Читать книгу Deadly Kisses - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 10

Tuesday, June 3, 1902—11:00 a.m.

MIKE O’DONNELL STOOD ON the threshold of the small parlor, a weather-beaten man with a suntanned face and hands and bleached-blond hair. He was not a gentleman, Leigh Anne saw instantly, as he wore a flannel shirt tucked into corduroy trousers, and the boots of a workman. An older woman accompanied him, plump and pleasant in expression, also dressed in the drab clothes of a working woman. Katie had not rushed over to him. Instead, she stood near Leigh Anne, wide-eyed and tense. She clearly recognized him.

“Why don’t you sit down, Mr. O’Donnell?” Leigh Anne said graciously. She had been returned to her wheeled chair and Mr. Mackenzie stood behind her, ready to move her at her command.

“I should like to do that, ma’am,” he said very deferentially. “An’ thank you for lettin’ me an’ Beth in to see Katie an’ Dot.” He went to sit on the sofa, holding his knit cap between his hands.

The heavy older woman smiled at Francesca. “My nephew has no manners, Mrs. Bragg. I am Beth O’Brien, his aunt—Katie’s great-aunt.”

Leigh Anne was ill with fear and dread, but she smiled. “Do sit down, Mrs. O’Brien.” She glanced at the door, where Peter stood. “Peter, please bring some refreshments for our guests, and ask Mrs. Flowers to bring Dot down.”

The big man left.

But Beth O’Brien did not sit. She beamed at Katie. “You don’t remember me, do you? But then, I haven’t seen you since you were five years old, when I came to visit your mama for the Christmas holiday.”

Katie just shook her head.

“I was living in New Rochelle until last month,” Beth told Leigh Anne amiably. She had warm brown eyes with a kind sparkle to them. “But my mistress died and I came to the city to find a job. I decided to look Mike up—and Mary, my niece and the girl’s mother. I was stunned to learn that she had died,” Beth added, no longer smiling. “How tragic for the girls!”

“It was very tragic,” Leigh Anne managed to say. What did these two want? Surely they only intended a brief visit! “But my husband and I have been caring for the girls for some time. They are well fed, Katie is in school, and they are very happy.” She looked at Katie, desperately trying to keep her composure. “Isn’t that right, darling?”

Katie nodded, reaching for Leigh Anne’s hand. She clung to her.

“That is so generous of you and your husband,” Beth said. “We are so grateful, aren’t we, Mike?”

“Very grateful,” Mike O’Donnell said. He suddenly stood and approached Leigh Anne and Katie. “Hello, Katie. Aren’t you going to give me a hug? I know you remember me.”

Katie’s grip on Leigh Anne’s hand tightened. She did not move—she did not seem to breathe—and Leigh Anne knew she was more than simply shy.

She was afraid of her uncle.

“So you are close to the girls?” Leigh Anne said quickly, wanting to avoid his pressuring Katie.

“I was very close to my sister, their mother,” Mike said. “But before her death and the death of my wife, I did not appreciate the family God gave me.” He shook his head, disparaging his own past.

“I am sorry, I did not realize you had lost your wife, too,” Leigh Anne said, wishing Peter would hurry with the refreshments.

“Their deaths changed everything,” Mike said softly. “I miss them both, very much. But God works in mysterious ways, and I have come to accept that.”

Did he also miss his nieces? Leigh Anne wondered. “Yes, God seems to have answers only He knows.”

“The Lord has changed me, ma’am,” Mike O’Donnell said. “I’ve given up drink, given up cards and, if you beg my pardon, other forms of entertainment. I’ve been praying, ma’am. I pray every day, two or three times, for His help and His guidance.”

“So you are a religious man,” Leigh Anne managed.

O’Donnell only smiled, but Beth spoke for him. “My nephew was a bit of a rascal. But since Mary’s death, he has found God.”

Leigh Anne could only nod, sickened.

“I really needed to see my nieces,” Mike said. He knelt, smiling directly into Katie’s face. She did not smile back. “They are my family, my only family, and I miss them, I really do.”

Leigh Anne put her arm around Katie, whose skinny body was frozen. “I am sure you do. Well, you may visit anytime,” she said, lying through her teeth. She did not want Mike O’Donnell or Beth O’Brien in the girls’ lives.

“That would be so fine,” Mike said with a grin. “Wouldn’t it, Katie?” He touched her cheek.

She flinched, tears coming to her eyes.

FRANCESCA GREW AWARE THAT someone was behind her, watching her. Filled with dread over Annie’s revelation, she slowly turned. Rose stood on the stairs, a few steps from the ground floor, ashen in spite of her olive complexion. Her stare was hard and focused. She had pulled her dark hair tightly back, but tendrils were wildly escaping. That, coupled with her gaunt, haunted look, gave Francesca pause. The glint in Rose’s eyes was almost frightening.

She turned back to the servants. Hart and Daisy had been arguing very emotionally just a few days ago, but Francesca could not dwell on that now. “Homer, thank you. And thank you, Annie.”

They nodded and left.

Francesca turned back toward Rose, who was now approaching. “I am so sorry for your loss, Rose.”

“I doubt it,” Rose said coldly.

Francesca tensed. Rose had been very hostile toward Hart ever since Daisy had become his mistress, and some of that hostility had been directed toward Francesca, as well. But now she seemed to be seething. “I am sorry. Daisy did not deserve to die—”

“Daisy was murdered,” Rose hissed, confronting Francesca. “And I am certain Hart did it.”

Francesca was rigid. “I will find the real killer,” she said carefully, “but you are jumping to conclusions. That will not help anyone—and it certainly will not help the cause of justice.”

“Such fancy words,” Rose cried. “You heard Annie! Hart was furious with Daisy last Thursday—just four days before she was murdered. And we both know that Daisy had been causing you some sleepless nights recently, now, don’t we?”

Francesca was grim, her heart racing. “Rose, I am not going to try to hide the fact that Daisy seemed to want Calder back. She said some nasty things to me, more than once. You know as well as I do that Hart had no intention of returning to their affair. So if anyone has a motive, it is me.”

“You would never kill anyone in cold blood, Miss Cahill, and the world knows it. And anyway, your dear friend the police commissioner would never charge you with such a crime. I know it was Hart. You heard the maid!”

“People argue all the time, and usually no one dies for it. Rose, I understand that you are trying to make sense of this ghastly killing. But as angry as Calder was, he would never murder anyone.”

“You don’t understand—no one understands—and somehow, I don’t think you know your fiancé all that well,” Rose said harshly.

Francesca decided to retreat to a safer subject. “Have you given your statement to the police?”

“I gave it last night,” Rose said.

That gave Francesca some pause. The police were a step ahead of her now. Rick would be a step ahead of her. But they were on the same side, weren’t they? Not because they were friends, but because, in times like these, they were always partners. And no matter how Rick felt about Hart, they were half brothers. In the end, he would fight to prove Hart’s innocence. Wouldn’t he?

“I meant what I said,” Francesca said briskly. “I am going to find Daisy’s killer. If you wish to believe—conveniently, I might add—that the killer is Hart, so be it. But I am going to bring the real killer to justice. So I would like to ask you some questions.”

Rose hesitated before nodding. “I need to sit down.” She had become gravely ashen.

Francesca took her arm. “Did you sleep at all last night? Have you had anything to eat?”

Rose leaned on her. “How could I sleep? You know how much I loved Daisy! How can I survive without her now? How?” Rose clearly fought the rush of tears.

“It won’t be easy, but you will survive. In time, you will be able to cope with your loss,” Francesca said, leading her into the smaller of the two salons. Rose sat on the sofa and Francesca brought her a glass of water.

“I don’t need your pity,” Rose said with some heat.

“You don’t have my pity, you have my sympathy and my condolences,” Francesca said gently.

Rose looked away.

“Do you know why Hart and Daisy were arguing last Thursday afternoon?”

Rose shook her head. “That was the first I have heard of it.” Rose’s expression turned ugly. “Maybe they were arguing about their relationship—or about you.”

“Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened last night?” Francesca asked, ignoring that barb.

Rose paused. “All right. I was out with a gentle man—a client. I entertained him in his rooms at a hotel I prefer not to name. I left him at half past nine exactly—he was asleep and I looked at the clock.”

“I have to ask, what was his name?”

Rose started. “I am afraid I cannot reveal his identity.”

“Why not?”

“Francesca, he is a gentleman. Gentlemen do not wish to have their liaisons with women like myself made public.”

“Didn’t the police ask for his name?”

“I told them what I told you.”

Francesca decided not to push. For the moment, Rose did not have a solid alibi, and that increased her significance as a suspect. Francesca knew she should not be relieved, but she was. “Go on,” Francesca urged.

Rose shuddered now. “I took a cab back to the house. Daisy and I had agreed to meet later. There were no lights on and I was alarmed, Francesca. The moment I saw that, I knew something was wrong—I knew some thing had happened!”

“And you found Daisy?”

Rose nodded, covering her face with her hands. “I was in a panic. I ran inside and started calling her name. I ran from room to room and then I found her, on the floor, dead!”

Francesca went over to her, placing her hand comfortingly on her shoulder. Rose wept. “Why didn’t you turn on the lights?”

Rose tried to speak. “I tried the first lamp, but it didn’t work. I was so afraid—all I could think of was finding Daisy.”

“Did you see Hart? Did you hear anything, or any one?”

“No! I sat with her, my heart broken. I stayed until I realized we needed help, and that was when I wrote that note. The only time I left her was to go to the desk, write the note, and then I ran outside. I paid a cabbie to deliver it for me. Then I went back to her and waited for you to come. I didn’t see Hart until he came into the study with you.”

If Rose had left her john at half past nine, she had probably been at Daisy’s by ten. Francesca had received her note two hours later, meaning Rose might have sat with Daisy for quite some time before recovering enough to write and send a note—if she was telling the truth. Rose’s story confirmed that Hart had entered the house while Rose was looking for a cabdriver. “Why didn’t you call the police?” Francesca asked.

Rose seemed taken aback by her question. “Those pigs don’t care! They hate us—they use us. They would never try to find her murderer!”

“Rose, this is important. Do you know who Daisy was seeing last night?”

“She never told me who she was seeing, but I gathered it was some kind of old friend.”

Francesca started. “Do you mean a friend from her previous life?”

Rose stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Francesca saw, in her dark eyes, that she understood quite well. “I mean, was it an old friend from the life she had before she became Daisy Jones?”

“I don’t know!”

Francesca considered Rose’s intense reaction. “Was Daisy still entertaining clients, Rose?”

“No. She left the business the day she moved in here.”

That, of course, made sense. Why would Daisy continue to solicit customers when she had no financial need? “Can you think of anyone she used to entertain who might have been so passionately involved with her that he wanted her dead?”

Rose was finally surprised. “You think a john murdered her?”

“It would hardly be the first time a prostitute was murdered by her client.”

“I don’t know. I need to think about it.” Her face tightened. “Of course, there is one client we both know who had all the passion necessary to do the deed.”

Francesca refused to do battle over Hart now. “What was Daisy’s real name?”

Rose instantly turned away. “I don’t know.”

Francesca did not believe her. “You were best friends, and she never told you her real name?”

Rose stared into the distance. “No,” she muttered.

Francesca decided to give that up, for the moment, anyway. “It was always obvious to me that Daisy came from a genteel background. She was well mannered, well spoken, clearly educated and as graceful as any lady from Fifth Avenue.”

Rose did not respond.

“Why aren’t you helping me?” Francesca cried. “Someone wanted Daisy dead—someone who knew her well. I have to uncover her real identity and her entire past.”

“We both know who wanted Daisy dead,” Rose said harshly.

“And what if you are wrong? What if Hart is not the killer?” Francesca demanded.

Francesca saw the conflict in Rose’s eyes. She finally cried, “She never told me her real name, I swear! She was running from her old life, Francesca. She never spoke of it—ever.”

That was very odd, Francesca thought. “How did you meet?”

Rose met her gaze, her own eyes turning moist. “Oh, God, that was so long ago!”

“How long?”

Rose smiled through her tears. “It was eight years ago. Daisy was such a beautiful young woman. She was fifteen, but she was really still a child. She was so innocent, so naive. I had been turning tricks for years—I was so much older than she was, although not in years. I was sixteen, Francesca, when we met and became friends.”

“Where did you meet?”

Rose sniffed. “On the street.” She looked at Francesca. “Can you believe it? Daisy was standing on the street corner, here in the city. She was so beautiful, Francesca, I can’t even describe it.” She bit her lip. “I had never been in love, not with anyone, but I was stunned by her beauty, even then. I could tell she was lost—she was bewildered—and she seemed so sad. I had been shopping with one of the other girls. I made an excuse—somehow I didn’t want my friend to meet Daisy, to know about her. And then I went over to try to help.” Rose hugged herself.