bark, her hands feeling rather scraped and raw, the ground looked very far away, oh yes.
She had not a doubt that if she fell, the snow would be rock hard, as it was solidly frozen. It would not break her fall; she might wind up with a broken arm, or god forbid, a broken neck.
Her hearts kidded with fear. She was determined to ignore her cowardice now. Very, very carefully, Francesca sat up. When she was astride the branch as if it was a horse, she began to breathe easier. This wasn't too bad, oh no. She could mange, oh yes.
Dismayed, she suddenly realized her eyes were still below the window and she could not see into the bedroom in order to learn what was going on. She was going to have to stand up.
But Francesca realized she was turned around the wrong way-the trunk of the tree was behind her. Oh dear. This might be far too dangerous a maneuver, she thought.
She could not see into the bedroom and she was at a grave risk if she tried to turn around. Now what?
There was no choice. She had to turn herself around. She simply had to. Because Lydia Stuart was her first paying client.
Francesca lifted her right leg up slowly, until was able to move it up and over the branch. Now she sat with both legs dangling off of the same side of the tree, and her position was precarious at best. She failed to breathe now. She had to reverse herself, but she was afraid to move.
That was when she slipped.
Francesca cried out as she lost her balance and started to slid off of the branch; instantly, desperately, she reached out, trying to grasp the branch with her hands, the bark scrapping and abrading her palms, and for one moment, she thought she had succeeded in stopping herself, for one moment, she gripped the tree, but then her hands failed her and suddenly she was falling through space.
She saw the white snow below, racing towards her face, and she thought, Oh dear, this is it. It is all over now.
Whomp.
Francesca landed hard on her shoulder and her side, not her face, her head smacking down last. And then she was spitting out snow.
God, she thought, dazed. Was she intact? Had she broken anything?
She began to move. The snow as not as frozen as she had thought it would be; it was not rock hard, surprisingly. She wiggled her toes and fingers in the snow, moved her hands and legs. She froze.
Had she just touched something? Something beneath the snow? Something sticky? And solid?
Francesca sat up shakily, and as she stood, she looked down at her own hands.
One was pale and white in the moonlight, the other was dark and splotched in places.
She had an inkling. She did not move. She recognized those splotches, oh yes.
Her heart pumped hard now.
And then she rubbed her fingers together. Oh, no.
Francesca was on her knees, tearing at the frozen snow. And as she moved the top layer away, she found a piece of garment.
Francesca stared at a patch of brown wool, and the dark still not thoroughly frozen stain upon it.
She touched it.
It was no different than what had been on her fingertips; it was blood, and it was fresh.
Someone was buried in the snow, recently, and maybe, the person was alive!
Francesca pawed the snow frantically, shoving it away in clumps, and then she saw the woman's face-she saw the open, sightless blue eyes, and they were glazed in terror.
They were also strangely familiar.
And she saw her throat.
She stood, and unable to help herself, she screamed.
For carved in the once pristine white skin was a perfect and bloody cross. But that was not why she screamed. Francesca recognized the dead woman, dear God.
It was the woman who had almost approached her at the Plaza Hotel two days ago; it was the woman who had fled in terror instead.
© Copyright 2002, Brenda Joyce Dreams Unlimited, Inc.. All rights reserved. Used with permission.
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