Deadly Illusions

Francis cried out. “But he did not want to kill me! I am certain of it!”

“How can you be certain?” Francesca asked.

“I’m sure of it! He could have killed me if he had wanted to!”

“Please, Mrs. O’Leary, just tell me what happened.”

Francis hesitated and nodded. She continued to clutch the glass counter, her knuckles white. “I had no idea someone was in my flat. I had worked all day. I was tired, very tired, and hungry.” Tears filled her eyes. “I had bought a loaf of bread on my way home with some dried corned beef. I thought to soak my feet a bit and then eat.”

Francesca wondered if every shopgirl in the city had ill-fitting shoes. “Go on.”

“I unlocked my door, then closed and locked it. I was about to sit down on the sofa when he grabbed me from behind.” Her wide eyes shimmered with the tears that had yet to fall. “He held the knife to my throat, the blade barely touching my skin. He said something in a hoarse whisper, and then he cut me. And then he shoved me away, to the floor. When I looked up, he was gone.”

“The police say you cannot recall his words.”

Francis simply looked at her. The tears fell now.

“I am so sorry to upset you,” Francesca whispered. “But I do not want another woman hurt—or murdered.”

“I dreamed about him last night.”

Francesca was surprised. “What did you dream?”

“It makes no sense. I dreamed he called me a faithless woman.” She looked down at the display beneath the glass countertop. She whispered, not looking up, “I think…I am almost certain that he called me a faithless…bitch.”

Her surprise increased. Francesca leaned forward. “You think that because of your dream or because you can remember his words?”

Francis gazed at her. “It was so real. Like remembering something you should have never forgotten.”

If the Slasher had called her faithless, that would imply that he knew Mrs. O’Leary. “Would you recognize his voice again if you heard it?”

“Yes!” She shivered. “Of course I would.”

Francesca was thoughtful. Then she held up Francis’s left hand. “Is that an engagement ring?”

Francis blushed, smiling. “Yes. My friend gave it to me Saturday. The attack made him realize how much he loves me.”

“Your friend?”

“Sam Wilson. My…husband…died two years ago. There’s been no one since. It’s been so long…and then I met Sam.” She was smiling and clearly in love. “We met in March. March 3rd, to be exact.”

“I am very happy for you,” Francesca said, hiding her surprise. Bragg had told her that Francis’s husband had disappeared over two years ago, clearly having decided to leave his wife. But she was claiming that he was dead—while preparing to marry another man. Did her fiancé, Sam Wilson, know the truth? Francesca wondered. And she could not help but note that Francis had met Sam Wilson a month before the Slasher’s first assault.

“Mrs. O’Leary, the police commissioner told me that your husband abandoned you two years ago. That he simply left one day and never came back.” Francesca stared at the woman.

Francis turned crimson. “Oh,” she said, sitting down on a stool behind the counter. “Oh,” she said again. Tears filled her eyes.

“So he isn’t dead?” Francesca asked, this time gently.

Francis shrugged. “He’s dead to me, Miss Cahill. Please, please don’t tell my fiancé! Sam has made me so happy!” she cried.

“I won’t say a word,” Francesca said. She felt sorry for the young woman now. “Why would anyone, much less the Slasher, label you as faithless?”

Her dark eyes widened. “I wouldn’t know! I adored my husband, Miss Cahill, until the day he left. Until that day, he was a good, solid, honest and hardworking man—or so I thought! I was never faithless to Thomas.”

Until now, Francesca thought silently. She decided to ask Bragg if the police could attempt to locate Francis’s errant husband. “And what about your loyalty to Sam?”

“I would never be faithless to the man in my life. I’ve seen no one but Sam since my husband left me.”

Francesca met the other woman’s unwavering gaze. She did not look away as most liars did, and there was no change in her coloring. Francesca felt rather strongly that Francis had buried her husband some time ago—that, to her, he was really dead. If Francis had been called a faithless bitch, it had probably meant nothing more than the words of a maddened killer. “Mrs. O’Leary, do you have any idea where your husband is? Have you heard from him at all since he left?”

Francis set her jaw. “I have not had a single letter—not a single word! But I do suspect he went West. He was always talking about the open ranges of Texas and California. And Miss Cahill, if he did go out West, well, then he could be dead, couldn’t he? They say that land is a dangerous, lawless place.”

Francesca realized that trying to locate Thomas O’Leary could be like looking for a needle in a haystack. “Let’s get back to the Slasher. You seem to think he was already in your flat when you came in that night.”

“He must have been there, waiting for me.” She shivered, blanching again. “I’m sorry. I can’t forget that man. He was terrifying—at first I thought he meant to kill me!”

“But how would he get into your flat when you left it locked that day?”

“Perhaps he found an open window,” Francis said. “Perhaps I had left a window unlocked. The police said they were all locked, but he could have locked it after entering.”

“It is certainly a possibility, considering you live on the ground floor. Could he have followed you inside? You said you unlocked the door, closed and locked it immediately and only then, when you were about to sit down on the sofa, he assaulted you.”

“Yes.” But she appeared uncertain now.

“But what did you do with your bag of groceries, your purse? And I assume you wore a hat and perhaps a coat or shawl? Wouldn’t you put your bags down first and then remove your hat and shawl and after that lock the door?”

Francis stared. After a moment, she said, “You’re right. Of course you’re right. There were a few moments when the door was unlocked, maybe even ajar, while I did those things.” She flushed. “I seem to remember the door being ajar when I went back to lock it. Oh, God! He slipped inside while I was unpinning my hat or some such thing!” she cried.

“Yes, I think the Slasher could have slipped inside after you. I am assuming you did not light a candle yet?” Francesca now made some rapid notes.

“I never had a chance to light a candle that night, Miss Cahill. It hadn’t become fully dark yet. After I locked the door I went to sit, and that was when he seized me.” Her eyes re mained wide, but respect filled them now.

Francesca smiled briskly. “You have been quite helpful, Mrs. O’Leary. Would you mind if I spoke to Mr. Wilson?”

“No, of course not, but why would you think to speak with my fiancé?”

“Perhaps you told him something that you have forgotten to tell me,” Francesca said lightly. But that was not the real reason. She could not rule out any man who knew any of the victims as a suspect, including Francis’s fiancé—or her errant husband.

Of course, at this point in time, Francesca could not dismiss the possibility that a madman was choosing pretty women as his victim, purely by random.

But oddly, she did not think so. “We will be in touch,” she said.

THE LAW OFFICES WHERE Evan Cahill worked were just a few blocks uptown from the Lord and Taylor store. As she was on her way uptown to interview Kate Sullivan and then to meet Bragg to interview little Bridget O’Neil, she had the perfect opportunity to call on her brother. She hadn’t seen him in a week; when he had been living at home they had seen one another on a daily basis.

The offices of Garfield and Willis were housed in an older building built at the turn of the previous century. It was still stately, with a brick facade and classical front. After being shown to a small reception room, Francesca was asked to wait for Evan there. She admired the dark wood floors, well worn but gleaming with wax, the wood paneling on the lower half of the walls and the gold fabric above and the large crystal chandelier overhead. She did not sit. Still thinking about her inter view with Francis O’Leary, she also recalled her conversation with Maggie Kennedy last night. She wondered what Evan would say when he learned of her new case.

He strode into the room, smiling. “Fran! What a wonderful surprise.”

Francesca rushed to embrace him. As always, her brother was smiling and he appeared happy. Evan had a sunny nature. He was also tall, dark and dashing, and until his fall from Cahill grace, he had been a premier catch. Francesca smiled up at him, searching his eyes. “You seem very well.”

He laughed and shrugged. Then, “I haven’t been at the tables in over a month, Fran.”

She cried out in surprised delight. Evan had a passion for gaming and, to her dismay, she had learned that his debts exceeded a hundred thousand dollars. That had been one of the causes of friction between him and their father. Recently, the man to whom he owed the vast sum of money had threatened his life. Francesca had borrowed fifty thousand dollars from Hart to pay him partially back, and Hart had called on the creditor as well, to make it clear that Evan’s life would not be forfeit for his debts. Since then, there had been no more threats and no more assaults. But on several occasions in the past Evan had lapsed into his old habit of gambling. Francesca was thrilled that he had managed thus far to stay away from the nightclubs. “That is wonderful,” she said. “And there is no temptation?”

He gave her a dark look. “There is always temptation, Fran. I will be tempted until my dying day.” Then he lightened. “But the countess is keeping me quite busy and very distracted.”

An image of the radiant, auburn-haired widow came to mind. “Has it become serious?” Francesca asked lightly. She happened to like the flamboyant countess, but she did not quite trust her. Bartolla Benevente had once meddled in her private affairs when she had been infatuated with Rick Bragg.

Evan hesitated, running his hand through his dark hair, and paced over to the wall of windows, which looked out onto Madison Avenue. Francesca followed him. Below, the street was filled with carriages and trolleys; the city was doing business in full swing. Pedestrians—mostly darkly clad gentlemen—hurried up and down the street. She suddenly thought about Hart and the evening ahead and she smiled.

Then she thought about Daisy and she frowned, her heart skipping with fear.

“I don’t know,” Evan finally said, facing Francesca directly. “I am in love, but…I have been in love before.”

How mature his assessment was. Francesca was impressed. “Yes, you have. And you do gravitate to the Bartolla Beneventes of this world.”

He smiled a little at that. “Yes, I do. She would make a good wife.”

“I doubt she wishes to wed a law clerk.”

“Yes, I agree, and I have thought about that. She urges me frequently to make up with Father.”

Francesca met his gaze and touched his arm. “You do what you need to do, Evan. I am very proud of you.”

He shook his head, his expression self-deprecating. “And how are you? You seem radiant, Francesca, but then I look into your eyes and I see that you are worried. Is everything all right?”

Now it was Francesca who hesitated. It crossed her mind to tell Evan about the awful conversation with Daisy, but she had no wish to dwell on the painful subject. “I am on another case,” she said, an attempt to distract herself. Then she gave up. “I ran into Daisy a few hours ago.”

Evan started. “Daisy? You mean that lovely creature whom Hart…you mean—” he coughed “—Hart’s, er, Daisy Jones?”

Francesca hugged herself. “I know that he was keeping her as a mistress, Evan. You need not be discreet with me.”

Evan stared, his forehead creased. “Fran, it is over?” Doubt filled his tone.

She knew she should not have raised the subject. “He broke it off with her when I accepted his proposal.”

Evan spoke with care. “What I love most about you is your loyalty and trust.”

“What does that mean?” she asked with dread.

“Fran, I don’t know how to say this, but he keeps her still!”

She stiffened. “If you mean she continues to live in his house, the house he bought for her, I know that. He promised her six months and will live up to that agreement. But he stopped seeing her the day I accepted his proposal. I happen to know that for a fact—I was spying on him with Daisy when he told her he would be faithful, Evan. And Daisy even admitted he no longer sees her now that he is engaged.”

Evan laughed, visibly relieved. “I am so pleased! I did not know.” Then he sobered. “But Fran, everyone thinks she remains his mistress. It is unwise for him to allow her to live in that house.”

Francesca stared. “Do you mean that society assumes Calder has a mistress, in spite of his engagement to me?” she cried in dismay.

“Yes, I do.”

She gaped, and then she was furious. “But it’s not true! Is that really what everyone says?”

He sighed and took her hand. “I’m afraid that it is the obvious conclusion to be drawn. And why is Hart being so honorable with such a woman?”

She pulled free. “He is quite noble, Evan, I have learned that in the few months since we met. He gave his word and he is keeping it.” Now she really began to worry. “If Father learns of this, we are through! He dislikes the match enough as it is.”

“I agree with you,” Evan said. Then, ruefully, he added, “I am sorry to be the one to burst your bubble, Fran.”

She walked away, still angry but also somewhat mortified. “They are all gossips and hypocrites,” she huffed.

“Many of them are. Is that why you look so worried? Because Daisy still resides in that house?”

She slowly faced him and did not speak.

He stared for a long moment. “Francesca?”

“I am such a fool,” she whispered. And she felt tearful again. “I think I have fallen in love with Hart, Evan. What will I do?”

He quickly came forward, taking her hands. “But that is wonderful. You will marry for love! As you, of all people, should, Fran. And Hart—well—” he smiled “—I think he has finally found his match.”

She pursed her lips and it was a moment before she could speak. “Even if I am his match intellectually, I am not half as lovely as Daisy or the other women he has been with.”

He was incredulous. “Is that what is bothering you?”

“Yes…no. I am in love with a dissolute man, Evan. How will I manage to avoid a broken heart?”

Evan was silent for a moment. Then he put his arm around her and guided her to the sofa, where they both sat. “Well, if anyone can answer this question, I suppose it is me. I certainly qualify, do I not?”

She knew that he referred to his own womanizing ways. She nodded.

“I won’t lie to you, Fran. You may be in for heartbreak and sorrow. But on the other hand, there is a saying, and it is said for a reason. Every dog has its day. Hart would not be the first rake to be reformed by a good woman.”

For a long moment she stared, terribly desperate for reassurance. “What do you really think?” she finally asked.

He was grim. “I like Hart. I think he is very fond of you. But…he is the most jaded man in town. I can’t help but worry about the future—the way that Father does.”

She nodded, hating what he had said.

He said, “If you break this off, though, you will never know what might have been.”

Francesca looked at him. “I don’t want to break anything off.”

“Then don’t. Give him the benefit of the doubt. So far he has treated you with the utmost respect.”

That was true. She nodded, feeling a bit better. “And he has never even considered marrying anyone until he met me,” she added.

“That is true, and it does speak volumes.” Evan smiled again and stood. “I have to get back to work. Is that why you called?” He became teasing. “To ask your black-sheep older brother for his questionable advice?”

She also rose, relieved to change the subject. “Actually, no. I came to tell you about the case I am on, because I am just a bit worried about Maggie.”

His reaction was instantaneous. “Is Maggie in danger? Are the children in danger?” he demanded.

Francesca was so surprised by his vehement tone that she blinked. “I don’t know. I hope not. Have you read about the Slasher, Evan?”

His eyes widened impossibly. “Damn it, Francesca, get to the point! Is Maggie in any way involved with the Slasher?”

She touched him. “Calm down. She is not involved with the Slasher. There was a third victim on Monday, and she died. She also lived two doors from Maggie. I merely want Maggie to be cautious. I suggested that she and the children stay with us next Monday, as we suspect the Slasher will adhere to his pattern and strike again then.”

Evan was quite pale. Then he said grimly, “I hate the circumstances she lives in! How can she raise those children in such a hovel? Before I walked out on my fortune, I had wanted to get her and the children situated in a better area. But it was not my place and she is so proud, I knew she would refuse. Now I have no funds. Francesca, it is simply intolerable for her to live in that slum.” His blue eyes blazed.

His passionate outburst amazed her. “Evan, I know you are fond of the Kennedy children, but is there something more? Are…are you more than fond of Maggie herself?” Francesca heard herself boldly ask, in real confusion.

And he was clearly startled. He backed up. “What? I mean, of course I am fond of Mrs. Kennedy. How could I not be? She is a wonderful woman, so kind, so compassionate, so caring. And my God, she has raised those children on her own, working herself almost to death to give them a good home. But what, exactly, are you suggesting?” His disbelief grew. “Surely you are not suggesting some kind of romantic attachment on my part?”

“I don’t know,” Francesca said carefully.

He laughed in disbelief and walked away, then began to pace in consternation.

Francesca watched him carefully. Was it possible that Evan did have a romantic attachment but that he refused to admit it, even to himself?

He turned. “I want her to move uptown, now. I will speak with Mother and make certain there is no issue.”

Francesca felt certain that Evan cared far more than he was admitting. But he was also very involved with the countess, so she did not know what to really think. “She is proud, as you have said. She dislikes charity, which we both know. She isn’t even certain she will move uptown on Monday, Evan. I doubt she will pack up and go today.”

He glared. “Yes she will,” he said. “I am taking the afternoon off—to hell with everything. She will not refuse me—you watch and see.”

Francesca began to smile. It had become clear which way the wind blew. Carefully she hid her smile and her satisfaction as she watched her brother storm from the room.

SOMEHOW, MOSTLY THROUGH tearful pleading, she had gained permission from her supervisor to leave work an hour early. All day, Gwen had thought about little other than her daughter as she poured tallow into mold after mold. She had not wanted Bridget to miss another day of school, so she had dropped her there that morning. Within five minutes of leaving her daughter on the public building’s front steps, she had begun to worry.

A killer was on the loose. He was in their neighborhood. Bridget’s school was only a few blocks from where the killer had last struck. Would Bridget be safe in school? Gwen thought so. But she did not want her daughter setting one foot out on the street by herself—not after school, not before school, not ever. If anything happened to her daughter, she would die. Bridget was her life.

Standing in the aisle of the horse-drawn omnibus, Gwen clung to the safety strap, surrounded by strangers. Bridget had already walked home from school and she prayed that she was safe. Maybe they shouldn’t have left their home in Ireland. With everything that had happened in the month and a half since their arrival in America, Ireland seemed far safer than New York City, which had become cold and lonely, a dark and threatening place.

She bit her lip so she would not cry. There was no going back and she knew it. They were trapped here, in the merciless city, trapped in poverty, hopelessness and, now, real danger.

Briefly she closed her eyes as she swayed in tandem to the rocking omnibus. Briefly, she saw the vast, manicured green lawns that swept up to the imposing, stone-gray palatial residence where she had once been employed. For one moment, it was as if she stood at the foot of the long, winding, graveled driveway, watching the gardeners tend the various blooms. And in that moment, she watched the master of the house appear on the wide, flat front steps, a tall, dark man in a riding coat, breeches and high boots—a handsome man who had never smiled in the entire first year she had worked there.

Her heart still ached with the memories and it was an ache that would never go away.

Gwen inhaled hard, forcing the past far away, and that was when she felt eyes boring into her back.

She straightened, her grip on the safety strap tightening as the bus lurched to a stop to discharge a passenger. The feeling of being watched did not disappear. It became hard to breathe. Very slowly, she turned around.

But the men seated behind her on the crowded bus were reading dailies. She looked down the aisle at the other standing passengers. No one was looking her way, no one at all. The back doors swung closed and the omnibus lurched forward.

Glancing wildly around, she thought, I must be losing my mind.

On the sidewalk, he watched the bus disappearing.

CHAPTER FIVE

Wednesday, April 23, 1902 5:00 p.m.

FRANCESCA SMILED AS her cab halted in front of the building where Gwen O’Neil lived. Bragg’s black roadster was parked on the street, a conspicuous sight amidst the drays and wagons on the block. Bragg stood leaning against the hood, his hands in the pockets of his brown wool suit jacket, appearing thoughtful.

As the bay in the traces lowered his head, the driver turned around and opened the small window behind his back. The front seat was elevated and he smiled down at her. “Twenty cents, miss.”

Francesca handed him twenty-five. She reached for the door but Bragg was already opening it. “Am I late?” she asked, unable to help being cheerful. They were working together again. She and Bragg made a fine investigative team—they had the track record to prove it—and now, why, they would solve this case in no time.

He smiled back at her. “I only just arrived.” He helped her to the street. Francesca regarded him closely and saw that the dark cloud he had been under that morning had lifted. She was relieved. She felt certain it was because Leigh Anne had gone home from the hospital.

As they entered the building, he asked, “You look pleased. What did you learn today? I take it there must be something new.”

“I think my brother has strong feelings for Maggie Kennedy.” The words just tumbled out.

He stopped and looked at her.

“I am not playing matchmaker,” she said defensively. Then she sighed. “And I know that heirs do not marry seamstresses. Still, I am certain he cares quite a bit for her.”

“Try not to get involved,” he said mildly. He gestured for her to precede him up the narrow stairs.

“Is that all you have to say?” she cried. “You have seen them together. What do you think?”

“He is not currently an heir,” he said, pausing on the second-floor landing.

She met his gaze and their glances held. Well, that was to the point. Then she forced herself to stop thinking about her brother and Maggie. “Shall I brief you before we go inside?”

He nodded. “Please.”

She quickly told him all that she had learned from Francis O’Leary, including the dream she had had and her uncertainty over whether or not the Slasher had called her a faithless bitch.