Deadly Kisses. Brenda Joyce
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