Chapter 17 #3
Rourke nodded. “She is resting now, but you both should know that she was attacked this afternoon.”
Connie had insisted that they play cards.
Francesca had never liked card games and thus far, her sister had won every hand while she brooded about the nature of her attack and the identity of her attacker, the money from Albany, and Gillespie’s lie that he did not know about Daisy.
She had removed her shoes and stockings and she remained seated on the sofa, her legs folded up beneath her skirts.
Her head barely throbbed now. One conclusion was inescapable.
The money was tied to Daisy’s murder. Otherwise, why would anyone try to stop her from uncovering the source of the funds?
And had the assault been a warning—or an attack with lethal intent?
Connie sighed as someone pounded on the front door. “Gin. That must be Hart.” She laid her hand down on the ottoman that was between them.
Francesca thought so, too. Then she heard voices in the hall. Bragg was asking for her and she was disappointed. Still, they had to discuss the case, and the sooner the better.
Connie gave her a look. “It’s the police commissioner,” she said softly. She stood and went to the doorway. Bragg and Hart appeared there. She greeted them and slipped out.
Hart’s gaze instantly connected with Francesca. He was clearly distressed. Before he could say a word, she smiled at him. “I am fine.”
He strode past Bragg. “You are not fine!” he exclaimed. “Rourke told me you have been hit on the head. He thinks it possible that you have a concussion! What happened?” He sat in the chair her sister had vacated, taking her hand, his gaze on her face.
She felt certain he did not know that he had reached for her hand. “I was leaving the bank where Daisy had her account,” she said. “Someone hit me on the back of the head with a sterling cup. I was hailing Raoul. Apparently, he saw the entire incident and he carried me to the coach.”
“I may dismiss him for this,” Hart said with tightly controlled fury. “He is supposed to protect you!”
“How could he stop the assault?” Francesca cried. “He was waiting in the street and I was on the sidewalk. This isn’t his fault.”
“Did you see the assailant?” Bragg asked quietly.
She met his gaze. “No. I saw his or her gloved hand—and we found a man’s dented shaving cup on the street.
Raoul glimpsed the attacker from a distance and thinks it might have been a woman, or a slender, short man.
Rick, Gillespie is on the short side and he is of medium build.
The assailant wore an overcoat and fedora. ”
“You think the attacker was Judge Gillespie?” Hart asked sharply.
“Someone doesn’t want me investigating the deposits Daisy made in May. So I am sure they are tied into Daisy’s murder,” Francesca said eagerly.
Bragg and Hart exchanged a glance.
“I have saved the real news!” Looking back and forth between both men, she smiled. “The money was a bank check—from First Federal of Albany.”
Bragg’s brows arched upward. “That could mean Gillespie was giving his daughter some additional funds. Now we have proof that he did know all about Honora’s new life. You were right—he lied to you and to the police.”
“Oh, it gets even better! Homer has told me that Gillespie came to see Daisy at her house twice in May.” She grinned, waiting for both men to react. When neither spoke, she said, “Has Gillespie climbed to the top of your list of suspects?”
“Obviously,” Bragg said somberly. “Francesca, he may have lied about knowing Daisy merely to protect his reputation.”
“He may have killed to protect his reputation,” Francesca said to him, desperately wanting Hart off that list.
Hart understood. He stood, releasing her hand. “Francesca, I also have news. The knife the police found in my coach was not the murder weapon.”
Francesca was thrilled.
“But I happen to agree with Rick,” Hart said grimly.
“Gillespie would not be the first father to benevolently send his daughter funds. It is a rather common gesture. I was hoping the deposits would lead us to someone Daisy was blackmailing—someone who had motive, someone who wanted Daisy dead. I cannot imagine Gillespie murdering his own child.”
Francesca wanted to take his hand, but he had paced away, his expression strained.
She studied him for a moment before looking at Bragg.
“Rick, Daisy has had no clients since February, when she became Calder’s mistress.
It is unlikely an old client decided to suddenly murder her, and, anyway, we have ruled out the clients who were consistently involved with her.
Very little has happened in her life since February.
Then, in May, for the first time in eight years—or at least, that is how it appears—her father visits her twice.
He gives her a large sum of money, twice. A few weeks later, she is dead.”
He understood. “Do you think she was blackmailing her own father?”
Francesca hesitated. “I can’t help it!” she exclaimed.
“She hated home enough to run away and become a prostitute. That is beyond extreme! She wasn’t mildly unhappy—she had to have been miserable.
And what mementos did she keep for eight years?
Clippings of her father! I think she may have been obsessed with him.
I think she may have hated him! What other conclusion is there? ”
“We simply don’t know that she hated him, and certainly not enough to blackmail him,” Bragg said.
“We need to speak to Gillespie and trap him in his lies,” Francesca said.
“Daisy may have loved her father,” Hart said bluntly, facing them. “She may have missed him and her family and that is why she kept the clippings.”
“Then why run away in the first place?” Francesca asked.
“Something is very wrong in that family. By the way, Lydia also admitted that Daisy left her a letter, telling her she was never returning home. Oddly, she never showed that letter to her parents or the police. I think she knows even more than she has told me.”
Hart resumed his seat beside her, taking her hand again. “You need to rest,” he said quietly. “These are good clues, but I mean it. You must rest, Francesca.”
“I am resting,” she said, feeling hopeful. He had come running to her side, just as she had wanted. “Calder, you were framed. That is very good news, is it not?”
“Yes, it is.”
She longed to move into his arms, overcome with her feelings for him. She glanced at Bragg. “Well, if that isn’t proof of his innocence, what is?”
Bragg eyed her and then turned away, pacing to the marble fireplace.
Francesca pressed further. “It is highly unlikely that he murdered Daisy and some extraneous person decided to frame him, as well!”
“It is highly unlikely,” he agreed, glancing once at his brother. “But stranger events have happened.”
“Rick,” Francesca said. “Do you want to meet me tomorrow at the Gillespies’?”
“Why don’t you come to headquarters at noon? I’ll have Newman bring him in for questioning then.”
She nodded. “Meanwhile, tomorrow you need to send a telegram to First Federal in Albany. Direct them to reveal who ordered those two bank checks. We can lock that lead up.”
He walked to her. “I’ll have it done by the time the banks open,” he said. He leaned down, squeezing her hand. “Try to follow Rourke’s advice, Francesca. A concussion is no laughing matter. Get some rest and we’ll work on Gillespie tomorrow.”
She would always be pleased by his concern, she thought. “I have every intention of obeying the doctor’s orders,” she said with a smile. “And Rick? I’d like to see that report on the knife tomorrow.”
“Of course.” He glanced at Hart. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, his demeanor strained.
Hart shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”
Bragg hesitated. “I am very grateful,” he said. And then he left.
Francesca studied Hart, who turned his dark blue eyes back on her. “What was that about?”
He touched her cheek briefly. “That,” he said, “was about a private matter between Rick and myself.”
“You lent him the money!”
He sat back in his chair, just eyeing her. Finally he said, “Can the matter remain a private one, between me and my brother?”
She nodded, thrilled. “You did the right thing, Calder.”
His face changed. Abruptly, a haunted look appeared in his eyes. “Do not award me another prize for nobility,” he said, and suddenly he rubbed his face with his hands.
When he had first come into the room, he had been distressed because of her condition. But Francesca knew him very well now. She saw that he remained upset, but the matter was a different one entirely. “Has something happened that I should know about?” she asked very quietly, reaching for his hand.
He leapt to his feet and away from her. “Nothing has happened. I have to go. It is late.” He forced a smile. It did not reach his eyes. “You need to rest, and I am keeping you.”
She did not want him to leave and not like this. “I am supposed to rest but I am not allowed to fall asleep,” she said softly. “Can’t you keep me company for a while? Although, Connie and Neil are going to take shifts to make certain I don’t sleep at all tonight.”
His eyes widened. “Rourke is that worried?” Instantly he sat back down. “Of course I’ll stay. Damn it, Francesca,” he began.
She knew he was going to complain about the attack and the nature of her work. She touched his lips with her finger. “It was a tap. Rourke is being overly protective. I am fine.”
Agony shimmered in his eyes. “I cannot lose you, too. Maybe I have been wrong, to be so supportive of your independence and sleuthing.”
She was startled. “You are not going to lose me.” And she thought then about the child he had just lost.
But he was staring at his knees, rubbing his jaw. “I am sorry. I have to go.” And he stood, unexpectedly starting across the room, his strides long and hard.
Francesca leapt up, racing after him in her bare feet. “Calder, wait!”