Deadly Illusions. Brenda Joyce
“I am glad that Joel works for you, truly I am…”
Francesca knew that Maggie was very tired from the long hours she put in sewing at the Moe Levy Factory. She touched her hand. “If you do not want him to work for me any longer, I will change it.”
Maggie shook her head. “He adores you. And he no longer is out on the streets, stealing purses behind my back. I’m just distraught today.”
Francesca could sense that and she wondered why. “Gwen O’Neil found her neighbor’s body,” she said after a pause.
Maggie made a choking sound. “Is she all right?”
Francesca took her hand. “I don’t know. Bragg said she was upset. I imagine she will be home shortly, but she was at police headquarters this afternoon. We suspect it is the Slasher at work again, Maggie. But unlike the others, Margaret Cooper did not survive his latest attack.”
Maggie made a sound. “I knew them all! They live—lived—nearby.”
Francesca leaned forward eagerly. “So you are acquainted with all of the victims?”
“In one way or another,” Maggie cried. “Francis and I seem to shop for our groceries at the same time—she is so kind and so sweet—I often bump into her at Schmidt’s Grocery Store. She was so happy,” she added in a whisper. “She recently told me she was seeing someone she thought very special.”
Francesca sat up straight. “Isn’t she the one whose husband disappeared some time ago?” If so, then she was still wed.
“I know she was once married. I had thought she was a widow, actually,” Maggie said with some surprise.
Bragg had reviewed the file with her, and Francis O’Leary was no widow. “Do you know the name of the man she is seeing?” Francesca asked.
“No. She didn’t say. But she lives two blocks from here.”
“Yes, on Twelfth Street.” Francesca decided she must interview Francis O’Leary immediately on the morrow. “Where does she work?”
“She is a shopgirl at the Lord and Taylor store,” Maggie said. “But when I saw her at church yesterday, she looked terrible.. I think she wore a bandage under the collar of her gown and she had a black eye. Perhaps she is not back at work yet.”
Francesca absorbed all of that. If she called early enough, Francis O’Leary would be at home. “And you also knew Kate Sullivan and Margaret Cooper?”
“I don’t really know Kate, but we nod to one another at church on Sundays. She seems very sweet, but a bit shy. You know I’m friends with Gwen, and I met Margaret at her flat one evening when I had to borrow some sugar. She was so nice as well!” Maggie cried.
A circle of friends, Francesca thought grimly, then revised her assessment of the situation. It was a circle of acquaintances, all hardworking women who lived very close to one another and would bump into one another in the course of the day or the week. “I want you to be careful,” she finally said.
Maggie stared, pale, and then glanced anxiously at her children. “Margaret Cooper lived two doors down, Francesca, and Kate Sullivan lives right around the corner. Not even a block away.” She inhaled harshly. “Am I in danger?”
“None of the three victims had children,” Francesca said truthfully, although she felt that Maggie could very well be in danger. “Just keep your wits about you,” Francesca advised. “And I feel certain the children are not in danger. I believe the odds are that you are not, either. Still, we will exercise caution. Next Monday, I want you and the children to stay with me.”
Maggie started. “You mean in the mansion?”
Francesca nodded. This would not be the first time she had put up Maggie and her children in her father’s Fifth Avenue home. “The Slasher seems to be striking on Mondays, Maggie. It is just a silly precaution.” She smiled but it felt grim instead of reassuring.
Maggie hesitated, clearly torn. “I don’t want to impose,” she finally said.
Francesca took her hand. “We are friends! It is not an imposition.”
“I’ll think about it,” Maggie returned slowly. “Maybe the Slasher will be caught by then.”
“I do hope so!” Francesca cried fervently.
Maggie smiled a little, perhaps at Francesca’s passionate outburst. Carefully she gazed at the table. Not looking up, she asked softly, “Has Evan returned home?”
Francesca did not answer at first. She sat back in her chair, recalling how solicitous her brother had been toward Maggie and her children when she had been living briefly with them—and ever since. Not for the first time, she wondered if she had witnessed a romantic spark between them. But it was an impossible match—a seamstress from the Lower East Side and the son of a millionaire. Of course, Evan had recently been disowned by their father. “No, he continues to reside at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. I am so very proud of him for standing up to our father.”
“I heard he took employment,” Maggie said, her eyes still lowered.
“Yes, as a law clerk.” Society thought it unbelievable— Francesca had heard the gossip—that he would walk away from his family and his fortune.
Maggie paused. “We haven’t seen him since he came to take the children to the park last month.”
Francesca did not know what to say. “I haven’t seen him very much since he moved out. This has to be hard for him, working as a clerk and living in a hotel.”
“I supposed he is still seeing the beautiful countess Benevente?” Maggie murmured.
Francesca did not know what to say or do. Then she decided the truth was the best course. “Yes, they are often seen to gether. Evan has always gravitated toward bold women like Bartolla Benevente.”
Maggie finally looked up. “She is so beautiful. They make an astonishing couple. If he marries her, it will be a good match. Don’t you agree?” And she smiled, but it did not reach her blue eyes.
Francesca could not mistake what she was witnessing. Maggie Kennedy was fond of her brother in spite of the huge so cial gap between them. Francesca was at a loss. Even if Evan shared her feelings, it would be extremely difficult for them to make a match. But Evan did not return her feelings, clearly, as he was so thoroughly preoccupied with the beautiful countess. “Yes, it would be a socially acceptable match.” She hesitated. “But I am not sure Evan is ready to marry anyone, Maggie. Not only is he a bit of a rake, you know, but after leaving the family the way that he did, I think he needs a bit of time to reorganize his life.”
Maggie stood abruptly. “I am sure he will come home one day. I think I’ll make that tea.”
“That’s a good idea,” Francesca agreed, relieved to end the subject of her brother.
NIGHT HAD FALLEN, the day’s spring temperature suddenly gone. Francesca shivered as she stepped out onto the sidewalk, wishing she had her coat with her. Now that the workday was over, the neighborhood had come alive with the sights and sounds of its residents. Men and women were coming and going on the streets, a gang of adolescent boys was playing stickball, ignoring a heavily laden passing dray. There was tre mendous activity in a corner saloon, and many windows were open, candles burning inside. The aroma of roasting meats wafted onto the gas-lit street.
Francesca had not taken the Cahill coach downtown, and now, glancing around, she regretted it. Obviously there were no cabs in this area. If she walked four blocks, she could catch a horse-drawn omnibus crossing town and then hail a cab from Union Square. But it was dark now, and many of the passersby on the street were a rough, rowdy lot. In fact, she mused as one of a pair of brawny men passing her turned to look at her in her fine skirt and jacket, anyone could be the Slasher.
But he would not strike again until next Monday—if he chose to follow the pattern he had set.
She