Brenda Joyce - Deadly Kisses

The telephone, which had been recently installed in the house, rang in the bedroom just beyond her boudoir. Unthinkingly she reached for the wheels, trying to turn them, but she was so weak now. Tears of frustration came when she saw the nurse reach the phone. He was a tall, attractive young man and he said, “One moment, sir. I’ll get her.”

It was Rick, she thought, her heart accelerating, and the oddest combination of dread and anticipation filled her. She wondered if it would always be this way—if a part of her would always yearn for a word from him, a look, his presence.

Mackenzie came into the boudoir. “It’s the commissioner,” he said pleasantly, easily wheeling her into the bedroom. He positioned her near the phone and she reached for the receiver before he could hand it to her, as she was determined not to let anyone see how lost and incapable she had become. But the receiver was large and she was clumsy and it fell to the floor.

Leigh Anne blinked back more tears of frustration as Mackenzie quickly retrieved it, handing it to her.

Leigh Anne inhaled. She was doing her best not to let Rick know how miserable she was. “Rick?”

“Leigh Anne. How are you?” he asked, his tone carefully neutral.

But then, they had become strangers, which was what she wanted now. “I am fine,” she said, aware of the enormity of the lie. “You went out last night,” she said just as neutrally. He had not come to bed last night. Most nights he fell asleep on the sofa in his study, which she preferred—and which she knew he preferred. She had lain in bed, pretending to sleep, wondering if he would join her, afraid that he would, and worse, that he might think to hold her. But instead, someone had come to their front door and he had gone out for the rest of the evening. She was accustomed to police affairs requiring such strange calls.

“There was a matter that required my attention at headquarters,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes,” she lied again, as she doubted she had actually slept more than an hour or two.

“What are you planning to do today?”

She had no plans. She was afraid to resume her old life, as she could not imagine the reaction of her friends if she called in her wheeled chair. She had accepted callers, however. Francesca Cahill called twice a week, and Leigh Anne genuinely liked her—she was very kind, pretending that nothing untoward had happened. Rick’s parents also called frequently—Grace dropped by almost every day. But it had been simply awful when her old friend Countess Bartolla Benevente had called. Leigh Anne knew that the countess had been secretly delighted by her condition. How many other of her old friends would take pleasure in her downfall? “As Katie has finished school, I think we’ll go to the park.”

“It’s a beautiful day. I’ll try to come home earlier,” he said, hesitation in his tone.

She swallowed, almost wanting him to return home at that moment. Images of their past raced through her mind, a jumbled collage of memories, all of them happy, playful or passionate. “If the matter is a serious one, do what you have to do, Rick. You know I don’t mind.”

He was silent, and she wondered if he was relieved or dismayed.

“Do you recall Daisy Jones?” he asked.

Her interest piqued. She understood the caution she heard in his tone, as the telephone operator was undoubtedly listening to their every word. It was the single drawback of the incredible convenience of a telephone—there was no privacy, ever.

Daisy was Calder Hart’s mistress, or she had been, until recently. “Yes, of course.”

Bragg said, “She was murdered last night.”

Leigh Anne gasped. “That is terrible,” she said, meaning it, even though she had never met the other woman.

“I may be late tonight after all,” Rick said, sounding grim.

Leigh Anne had many questions now. As Hart was Rick’s brother, even if they did not get along, she began to worry. “Of course.”

“Thank you for understanding,” he said. “I had better go.”

“Yes,” she said, still stunned by the news of Daisy’s murder. She knew Hart somewhat, but not all that well, and wondered at his reaction to the news.

Leigh Anne replaced the receiver on the phone’s hook. “Mr. Mackenzie? I’ll go downstairs now,” she said, thinking about Francesca now. How was she faring? she wondered. She almost smiled. Francesca was undoubtedly on the case, as no one was more intrepid than she.

As Mackenzie wheeled her out of the bedroom, Leigh Anne realized that Francesca would be working on the case with Rick. She refused to feel any jealousy, because she and Rick had a marriage of convenience and nothing more. But she knew that Rick had been fond of Francesca while they had remained separated, and no matter how she tried, a part of her hated them working together again.

“I’ll have you downstairs in a moment,” Mackenzie said with a smile. The nurse lifted her from the chair to carry her downstairs, Katie behind them. This was the moment Leigh Anne hated the most, when she had no choice but to be in the nurse’s arms as he carried her down the narrow Victorian staircase.

Her cheeks grew hot. This was simply too intimate. Leigh Anne closed her eyes, forcing herself to endure the moment. And for an instant, she imagined herself in Rick’s arms, the strongest, safest haven she had ever known.

But that was not to be. Not ever again.

“I’ll get the chair,” the nurse said, having carried her into the parlor. He placed her on the sofa and left.

Katie was watching her. Sensing her every emotion, she grasped Leigh Anne’s hand. “Mama? Can we go to the park today? You, me and Dot and Papa?” Clearly she had overheard the telephone conversation.

Leigh Anne squeezed her hand. “I am afraid your father is involved in some urgent police affairs,” she said. “But yes, we can go to the park and feed the birds.”

“Papa never goes anywhere with us anymore!” Katie cried. “Mrs. Flowers can make us a picnic and we can fish, the way we did the last time he came with us.”

Leigh Anne stiffened. The last time they had had a picnic, she had left, unable to bear such a family occasion, and Francesca Cahill had taken her place. Rick would probably still be in love with the other woman if they had not reconciled—a reconciliation Leigh Anne had forced him into.

If not for the girls, she would leave him and set him free.

Their single servant, Peter, a tall Swede, appeared on the parlor’s threshold. “Mrs. Bragg? You have two callers.”

Leigh Anne arranged her face into a smile. “Who is it, Peter?” she asked, filled with dread. If it was Bartolla Benevente, she would send her away.

“It’s a man and a woman, Mrs. Bragg. He claims to be the girls’ uncle.”

Leigh Anne seized Katie’s hand. “But that’s impossible!” The girls had no family.

“He says he’s Mike O’Donnell.” Peter was grave. “I can send him and the woman away.”

Leigh Anne began to shake. “No, no, send them in. We must find out what he wants.”

A SHORT, POWERFULLY BUILT Spaniard, Raoul had been far more than Hart’s driver and valet—he had been Hart’s bodyguard. Now he was Francesca’s personal driver. Francesca had no delusions that, given the nature of her work, Hart wished to offer her protection at all times. Having been in dire jeopardy more than once, Francesca did not mind having such a driver. Now Raoul was driving Francesca downtown amid numerous drays, carts and wagons. The Lower East Side was as different from Fifth Avenue as night from day. Hers was the only elegant passenger vehicle on the cobbled street. Numerous vendors were hawking bolts of cloth, tallow for candles and lye soap, and other wares, and the pedestrians on the sidewalks were mostly women in aprons, carrying small children or groceries. Laundry lines were hanging from window to window. A gang of adolescent boys was playing a hard game of stickball. Even on Avenue A, the noise from the Third Avenue Elevated could be heard and its smoke and soot cast a gray pallor everywhere. Finally the coach halted.