Brenda Joyce - Deadly Illusions

She whirled and they were face-to-face, mere inches separating them, her back to the stove.

For one moment, he did not move, impossibly aware of her, realizing that she wore the faintest scent, floral and sweet. Then he stepped aside. “I beg your pardon,” he murmured, glancing into the pot. She was making a stew, a few potatoes and onions simmering with some bones. There was no meat to be seen.

Maggie had scurried to the kitchen table and grasped the back of a chair. “Have you had supper?” she said very breathlessly. “I mean, we do not have much, but you are welcome to dine with us.”

He knew he had made her nervous and he hated that she was so skittish around him. Maybe she sensed his admiration could have been something more, if the circumstances had been different. Suddenly, he wished that the circumstances were different.

Confusion stunned him.

“Mr. Cahill?” she asked.

He leaped away from the stove, smiling. But he remained shaken. “I’d like to take you and the children to supper,” he said.

Her eyes widened.

Now that he had spoken, he liked the idea. He’d put a huge meal into them all.

“You want to take us to supper? You mean, to a restaurant?”

“Yes, that is what I mean. We should wait for Joel,” he decided.

Maggie hugged herself. “I can’t accept.”

His smile vanished. “Mag—Mrs. Kennedy, please. I’m hungry, and not in the mood for soup. A nice beef roast would do.” He smiled encouragingly now and could almost feel her mouth water.

“Surely you did not come all this way to take my family to dinner?”

He became sober. “Francesca told me about your neighbor.” Then he glanced at the children. “I’d like to find a private moment to discuss this with you.”

She bit her lip, also glancing at the two boys, who were playing with some toy soldiers, all in Confederate gray. “It is very unsettling,” she whispered.

He walked directly to her and took her hand. He also lowered his voice. “Two doors down, Maggie? It’s not acceptable. I must insist that you take my sister up on her offer.”

A mulish expression appeared on Maggie’s face. “I know that Francesca means well, as do you, but we are not a case for charity.” Her tone rose with some anger.

And he was as angry. Still, he fought to keep his voice down. “This is not about charity. This is about the safety of your children and your own safety, too.”

“I have thought about it. On Monday we will stay with my brother-in-law.”

He started, surprised. And while he would prefer her to be safe and sound in the Cahill home uptown, this was better than nothing. “Where does he live?”

“A bit farther uptown, right on the East River at Twentieth Street. He won’t mind. Since my husband died, he is the only family we have here in the city. He’s a good man and very fond of the children,” she added.

“You would be safer uptown,” he said, and by that he meant Fifth Avenue and Sixty-first Street where the Cahill mansion and his own home, now abandoned, were.

“I heard that all of the victims lived between Tenth and Twelfth Streets. My brother-in-law’s flat is far from this vicinity,” she said stubbornly.

He sighed. “I can hardly twist your arm.”

“No, you cannot.” And then she softened. “Do not misunderstand. I truly appreciate your concern. Really.”

“I will surrender—but only if you agree to have supper with me,” he said. The moment he realized how flirtatious his tone had become, he tensed. “With the children,” he added quickly.

She stared. “I…I don’t know,” she said helplessly.

He had been chasing and seducing women his entire adult life. Taking her hand was sheer instinct. “It’s only supper, Mrs. Kennedy. One you and your children shall thoroughly enjoy.” The same instinct widened his smile and intensified his persuasive stare.

Her cheeks turning red, she tore her glance away. “While we wait for Joel,” she said, low, “I’d like to tidy up the children.”

He had won. Grinning, he realized he held her hand and almost lifted it to his lips. Instead, he released it. “I’ll go see if I can find Joel,” he said, still smiling.

Maggie nodded, slipped past him and called for the two boys.

“CAN I GIVE YOU a lift home?” Bragg asked as they paused before his motorcar. Night had fallen, a pleasant warm evening filled with winking stars and the remnants of last night’s full moon.

“Actually, I have to stop at Sarah’s.” Her friend, the artist Sarah Channing, had sent a note that morning asking Francesca to come by at her earliest convenience.

“I’ll drop you there, then,” Bragg said with a smile. He walked around the car and held open the passenger door for her.

Francesca got in, picking up the spare pair of goggles. He closed the door, cranked the motor and then got in beside her. Their interview of Bridget had not produced any further clues. The child had not seen or heard anything Monday afternoon, which was frankly a blessing. They did not need Bridget to have any knowledge of the murder that might put her in danger. Gwen had arrived home shortly after their talk with her daughter.

As Bragg turned onto Tenth Street, she turned toward him. “I feel sorry for Gwen O’Neil.”

“Why? Because she fell foolishly in love with a man she should have never looked twice at?”

They had spoken with Gwen, as well. “Lord Randolph was her employer! Any attraction on his part was as faulty as any on hers. But now I know why she does not have references,” she said. Still, it had been apparent from Gwen’s expression and tone that she had fallen in love with the Irish aristocrat and that she loved him still. Francesca felt certain that he was a cad. She had quickly sensed that they had been lovers. No wonder her husband, David Hanrahan, had tried to kill Randolph. Gwen had been using her maiden name since leaving her husband.

But was he still incarcerated in Limerick, or was he now in the city? If he had arrived in New York, then he was on her exceedingly short list of suspects.

“Why are you concerned about her lack of references?”

“I intend to find her better employment, as a lady’s maid,” she said.

Bragg smiled. “Will you become involved with each victim or near victim on every single case we work on?”

She faced him fully and his smile faded. Softly, she said, “You are implying that there will be more cases for us, Rick.”

He finally glanced at her. “I doubt you will give up your newfound profession. And while I am currently police commissioner, I will not turn my back on you should you ever need my aid.”

Francesca stared, touched. But what was he implying? “You sound as if you are not certain of your future.”

“I’m not,” he said. “You are aware of the politics surrounding my job. I may be out of my position far sooner than I would choose, before I can really make the changes this department needs.”

Francesca forgot about their investigation for a moment. The press had begun to note the increase in activity of the city’s saloons and so-called hotels on Sundays. One of the hot test debates in the city since Bragg’s appointment was whether or not to enforce the blue laws against serving liquor on the Sabbath. That issue was constantly fueled by the clergy and the goo-goos—the good government reform movement. Early in his term Bragg had closed a number of establishments violating those laws; recently, the police department seemed to be looking the other way at those infractions. “Is it true? Have the police begun to ignore the Sunday saloon openings?”

He sighed heavily. “We have been selectively enforcing the law, Francesca, and only closing the worst offenders. Low asked me to ease up.”