Chapter 14
Francesca paused on the threshold of the breakfast room, a cheerful salon papered in a bright, sunny gold with windows overlooking the Cahill back lawns. They were verdantly green and freshly cut and the imported Belgium tulips were already blooming. Francesca barely noticed any of that.
Andrew Cahill sat at the head of the table, a copy of the New York Times in his hands, the Sun and the Tribune set aside, just beyond his plate. He laid down the Times and looked up. “Good morning, Francesca. Do not tell me that you are joining me for breakfast today?” he said with bemusement.
Francesca adored her father. He was a rotund man of medium height with an equally round face and a perpetually benign complexion.
He had an even and pleasant disposition, which both her sister Connie and Evan had inherited.
Rare was the day that he lost his temper.
He was as passionately dedicated to reform as she was, and she had learned everything she knew about reform, politics and the world from him.
She smiled as she entered the room. “We always share breakfast, Papa.”
“Yesterday you fled this house before I even sat down,” he said, his tone not quite as fond as usual.
She almost cringed as she went to the head of the table to hug him. “Yes, I did depart rather early.”
His expression was partly stern and partly resigned. “Your mother is in despair! She tells me you are chasing another killer, this one the Slasher, dear God.”
Francesca did not know what to say. She pulled out a chair and sat down. “Papa, you know how important justice is to me. Two women have been cruelly murdered, and we are very afraid more murders will follow.”
“I do know how important justice is to you, Francesca, no one knows it better than I—and no one is prouder of you than I am. I also realize that you have found your true passion in this life. Unlike your mother, I know better than to try to insist you cease sleuthing. But, like your mother, I worry terribly about the jeopardy you put yourself in during these investigations.”
She hugged him, hard. “Thank you, Papa! I knew I could count on you.”
“I am not exactly approving of this new pursuit of yours. But as you have thus far saved half a dozen lives and brought as many criminals to justice, I am not disapproving, either.”
She beamed at him and then smiled at the servant who filled her cup with coffee. “Thank you,” she said. “Do you want to hear about the case?”
He studied her. “Yes, I think that I do. But first, is it true that you are working with Rick Bragg again?” he asked quietly.
She hesitated. Then, “He is your friend. And you admire him as much as I do. You believe in him the way that I do. Surely you cannot be opposed to our working together?”
He was grim. “I am not opposed to your working with him, if that is what it is. But you are engaged to another man. Need I remind you of that?”
She grinned. “I am happily engaged to another man. Does this mean you are coming round to the fact of my marriage to Calder?”
“I have made myself clear. Hart needs to prove himself worthy of you. My opinion is hardly set. He doesn’t object to your working with Rick?”
Francesca hesitated. “He has his jealous moments. But, Papa, those feelings I had for Rick, they are in the past. I really want to marry Calder,” she said, unable to help adding, “and a year is far too long to wait!”
He merely raised an eyebrow. “I think your life is much more complicated then you realize,” he said. “Will we see you tonight at your sister’s? You do recall she is having a lavish affair.”
Francesca winced. She had entirely forgotten the buffet supper party her sister was holding for some hundred guests.
It was a charity event. The supper was costing a hundred dollars a plate and the funds were going to an organization that supported the city’s homeless children. “Yes, of course,” she said.
The Cahill butler appeared at the breakfast-room door. “Miss Cahill? Mr. Hart is here. He wishes to speak with you.”
Francesca leaped to her feet in surprise, wondering what Hart was doing at her home at this unsocial hour. Not that she minded! She was fully dressed for a busy day ahead of her. And she remembered with lightning clarity the events of last night.
They had left Maggie’s and gone the few blocks uptown to Mulberry Street to meet Bragg, hoping to be present during the questioning of Sam Wilson.
But the police had not brought Wilson in, because he had been nowhere to be found.
By the time Hart had finally dropped her at home, it had been well past midnight.
This morning she had awoken recalling being in his arms and his lingering good-night kiss.
“Papa, I will be right back,” she said, and before Andrew could react, she was dashing from the room.
Hart was waiting in the hall, clad in a nearly black suit, looking well rested and impossibly attractive. His eyes brightened when he saw her and he smiled warmly.
She went right into his arms. “What is this?” she queried.
“I’ve rearranged my morning schedule. In fact, I postponed two clients,” he said, sliding his arms around her and giving her a brief kiss. Then he stepped back. “I think we should call on Wilson.”
Delight began to grow. “Wait a moment. You have canceled your business affairs so you can sleuth with me?” She was absolutely thrilled.
He grinned and the cleft in his chin deepened, his slight left dimple winked.
“I am postponing two clients, importers who need me far more than I need them. I have an extremely urgent meeting this afternoon with the ambassador to Hong Kong that I must attend. It is in regard to my shipping interests,” he said.
Suddenly she had an inkling. “Is this sudden interest in sleuthing about the danger that Wilson might pose, or my working this case with Bragg?”
“I plead guilty,” he drawled, “to all of the above. I think we should hurry,” he added. “Unless Wilson has fled the city, he will be at home, getting ready to open up his shop.”
She agreed. “If we arrive early enough, we can interview him before the police do.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “I know you are not thinking to undercut my brother.”
“Never. But I want to speak to Wilson alone, without any police officers present. I feel certain, Calder, that sugar will get far more than vinegar this time.”
He smiled at her and gestured for her to precede him out.
As they paused at the door of Wilson’s shop, Francesca suddenly recalled Gwen O’Neil’s plight. She faced Hart quickly. “I forgot to mention something to you,” she said quickly.
His dark eyebrows lifted. “I will not even try to guess.”
“Would you mind giving Gwen O’Neil employment? She worked as a ladies’ maid in Ireland. She has no references, though, as her employer there—one Lord Randolph—happened to seduce her and cause her no end of trouble.”
He seemed mildly amused. “I have no idea if we need another maid.”
“Hart!” she protested, exasperated.
He smiled at her. “Darling, if you adopt a stray for every case you investigate, we really will need to turn my home into a hotel.”
“Just agree, please,” she said.
“Of course I agree.” He was reflective. “I know an Irishman named Randolph. He comes from a very old, well-established family and he shares a shipping venture with an English cousin. We met in Istanbul and renewed our acquaintance in London. Of course, even though he is heir to an Irish earldom, I doubt he was Gwen O’Neil’s employer. ”
“That would be an amazing coincidence,” Francesca said as she rang the doorbell. “Was his home near Limerick?”
“I really don’t know. I know he had a manor somewhere in Ireland, but as I said, he also kept a home in London and that is where we met the second time.” He added, “He was actually a handsome fellow, but his reputation was rather dour.”
Before Francesca could ask him what he meant, the door was opened and Sam Wilson stood there. He started at the sight of them.
“Hello,” Francesca said brightly. “May we come in?”
“Yes, of course, although it is very early,” Wilson said, stepping aside with a smile. He seemed bewildered by their presence.
“It’s well past nine,” Hart said as they followed him into the shop. “What time do you open?”
“If a customer knocks—I thought you were customers—I will accommodate him or her. But otherwise, we open our doors at noon.” He paused by the display counter. “I use the morning to work on repairs in the back.”
Francesca studied him closely. He could be considered tall by someone as small as Kate, but he wasn’t particularly so.
He certainly wasn’t Irish, but then, they did not know that the man Maggie had met on the street was the killer—she might have bumped into an innocent passerby.
She looked at his hands and was surprised that today he wore a ring on his left hand.
If the killer were right-handed, he had worn the ring on his left hand, too.
She stared. The ring was gold but there was no stone. The center had a flat smooth surface with some engraving upon it.
Witnesses and victims often mistook, and sometimes wildly, the details of the crime. Francesca wondered if his ring, at night, in a shadowy flat, might look as if it had a stone in it.
She wondered how she could get into his closet and look at his clothes.
“We actually stopped by last night,” Hart said, giving her an odd look. Clearly he had expected her to do the questioning. They had decided not to tell Wilson that the police had tried to round him up. They would proceed very quietly, without putting him on the defensive.
She tried to signal her discovery to him by glancing pointedly at Wilson’s hand and more specifically at his ring. But Hart appeared exasperated—he did not understand.
“Last night? You stopped by my shop last night?” Wilson seemed very surprised. And he did not comment on the fact that he had not been at home.