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Leigh Anne hated the fact that the precious child was so astute. Katie watched her like a hawk, clearly aware of her depression and misery, rushing to fulfill her every whim, as if that might ease the pain. Leigh Anne knew the pain of loss and heartbreak would never go away. She smiled brightly at her child. “Can you call Mr. Mackenzie so we might go downstairs?”
Katie nodded eagerly and rushed out of the dressing room.
Leigh Anne watched the woman in the chair in the mirror, and saw her smile vanish the moment the child was gone. The woman she observed was attractive, though wan, and perfectly attired in lavender silk and amethysts. The woman sat in an odd chair with two huge wheels and handles that made it easier for an attendant to push. The woman was a cripple.
Leigh Anne looked away, but it didn’t matter, because the image remained engraved in her brain. She knew that every time Rick looked at her, that was what he saw: a cripple.
She rubbed her thigh, reminding herself that his pity did not matter. Her right leg ached, but there was no feeling in her left leg and there never would be again. The doctors actually thought that, with time and intensive work, she might regain some use of her right leg, but there had been too much damage to her left leg. So why would she even try to regain some use of the one limb? She would never walk again, never dance, never make love….
Leigh Anne knew she was pathetic, to be feeling so sorry for herself. She reminded herself that she was alive and she had the girls. God, she didn’t know what she would do without them! She wiped her eyes briefly. She only dared to allow herself such self-pity when she was alone. She reminded herself that she didn’t need her legs, not when she had a chair with wheels and a nurse. She reminded herself that she was fortunate, so terribly fortunate, to have suddenly become a mother to two such wonderful girls. But no amount of rationalization would ease the melancholy that weighed her down. It was like being buried alive, she thought dismally, yet death was not an option.
The telephone, which had been recently installed in the house, rang in the bedroom just beyond her boudoir. Unthinkingly she reached for the wheels, trying to turn them, but she was so weak now. Tears of frustration came when she saw the nurse reach the phone. He was a tall, attractive young man and he said, “One moment, sir. I’ll get her.”
It was Rick, she thought, her heart accelerating, and the oddest combination of dread and anticipation filled her. She wondered if it would always be this way—if a part of her would always yearn for a word from him, a look, his presence.
Mackenzie came into the boudoir. “It’s the commissioner,” he said pleasantly, easily wheeling her into the bedroom. He positioned her near the phone and she reached for the receiver before he could hand it to her, as she was determined not to let anyone see how lost and incapable she had become. But the receiver was large and she was clumsy and it fell to the floor.
Leigh Anne blinked back more tears of frustration as Mackenzie quickly retrieved it, handing it to her.
Leigh Anne inhaled. She was doing her best not to let Rick know how miserable she was. “Rick?”
“Leigh Anne. How are you?” he asked, his tone carefully neutral.
But then, they had become strangers, which was what she wanted now. “I am fine,” she said, aware of the enormity of the lie. “You went out last night,” she said just as neutrally. He had not come to bed last night. Most nights he fell asleep on the sofa in his study, which she preferred—and which she knew he preferred. She had lain in bed, pretending to sleep, wondering if he would join her, afraid that he would, and worse, that he might think to hold her. But instead, someone had come to their front door and he had gone out for the rest of the evening. She was accustomed to police affairs requiring such strange calls.
“There was a matter that required my attention at headquarters,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes,” she lied again, as she doubted she had actually slept more than an hour or two.
“What are you planning to do today?”
She had no plans. She was afraid to resume her old life, as she could not imagine the reaction of her friends if she called in her wheeled chair. She had accepted callers, however. Francesca Cahill called twice a week, and Leigh Anne genuinely liked her—she was very kind, pretending that nothing untoward had happened. Rick’s parents also called frequently—Grace dropped by almost every day. But it had been simply awful when her old friend Countess Bartolla Benevente had called. Leigh Anne knew that the countess had been secretly delighted by her condition. How many other of her old friends would take pleasure in her downfall? “As Katie has finished school, I think we’ll go to the park.”
“It’s a beautiful day. I’ll try to come home earlier,” he said, hesitation in his tone.
She swallowed, almost wanting him to return home at that moment. Images of their past raced through her mind, a jumbled collage of memories, all of them happy, playful or passionate. “If the matter is a serious one, do what you have to do, Rick. You know I don’t mind.”
He was silent, and she wondered if he was relieved or dismayed.
“Do you recall Daisy Jones?” he asked.
Her interest piqued. She understood the caution she heard in his tone, as the telephone operator was undoubtedly listening to their every word. It was the single drawback of the incredible convenience of a telephone—there was no privacy, ever.
Daisy was Calder Hart’s mistress, or she had been, until recently. “Yes, of course.”
Bragg said, “She was murdered last night.”
Leigh Anne gasped. “That is terrible,” she said, meaning it, even though she had never met the other woman.
“I may be late tonight after all,” Rick said, sounding grim.
Leigh Anne had many questions now. As Hart was Rick’s brother, even if they did not get along, she began to worry. “Of course.”
“Thank you for understanding,” he said. “I had better go.”
“Yes,” she said, still stunned by the news of Daisy’s murder. She knew Hart somewhat, but not all that well, and wondered at his reaction to the news.
Leigh Anne replaced the receiver on the phone’s hook. “Mr. Mackenzie? I’ll go downstairs now,” she said, thinking about Francesca now. How was she faring? she wondered. She almost smiled. Francesca was undoubtedly on the case, as no one was more intrepid than she.
As Mackenzie wheeled her out of the bedroom, Leigh Anne realized that Francesca would be working on the case with Rick. She refused to feel any jealousy, because she and Rick had a marriage of convenience and nothing more. But she knew that Rick had been fond of Francesca while they had remained separated, and no matter how she tried, a part of her hated them working together again.
“I’ll have you downstairs in a moment,” Mackenzie said with a smile. The nurse lifted her from the chair to carry her downstairs, Katie behind them. This was the moment Leigh Anne hated the most, when she had no choice but to be in the nurse’s arms as he carried her down the narrow Victorian staircase.
Her cheeks grew hot. This was simply too intimate. Leigh Anne closed her eyes, forcing herself to endure the moment. And for an instant, she imagined herself in Rick’s arms, the strongest, safest haven she had ever known.
But that was not to be. Not ever again.
“I’ll get the chair,” the nurse said, having carried her into the parlor. He placed her on the sofa and left.
Katie was watching her. Sensing her every emotion, she grasped Leigh Anne’s hand. “Mama? Can we go to the park today? You, me and Dot and Papa?” Clearly she had overheard the telephone conversation.
Leigh Anne squeezed her hand. “I am afraid your father is involved in some urgent police affairs,” she said. “But yes, we can go to the park and feed the birds.”
“Papa never goes anywhere with us anymore!” Katie cried. “Mrs. Flowers can make us a picnic and we can fish, the way we did the last time he came with us.”
Leigh Anne stiffened. The last time they had had a picnic, she had left, unable to bear such a family occasion, and Francesca Cahill had taken her place. Rick would probably still be in love with the other woman if they had not reconciled—a reconciliation Leigh Anne had forced him into.
If not for the girls, she would leave him and set him free.
Their single servant, Peter, a tall Swede, appeared on the parlor’s threshold. “Mrs. Bragg? You have two callers.”
Leigh Anne arranged her face into a smile. “Who is it, Peter?” she asked, filled with dread. If it was Bartolla Benevente, she would send her away.
“It’s a man and a woman, Mrs. Bragg. He claims to be the girls’ uncle.”
Leigh Anne seized Katie’s hand. “But that’s impossible!” The girls had no family.
“He says he’s Mike O’Donnell.” Peter was grave. “I can send him and the woman away.”
Leigh Anne began to shake. “No, no, send them in. We must find out what he wants.”
A SHORT, POWERFULLY BUILT Spaniard, Raoul had been far more than Hart’s driver and valet—he had been Hart’s bodyguard. Now he was Francesca’s personal driver. Francesca had no delusions that, given the nature of her work, Hart wished to offer her protection at all times. Having been in dire jeopardy more than once, Francesca did not mind having such a driver. Now Raoul was driving Francesca downtown amid numerous drays, carts and wagons. The Lower East Side was as different from Fifth Avenue as night from day. Hers was the only elegant passenger vehicle on the cobbled street. Numerous vendors were hawking bolts of cloth, tallow for candles and lye soap, and other wares, and the pedestrians on the sidewalks were mostly women in aprons, carrying small children or groceries. Laundry lines were hanging from window to window. A gang of adolescent boys was playing a hard game of stickball. Even on Avenue A, the noise from the Third Avenue Elevated could be heard and its smoke and soot cast a gray pallor everywhere. Finally the coach halted.
Francesca had met Joel Kennedy, a young, street-smart kid, on her very first investigation. Joel was the oldest of four children, his mother a pretty, hardworking seamstress who was widowed. During the Burton abduction, Joel had helped her navigate her way through some of the city’s seamiest sides. Francesca had needed his help, but she had also wanted to turn him away from his life of petty crime. After he had proved indispensable to her on several other investigations, she had hired him as her assistant. Now she picked up Joel Kennedy or had him meet her every day.
But young Joel was not on her mind, and neither was Rose nor the crucial questions she must ask her. Why was Hart lying to her, when they had come so far as a couple? Their relationship had been based on absolute honesty until now. How could he lie to her, and what did it mean for them and their future? What was he hiding?
Her first impulse had been to travel to Bridge Street and confront Hart in his offices, demanding to know why he had said he was in Boston when he had been in Philadelphia instead. But Francesca had instantly seen the folly of that action. Confronting Hart was never a good idea. He had a huge, quick temper, and she would only ignite it. The current investigation had already begun to place a strain on their relationship, and Francesca did not want to add to it. If she had judged him correctly last night, he had been grieving for Daisy. She could not attack the man she loved when he was mourning. But hadn’t she seen and sensed something else in the nature of his tension? Last night, Hart had refused to discuss why he had called on Daisy. In doing so, he had pulled away from her, his usual response to a difficult situation—a response she dearly hated. Could his refusal to discuss his visit to Daisy have something to do with his trip to Philadelphia?
As rational as she was trying to be, it was hard not to be shaken.
The fact that he did not trust her hurt her terribly. She had been Hart’s staunchest supporter and his biggest ally from the first moment they had met, when she had been investigating the Randle killing. Hart had been implicated, and even then, when she had not known him, when she had been infatuated with Bragg, she had known he was no killer. Even then, she had refused to judge him solely on his notorious reputation. From the first, she had seen past his reputation and his arrogant, at times callous behavior. Beneath the ego, the confidence, there was so much vulnerability. Hart was good. She still believed that with all of her heart and all of her being. But at times, his behavior made it so difficult to remain loyal!
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:
Francesca Cahill
Crime-Solver Extraordinaire
No. 810 Fifth Avenue, New York City
All Cases Accepted, No Case Too Small
“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.
