Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03] (25 page)

“I am fine, thank you,” Maggie said evenly, but she did not appear composed and her tone was hoarse. “Thank you for taking care of the girls,” she added. “I was so worried about them.”

“It was the least I could do. I only wish that I could have brought them home with me.” She smiled a bit, but could not tell Maggie why that hadn’t been possible. “Maggie, I do have a few questions for you, but I am a bit worried about Katie. Has she always been sullen and even hostile?”

Maggie shook her head no. “She has always been a bit
difficult, a bit defiant, but she became very angry when Mary took the job at the Jansons’. Mary and I spoke about it—Mary was so worried about her. Apparently Katie wasn’t able to understand that Mary simply had to sleep out. She started ignoring her mother and her sister—or lashing out at them, and others, in anger. She lost her appetite. She lost weight. Mary was so worried. She would bring her treats on Sundays when she came home, hoping to get her to eat! We discussed this time and again, Mary and I. Mary thought that Katie felt that Mary was abandoning them. Mary tried to explain to her again and again that she wasn’t going anywhere, that she would be home every Sunday, but Katie could not or would not accept it.” Maggie’s eyes filled with tears. “Now she isn’t coming home, not on this Sunday or any other one,” she said huskily.

Francesca could not speak for a moment. “What should we do? Last night Bragg got her to eat . . . I think.” Actually, for all she knew, Katie had taken one bite and that had been the end of her meal. And she was so thin to begin with.

“Perhaps I can speak with her now, briefly? And perhaps I can visit the girls next Sunday? I could take them out with my own children; we could go the zoo or some such thing.” Maggie brightened with hope.

“That is a wonderful idea,” Francesca said, recalling that Maggie’s son Paddy was about Katie’s age. The mourners were filing past them as they spoke, while leaving the church. “Maybe I could join you as well.”

“Of course you could, Miss Cahill,” Maggie said.

“Maggie, have you mentioned to anyone that you have enlisted my aid in solving Mary’s murder?”

Maggie seemed surprised by the question, and she took a moment to think about it. “No, I don’t think that I have,” she said slowly.

Francesca paused as the woman in navy blue hurried
past them, her head down, making it impossible to try to see who she was. Francesca turned to stare after her. She was certain she knew that woman.

The woman was heading toward the curb, where three private carriages were lined up, alongside Bragg’s motorcar.

Maggie murmured, “Is that Lizzie O’Brien?”

“Who?” Francesca shot. “Do you know that woman?”

Maggie suddenly shook her head. “No, it can’t be. If it were Lizzie, she would say hello to me.” Tears filled her eyes again. “Besides, she is getting into that carriage.”

Francesca turned in time to see the woman being ushered into a carriage that seemed new by a dark-haired servant in tan trousers and a long black coat. The servant climbed into the driver’s seat, picking up the reins and unlocking the brake.

Francesca turned back to Maggie, taking her hand. “You are taking this so hard. Do you wish to sit down?”

She shook her head, and it was a moment before she could speak. “I have not been able to get over what I read in the papers yesterday,” she said.

“What is that?”

Maggie looked up at her, her blue eyes filled with grief. “When I came to you for help, Miss Cahill, I had no idea that the same man had murdered Kathleen.”

It took Francesca a moment to absorb the implications of Maggie’s statement. “Wait a moment. You also knew Kathleen O’Donnell?”

Maggie nodded. “We were best friends, Mary, Kathleen, and myself.” She smiled then, as if a good memory had come to mind. Then she said, “And Lizzie, too. But Lizzie moved away two years ago. No one has heard from her in at least six months.”

Francesca stared at her, wide-eyed. Maggie had been a best friend of
both
murder victims? And all three were poor, single, hard-working women of Irish descent? The
possibility struck her then with brutal and terrifying force.

Maggie Kennedy could be the madman’s next target.

“I don’t have to tell her the truth,” Francesca said stubbornly.

Bragg folded his arms across his chest. “If your theory is correct, then Miss Kennedy may well be the murderer’s next target. In which case, your parents have every right to know what is happening under their very own roof.”

They were arguing quietly outside of her father’s study. As it was Monday, Andrew was long since gone to his office on the southern tip of Manhattan. Julia had just left the house for a luncheon, and Maggie was inside Andrew’s study. Francesca had insisted Maggie come home with her. “Mama will have a conniption fit if she learns of my involvement in this investigation. Why can’t I tell them that Maggie is staying here in order to complete the wardrobe I have ordered?”

“Francesca, I have stationed two roundsmen in front of your house!” Bragg exclaimed with exasperation.

“Miss Cahill? Commissioner?” Maggie had come to the doorway. “You said you wished to speak to me. It is late. I must go to work.” Her cornflower blue eyes were worried.

Francesca and Bragg locked gazes. They had yet to explain to Maggie that her life might be in danger—and that she simply could not go about her business as if it were not.

Bragg sighed and took Maggie’s arm, guiding her back into the study. “Mrs. Kennedy, it is best if you stay with Miss Cahill for a while. We believe your acquaintance with Kathleen O’Donnell and Mary O’Shaunessy may put your own life in danger.”

It took Maggie a moment to grasp what he had said. “What? But how could my life be in danger? I have no idea who would do this!” she cried.

Francesca wondered what Bragg would say next. She edged closer.

“Could Mike O’Donnell have done this? Did he hate his wife for her abandonment?” Bragg asked.

She blinked. “I think he did hate Kathleen, but that he could murder her in such a way, I find it hard to believe!”

“What was his relationship with Mary like?”

If possible, Maggie blanched even more, no easy feat. “You think Mike is the killer?” she gasped.

“Please,” Bragg said gently. “I am asking you what
you
think.”

She sank down on the sofa. “I . . . I don’t know. Mary was a warm and wonderful person. She never had anything unkind to say about anyone. Except . . .”

“Except for her brother?”

She flushed. “She did not speak of him, period. And that, in itself, said volumes.”

“What did that say?”

She wet her lips. “It said that she did not care for him at all, Mr. Bragg. And . . .” She stopped abruptly again, flushing.

“Please. Spare no detail,” Bragg said softly.

Maggie seemed upset. Francesca sat down beside her, taking her hand. “We have every reason to believe that the killer will strike again,” she whispered.

Maggie met her eyes, and tearfully she nodded. “I didn’t like him. But . . . one night, when he was drunk, when he and Kathleen were still together, he made improper advances toward me.”

Francesca met Bragg’s golden gaze. He seemed to nod at her. “And . . . ?” he said.

She looked at her knees. “He was rather insistent, but I eluded him. I have avoided him ever since. And to this day,” she choked, “Kathleen does not know. It is a terrible secret that I have kept.”

Francesca put her arm around her.

“I
must
go to work,” Maggie said. “I shall be fired if I miss any more time! I have four children to feed.” She started to stand, glanced past Bragg toward the doorway, and she abruptly sat back down.

Francesca glanced at the door as well, realizing that someone had paused there. Her heart sinking, she felt sure it was Julia. But it was not. Evan stood there looking as if he had just gotten up, which perhaps he had. But even sleepy-eyed, he appeared rather rakish in a brown suit, his red tie askew.

“What is going on here? I have come to use the telephone,” he said. His gaze went from Bragg, to Francesca, to Maggie.

Francesca stood. “Good morning. Or should I say, ‘Good afternoon’?” Her tone was cool. She hadn’t seen him since she had endured an hour of brandies with him and Bartolla Saturday night. She was not about to approve of his admiration for Sarah Channing’s cousin.

“My, someone is snippy today.” He smiled, but at Maggie. “Hullo, Mrs. Kennedy. This is a rather pleasant surprise.”

Maggie lowered her gaze. “Mr. Cahill.”

Evan gave Bragg a cool look. “Surely this is not police business?”

“It is,” Bragg said. “But we are almost through.”

Evan stared at him, unsmiling. Then he said, “My sister is surely not involved in another case.”

“Your sister has a mind and a will of her own,” Bragg said calmly.

Evan looked at her. “Let’s have a word, Fran.”

“Can’t it wait?” She was incredulous. But she knew what was really bothering Evan. It wasn’t her involvement in another investigation; now that he knew Bragg was married, Evan wished to keep them apart.

“It cannot,” Evan said flatly.

“I can’t leave now,” Francesca returned.

Bragg made a sound of exasperation. “Mrs. Kennedy. I shall speak personally with your supervisor, but for the time being, you are not to go to work.”

She faced him, wide-eyed and earnest and imploring. “Even if you speak with him, they will have to replace me, as we have quotas to fill every day!”

He took her hands, sitting beside her. “You will not be able to feed your children if you meet the same fate as your friends,” he said quietly.

She cried out.

“What the hell is this?” Evan demanded.

He was ignored. Maggie started to cry.

Francesca came forward. “I shall go down to your flat and bring the children here. We certainly have enough rooms.”

Maggie looked at her. “But your parents?”

Bragg also regarded her. “Yes, Francesca. Your parents shall have to be told.”

A headache began. “Very well,” she said rather testily. “In fact”—she turned to Evan—“you may help me present my case.”

“And what case is that?” he asked with sheer suspicion.

“Mrs. Kennedy may be the next target of the madman behind the Cross Murders. She must stay here, and she has four children.”

Evan’s eyes were wide. He faced Maggie. “Of course you must stay with us. No murderer could possibly get in here.”

She met his gaze for a fleeting second. “Thank you. You are kind.” Her tone was so low it was almost inaudible.

“Fran? I can help you pick up her children if you want,” Evan said.

Francesca softened. “You would do that?”

“Of course I would. Even if you are entirely wrong about me and the contessa,” he said.

She flushed. “If I am wrong, then I do apologize.”

“Thank you,” he said.

Bragg gave them both a look. “May I finish, please? With some privacy?”

“I shall go have my carriage readied,” Evan said. He smiled at Maggie. “Have no fear, Mrs. Kennedy. Between us all, you are in good hands.”

She nodded, not looking at him.

He appeared a bit bewildered, but then he shrugged. “Meet me out front in ten minutes,” he told Francesca. He strode out.

Bragg turned back to Maggie while Francesca sat down beside her. “What about your other friend, Lizzie O’Brien? You said the four of you were best friends?”

Maggie nodded. “Very much so, for a good ten years. But Lizzie moved away about a year and a half ago. I think she lives in Philadelphia now, but she originally moved to Pittsburgh. Or maybe it is the other way around. I can’t remember. In any case, Mary was the last one to hear from her, and that was six months ago, or even longer.”

Bragg absorbed that. Finally he asked, “Did Mike O’Donnell know her as well?”

Maggie looked up, surprised. “Before he met Kathleen, they were childhood sweethearts,” she said.

M
ONDAY
, F
EBRUARY
10, 1902—3:00
P.M.

Francesca was afraid that Lydia Stuart would be out to lunch as well, but fortunately she was home, and she received Francesca immediately in the same small salon as the day before. Francesca and Evan had already brought all the Kennedy children to the Cahill mansion, where Maggie had been given two adjoining rooms. She had been overwhelmed by the hospitality, and Francesca had left her instructing her children on how to behave, with Evan being poked and prodded by her youngest, her little dark-haired daughter, Lizzie.

As they greeted each other now, Francesca noticed that fatigue had etched shadows beneath Lydia’s eyes. As she had yesterday, she seemed worried and anxious.

“This is unexpected, Miss Cahill,” Lydia said, gesturing for Francesca to take a chair. She managed a tight smile.

“I hope I am not disturbing you, but I do need to speak to you again,” Francesca said. “Is Mr. Stuart home?”

Lydia appeared to consider her question. “No. He has a small lighting business, and I do not expect him until this evening.” She hesitated. “Although his hours have been odd of late. Miss Cahill, perhaps this is not a good idea!”

Francesca started. “Do you mean you have no wish for me to continue this investigation?”

Lydia seemed on the verge of tears. “Yes, that is what I mean. I must be wrong about Lincoln.”

Francesca was so surprised, for a moment she could not speak. Then, “Perhaps you are wrong about him. Lydia, yesterday I followed your husband to a cemetery,” she said softly. “Not to Mrs. Hopper’s.”

Lydia’s eyes widened. “What?”

“The Greenlawn Cemetery, which is quite a bit north of the city. I was as surprised as you are. In any case, he did not visit Mrs. Hopper.”

Lydia seemed overcome with relief, and she sank into the big yellow chair. “I am very pleased,” she finally said. “I just haven’t known what to think.”

Francesca finally took an ottoman in red and white. On the day Lydia had first approached her, and that had been Thursday, she had been adamant in her belief that her husband was unfaithful. “Lydia? Whom did he pay his respects to?”