Deadly Kisses

As rational as she was trying to be, it was hard not to be shaken.

The fact that he did not trust her hurt her terribly. She had been Hart’s staunchest supporter and his biggest ally from the first moment they had met, when she had been investigating the Randle killing. Hart had been implicated, and even then, when she had not known him, when she had been infatuated with Bragg, she had known he was no killer. Even then, she had refused to judge him solely on his notorious reputation. From the first, she had seen past his reputation and his arrogant, at times callous behavior. Beneath the ego, the confidence, there was so much vulnerability. Hart was good. She still believed that with all of her heart and all of her being. But at times, his behavior made it so difficult to remain loyal!

She stubbornly refused to concede to his many critics now. There was an explanation. She knew it, the way she knew he was a good man. Surely he had a good reason for this last deception. She would bide her time, she would not push him, no matter how she wished to. She knew from experience that any impatience on her part would backfire. She would trust him as she worked on this case, because one day he would truly trust her in return and explain everything. No matter what, she was not giving up on Hart, and not this easily.

Joel appeared in front of the tenement building where he lived with his mother, his two brothers and little sister. He was a thin, short boy with a shock of dark hair and very fair skin. He grinned at her as he climbed up into the coach, allowing Raoul to open the carriage door for him. Joel had come a long way, Francesca thought, smiling with affection at him. Clearly, he enjoyed Raoul treating him as if he were a little prince, when just a few months ago he had been stealing purses.

“Thanks,” he said to Raoul.

Raoul almost smiled and shut the door firmly before climbing onto the driver’s seat.

Even though it was June, Joel wore a knit cap over his black hair, and Francesca tugged on it. “Good day, Miz Cahill,” he said.

“We are on a new case,” she told him as Raoul lifted the brake and clucked the two handsome bays on. “A murder investigation.”

He grinned. “My favorite kind of case. Think it will be dangerous?”

“I hope not! And I also hope I am not jading you,” Francesca said seriously. She sighed. “You know the victim, Joel, as do I.”

He was all eyes. “Who got iced?”

She was not up to correcting his slang now. “Miss Jones.”

He understood right away. “Mr. Hart’s er…lady friend?”

“Hart’s ex-mistress, yes.”

His eyes bulged. “Ma’am! What happened?”

Francesca filled him in. “When we get to Daisy’s, I will interview Rose. As usual, I need you to canvas the ward and find out if anyone saw anything suspicious between ten and midnight last night. To the best of my knowledge, we have lost the murder weapon, a knife. You can keep your eye out for that, too.”

He nodded gravely. “Do we got any suspects?”

Francesca hesitated. “Not exactly. But I am afraid both Hart and Rose are at the top of the list right now.”

Joel adored Hart. It was obvious that he clearly ad mired the man, as they had both come from the same desperately impoverished background. “Why would Mr. Hart off Miss Jones?”

“He wouldn’t,” Francesca said firmly. “But in a crime like this—I am sure the autopsy will reveal numerous stab wounds—the police always look at family and friends first. Whoever murdered Daisy, Joel, knew her and wanted her dead. We must find the real killer, and quickly.”

“Before Mr. Hart gets in trouble,” Joel said, nodding grimly.

Francesca tugged on his cap again. She had become as fond of the boy as if he was her little brother, but then, she was very fond of his mother. Maggie Kennedy had been acting somewhat oddly lately. Francesca had taken tea with her twice, and the Kennedy sparkle had been missing from her stunning blue eyes. “How is your mother, Joel?”

He grimaced. “I dunno. Something’s bothering her. She’s so sad all of the time. I mean, she pretends not to be, but I can tell.”

Francesca hesitated. A month ago, she had witnessed her brother Evan saving Maggie from an insane killer, and there had been no mistaking his concern for her. As she had already suspected romantic sparks flying between the two, she had been delighted, never mind that an up town gentleman should not dally with a downtown seamstress. Evan was currently living at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. He had been disowned by their father, much to Francesca’s dismay, but the bright side was he seemed to have abandoned his notorious gambling ways. He was now making an honest living as a law clerk, and Francesca was very proud of him for standing up to their father.

While Evan was a ladies’ man with a rather large reputation, Francesca knew he would never compromise Maggie, and she was certain he had strong and genuine feelings for her. Hart had advised her to stay out of the affair, reminding her that Evan was courting the Countess Benevente. Most of society thought he might marry her, although Francesca wasn’t so sure. She could not imagine Bartolla Benevente marrying a law clerk. But then, she was a wealthy widow, so Francesca could be wrong. “Joel? Has my brother called at all?” She simply had to know.

Joel scowled. “I thought we were friends! He used to come by all the time with all kinds of goodies an’ gifts. I ain’t seen him since Father Culhane tried to kill my mother.” He was angry now. “I know what’s up. He’s too busy with that countess to bother with me, Paddy or Matt.”

Francesca reached for him but he pulled away. “He’s having a rough time these days,” she said gently, and it was the truth. “Imagine how you would feel if your father disowned you and you had to move out of the house. Imagine what it would be like if your father refused to call you his son.”

“I don’t have a father,” Joel said sarcastically. “He’s a grown man, not a boy, so it don’t matter, anyway.”

Francesca sighed. Joel had come to care far too much for her brother, and maybe Maggie had, too. She should not get involved, but if ever there was a time to interfere, it was now. If Evan was not going to pursue a relationship with Maggie, he should have never treated her as he had when she had been in so much danger. Francesca decided she would call on him later in the day. And then Daisy’s Georgian brick home came into view. She tensed, instantly forgetting all about her brother. An image of Rose, grief-stricken and holding Daisy’s mangled body, came to mind. Francesca was sobered by the recollection.

Joel had learned to wait for Francesca to alight from the carriage first. When she had done so, he leapt to the street. “I’ll start talkin’ about,” he said.

“And don’t forget Daisy’s servants,” Francesca reminded him as he started off. She had discovered long ago that witnesses spoke differently to different interrogators. Often she could get more information than the police, and Joel would certainly be handier with the staff.

This time, the front door was firmly closed and her knock was promptly answered by Daisy’s butler, Homer, a white-haired man of middle age. He ushered her inside, looking positively stricken. Francesca thanked him and handed him her card. “Good morning. I don’t know if you remember me, but I was a friend of Miss Jones. I am a sleuth.”

Homer read her card. It read:

Francesca Cahill

Crime-Solver Extraordinaire

No. 810 Fifth Avenue, New York City

All Cases Accepted, No Case Too Small

“I do recall, Miss Cahill. I am afraid that…” He stopped, unable to continue, clearly distressed.

“I was here last night,” she said gently, laying her hand on his shoulder. “I am so sorry about Miss Jones.” She would begin her investigation with Homer, she decided.

“Thank you,” he whispered, ashen. “She was a good employer, ma’am. She was very kind to me and the staff.”

“I know,” Francesca said softly, although of course she had not known. “I came to see Miss Cooper, but I should like to speak with you first.”

He nodded, not at all surprised. “Are you going to find her killer?”

“Yes, I hope so.”

“Good! She did not deserve to die,” he cried. “I know she sinned, but she wasn’t a bad woman.”

Francesca patted his shoulder. “Maybe you should sit, Homer. May I call you Homer?”

He nodded. “I am fine. It’s just the shock….”

“I know. At what time did you finish your duties last night?”

“At half past five.”

That was very early and Francesca was surprised. “But what about supper? Or did Miss Jones go out?”

He shook his head. “She was staying in with a guest. She dismissed me, Annie and Mrs. Greene,” he said.