Chapter 6 #4
“I saw her leave at least an hour ago,” Joel said. “Don’t you want to talk to her?”
“I do, but what I really want to do is search the house for any clues Daisy might have left behind as to her past, or other significant people in her life.” Francesca tried not to think about the fact that searching the premises could be construed by the police as interference in their official investigation.
She had briefly debated telling Bragg what she intended, but then she had decided against it.
He had been very preoccupied when she had left.
If she found something useful, she would certainly share it with him, she just wanted to analyze whatever she might find by herself first. Her every instinct told her to proceed alone now, just in case more incriminating evidence against Hart surfaced.
As she and Joel started for the house, she said, “Does Mrs. Firth know how long the caller stayed?”
“I didn’t think to ask,” Joel said, clearly dismayed. “Darn!”
She patted his back. “You have done a wonderful bit of sleuthing today. Now, how can we sneak inside without alerting the staff?”
“They got a back entrance to the kitchens, but I wouldn’t use that. There’s a door on the terrace by the back gardens. It was open earlier, Miz Cahill.”
Several moments later they had stolen past the delivery entrance without being remarked, had crossed the rioting gardens out back, and slipped into the house via the French doors on the terrace.
There was no sign of staff. Francesca imagined they were worried about their future and that continuing their daily routine was the last thing on their minds.
At the bottom of the stairs, Francesca told Joel to hide behind an ornamental urn. “If you see anyone come in, make a ruckus so I can try to slip out without being detected. I am going upstairs to Daisy’s private rooms.”
Joel grinned and took a beautiful porcelain box off a nearby side table. He slipped it into his pocket and said, “Don’t worry. I got my story all fabry-cated.”
She patted his back and raced upstairs.
Once there, she quickly found Daisy’s suite of rooms. Her sitting room was an elegant blend of cream, ivory and gold tones, just as Daisy had been.
For one moment, as she paused on the threshold, she could see Hart standing by the white marble mantel, a Scotch in hand, with Daisy sensuously seated on the sofa in some kind of revealing peignoir.
She shook her head to clear it of such provocative thoughts.
She had work to do. If something was here, some clue as to Daisy’s past or the killer’s identity, she intended to find it. She did not know how much time she had. A glance at the gilded clock on a side table told her it was a minute before 2:00 p.m.
Francesca crossed the room to where a secretaire stood.
It was a delicate seventeenth-century piece of furniture, and she quickly checked the three drawers and the six cubbyholes.
She did not think Daisy would stash any important information about herself in such an obvious place, and her search was a cursory one.
Most of the papers were bills, but one drawer was filled with bank statements.
Francesca stared at the neatly wrapped stack, tied with a red ribbon, and a tingle swept over her.
Hart had been keeping her; he must know all about her finances.
Still, she could not help herself, even though she felt as if she were somehow violating his privacy. She took the bundle of bank statements.
Setting them aside, she began to search for a calendar. Everyone kept a calendar, but Francesca could not find one in the secretaire. Maybe Daisy had kept her agenda downstairs in the study, where she had died.
Francesca continued her search. She checked under the sitting room’s furniture, beneath pillows and cushions, behind the pale cream-and-gold velvet draperies. Francesca swiftly moved into the bedroom, glancing at the gilded clock once more as she did so. It was eight minutes past two.
The bedroom gave her pause, her gaze instantly drawn to the canopied bed in its midst. It was covered in gold silk covers, with gold-and-burgundy velvet pillows and gold-velvet hangings. Hart had spent a number of nights in that bed.
She hated the very notion. She did not want to keep thinking about their affair. It had been over for months. Why had Bragg so cruelly suggested that it wasn’t over? If only Hart would tell them why he had gone to see Daisy last night!
Trying not to think about it, Francesca glanced grimly around the rest of the spacious and elegant bedroom.
She saw the armoire and the closet; if she were to hide something very important, it would be in one of those two places.
She went purposefully to the armoire and rifled through a dozen silk underthings and several dozen peignoirs, trying to shut down her mind now.
And beneath a neat pile of lacy white drawers and matching garters, her hand touched cardboard.
She jerked. This could be interesting, indeed.
Francesca shoved all of the underwear aside, revealing a cardboard box. It was about eight or nine inches wide by eleven or twelve inches long—the kind of box that could accommodate standard sheets of papers or standard business documents.
Her heart racing, she took the box, saw it was not sealed and removed the cover. A jumble of folded newspapers met her wide gaze.
Francesca went to the bed, removing the first piece of newspaper. It was a newspaper clipping, an entire page that had been carefully cut out of the Albany Times. It was dated February 3, 1902, and there were several articles on the page, all political in nature.
She reached for the next page. It was also from the Albany Times, but dated a year earlier. The name Judge Richard Gillespie leapt out at her. Hadn’t she seen that name in the first clipping? She went to the first clipping, and saw a small paragraph about Gillespie’s recent court decision.
The next clipping was from the New York Times, dated 1899, and it was a social page. One column was devoted to a charity event held by the Astors. Judge Richard Gillespie from Albany, New York, had been an honored guest.
Francesca did not want to interfere with the order that the clippings had been placed in the box, as it seemed to be chronological, so she carefully looked at three more pieces of newspapers.
Most were from the Albany Times, but one was from the Tribune.
Every page had an article about or mentioning Judge Gillespie.
She had hit the jackpot.
Francesca replaced the clippings in the order in which they had been removed, trembling with excitement.
She had no idea why Gillespie was important to Daisy, but she would find out, oh yes, and soon!
In fact, she would read every single article in the box, as quickly as possible.
And if she had to, she would take the next train to Albany and speak with Gillespie directly.
But that plan, of course, was jumping the gun. Still, there was a connection. Now she merely had to reveal exactly what kind of connection it was. Replacing the cover on the box, Francesca heard a huge crash coming from the front hall downstairs.
Her heart skipped. Joel was making the ruckus she had requested, which meant that someone was downstairs. She hoped it was not a police officer.
The box in hand, she ran into the sitting room, seizing the bundle of bank statements. Then she rushed to the closest window and peered outside.
She was on the second floor, but the window of the sitting room opened onto the back gardens.
Francesca quickly put the bank statements in the box, using the red ribbon to tie the box closed.
Then she pushed the window open, and holding her breath, she let the box fall.
She was relieved when she saw that it had landed in a shrub, the bush breaking its fall.
The box had not opened, and it remained perched precariously there.
She slammed the window closed and fled across the room. She began to dash out the door, but as she did so, Rose came inside, causing both women to collide.
“What are you doing here?” Rose cried.
Francesca steadied herself, scrambling for an answer.