Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03] (42 page)

Of course, Georgette was upstairs, so she would not really be alone.

“And you should hurry,” Francesca added.

“Right,” Joel said, turning to go.

“Wait!” She caught the shoulder of his jacket. “Do you know where you’re going?”

Joel grinned at her. “Sure do. Madison and Twenty-fourth Street.”

She stared. “How would you know where Bragg lives?”

He shrugged. “Whole world knows. Ain’t no secret. Back in a flash.” He hurried away.

Francesca stood very still, watching him leave the house. And then she felt truly alone.

She shivered.

The house was so quiet that she could hear the clock ticking on the mantel. It almost felt as if there were eyes trained on her back—the dead man’s eyes. But of course, they were closed—and he was dead.

Fortunately, she did not believe in ghosts. Still, Francesca hurried down the dimly lit hall, wishing it were more brightly lit, relieved to leave the room with the corpse. She checked the front door. It was locked. That made her feel a bit better.

She cracked open the only other door on the hall, other than the parlor door, and glanced into a small dining room. It was cast in shadow. She vaguely made out an oak table and four chairs, a floral arrangement, and a sideboard with knickknacks. A kitchen had to be on the other side of the alcove. Francesca hesitated.

If there was a kitchen door that led to a garden out back or the street out front, she wanted to make sure it was locked. She was very nervous now. And why not? She was guarding the corpse of a man who had been murdered less than five hours ago.

Francesca looked up at the dark stairs. “Miss de Labouche?” she called.

There was no answer.

“Georgette?” she tried again, with the same lack of success.

Francesca glanced behind her. The parlor remained so brilliantly lit, and the dead body in the pool of blood remained a grotesquely eye-catching spectacle. Francesca realized just how nervous she was.

That was it. She dashed through the small dining alcove, trying not to consider that the murderer might still
be in the house—of course that made no sense—and she found herself in the kitchen. This house did not have electricity, and it was a moment before Francesca turned on one gaslight. There was a back door. It was locked.

She sighed in abject relief.

When she heard something.

Instinct caused Francesca to turn off the light and crouch down beside the doorway to the dining alcove. She had not closed the dining room door, and she could just glimpse the hall beyond.

She heard something again. God damn it, but it was the front door, she was certain of it, being carefully closed.

Francesca ducked completely behind the kitchen doorway, now perspiring madly. Joel had left about five minutes ago. Maybe, maybe, he could run from here to Bragg’s in five minutes. But there was just no way that he was already returning, alone or with Bragg, and anyway, they would have to knock.

She trembled and heard a floorboard creak.

Someone had entered the house. Someone was in the hall. Someone who was not announcing himself—someone who had a key.

She heard more soft footsteps.

Francesca went blank. But she had to know who the intruder was. She thought he had walked past the dining room doorway, but she wasn’t sure. Keeping on all fours now, she peered around the kitchen doorway and into the dining room.

Just in time to glimpse a man’s silhouette as he walked past while in the hall.

Francesca ducked back. She heard the man halt. And there was a very soft, barely audible expletive, followed by absolute silence.

She imagined he had seen the body and that was what had stopped him in his tracks and caused him to curse. Was he staring at it now?

Suddenly she heard brisk footsteps returning. Francesca did not dare peer around the corner again, as much as she wanted to. She held her breath, afraid he might feel her presence, afraid he might change course and discover her hiding in the other room.

The front door opened and closed.

Francesca jumped up and ran into the dining room and shoved aside the draperies to peer onto the street, her pulse racing wildly. A very nice gig was pulling away from the curb, a single man its occupant—the driver. He was too far away for her to make out any features.

Francesca stared. Who in blazes had just walked into Georgette de Labouche’s house in order to stare at her dead lover? Who would do such a thing, then turn around without a word and leave?

What in tarnation was going on?

The Channings lived on the unfashionable West Side of the city. Sarah Channing was becoming a good friend, ever since her engagement to Francesca’s brother, Evan. When her father had died, her mother, a rather frivolous and harmless socialite, had inherited his millions and promptly built their new house. As Francesca approached the mansion, which was quite new and horrendously gothic, she clutched her reticule as if she expected a cutpurse to appear and seize it.

Francesca was told by the doorman that Miss Channing was not receiving visitors.

“Would you care to leave your card?” the liveried doorman asked.

“Harold? Who is it?”

Francesca stepped forward at the sound of Mrs. Channing’s voice. A not-quite-pretty woman with reddish-blond hair who was extremely well-dressed and somehow reminded one of a flighty, mindless bird was entering the foyer. “Why, Francesca! This is quite the surprise!” She clapped her beringed hands together in childish delight.

Francesca managed a smile. “Hello, Mrs. Channing. I am sorry to hear that Sarah is indisposed. I hope she is not too ill?”

Mrs. Channing’s dark eyes widened. Then she put her arm around Francesca and leaned toward her, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. “Perhaps this is a stroke of fate, indeed. That you should choose this very day to call!”

Francesca looked into her dramatically widened eyes—as there was little else to do, with the other woman’s face a mere two inches from her own. “Whatever do you mean, Mrs. Channing?”

“We are in the midst of a crisis,” Mrs. Channing said. Her breath was sweet, as if she had been eating raspberries and chocolates.

Francesca was in no mood for a crisis other than her own. “Perhaps I should leave word that I have called—and come back at another time.”

“Oh, no!” Mrs. Channing cried, finally releasing Francesca. “I
told
Sarah we should call for you! But she said you were recovering from that horrid encounter with the Cross Killer, and we mustn’t disturb you! But you are a sleuth, dearie, and we do need a sleuth now! Nor do I have the foggiest of whom else to call upon in our time of need!”

Francesca straightened. In spite of her worries, she could not help being intrigued. “You have need of an investigator?” she asked, a familiar tingle now running up and down her spine.

Mrs. Channing nodded eagerly.

“Why, what has happened?”

“Come with me!” Mrs. Channing exclaimed. And she was already hurrying into the hall.

Francesca followed, not bothering to hand off her coat, hat, and single glove. She quickly realized, as they moved down one hall and then another, that they were heading in the direction of Sarah’s studio. She was perplexed.

Suddenly Mrs. Channing turned and placed her back against the door of Sarah’s studio, barring the way. “Prepare yourself,” she warned, rather theatrically.

Francesca nodded, holding back a smile, more than intrigued now. What could be going on?

Mrs. Channing smiled, as if in satisfaction, and she thrust open the door.

Francesca stepped inside. The room was all windows, and brilliantly lit. She cried out.

Someone had been on a rampage in the room.

Canvases, palettes, and jars were overturned. Paint was splattered across the floor and walls, the effect vivid, brilliant, and disturbing. Amidst the yellows, blues, and greens, there were slashes of black and dark, dark red. For an instant, Francesca thought the red was blood.

She rushed forward, kneeled, and dabbed her finger into a drying pool of dark red. It was paint, not blood.

Then she saw the canvas lying face up on the floor.

It had been slashed into ribbons.

“Sarah! I cannot believe what happened!” Francesca cried. She had been pacing in a huge, mostly gilded salon, which was as overdone as the outside of the house. A bear rug complete with head and fangs competed with the Orientals on the floor; chairs had hooves and claws for feet, and one lamp had a tusk for a pull cord. Mr. Channing, God rest his soul, had been a hunter and a collector of strange and exotic objects. Apparently his widow was continuing his hobby.

Sarah had just entered the room. She was a small and plain brunette, although her eyes were huge and pretty. Today, she was wearing a drab blue dress covered with splotches of paint. She appeared very pale, her nose and eyes red. Clearly, she had been weeping. “Francesca? What are you doing here?” she asked softly—brokenly.

Francesca forgot all about her own problems. She rushed forward and embraced her friend. “You poor dear! Who would do such a thing?”

Sarah trembled in her arms. “I told Mother not to call you! You have a badly burned hand and you are recuperating!”

Francesca stepped back. “Your mother did not telephone me. I called upon you, dear.”

Their eyes met. Tears welled in Sarah’s. “I did not want to bother you, not now, not after what happened on Tuesday,” referring to the aftermath of the Channing ball.

Francesca took Sarah’s hand with her own good one. “How could you
not
call me? I am your friend! Sarah, we must catch this miserable culprit! Have you called the police?” Her heart skipped madly. These days, the police and Rick Bragg were one and the same and never mind what Connie had said a few minutes ago.

“Not yet. I have been too devastated. I just found out this morning,” Sarah said, and she was shaking visibly.

Mrs. Channing stepped into the room. “Sarah gets up before dawn. She takes a tea and goes directly into her studio. She will spend the entire day there, if I do not rescue her from her frenzy.”

Francesca looked from mother to daughter. “So you found your studio that way when you went down this morning?” she asked.

Sarah nodded.

“Why don’t you girls sit down? Francesca, have you had lunch?” Mrs. Channing asked.

“No, but I would like a moment alone with Sarah, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Channing.”

Mrs. Channing seemed taken aback.

Francesca smiled, politely but firmly. “Do you wish me to take—and solve—the case? If so, I need to interview your daughter.”

“Oh, of course! My, Francesca, you are so professional.” Then Mrs. Channing smiled. “I shall have a small meal put out anyway. Do as you shall, then, Francesca.” She left, closing the door behind her.

“Francesca, how can you take my case now when you are hurt? Besides, didn’t you promise to rest for a few weeks?” Sarah looked her directly in the eye.

She had, and she had mentioned her resolve to Sarah. “Never you mind, my hand is healing very well, Finny
said so himself. I would never let down a friend in need.” Francesca smiled and guided her to a couch, where they both sat down. She leaned forward eagerly. “What time did you first enter your studio?”

“It was five-fifteen. I get up at five on most mornings, and go directly there.” She smiled a little. “And I take coffee, not tea, black with one sugar.”

Francesca patted her hand. “And when were you last in your studio? On Friday morning?”

Sarah nodded. “I worked there until about noon on Friday.” Suddenly she covered her heart with her hand. “Francesca, I am so shocked. And worse, I feel ill. I feel . . . raped, I suppose. Or I imagine that this is what being raped feels like. I am shocked and sad and angry and I cannot stop crying! Why would someone do this? Why?” she cried, a tear sliding down her cheek.

Francesca sat up straighter. “I don’t know. I have no idea. But whoever it was, he got into this house to do his deadly deed sometime between noon on Friday and five-fifteen Saturday morning. I shall have to interview the entire household staff. Are there any new employees?”

“I don’t know. Also, we were out last night,” Sarah said. “We went to the ballet. But still, there is a houseful of servants, and a doorman is always on the front door.”

“Still, a single doorman can fall asleep,” Francesca mused. “I shall have to speak to the doorman who was on last night while you were out.”

“That would be Harris,” Sarah said. “He has been with us forever, it seems.”

“And when you are out, where is the rest of the staff?”

“In their rooms on the fourth floor,” Sarah said. Suddenly she sighed, the sound filled with grief. “Why, Francesca? Why?”

“I don’t know. But I shall find out. Sarah, do you have any enemies?” And even as she asked, the question felt ridiculous. Who would dislike, no, hate, Sarah Channing
enough to do something like this? She was a sweet young girl, and so reclusive that she hardly had any friends, much less enemies.

Sarah blinked at her. “I hardly think so. Why would someone hate
mel
There is nothing to be jealous of.”

Francesca considered that. “I don’t know. It is absurd. But you are a wealthy young woman, and you are engaged to my brother, who is quite the catch.”

“I don’t think either reason is sufficient for someone to break into this house and destroy my studio,” Sarah said tersely. “Do you?”

“No, I do not. But people can be strange.” She was reflective now. Her last three cases had certainly proven that, and more. She had learned there was a goodly share of insanity going about undetected. “Perhaps you turned a client down? Perhaps you portrayed a client in a way he or she did not care for?”

Sarah sighed again, heavily. “Francesca, I cannot recall anyone being angry with me for a painting. And—I do not have clients. I am hardly an artist. Everyone I have painted has agreed to sit for me, usually quite happily.” Suddenly Sarah smiled. “Well, I do have one client.” Her smile widened.

Francesca knew exactly whom she was talking about and tensed. “You mean Calder Hart?”