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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.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Tuesday, June 3, 1902—11:00 a.m.
MIKE O’DONNELL 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.
FRANCESCA 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.”
