Chapter 19 #3
“It’s real easy,” Joel said. “We can make a hook out of a hairpin and dig up a worm. All we need is some string, and the napkins were tied with that.”
Katie smiled shyly, glancing again at Leigh Anne. Leigh Anne smiled at her. “Why don’t you try it, darling? It sounds like fun.”
As the two children ran off to the lake, just a short distance from where they were having their picnic, Leigh Anne called, “But be careful, Katie, not to fall in!” Then she turned to Francesca. “Joel is such a clever boy.”
“He is, isn’t he? He has been invaluable to my investigations, and he feels very much like another younger brother.” Francesca glanced at the children. Joel was tying a hairpin shaped as a hook onto a line. “I am very fond of him—and his entire family, as well.”
“How is your brother?” Leigh Anne asked pleasantly enough. But the words were hardly out of her mouth when she turned starkly white, appearing terribly dismayed.
Francesca followed the direction of her gaze.
Rick Bragg was approaching at a walk, his hands in the pockets of his jacket.
Warmth filled her, and just as she thought about what a pleasant surprise his appearance was, she realized that her reaction was distinctly different from Leigh Anne’s.
Francesca looked at the other woman, and found her nervously patting her skirts, her hands trembling, her face stiff with what could only be tension. What was this?
Bragg paused before them, his expression carefully neutral. “Hello,” he said, and he bent on one knee to kiss his wife’s cheek as Francesca hopped to her feet.
Leigh Anne did not look up as he touched Dot lightly on the head in greeting and straightened, facing Francesca. She smiled at him as he kissed her cheek. “How wonderful that you can join us,” she cried, glancing again at Leigh Anne.
“It is certainly the perfect day for a picnic,” he remarked, gazing at Leigh Anne and then past her. “Ah, Katie is fishing with Joel.”
Francesca did not speak. She was utterly stunned by the tension she was witnessing and she simply could not understand it. Of course, she must make an exit, and quickly. Or would leaving them alone be worse?
Finally Leigh Anne looked up. How miserable she seemed. “You’re not at headquarters?” she asked, her tone strained.
His answering smile was even more miserable. “I thought to work this afternoon at home,” he said. “When Peter told me you had gone for a picnic, I decided to play hooky.”
“You never work at home, except when it is midnight,” she breathed, her lashes lowered, making it impossible to read her gaze.
“I think it is time to change that,” Rick said, clearly forcing lightness into his tone. “Is there a sandwich to spare?”
Francesca could not bear it. She saw his hurt and his pain and Leigh Anne’s answering anguish, and she wanted to hold him, comfort her, and then maybe bang their heads together.
What was this mess? And how to straighten it out?
“There are plenty of sandwiches left,” she said quickly.
“And I must go, actually, as I have yet to interview Sullivan’s second flatmate. ”
“We questioned Josh Bennett thoroughly this morning,” Bragg said.
“He has shed no light on the situation, as his statement was almost identical to that of Ron Ames. He said Kate left her husband about a year and a half ago. John Sullivan was a drunk and an angry one. Not a night went by that he did not proclaim his hatred of his wife.” He nodded at her.
“But if you wish to interview him, feel free. I suspect it will be a waste of your time.”
Francesca now thought so, too. She found Leigh Anne watching them and quickly smiled. “I think I will try my hand with Bennett anyway. And what of that photograph Farr found in the flat? Have you identified the gentleman in it?”
“Newman is working on it.”
Francesca nodded. “Very well.” She turned to Leigh Anne to thank her for her hospitality, but was not given the chance to do so.
“No, don’t go!” Leigh Anne said vehemently.
Francesca started. Before she could respond, Leigh Anne said, flushing, “Rick, I do not feel well. I have a terrible migraine. I am going home to bed. Please help me up.”
As Rick rushed to help her into her chair, Francesca wrung her hands. She felt certain that this was a ploy to escape.
“But you should stay here and have a pleasant picnic with the girls,” Leigh Anne said, now seated in her wheeled chair.
“I mean, you have taken half the day off, and it would be a shame now that you are here not to take advantage of it. Peter can see me home. Francesca, there is no need to rush off! Joel is having a good time with Katie, and you and Rick can discuss your investigation while he eats his lunch.” Leigh Anne smiled but it was terribly forced.
Francesca was dismayed, wondering if Leigh Anne thought to push her and Rick together, and she looked at Rick and saw that he was resigned. No, it was worse than that—she saw defeat in his eyes. He touched Leigh Anne’s hair. “I’ll take you home,” he said.
“No! You enjoy yourself. We all know you deserve it. Peter! Please wheel me to the carriage.” Her face was taut with determination and her eyes shone with unshed tears.
Francesca felt her own tears forming. She did not move.
Bragg dropped his hand as Peter hurried forward. Rick nodded and the big Swede began pushing Leigh Anne toward the carriage path where a buggy waited. Leigh Anne turned to look at Francesca, smiling so brightly it had to be painful. “Thank you for such a lovely afternoon,” she said.
For once, words escaped Francesca completely. As Leigh Anne was wheeled away, she could only think that she should be the one leaving.
“Mama?” Dot said, but not with any distress.
Bragg knelt. “Mama is tired and she is going home.” He stroked her hair. “We will finish our picnic and then go home and join her.”
Dot grinned and held up her blond doll. “Dolly Frack!” she said.
Bragg cupped her cheek and then straightened, facing Francesca. “I believe she has named Dolly after you.”
Francesca could not stand it. He was miserable, and so was Leigh Anne. “How can I help?” she cried. “Surely there is something I can do!”
He shrugged helplessly, turning away. Francesca ran to him. “What is happening?” she demanded, grasping him by the arms.
He met her gaze, his haunted with sadness. “I don’t know.”
Francesca pulled him into her arms. He laid his cheek against her shoulder and his arms went lightly around her. She held him close, aching for him. “Rick, I am so sorry,” she whispered.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said, choked.
Francesca held him hard. “Neither do I,” she answered, and lay her cheek against his.
He knew just how clever and bold Francesca Cahill was, for he had read all about her exploits in the newspapers.
He had admired her terribly for her courage and daring, for helping the police bring killers to their just deserts.
But now he stared in absolute shock. She was in Rick Bragg’s arms and engaged to another.
She was a faithless bitch just like all the rest.
His fingers itched.
His heart raced.
He fondled the knife, barely aware of it.
How could this be? How? How could she be a whore like the others?
He did not know what to do. He had made his plans. He knew the bitches he must punish. Now he began to consider the question burning in him. Just what should he do about her?
And when she lay her cheek on Bragg’s, he knew.