Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] Page 6

  Schmitt looked up, silent, his gaze impossible to read.

  Francesca was puzzled. “You do know that the O’Hares sent Emily here to your store, last Monday, around four, but she not only never bought the bread she was sent for, she was never seen again.”

  “I know. Beth, please go and start unpacking the dried fruit that just came in.”

  Something was amiss. Francesca turned and saw Beth, now very flushed, staring at her. She instantly rushed behind the counter and into a back room.

  Schmitt smiled proudly. “That’s my daughter,” he said. “I’m really sorry about little Emily. “But I told Brian, I never saw her that afternoon; she never came in.”

  “Can you think about who your customers were that day? Particularly that afternoon?” Francesca asked. “Perhaps one of them saw something.”

  He started. “Young lady, I have a booming business. To try to remember who was in my store on a particular afternoon—that’s impossible!”

  “You won’t even try?” Francesca asked. But she was getting another impression. This man did not want to speak to her, but she did not know why.

  His jowls shook. “You make it seem as though I do not want to find Emily. Of course I do. Very well.” He scowled and folded brawny arms across his thick chest. “Monday afternoons I have some regular customers. Mrs. Sarnoff, Mrs. Polaski, and Mrs. O’Brien. They come in every Monday afternoon for a week’s supply of potatoes, flour, and sugar.” His look seemed to suggest that it was time for Francesca to leave.

  “Where do they live?” Francesca asked, taking a small notepad and a pencil out of her purse. In it she also carried several other useful tools of her trade. She had learned the hard way to always carry matches, a candle, a small knife, and a gun.

  Schmitt practically sighed. Then he reached into a drawer for a notebook, and Francesca copied the addresses down. “Thank you. If there is anything else you think of, please, get in touch with Joel Kennedy, Maggie’s son. He lives right up the block.”

  “I don’t know anything more,” Schmitt said, turning his back to her.

  Francesca left the store, unsettled. Why would this man be so unhelpful? Was he withholding information from her? Did he associate her with the police? Or perhaps her stature as a wealthy young lady made him resentful or even anxious. Still, Francesca could not justify the treatment she had just received.

  The sun was warming the morning outside. It looked as if spring would come early to the city that year—several of the apartments in the buildings up and down the block had flower boxes, and Francesca saw dandelions and daffodils just breaking the soil. Above her, the sky was surprisingly clear and blue. She unbuttoned her navy blue coat and was rewarded with a draft of pleasant air.

  But she did not smile. As soon as Joel was finished posting her reward notices, they would go a few blocks uptown to 300 Mulberry Street. That is, she would go to police headquarters and seek aid from Rick Bragg.

  If he was still speaking to her, that is.

  Police headquarters was housed in a five-story brownstone building just around the corner from one of the city’s worst slums—Mulberry Bend. As Francesca paid the cabbie, she saw Bragg’s handsome motorcar parked on the street, a roundsman in his blue serge and leather helmet discreetly watching it. Other roundsmen were leaving the building; a police wagon was coming down the block. Her heart tightened. She hated the moment of confrontation that must surely come. If only last night could be undone.

  Then she let herself think about Calder Hart and her heart tightened even more, in a different way, and her skin tingled and she blushed. She forced herself to concentrate on the investigation at hand. “Will you come up?” she asked Joel, who, given up his recent occupation as a “kid”—a child pickpocket—despised and distrusted the city’s finest with a passion.

  “Don’t think so,” Joel said, scowling. “I bet we could find Emily on our own, Miz Cahill. We really don’t need any coppers on our tails.”

  “I disagree, and you do work for me,” Francesca said, patting his shoulder. “If you need me, I will be upstairs in the commissioner’s office.”

  Joel nodded, walking over to a sickly elm tree, which he leaned against, and began whistling tunelessly.

  Francesca hurried into the reception room. There, a long counter faced her, behind which were several officers, all of whom she now knew quite well. An officer was on her side of the counter with an elderly lady, apparently discussing a complaint that involved the theft of her purse. Two men in ill-fitting suits and bowler hats were seated on benches, in handcuffs. To the far right there was an empty holding cell. And in the background there was the ever-constant pinging of telegraphs, the pounding of typewriters, and the ringing of telephones. The noise was more than familiar to Francesca; she realized with a pang that she had come to enjoy the intrusive sounds. In fact, she thought, smiling, she had missed not just the sounds of the precinct, but being there on an active investigation as well.

  Captain Shea was the first officer on duty to remark her. He stopped what he was doing, smiling. “Miss Cahill! It has been a long time. How are you?” he asked.

  She smiled, coming quickly forward then. “Hello, Captain,” she said. “I’m afraid I had to go out of town.”

  “Yes, we heard,” Shea returned, adjusting his hornrimmed glasses.

  Sergeant O’Malley, a stout fellow, approached. “Headquarters hasn’t been the same without you, Miss Cahill,” he said.

  “I missed it, too,” she said, suddenly happy. This was where she belonged, in the midst of a criminal investigation, among these good, honest men.

  “Are you on a case?” Shea asked.

  “Yes, actually, I am. Is the commissioner in?”

  “He’s upstairs,” Shea said, glancing oddly at O’Malley. “I’ll go up and ask if he will see you.”

  Francesca was surprised. Shea walked out from behind the wood counter, going upstairs on foot, ignoring the iron cage of the elevator. She was accustomed to coming and going in police headquarters as she pleased; she had been going up to Bragg’s office without any formalities for months now.

  “It ain’t you,” O’Malley said, low. “The c’mish is in a mood, he is. No one’s ever seen him like this before.”

  Francesca stiffened. “A bad mood?”

  “Like a thunderstorm,” O’Malley said with a nod.

  Oh, dear. She certainly knew why he was in such a foul humor—she knew it was because of her engagement to his half brother.

  “And look at what the spring breeze blew in.”

  The tone was just barely hostile and just barely mocking. Nevertheless, as always, the sound of Brendan Farr’s voice curled the hair on her body, and even her toes. Francesca slowly turned to face the city’s recently appointed chief of police. She still did not know why he disliked her so, but their enmity had become mutual. “Hello, Chief.” She was terse.

  “Long time no see,” he said flatly. He was a very tall man, perhaps six-foot-four or even more, with steel-colored hair and steely eyes. He was smiling politely. Francesca had never, not even once, seen a smile in his eyes.

  “I have been out of town,” she said stiffly.

  “Really? Business or pleasure?” His smile remained.

  “Neither,” she said, smiling as coolly in return. She knew he wanted information, and she would never give it to him.

  “And what brings you to headquarters? Oh, let me guess. The commissioner—or is it another investigation?”

  The less this man knew about her affairs, the better. “I wish a word with the commissioner. I shall go up. Thank you, Sergeant. Good day, Chief.” Francesca did not wait to be told that she could go up. She quickly hurried past the two men, passed the holding cell, and went up the single flight of stairs.

  Captain Shea was approaching in the hallway; behind him, the door to Bragg’s office was open. He nodded at her. “He’ll see you—not that I had any doubt.”

  Francesca thanked him as Bragg appeared in the doorw
ay of his office, staring. Her strides faltered.

  He was more than grim; he seemed tired and unkempt. Francesca saw circles beneath his eyes and lines around his mouth. Their gazes met.

  Her heart beat hard. Could she really marry his half brother? For Rick Bragg, married or not, would always be a dark shadow standing between them.

  He didn’t nod and he didn’t greet her. He turned and walked back into his office. Francesca followed.

  Nothing had changed. His desk was a huge affair, covered with files and folder. A rattan-backed chair was behind it, a window overlooking Mulberry Street behind that. On the mantel above the fireplace were numerous family photographs, as well as other, more impressive ones, including one of Bragg with both the mayor and Theodore Roosevelt. Francesca searched for a photograph of Bragg’s wife, but she was not to be found amid the ones of his father and adopted mother, his half brothers and sisters, his cousins, nieces, and nephews.

  And there was no photograph of Calder Hart, either. But Francesca hadn’t expected there to be one.

  Francesca removed her coat, hanging it carefully on a wall hook by Bragg’s greatcoat, while he went behind his desk, where he sat. She turned with dread. He had steepled his hands and bridged his nose upon them, not looking at her.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He made a disparaging sound.

  “Can we speak? Please?” she asked. And she had forgotten now about Emily. All she could think about was how unhappy this man was and that she was the cause.

  And he didn’t deserve unhappiness or pain. No one deserved a life of joy more than he. Bragg had earned it by a lifetime spent helping others.

  He stood, went to the door, and closed it. Then he faced her. “Do you love him?”

  She stiffened. And she could not find an answer to his question.

  “Well? If you are marrying him, you must love him!” Bragg was angry now.

  “I don’t know if I love him. I only know that my world was turned upside down the day you told me that you were married!” she cried, and it was the truth. “Nothing has been the same since.”

  “So your marrying him is my fault.”

  “I hardly said that.” She couldn’t believe they had come to this—it was as if they were foes and in the midst of a bitter battle.

  “It is my fault and we both know it. Because a month ago you were in my arms, Francesca, vowing eternal love to me, and now you are engaged to him!”

  She backed up. Because he was right. “A month ago Leigh Anne was in Europe, a wicked witch of a woman whom you despised, a woman with lovers, a woman who was never coming back!”

  “You know I wish she never came back,” he said almost viciously. “You know I despise her!”

  For one moment she could not speak. “I know no such thing.”

  “You also know that I don’t lie,” he said harshly. “Or has your plan to marry him led you to doubt my word, my integrity?”

  “I would never doubt your word or your integrity, and that wasn’t fair!” she cried, shaken.

  “And is your marrying Hart fair?” he asked bitterly.

  She fought for composure and could not find it. “You are with Leigh Anne. I have every right to marry someone else.”

  “But it is temporary!”

  “Is it? And don’t jump on me and say I am doubting you.”

  “If you are not doubting me, then what are you doing?” he demanded.

  She took a breath. “I think,” she said carefully, “that you have very complicated feelings for your wife, and you refuse to be honest with yourself. I know you’d never lie to me deliberately, Bragg.”

  He stared. “Why are you doing this?” he finally asked. And it was a plea.

  His tone held anguish, and Francesca started forward, about to rush to him—to comfort him was automatic. But she stopped herself. “I am genuinely fond of Hart,” she heard herself say. “I enjoy being with him. He wants to marry me. I cannot seem to resist.” She didn’t add that she no longer wanted to resist.

  Bragg laughed, the sound harsh and unpleasant. “He hates me. He has hated me for as long as I can remember—and I remember the day our mother died, the day I tried to hold him in my arms and comfort him. He was only a small frightened and angry boy of ten. I had just turned twelve and I was every bit as frightened as he. Of course, I dared not reveal how I really felt. He pushed me away then and has done so ever since—and worse. He only wants you, Francesca, because I do. He only wants you to get at me.”

  She hugged herself. “That is not true. He is as genuinely fond of me.”

  Bragg rolled his eyes and stalked away, his back stiff with anger. Then he whirled. “You didn’t find the timing of his announcement a bit odd?”

  She became uncomfortable. “Yes, I did, actually. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to learn the way that you did. I wish I had told you privately, first.”

  “How can you even be thinking of marrying him?” he cried. “If you are in love with him, he will break your heart—immediately, I believe. What are you doing? Are you, in some way that you do not realize, trying to punish me for allowing Leigh Anne to move into my home? How often must I repeat the fact that it is only temporary? You know we have agreed to divorce in six months—five, actually, now.”

  “I am not trying not punish you,” she gasped. “How can you say that? And will you stop sleeping with her, too, in five months’ time?”

  He jerked, eyes wide.

  She wished she had not uttered what was really on her mind. She knew the blow was a cruel one—just as she suspected he would sleep with his wife time and again, should the opportunity present itself.

  He flushed. “It’s not what you are thinking.”

  “You still love her. Why can’t you admit it?”

  “I despise her. And Francesca, you are worldly enough to know that a man can sleep with a woman and it has nothing to do with love.”

  She did know that, at least intellectually, but after seeing Leigh Anne—and seeing Bragg with her—it was different. Francesca could not believe that he slept with her and no love was involved.

  Francesca turned away, recomposed herself, and faced him again. “I know I promised you my heart, and Rick—you still have it. But my feelings for you have nothing to do with my feelings for Calder.”

  Suddenly he crossed the room and gripped her shoulders. “Francesca, how can you say that? You deserve a wonderful husband—I want you to be happy. But I am afraid! This really isn’t about me. I love you and I do not want to see you destroyed by him. Please. Rethink what you are about to do. Please.”

  Being in his arms was awkward—and Calder Hart was the one who had made it so. She eased away, and in spite of herself, he had managed to feed her small, niggling doubts about Hart. “I am a grown woman, and I can think for myself—just as I am quite good at taking care of myself,” she said briskly, to hide how she was really feeling.

  “And what will you do when you find him in bed with a lover? Take a fry pan to his head?” Bragg asked sharply.

  She stiffened, for he had just verbalized her worst and most secret fears. “I will cross that bridge when I get to it,” she said. She would not tell him Calder had promised fidelity. He would laugh at her—he wouldn’t believe it.

  And a part of her refused to believe it—or trust Hart—either.

  And what kind of marriage was that?

  “So that’s it? You are blindly allowing him to lead you to the altar? You will go through with this? I am in shock!”

  A part of her was ready to throw in the towel, to back out and end the engagement. “We are hardly at the altar, yet,” she said through stiff lips. “We intend to marry in six months.” It suddenly occurred to her that now their wedding would take place in five months, as that date had been set a month ago when she had accepted Hart’s proposal.

  And Bragg kept insisting that he and Leigh Anne would be divorced in five months, as well. What if he meant it?

  Francesca closed her eyes, fig
hting for air, the office suddenly claustrophobic. She didn’t believe he would ever walk away from Leigh Anne. There was simply too much there, between them.

  Did that make Hart a second choice?

  It did.

  But was that so terrible? He already knew it and didn’t care. She also knew it and didn’t care.

  Whom was she fooling? Hart might not love her, but he cared very much that she had first chosen Bragg and that he was second fiddle. And she cared, too.

  “You look about to faint. I’m sorry.” His arm slid around her waist, and her eyes flew open. How familiar his touch was. “I’m sorry that I still care so much, and I’m sorry I ever put you in this position in the first place.” His gaze met and held hers. “But I will always care where you are concerned, Francesca.”

  “I know you will,” she whispered, turning to face him, and suddenly, briefly, she found herself in the circle of his arms. Her bosom met his chest. His thighs were hard against hers. She glanced at his mouth. She knew what he tasted like. She knew how his tongue felt in her mouth. Instantly, quickly, she lifted her gaze and met his yet again. His arms tightened around her. His golden eyes warmed impossibly.

  The air seemed to disappear from the room.

  He leaned toward her, his mouth parting. A fraction of an inch separated their lips. She smelled coffee and cologne, a blend of the woods and the earth.

  An image of Hart’s sardonic face quickly came to mind, followed by an image of Leigh Anne, tiny and gorgeous.

  Francesca pushed him away. “Don’t.” She leaped out of his embrace, shaking.

  He flushed. “I’m sorry. It just happened. Or it almost did. I can’t think clearly now, it seems!”

  “Nothing happened,” she said, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest. But it was a lie. For one moment, one single, small moment, the desire had returned and the future had beckoned, an impossible dream once more.

  But she thought she had burned the bridge to that dream; she thought she had buried it and left it far behind. She wet her lips. “I am on a case, Bragg, and that is why I came here to speak with you today,” she said briskly. “I need your help.”