Deadly Kisses. Brenda Joyce

looked startled. He said, “Sir, she was living in Mr. Hart’s house.”

      “I am aware of that. So, you rushed off to meet Daisy as she requested?” Bragg asked again.

      Francesca walked over to stand beside Hart, dismayed that Bragg had instantly gone on an attack. Hart, who remained sitting rather indolently, did not give any sign of being shaken. “No, I did not rush off anywhere. It had been a long day and I had a drink, perhaps two. It was some time later when I decided to call on Daisy and conclude whatever affairs were bothering her.”

      Bragg made a mocking sound. “And those affairs were?”

      “I assumed they were financial matters,” Hart said, slowly rising to his feet, “as the only connection left between me and Daisy was financial. I continued to support her—we had a verbal contract, and it did not expire until mid-July. But you know all of that, don’t you, Rick?”

      Bragg stared and Hart stared back. Then Bragg glanced at Francesca. “I find it highly unlikely that you just returned to town and went to see Daisy to discuss a few bills.”

      “I don’t care what you think,” Hart said, finally appearing annoyed. “I never have and I never will.”

      Bragg looked ready to explode—or arrest him. Smiling tightly, he said, “Considering your mistress has been murdered, I think you had better start to care what I think.”

      Hart smiled as tightly, and for one moment, Francesca thought he was about to smash his fist in Bragg’s face.

      Francesca hated the hostility between the two brothers. She gripped Hart’s arm. “A terrible murder has been committed,” she said tersely. “There is no point in the both of you going at each other’s throats. We need to find Daisy’s killer. We owe her that.”

      Bragg gave her an undecipherable look and walked away, running his hand through his hair. Hart faced her, his rigid expression softening. “You don’t need to be here right now,” he said.

      Francesca gaped. “Of course I do!” she cried. She could not tell him, not in front of Newman and Bragg, how worried she was about his apparent involvement. “When we go home, we will go home together,” she whispered.

      Before Hart could object, Bragg returned to them, apparently having recovered his composure. “Let’s leave the subject of why you went to see Daisy aside for the moment. Walk me through what happened when you arrived.”

      Some of Hart’s tension eased. “I left the house around half past eleven, I think. When I arrived at her home, I saw that there were no lights on downstairs. No one answered the knocker, and that was odd. I did not have a good feeling at this point. So I tried the door, found it unlocked and walked in.”

      Francesca could not breathe and her heart raced. The mental note she had made earlier was glaring at her now. Hart had said he had left home at eleven, not half past. Was he deliberately misleading Bragg and the police, or had he, like most witnesses, made an innocent factual error? And she wondered again, if he had really left home at 11:00 p.m., what had he been doing for nearly an entire hour in that house? Was that why he was misleading the police?

      Almost as if he were a mind reader, he turned to Francesca. “What time did you get there?”

      She hesitated, her instincts rising up now. She did not want to lie, but she desperately wanted to protect Hart.

      “Francesca?”

      She wet her lips. “Before midnight,” she lied. “I imagine it was just a few minutes after Hart.” She could barely believe that she was lying to a man she had once loved and still cared so deeply for.

      Bragg rubbed his jaw. “Calder?”

      “I found Daisy shortly after I first walked in,” he said, not looking at Francesca now. “It appeared as if she had been stabbed in the chest, many times. No one could survive such an attack, but I did check for her pulse.” He spoke very calmly, as if they were discussing the next day’s weather, but he was gripping the back of the chair he had been sitting in and his knuckles were white.

      Francesca could not see his expression, because he had looked down, but she gave up all pretense now. Hart was distraught and anguished. He certainly still cared for Daisy, and Francesca was hurt and jealous, dear God.

      But Francesca wanted to comfort him, too, and she moved closer to him. Instantly he glanced at her. She sensed he wanted to reassure her, and any grief he might be feeling was masked. Then he looked at Bragg. “I sat with her for a moment,” he said calmly. “I was in shock. I was very much in shock.”

      Bragg nodded. “There’s blood on your shirt,” he said.

      Hart had tossed his charcoal-gray jacket aside. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his dark tie loose and askew. He rarely wore a vest, and dried blood stained the finely woven white cotton material of his shirt. Now he glanced down at his own chest.

      “You held her?” Bragg asked.

      Francesca tensed.

      An interminable moment passed and Francesca thought Hart was recalling the moment he had first seen Daisy dead on the study floor. She touched his arm; he did not notice. “I saw her the moment I reached the study door. It was ajar. There was so much blood. I knew instantly that she had been murdered.” Hart finally looked at his half brother. “But I checked to see if she was breathing. She wasn’t. I was on my knees.” He stopped. He had spoken as if reciting notes for a university class. Now he looked down. “Yes, I held her.”

      Francesca turned away. Her heart beat so hard it hurt her there, inside of her chest.

      “Go on,” Bragg said to Hart, as if he had not just revealed his feelings, when they all knew he had.

      Hart shrugged. “I instantly wondered if the killer remained in the house. I was about to begin a search when I saw Rose coming inside, without any kind of wrap. Clearly she had only just stepped out. I was suspicious and I made certain she did not see me. She went directly to the study. She was not surprised to find Daisy dead there, but she was very distraught.”

      “She still did not see you?” Bragg asked.

      Hart shook his head. “We all know that Rose was very fond of Daisy. Although her behavior seemed suspicious, I left to search the house, on the chance I might find either the killer or a clue. I had just finished speaking with the butler and a housemaid when I ran into Francesca.”

      “And that would have been at midnight,” Bragg confirmed.

      “I guess so,” Hart said, suddenly sounding tired. “Are we through?”

      Francesca would have been consumed with guilt for her deception, but there was too much worry and hurt. She could not get past the fact that Hart had admitted to holding Daisy in his arms, obviously grieving for her. She reminded herself that he had every right. After all, she still cared for Bragg. She would grieve until the day she died if anything ever happened to him. Why couldn’t she accept that Hart had continued to care for Daisy, too?

      Because she had always been jealous of the fact that Hart had once wanted Daisy enough to keep her as a mistress.

      Francesca did not want to think about how insecure Daisy had always made her feel. She took a breath and plunged into the fray. “Rick, I arrived just a few moments before I bumped into Hart. When I arrived, the front door was ajar. I found Rose with Daisy, in grief. There was no sign of a murder weapon. I covered up the body and I also thought to look for the killer, as I heard a noise in the hall. That is when I ran into Calder on the stairs.”

      “And you went to Daisy, for what reason?”

      Francesca reached into her beaded velvet evening bag and handed him the note. He read it and gave it to Newman. “Tag it,” he said. He faced Hart. “And the note Daisy sent you?”

      Hart was rubbing his jaw. “It’s probably on my desk, where I left it.”

      “I’m afraid I will need it, Calder.”