Chapter 23
Francesca blinked in disbelief. “Kate was your sister?”
Hart had joined her and Bragg. The gentleman shrugged. “I’m afraid so.”
Now, Francesca could only stare. How had working-class Kate come from the same family as this gentleman?
Bragg stepped into the fray. “I’m Rick Bragg, commissioner of police,” he said. “I’m sorry about your sister.”
“Thank you,” the man said. “I’m Frank Pierson.”
“Would you mind explaining how Kate wound up a shopgirl and the wife of John Sullivan?”
Pierson’s jaw tightened. “I’d rather not. This is a dismal day, sir.”
Bragg reached out to restrain him before he could turn and leave. “Sir,” he said very softly, “I am afraid I was not clear. I am not giving you an option. Please explain why a woman from such a genteel background married a man like Sullivan and lived in the financial circumstances that she did.”
Pierson smiled. “I’m sorry. I am distraught. You see, I haven’t seen Kate in years, not until now.”
“How many years?” Bragg asked.
“She ran off with a scoundrel, sir, five years ago. He was from a good family, but disowned for his absolutely immoral ways. The day she left was the day my family disowned her,” he said with some vehemence. “She broke our hearts,” he added.
“What happened to this scoundrel?” Francesca asked. “Surely it wasn’t Sullivan?”
“Of course not,” Pierson said quickly, smiling a little. “His name was Bradley Hunter. He left her shortly after. I believe he resides in Paris. She, of course, was ruined, and I imagine that she had no choice but to marry Sullivan.”
“You imagine?” Francesca’s own heart began to break for Kate. “Did you not speak to her when Hunter left her? Surely you went after her and tried to bring her home.”
“I did no such thing,” he said coldly. His eyes had turned to ice.
“She may be buried today, Miss Cahill, but the fact is my family buried her five years ago, on February 14, the day she chose to run off with Hunter. That morning at breakfast was the last time I saw her and the last time I spoke to her.” His face was rigid.
He nodded at Bragg. “Have I sufficiently answered your questions, sir?”
“In a moment,” Bragg said. “Where were you last Thursday night, Mr. Pierson?”
Bragg led the way into his office, but paused at the door. Francesca followed him inside, barely aware of her surroundings, her mind racing. She was analyzing every moment spent with Frank Pierson. When Hart walked in, Bragg shut the door behind him.
Francesca faced both men thoughtfully. “His alibi is ironclad.”
“Yes, it is ironclad,” Bragg said.
“And convenient,” Hart murmured. “Having supper at home with his dear elderly mother while his sister was murdered.”
“There was a house filled with staff,” Francesca said. “The cook, the housekeeper, the butler and a valet.”
“And two housemaids.” Hart was wry.
“He has an alibi for every night the Slasher attacked,” Francesca cried. “On Mondays, he always attends the Lions Club.”
Bragg went to his desk but did not sit down. “Newman is verifying every alibi, but I feel certain no one will admit that Pierson was not where he said he was when he said he was there.”
Francesca raced over to him. “This is too sweet! Here is our first suspect with solid alibis—which is exactly why I suspect him.”
Bragg smiled a little at her. “I agree,” he said softly.
She smiled back, her every instinct telling her now that they had their man.
Kate Sullivan had been conned by a scoundrel and had foolishly run away from home.
Apparently, her brother had never forgiven her.
It was unbelievable that she had not been allowed back home when Bradley Hunter had abandoned her as swiftly as he had seduced her.
According to Pierson, their father had died six months later of a broken heart, apparently losing his will to live.
He had suffered a stroke a few months before Kate’s lapse from propriety, but had been recuperating until then.
And to this day, Mrs. Pierson, Kate’s mother, suffered from grave melancholia.
And it was all Kate’s fault—according to her brother.
“I concur,” Hart said, moving to stand beside Francesca and interrupting her thoughts.
“He probably put in an appearance at his gentleman’s club, but I doubt anyone would know precisely when he arrived or when he left.
His staff undoubtedly fear dismissal should they go against his word. His alibis are utterly pat.”
Francesca smiled at him, too. Then she turned to Bragg, “How will we proceed?”
“I will have a plainclothes officer keep an eye on him as well. I have only one problem,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Why the hell would he come to Kate’s funeral and reveal his hand?”
They stared at one another for a moment. Bragg’s telephone began to ring. He went to get it. Francesca looked at Hart. “He has made a mistake. They all do, eventually—or at least, the ones who get caught.”
Real warmth filled his eyes and she smiled, reaching for his hand. “I want to talk to you,” he said softly, so Bragg could not hear. “When we get home.”
Her eyes widened and her heart lurched. Her grip on his palm tightened. “Should I be afraid?”
“I don’t want you to ever be afraid of me,” he said, “but I cannot answer that.” He hesitated while her mind scrambled and raced. “I want to discuss Daisy,” he said.
She nodded. “Yes, that’s a very good idea.”
He smiled a little at her then turned his gaze to Bragg. His smile faded. “What is it?” he asked sharply.
Bragg had walked over to them, his expression rather serious. “That was Sarah Channing,” he said.
Francesca gasped. “Is she all right?” There was no reason under the sun for Sarah to call Bragg, and especially at police headquarters.
“She is somewhat hysterical,” he said, his gaze dark and on her now. “It seems that your portrait is missing.”
“Missing?” she echoed in disbelief.
“Stolen,” he said.
Sarah was waiting for them. She was wringing her hands, appearing ashen, as they were ushered inside. Bragg hurried to her.
Francesca did not follow. She remained shocked and disbelieving. They had left the police station as if it were on fire and she could hardly recall the ride to Sarah’s. “Calder. This is impossible,” she whispered hoarsely.
His jaw was so tight his face appeared in danger of cracking. He was as distressed as she was, and that was not reassuring. “Apparently not.”
“Calder, someone other than you, me or Sarah has seen that portrait.” Dread consumed her now. How vain and foolish she had been to pose nude with such abandon for that portrait. She knew her cheeks were on fire. Who was staring at her portrait even now? Who had stolen it? And why?
“Francesca, it is far worse than that,” Hart said.
“What in God’s name do you mean?” she cried.
“I mean, that portrait may very well wind up on public display. Art is usually stolen in order to be fenced.”
The sound that escaped her was high-pitched and choked. She clung to him and he steadied her. “We won’t let that happen,” he said firmly.
Her horror knew no bounds. She was mortified.
It was one thing to pose for Hart nude, but another to have half the world gaze upon her in such a state.
And society would hear all about it—no secret like this, once let loose, could ever be kept.
Oh, God! She thought about her family. Julia would be horrified, Andrew ashamed…
. They would all be ruined, she thought.
They would be ruined by association. But it was embarrassment that consumed her now.
If that portrait surfaced, how would she ever appear in public again?
Bragg and Sarah had approached. Bragg looked from Francesca to Hart and back again. Sarah suddenly blurted, “I am so sorry! I should have kept my studio locked! Francesca, please, forgive me!”
Francesca managed to nod. She could hardly form any words. She licked her lips. “It’s not your fault.”
Sarah started to cry.
“All right,” Bragg cut in. “I see I am missing something. We seem to have a crisis at hand—one a stolen portrait hardly merits. What exactly is going on? Why do the ladies look as if someone has died, and why do you look ready to murder someone?” he asked, directing this last bit to Hart.
Francesca turned away, somehow moving into Hart’s arms. He said, holding her close, “The portrait is a highly suggestive one.”
Francesca closed her eyes, hard.
“Highly suggestive?” Bragg echoed.
Sarah tugged on his sleeve. “It’s a wonderful portrait, really. Francesca is lovely and the likeness is unmistakable…” She faltered and broke off miserably.
“It’s a nude,” Hart said.
There was a moment of silence.
Francesca decided to be very brave and turned to face Bragg.
He gaped at her in shock.
She stared back. There was absolutely nothing to say.
“I see,” he finally said, color now flooding his cheeks. And then he directed his attention to Hart, and he was furious. “You taint everything you touch.”
Hart stiffened. “I take all blame,” he ground out. “The idea was mine, of course.”
Francesca whirled. “This is hardly your fault!”
Hart made a mocking sound.
“Like hell it isn’t! He has never given a damn about anyone but himself. Even now, engaged to you, he only thinks about his own hideous appetites. What in hell were you thinking to expose Francesca this way?” Bragg demanded. His fists were clenched.
Hart made no attempt to defend himself.
“That’s not fair.” Francesca stood between the two men, facing Bragg. “I didn’t have to be persuaded. I wanted to pose…that way. Hart planned to hang the portrait in his private rooms…after our marriage,” she added lamely.
Bragg stared at her in disbelief. “Even if the painting hadn’t been stolen, did it not cross your mind that even a whisper of such a portrait would compromise your reputation?”
She shook her head. How foolish she had been. “No.”