LITMIR.BIZ

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heard her—or didn’t care—the officer held up her gun. “Is this yours?”

      She nodded. “It most certainly is.” She dug into her purse and handed him her calling card. It read:

      Francesca Cahill

       Crime-Solver Extraordinaire

       No. 810 Fifth Avenue

       New York City

       No Crime Too Great or Small

      As he read it, his eyes widened. She snapped, “I am Francesca Cahill, sir. Surely you have heard of me. I work very closely with the police commissioner—who happens to be a personal friend of mine.”

      He looked at her, his eyes still wide. “Yeah, I’ve heard of you, ma’am.” Respect filled his tone now.

      “Good. Right now, Rick Bragg is at the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church, awaiting my arrival there—along with three hundred other guests.” She felt tears well. “Along with my groom, Mr. Calder Hart. You have heard of him, surely?”

      “Wasn’t he locked up for murdering his mistress?” the gentleman said, standing behind the officer.

      She cried, “Hart is innocent—the killer confessed and awaits conviction. Now, I need a cab!”

      “I’ll get you a cabbie,” the roundsman said quickly. “I am sorry, Miss Cahill, for delaying you, but you have to admit it was suspicious, you being inside the closed gallery like that.”

      “May I have my gun, please?” He handed it to her and she started for the street at a run. She had never been as desperate—and there were no hansoms in sight. Behind her, the cop put his fingers to his mouth and a piercing whistle sounded. Moments later, a black cab turned the corner from Broadway, the gelding in its traces trotting swiftly toward her. Francesca sagged with relief.

      Forty minutes later, the tall spires of the church came into sight. Francesca leaned forward, praying.

      But the avenue was deserted. Not a single coach was parked outside the church.

      She did not have to go inside to know that everyone was gone.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      Saturday, June 28, 1902

       6:00 p.m.

      EVAN CAHILL CLOSED the door to his sister’s bedroom, Rick Bragg pausing in the corridor with him. They had just thoroughly searched every inch of the bedroom and adjacent boudoir, but had not produced the note Francesca had received that morning.

      Evan adored his youngest sister, but he knew her better than almost anyone. Leave it to Fran to help some poor sod in need—and miss her own wedding. While he admired his sister’s generosity, intelligence and ambition enormously, this new penchant for sleuthing kept getting her into harm’s way. She had been burned, knocked out, locked up and stabbed, all in the past few months. A cat had nine lives. How many did his reckless sister have? His heart filled with dread.

      Bragg said, “I would like to use the telephone.”

      Evan nodded, remembering that he had not turned off the electric lights inside the room. He quickly did so. “It’s downstairs, in the library.” As they left the bedroom, he said, “I am terribly worried, Rick. Will you begin an official investigation?”

      Bragg clasped his shoulder briefly. “Do not worry yet. Your sister is not only intelligent, she is resourceful. She will be fine.”

      Evan did not think Bragg believed his own words. A vast concern was reflected in his eyes. He was aware that Rick Bragg had romantic feelings toward his sister. Although he liked Bragg, he did not approve—the man was married. He now thought about the unlucky groom as they went downstairs. “Hart was furious.”

      “Yes, he was.”

      Evan knew he would be furious if he were stood up at the altar, as Hart had been. The humiliation would be consuming. He could barely imagine the shock of having one’s bride not show up, especially if he were in love. By now, though, Hart must be as worried about Francesca as everyone. Yet he had not come by, demanding to know if they had discovered anything, nor had he called.

      As he led Bragg into the library, he could hear his mother’s high, distraught tone. Julia was a formidable force and never panicked. She was in a panic now.

      He felt his heart lurch as Bragg picked up the heavy black receiver. He was in a bit of a panic himself, he decided. Fran loved Calder Hart. Only something terrible would have kept her from her own wedding.

      “Beatrice, it’s the police commissioner,” Rick Bragg said. “Please connect me to HQ.”

      Evan jammed his hands into the pockets of his evening trousers. He’d shed his tuxedo jacket the moment they had arrived at the Cahill mansion, about an hour ago. He was a tall, dark, handsome man of twenty-six. Unfortunately, he liked to carouse and was obsessed with gaming, and as a result he had accrued some monstrous debts. Recently he had had a grave falling-out with his father. Andrew Cahill had decided that the time had come to refuse to pay his son’s debts—unless Evan married a respectable young lady. Their battle had become terrible and Evan had moved out. Recently, though, he had reconciled with his father, returning to the family business and his own home, adjacent the Cahill mansion.

      It should have felt wonderful to be back in the family fold, to be living like a prince and to have a handsome cash flow again. It did not. He hated being ordered about as if he did not have a brain in his head, as if he were a hired—and dim-witted—lackey.

      He realized Bragg was asking a desk attendant at police headquarters if Chief Farr was in. He sighed. His own problems could wait—and he did have problems. His mistress claimed she was having his child. He did not want to think of the flamboyant Bartolla Benevente now. He had refused to speak with her at the church.

      A moment later, he heard Bragg speaking with an inspector, requesting a police detail. “We will treat this as a missing person’s case.” Bragg replaced the receiver on the hook.

      “What now?” Evan asked grimly.

      “We currently have no leads. However, I will let Newman and his team do what they are trained to do—find clues, no matter how small. In the meantime, I suggest you comfort your mother. I am going to make a quick stop at my home and then return to interview your staff at great length.”

      They left the hall and were about to enter the marble foyer, when Evan saw Maggie Kennedy standing there with her son, Joel.

      He halted. They were really only friends, but her blue eyes instantly locked with his. He knew she was there not just because of Francesca, but out of concern for him.

      Evan felt himself smile. Tentatively, Maggie smiled back. “Are you all right?” she asked softly.

      Evan felt his heart turn over, hard. Recently, he had had to admit that he had become very, very fond of Mrs. Kennedy. He had met her some time ago through Francesca. Maggie was a seamstress, and she had been making gowns for his sister. And then she had become the target of a killer.

      Evan had actually been the one to find her in a struggle with Father Culhane, and he had rescued her from the madman. But even before that moment, he had been so admiring of her. Maggie Kennedy was an angel. A widow, she worked tirelessly in order to care for her four children by herself. He had never met a woman as gentle and kind, as solid and determined.

      He had begun to visit her and her children, bringing gifts and cookies and cakes, and he had even taken the family on several outings. The very last time he had seen Maggie, he had asked her if he could kiss her, and she had said yes.

      He wished he could stop thinking about that single, very chaste kiss, but he could not. He hurried to her. He had seen her and her children at the church, but hadn’t had a chance to say hello. Had the wedding gone as planned, he would have danced with her at the reception. Instead, he had been busy with his father, explaining to their guests that Francesca was suddenly ill and that the wedding was postponed. No one had believed them.

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