Chapter 6 #3
“I told you, I haven’t ruled Rose out. But Hart could have gone to Daisy’s directly from the Grand Central depot, arriving at half past seven. What if they had another argument?”
“And he what?” Francesca said scathingly, furious now. “He stabbed her in a fit of anger and then ran away, but later returned to remove evidence of the crime? Hart is not a killer. And he has too much self-control to kill in such a manner.”
“Oh, really? I seem to recall an explosive temper, Francesca.”
“And have you questioned his staff? I am sure that any number of servants can testify to his presence at his house from eight o’clock on. That would not leave a very large window of opportunity for him to murder Daisy, now would it?”
“Newman is there as we speak.” He didn’t look at her now. Walking over to his desk, he sat down and began to read a file. Clearly he was upset and wished for their discussion to be over.
Francesca could not believe that Bragg seemed so ready to believe the worst of Hart, and that he really thought him capable of murder. The tension between them had become huge, and it felt impossible to surmount.
Bragg looked up briefly, his expression closed. “We still need your statement. You can give it to Newman, or if he’s not in, to a junior officer.”
She nodded. Then she made a decision and she dared to walk over to him. “Rick.”
He didn’t glance up, so she covered his hand with her own and he was forced to meet her regard.
“I am going to prove him innocent.”
His expression was rigid. “Believe it or not, I hope you succeed.” He started to remove his hand from hers, but she grasped him more tightly, not letting him go. In surprise, he looked up at her again.
She held his gaze. “I don’t want this case to come between us. We cannot argue this way. Your friendship is important to me, and it always will be important to me—even after I have married Hart.”
He stared. “You lied to me, Francesca. Did you really think I would not find out?”
“Then be angry at me. But don’t take it out on Hart,” she cried, trying not think about the lie she had convinced Alfred to tell him.
He stared at her and she stared back. Then he sighed. “I despise arguing with you, but it’s too late. Hart has come between us, hasn’t he? You lied to me to protect him. And as long as you remain with him, he will always be between us.”
His telephone began to ring and he promptly picked it up. Francesca turned away. It had been this way almost from the start, with her somehow caught between the two men, like some awful prize each intended to win.
Bragg’s tone caught her attention. “Leigh Anne!” he sounded anxious and surprised. “What’s happened? Are you all right?”
Francesca looked at him, instantly concerned, but he was so absorbed that he had clearly forgotten she was present. A ripple of sadness running through her, Francesca crossed the room and left.
Leigh Anne had never called him at work, not even once, and he was seized with fear. “Is it the girls?”
“Rick,” she gasped, and he realized she was highly distressed and close to tears. He did not know when he had last seen her cry, as she was so determined to pretend to be strong in front of him. “They are fine, but it is about the girls!” And he heard her choke on a sob.
He willed himself to be calm. “What happened?” he asked quietly.
He could hear her harsh intake of air. “We had a caller—callers. A man named Mike O’Donnell and his aunt, an older woman named Beth O’Brien.”
He knew the name, but it took him a second to place the weathered blond longshoreman. “Mary O’Shaunessy’s brother,” he said grimly, and his heart quickened with dread.
“Yes, the girls’ uncle—and Mrs. O’Brien is apparently their great-aunt. Rick! Why did he appear after all of this time? What does he want?”
He already suspected what O’Donnell wanted.
The man was a ruffian in every way. He had been difficult during the course of the investigation involving the murders of his sister and wife, during which he had briefly been a suspect.
Bragg and Francesca had learned that he had a quick temper, that he frequented bars and saloons, and that Mary had been afraid of him.
O’Donnell was the kind of thug to take advantage of the new family connection.
Leigh Anne had been through so much. She didn’t need this now.
“Tell me what happened,” he said calmly. “Tell me everything.”
“I don’t want to lose the girls! Did our lawyer file those papers for their legal adoption yet?” Leigh Anne cried, desperation in her tone.
“We won’t lose the girls,” he said firmly, and that he did not doubt. “O’Donnell couldn’t manage his own daughter—last I heard, she was in a foster home. “There’s no reason for you to worry.”
“Katie and Dot have a cousin?” Leigh Anne gasped, and Rick instantly understood her concern.
He sighed. “I will check on her, but O’Donnell did not appear in order to take the girls away from us. Now, tell me what he said.”
He felt her gathering her thoughts and composure. “He was very pleasant, actually, as was Mrs. O’Brien. He says that his sister’s death changed him. He seems to be very devout, Rick.”
Bragg doubted that. “Is that it?”
“He just wanted to visit the girls and make certain they were well. He asked if he could come again. What could I do? He was polite, I had to tell him yes.”
Bragg thought about the visit he would make to Mike O’Donnell. The girls did not need such a thug in their lives. And he doubted that his sister’s death had changed O’Donnell at all, much less that he was suddenly devout. “Did he tell you when he would come again? Did you learn where he lives?”
“I invited him back on Wednesday, so you could meet him.”
“That was very clever, Leigh Anne,” Rick said.
He saw an officer passing in the hall and snapped his fingers at him.
“Hold on,” he told his wife. To the sergeant, he said, “Dig up the case file for the Cross Murders,” he said.
“And find me the last known address of Mike O’Donnell, husband of one of the victims and brother of the other. ”
“Yes, sir,” the beefy sergeant said, exiting.
He returned to the conversation on the telephone.
“Leigh Anne, I don’t want you to worry. O’Donnell’s visit doesn’t change anything.
I will call Mr. Feingold and see if the adoption papers were filed, and I will ask him to speed the process up.
Meanwhile, I want you to think about something else.
Are you still taking the girls to the park? ”
There was a brief silence. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
“I think you should keep to your original plans. It is a beautiful day.”
She hesitated. “Rick, Katie was afraid of her uncle.”
He could imagine why. From what he vaguely recalled, O’Donnell had bullied his wife and sister; he had probably bullied the girls, too. “Leave O’Donnell and the adoption to me,” he said.
“Of course,” Leigh Anne whispered.
“Leigh Anne,” he said quickly, his grasp on the receiver tightening. “I will make it a point to come home at a reasonable hour, no later than six o’clock.”
There was a moment of silence. She said, “I think that is a good idea, Rick. Thank you.”
And oddly, his heart leapt with pleasure at her words.
Francesca had Raoul park her carriage around the block from Daisy’s, out of view of anyone who might look out of the house’s front windows.
She did not wish to be discovered by Rose if she was still at the house.
In order to make certain she could pass incognito, they had made a detour on their way to Daisy’s, stopping at B.
Altman’s. Francesca had bought a ready-made skirt and blouse and had changed out of her own clothes in a dressing room in the store.
She had also purchased a straw bonnet, which she now wore.
At a quick glance, her disguise would do.
Joel would be waiting for her on the corner of Fifth Avenue, a half a block up the street from Daisy’s.
Francesca approached and saw him loitering beneath an elm tree.
Sensing her presence, he turned, saw her and broke into a jog.
“Miz Cahill!” He grinned at her, and she could tell that he was pleased with himself.
She tugged on his ear. “Spill the beans, my fine young man,” she said, using slang she had learned from him.
“I got a neighbor who saw a lady calling on Miz Jones last night before dark, maybe at six or seven o’clock.”
Francesca halted in her tracks, surprised. “Joel! Who is this neighbor and did she get a good look at Daisy’s guest? Daisy was murdered between seven and nine p.m.—maybe she saw the killer!”
Joel continued to grin. “The woman wore a green dress and she had dark hair. She arrived by cab. The neighbor is right there,” he said, pointing to the adjoining house. “Her name is Mrs. Firth.”
Francesca could not move. She voiced her thoughts. “Rose was wearing a green dress last night—Rose has dark hair.” And Rose certainly did not own a carriage. “How well did Mrs. Firth see the caller?”
“She said she only saw her briefly, as she was coming in, herself.”
“Rose still has no alibi,” Francesca said slowly.
Her heart was thundering in her chest. “Perhaps this bit of news will provoke her into revealing the name of the gentleman she says she was with last night.” Had Rose called on Daisy between 6:00 and 7:00 p.m.?
If so, she had had a narrow window in which to have murdered her friend.
Francesca knew she had to consider the possibility that Rose had called on Daisy at six, then gone on to meet her client, returning later, but that scenario felt awkward, oh yes.
She made a mental note to question Rose again, as well as Mrs. Firth.
Although it did not sound likely, it would be a great day indeed if Mrs. Firth could identify Rose as that caller.
And she still wanted to search the house for clues. “Do you know if Rose is at Daisy’s?”