Deadly Kisses. Brenda Joyce

her small derringer inside. A servant was coming up the corridor toward her. “Miss Cahill? You have a caller.”

      Francesca was taken aback. A call at eight in the morning was unheard of. This had to be urgent. “Is it Hart?”

      The servant handed her a business card. “It is a Mr. Arthur Kurland, ma’am.”

      Francesca was filled with surprise and anger. Kurland was a newsman from the Sun. Usually he accosted her outside of her home or on the street. He had never dared to call in such a social way before.

      “Should I send him away, ma’am?”

      Francesca was certain he had learned of Daisy’s murder. Half of the city’s newsmen kept shop in a brown stone right across the street from headquarters, on the lookout for a hot scoop. As he seemed to have some kind of personal animosity toward Francesca, he had surely come to gloat over the fact that the murder victim was Hart’s ex-mistress. Francesca had no doubt he had come to pry for information.

      Oh, she would see him, all right. She would carefully feed him misinformation that pointed him in any direction but Hart’s. “No. Where is my father?”

      “He is in the breakfast room.”

      Francesca quickly led the way downstairs. She did not want Andrew learning of Daisy’s murder, not until the police had an official suspect, other than Hart. Francesca had little doubt that if Andrew learned of the murder now, it would put the final nail in the coffin of his disapproval of her engagement. He would never give Hart another chance. “I’ll entertain Mr. Kurland in the Blue Room, Mary. Bring two cups of coffee, please.” As she entered the spacious front hall, she pinched her cheeks, regretting her earlier decision to forgo rouge.

      She must not let Kurland suspect that anything was wrong. So she smiled, sailing forward to where he waited at the hall’s other end, by the front door. His brows slowly rose as she paused before him and he carefully scrutinized her face.

      Francesca hoped she did not look exhausted or distressed. “Good morning, Mr. Kurland. My, this is a surprise.”

      He was a slim man in his thirties with brownish hair and wearing an ill-fitting, equally brownish suit. He grinned. “I think the surprise is mine. You’re not going to give me the boot?”

      “If you are calling in such a pleasant manner, there must be an interesting matter to discuss.” She gestured and he preceded her into a pale blue room with mint-green ceilings, gilded paneling and several lush seating arrangements. He paused before the large white-and-gold marble fireplace. Francesca closed the mahogany doors behind her.

      “I don’t know if murder should be described as interesting, except that maybe it is interesting to you, because you are a sleuth.” He smiled widely. “Come, do not play innocent with me!”

      “Are we discussing the terrible, untimely demise of Miss Jones?” Francesca asked in a neutral tone.

      “Yes, we are discussing the murder of your fiancé’s mistress,” Kurland said, regarding her closely.

      Francesca’s smile felt so brittle she did not know how long she could maintain it. “Mr. Kurland, everyone knows that Hart ended his affair three months ago, when we became engaged.”

      He rolled his eyes. “For such a smart investigator, you are awfully naive.”

      She tried to control her slowly rising temper. “I do believe I know Mr. Hart a bit better than you do. I would hardly agree to marry him if he were the cad society thinks him to be.”

      “Indeed, I’ll bet a month’s wages that you know him better than me!” He laughed, the implication clear.

      Francesca fought to contain her temper. “If you wish to think Hart so immoral as to keep a mistress while engaged, so be it. But I find it hard to believe you have come all this way uptown to discuss Hart’s private affairs.”

      “But that is exactly why I have come, Miss Cahill,” Kurland exclaimed. He was eager now. “Good lord, the man’s mistress—all right, his ex-mistress!—has been murdered. This smacks of being a true crime of passion. Hart wouldn’t be the first man to rid himself of an un wanted mistress.”

      Francesca trembled, her fists clenched. “Did you come here to accuse my fiancé of murder?”

      He sobered. “Nope. I came here to ask you how you feel about it—the murder, I mean, of such a rival.”

      She inhaled. “Daisy was my friend,” she lied. “We were friends before I ever became engaged to Hart, and I am going to find her killer.” She still could not decide just how much Kurland knew. “But I do agree with you on one point. I saw the body. It was a vicious and brutal crime of passion.”

      “You saw the body?” Kurland repeated eagerly.

      Francesca was relieved. He obviously had no details of the murder. Of course, eventually he would uncover every detail, she had no doubt, but she would take all of the time that he could give her. “I found the body,” she said, then she corrected herself. “Actually, we found the body.”

      Kurland whipped out a notepad and pencil. “We?” he echoed. “Surely you do not mean you and Hart?”

      “I do,” Francesca said smoothly, although her cheeks felt hot. “Hart and I had been out to supper. He had some papers to drop off at Daisy’s. You surely know that she was living in a house he provided. In spite of the end of their affair, he had agreed she could stay on until July.”

      “So I’ve heard,” Kurland said. “And at what time did you find Miss Jones?”

      “It was about midnight.” Francesca described how she had found Daisy, but did not mention Rose’s presence. “We left the body and split up to look for the killer, but he or she was long since gone. When we returned, Rose was with Daisy.”

      Kurland stared. “This is very interesting, indeed! And where did you say you had dinner?”

      Francesca smiled. “It was a private affair.” She had no friends who lived downtown who would fabricate for her, but a maître d’ could be paid off. “We took a private room at Louis’,” she said, using the correct French pronunciation of the formal downtown restaurant.

      Kurland suddenly smiled and shook his head. “So you are Hart’s alibi, and he is yours.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “Miss Cahill. Surely you must realize, with all of your vast experience, that you are as much a suspect as Hart?”

      Francesca stared, her heart accelerating. “Just what are you trying to say?”

      “I heard the rumor that Daisy’s body was discovered independently by Hart and by Rose Cooper. I have heard no whispers that you were with Hart, although I had been told you were at HQ last night, looking into the case.”

      “I don’t know who your sources are,” Francesca said flatly, “but I would not rely too heavily on them. And no one has pointed a finger my way.”

      “Yeah, well, I can’t imagine Bragg allowing that,” Kurland said with heavy significance. “But I bet he wouldn’t mind pointing the finger at your fiancé.” He grinned.

      Unfortunately, Kurland had caught her and Bragg in a somewhat compromising situation, well before Leigh Anne had returned from Europe to reconcile with him. “I am not involved,” Francesca said. “You may think what you want, but in the end, the truth will out.”

      “Yes, in the end, I will learn the truth—every grisly aspect of it.” Kurland slipped his notepad into his jacket. “I do appreciate your candor, Miss Cahill.” He tipped his fedora at her.

      Francesca turned to walk him to the door. In the hall, he paused, and Francesca tensed.

      “Of course, I have only just begun to dig,” he said. “And there is one more possible theory.”

      “I’m sure there are many theories,” Francesca