Brenda Joyce - Deadly Kisses

Kurland stared. “This is very interesting, indeed! And where did you say you had dinner?”

Francesca smiled. “It was a private affair.” She had no friends who lived downtown who would fabricate for her, but a maître d’ could be paid off. “We took a private room at Louis’,” she said, using the correct French pronunciation of the formal downtown restaurant.

Kurland suddenly smiled and shook his head. “So you are Hart’s alibi, and he is yours.”

“Excuse me?”

“Miss Cahill. Surely you must realize, with all of your vast experience, that you are as much a suspect as Hart?”

Francesca stared, her heart accelerating. “Just what are you trying to say?”

“I heard the rumor that Daisy’s body was discovered independently by Hart and by Rose Cooper. I have heard no whispers that you were with Hart, although I had been told you were at HQ last night, looking into the case.”

“I don’t know who your sources are,” Francesca said flatly, “but I would not rely too heavily on them. And no one has pointed a finger my way.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t imagine Bragg allowing that,” Kurland said with heavy significance. “But I bet he wouldn’t mind pointing the finger at your fiancé.” He grinned.

Unfortunately, Kurland had caught her and Bragg in a somewhat compromising situation, well before Leigh Anne had returned from Europe to reconcile with him. “I am not involved,” Francesca said. “You may think what you want, but in the end, the truth will out.”

“Yes, in the end, I will learn the truth—every grisly aspect of it.” Kurland slipped his notepad into his jacket. “I do appreciate your candor, Miss Cahill.” He tipped his fedora at her.

Francesca turned to walk him to the door. In the hall, he paused, and Francesca tensed.

“Of course, I have only just begun to dig,” he said. “And there is one more possible theory.”

“I’m sure there are many theories,” Francesca said.

“Perhaps you and Hart conspired to murder Miss Jones together?” he asked pleasantly.

“Hart has conspired to murder no one, Mr. Kurland, but if you wish to cast stones at me, so be it. I am not afraid of your slander,” Francesca said. She did not wait for the doorman, but jerked the heavy front door open herself. “Good day.”

“I hardly mean to upset you, Miss Cahill, but you and Hart had the most to gain from the death of his mistress.”

“Good day, Mr. Kurland.” She finally lost her compo sure and slammed the door closed in his face. Then she stood there, staring at the beautiful grain of chestnut-hued wood, her heart hammering hard and fast. Kurland would probably learn the real facts of the case by the end of the day. He might be scum, but he was a tenacious and skilled reporter. That did not give her much time to unearth a valid suspect. Francesca had little doubt that if she did not find someone other than Hart with motive and means, to morrow’s headlines would be very distasteful, indeed.

“Francesca!”

Francesca stiffened in disbelief. Her mother could not be standing behind her now. Although Julia was an early riser, she never left her rooms before eleven, preferring to take care of all of her correspondence in the mornings.

“Francesca!” Julia clasped her shoulder from behind.

Francesca turned, aghast, to face her stricken mother. “What—what are you doing up and about at this hour?”

“I wanted to speak with your father before he left the house,” Julia cried. “Hart’s mistress is dead? Murdered?”

Francesca’s mind raced. Her mother knew everything that happened in society. Of course, she would know about Hart’s relationship with Daisy. Yet she had been Hart’s biggest supporter and was so favorably disposed toward their marriage that Francesca had some how assumed that she hadn’t known about Daisy. She managed, “She was his ex-mistress, Mama. And yes, she was murdered last night.”

Julia moaned. “And you and Hart are suspects?”

“Mama!” Francesca put her arm around her. “We are not suspects! Hart discovered the body, but Daisy’s friend, Rose Cooper, actually found her first. Mama, I am investigating the case. So far, there are no suspects. We don’t even have an autopsy report.”

But Julia was shaking her head. “How could you allow that man into the house! His articles are scurrilous!”

“I know. I wanted to make certain he did not jump to the wrong conclusions.”

Francesca knew what her mother was thinking—that Francesca wanted to make certain he did not suspect Hart. “Mama, please don’t worry. I am going to find Daisy’s killer.”

“Don’t worry. Of course I am worried. And not just because you are about to put yourself in all kinds of danger once again. Francesca, this scandal will be too much to bear!”

“Mama! Hart is innocent!”

Julia gave her an anguished look. “When the scandal breaks, it won’t even matter.”

FRANCESCA DECIDED TO TRY to catch Hart before he left for his offices, which were at the tip of Manhattan on Bridge Street. Hart had recently built a huge home for himself a dozen blocks farther uptown from the Cahill home. It had cost millions, and it rose up out of the wilderness of upper Manhattan like a royal palace. Sweeping lawns and lush gardens surrounded the house, and farther back on the property was a large pond, tennis courts and a redbrick stable. When Francesca had first met Hart, he had been living alone. She hadn’t been able to understand how any human being could reside by oneself in such a huge home, with only staff for company, or why anyone would even want such a secluded and lonely existence. Had Hart not been so arrogant, she would have felt sorry for him.

He did not live alone now. His stepfather and step mother, Rathe and Grace Bragg, had recently returned to the city, and were currently building a new and very modern home of their own. They had moved in with Hart some time ago. His nephew, Nicholas D’Archand, had also moved to the city and was attending Columbia University, and from time to time his various stepbrothers or his stepsister would also appear. Francesca was thrilled for Hart. He might deny it, but she felt strongly that being surrounded by family was the best thing possible for him.

Now, with the coach Hart had bought for her parked in front of the house, Francesca rapped on the front door. Hart worked long hours and slept little, but often he would work at his home in the early mornings. Still, it was a quarter to nine now and she was afraid he was already gone.

Alfred greeted her almost instantly. “Miss Cahill!” He beamed, clearly pleased to see his employer’s fiancée and no longer trying to hide his feelings about their union. “Do come inside.”

“Good morning, Alfred,” Francesca said, dashing into the huge front hall where a great deal of Hart’s art collection was displayed, including a shocking nude sculpture and a very sacrilegious Caravaggio. “Have I missed Calder?”

“I am afraid so. In fact, Mr. D’Archand has already left for the day and Mr. and Mrs. Bragg are in Newport for two weeks. However, Mr. Rourke is in residence. He arrived two days ago and he has yet to leave,” the dapper, balding butler replied.

Francesca bit her lip, debating whether to send Hart a note. She had too much on her agenda for that day to travel all the way downtown to Lower Manhattan—even on an elevated railway, the trip would take a good forty-five minutes or so.

“Shall I summon Mr. Rourke? He is in the breakfast room.”

“Alfred, that’s quite all right.” Francesca smiled. “I am on an investigation. I will show myself into the library and write Hart a note.” Hart should be told of Kurland’s visit. Thus far, Francesca had tried to avoid letting Hart know how bothersome and even malicious the newsman was. She had been afraid that Kurland would reveal the extent of her past relationship with Rick Bragg, but that did not matter now. Mama was right. If a scandal broke, it could destroy everyone. “But I do have a question or two I should like to ask you.”