Brenda Joyce - Deadly Kisses

He took her hand again. “I told you—after Rose came in, I was looking for her killer.”

“I know. And I believe you. I just want you off their list of suspects.”

“You lied to Rick for me.”

“I hated lying to him, but we are engaged,” she said softly. “I will always be on your side, first and foremost.”

His gaze moved slowly over her face. “I think I am finally beginning to understand that, Francesca,” he said. He hesitated. “I am grateful.”

She smiled warmly at him. “I don’t want your gratitude.”

He stared another moment, then faced his window, his face becoming a hard, tight mask of controlled emotion.

Her smile vanished. She knew his thoughts had veered away from her to the murder—and perhaps to the private matter he had wished to discuss with Daisy—and she could not help thinking that Hart was hiding something from her.

She was afraid.

FRANCESCA PASSED A MOSTLY sleepless night. At eight in the morning, dressed in her usual no-nonsense navy blue suit, she stared at her pale reflection in the mirror of her boudoir. She had thought about Daisy’s gruesome murder all night, endlessly analyzing the little evidence she currently had. Maybe today Hart would tell her why he had called on Daisy. Maybe she would find a new lead, one that would point her in the direction of the real killer. As distasteful as it was, she had to acknowledge that Rose’s behavior that evening had been odd and suspicious. Francesca could not come to terms with the concept of Rose murdering her best friend and lover, but she was clearly on the police’s list of suspects and she would have to be considered a possible perpetrator. She could certainly deflect attention from Hart. Instead of worrying about what Hart might be hiding, she was going to focus all of her attention and efforts on finding the brutal killer. Sooner rather than later, she would interview Rose at length.

Francesca added some pins to her jaunty blue hat and left the dressing room, her long dark skirts swirling about her. She grabbed her reticule as she left the bedroom, having already placed her small derringer inside. A servant was coming up the corridor toward her. “Miss Cahill? You have a caller.”

Francesca was taken aback. A call at eight in the morning was unheard of. This had to be urgent. “Is it Hart?”

The servant handed her a business card. “It is a Mr. Arthur Kurland, ma’am.”

Francesca was filled with surprise and anger. Kurland was a newsman from the Sun. Usually he accosted her outside of her home or on the street. He had never dared to call in such a social way before.

“Should I send him away, ma’am?”

Francesca was certain he had learned of Daisy’s murder. Half of the city’s newsmen kept shop in a brown stone right across the street from headquarters, on the lookout for a hot scoop. As he seemed to have some kind of personal animosity toward Francesca, he had surely come to gloat over the fact that the murder victim was Hart’s ex-mistress. Francesca had no doubt he had come to pry for information.

Oh, she would see him, all right. She would carefully feed him misinformation that pointed him in any direction but Hart’s. “No. Where is my father?”

“He is in the breakfast room.”

Francesca quickly led the way downstairs. She did not want Andrew learning of Daisy’s murder, not until the police had an official suspect, other than Hart. Francesca had little doubt that if Andrew learned of the murder now, it would put the final nail in the coffin of his disapproval of her engagement. He would never give Hart another chance. “I’ll entertain Mr. Kurland in the Blue Room, Mary. Bring two cups of coffee, please.” As she entered the spacious front hall, she pinched her cheeks, regretting her earlier decision to forgo rouge.

She must not let Kurland suspect that anything was wrong. So she smiled, sailing forward to where he waited at the hall’s other end, by the front door. His brows slowly rose as she paused before him and he carefully scrutinized her face.

Francesca hoped she did not look exhausted or distressed. “Good morning, Mr. Kurland. My, this is a surprise.”

He was a slim man in his thirties with brownish hair and wearing an ill-fitting, equally brownish suit. He grinned. “I think the surprise is mine. You’re not going to give me the boot?”

“If you are calling in such a pleasant manner, there must be an interesting matter to discuss.” She gestured and he preceded her into a pale blue room with mint-green ceilings, gilded paneling and several lush seating arrangements. He paused before the large white-and-gold marble fireplace. Francesca closed the mahogany doors behind her.

“I don’t know if murder should be described as interesting, except that maybe it is interesting to you, because you are a sleuth.” He smiled widely. “Come, do not play innocent with me!”

“Are we discussing the terrible, untimely demise of Miss Jones?” Francesca asked in a neutral tone.

“Yes, we are discussing the murder of your fiancé’s mistress,” Kurland said, regarding her closely.

Francesca’s smile felt so brittle she did not know how long she could maintain it. “Mr. Kurland, everyone knows that Hart ended his affair three months ago, when we became engaged.”

He rolled his eyes. “For such a smart investigator, you are awfully naive.”

She tried to control her slowly rising temper. “I do believe I know Mr. Hart a bit better than you do. I would hardly agree to marry him if he were the cad society thinks him to be.”

“Indeed, I’ll bet a month’s wages that you know him better than me!” He laughed, the implication clear.

Francesca fought to contain her temper. “If you wish to think Hart so immoral as to keep a mistress while engaged, so be it. But I find it hard to believe you have come all this way uptown to discuss Hart’s private affairs.”

“But that is exactly why I have come, Miss Cahill,” Kurland exclaimed. He was eager now. “Good lord, the man’s mistress—all right, his ex-mistress!—has been murdered. This smacks of being a true crime of passion. Hart wouldn’t be the first man to rid himself of an un wanted mistress.”

Francesca trembled, her fists clenched. “Did you come here to accuse my fiancé of murder?”

He sobered. “Nope. I came here to ask you how you feel about it—the murder, I mean, of such a rival.”

She inhaled. “Daisy was my friend,” she lied. “We were friends before I ever became engaged to Hart, and I am going to find her killer.” She still could not decide just how much Kurland knew. “But I do agree with you on one point. I saw the body. It was a vicious and brutal crime of passion.”

“You saw the body?” Kurland repeated eagerly.

Francesca was relieved. He obviously had no details of the murder. Of course, eventually he would uncover every detail, she had no doubt, but she would take all of the time that he could give her. “I found the body,” she said, then she corrected herself. “Actually, we found the body.”

Kurland whipped out a notepad and pencil. “We?” he echoed. “Surely you do not mean you and Hart?”

“I do,” Francesca said smoothly, although her cheeks felt hot. “Hart and I had been out to supper. He had some papers to drop off at Daisy’s. You surely know that she was living in a house he provided. In spite of the end of their affair, he had agreed she could stay on until July.”

“So I’ve heard,” Kurland said. “And at what time did you find Miss Jones?”

“It was about midnight.” Francesca described how she had found Daisy, but did not mention Rose’s presence. “We left the body and split up to look for the killer, but he or she was long since gone. When we returned, Rose was with Daisy.”