Brenda Joyce - Deadly Illusions

Either that, or she would have to be very, very brave.

Wednesday, April 23, 1902 1:00 p.m.

HAVING COMPOSED HERSELF, Francesca paused before the counter selling soaps and perfumes. A pretty, brunette shopgirl was discussing the merits of a lavender soap with an older, elegant lady. Francesca waited at the counter and stared.

The shopgirl was in her early twenties. Her black dress had a white collar and cuffs and did not quite conceal all of her throat. Today, Francis O’Leary wore no bandage. A pale pink line on her neck indicated that she had been the Slasher’s victim.

The lady opened her purse and took out some coins. Francesca noticed Francis’s rings. On the fourth finger of her left hand, a tiny red stone winked in a band of silver. Francesca wondered if the ring had any significance.

Her soap wrapped and in a small shopping bag, the buyer left. Francis approached Francesca with a smile. “May I help you, miss?”

Francesca smiled in return, handing Francis O’Leary her business card. It read:

Francesca Cahill, Crime-Solver Extraordinaire

No. 810 Fifth Avenue, New York City

All Cases Accepted, No Case too Small

Francis read the card, her dark eyes growing wide. With a small gasp, she looked up. “What is this about?” she said on a note of fear.

“Are you Francis O’Leary?” Francesca asked kindly.

Francis tried to hand her back the card. “Yes, I am! This is about the Slasher?” She seemed panicked.

“You may keep my card, please, in case you need to reach me,” Francesca said. “Yes, this is about the Slasher. I have taken the case, Mrs. O’Leary.”

Francis had paled. “I told the police everything I could,” she whispered.

“Would you mind repeating it all to me?”

She hesitated. “No, I don’t mind…but I am trying to forget it, him!”

Francesca clasped one of her hands. “We must prevent him from striking again. Did you hear that there was a third victim this past Monday—and that she died?”

Francis cried out. “But he did not want to kill me! I am certain of it!”

“How can you be certain?” Francesca asked.

“I’m sure of it! He could have killed me if he had wanted to!”

“Please, Mrs. O’Leary, just tell me what happened.”

Francis hesitated and nodded. She continued to clutch the glass counter, her knuckles white. “I had no idea someone was in my flat. I had worked all day. I was tired, very tired, and hungry.” Tears filled her eyes. “I had bought a loaf of bread on my way home with some dried corned beef. I thought to soak my feet a bit and then eat.”

Francesca wondered if every shopgirl in the city had ill-fitting shoes. “Go on.”

“I unlocked my door, then closed and locked it. I was about to sit down on the sofa when he grabbed me from behind.” Her wide eyes shimmered with the tears that had yet to fall. “He held the knife to my throat, the blade barely touching my skin. He said something in a hoarse whisper, and then he cut me. And then he shoved me away, to the floor. When I looked up, he was gone.”

“The police say you cannot recall his words.”

Francis simply looked at her. The tears fell now.

“I am so sorry to upset you,” Francesca whispered. “But I do not want another woman hurt—or murdered.”

“I dreamed about him last night.”

Francesca was surprised. “What did you dream?”

“It makes no sense. I dreamed he called me a faithless woman.” She looked down at the display beneath the glass countertop. She whispered, not looking up, “I think…I am almost certain that he called me a faithless…bitch.”

Her surprise increased. Francesca leaned forward. “You think that because of your dream or because you can remember his words?”

Francis gazed at her. “It was so real. Like remembering something you should have never forgotten.”

If the Slasher had called her faithless, that would imply that he knew Mrs. O’Leary. “Would you recognize his voice again if you heard it?”

“Yes!” She shivered. “Of course I would.”

Francesca was thoughtful. Then she held up Francis’s left hand. “Is that an engagement ring?”

Francis blushed, smiling. “Yes. My friend gave it to me Saturday. The attack made him realize how much he loves me.”

“Your friend?”

“Sam Wilson. My…husband…died two years ago. There’s been no one since. It’s been so long…and then I met Sam.” She was smiling and clearly in love. “We met in March. March 3rd, to be exact.”

“I am very happy for you,” Francesca said, hiding her surprise. Bragg had told her that Francis’s husband had disappeared over two years ago, clearly having decided to leave his wife. But she was claiming that he was dead—while preparing to marry another man. Did her fiancé, Sam Wilson, know the truth? Francesca wondered. And she could not help but note that Francis had met Sam Wilson a month before the Slasher’s first assault.

“Mrs. O’Leary, the police commissioner told me that your husband abandoned you two years ago. That he simply left one day and never came back.” Francesca stared at the woman.

Francis turned crimson. “Oh,” she said, sitting down on a stool behind the counter. “Oh,” she said again. Tears filled her eyes.

“So he isn’t dead?” Francesca asked, this time gently.

Francis shrugged. “He’s dead to me, Miss Cahill. Please, please don’t tell my fiancé! Sam has made me so happy!” she cried.

“I won’t say a word,” Francesca said. She felt sorry for the young woman now. “Why would anyone, much less the Slasher, label you as faithless?”

Her dark eyes widened. “I wouldn’t know! I adored my husband, Miss Cahill, until the day he left. Until that day, he was a good, solid, honest and hardworking man—or so I thought! I was never faithless to Thomas.”

Until now, Francesca thought silently. She decided to ask Bragg if the police could attempt to locate Francis’s errant husband. “And what about your loyalty to Sam?”

“I would never be faithless to the man in my life. I’ve seen no one but Sam since my husband left me.”

Francesca met the other woman’s unwavering gaze. She did not look away as most liars did, and there was no change in her coloring. Francesca felt rather strongly that Francis had buried her husband some time ago—that, to her, he was really dead. If Francis had been called a faithless bitch, it had probably meant nothing more than the words of a maddened killer. “Mrs. O’Leary, do you have any idea where your husband is? Have you heard from him at all since he left?”

Francis set her jaw. “I have not had a single letter—not a single word! But I do suspect he went West. He was always talking about the open ranges of Texas and California. And Miss Cahill, if he did go out West, well, then he could be dead, couldn’t he? They say that land is a dangerous, lawless place.”

Francesca realized that trying to locate Thomas O’Leary could be like looking for a needle in a haystack. “Let’s get back to the Slasher. You seem to think he was already in your flat when you came in that night.”

“He must have been there, waiting for me.” She shivered, blanching again. “I’m sorry. I can’t forget that man. He was terrifying—at first I thought he meant to kill me!”

“But how would he get into your flat when you left it locked that day?”

“Perhaps he found an open window,” Francis said. “Perhaps I had left a window unlocked. The police said they were all locked, but he could have locked it after entering.”

“It is certainly a possibility, considering you live on the ground floor. Could he have followed you inside? You said you unlocked the door, closed and locked it immediately and only then, when you were about to sit down on the sofa, he assaulted you.”