Deadly Illusions. Brenda Joyce

eyebrows lifted and bells shrieked alarmingly in her mind. “I’m sure your father doesn’t hate you,” she said.

      Bridget crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her mouth hard together.

      “Why would your father hate you?” Bragg asked quietly.

      She shrugged, looking away, clearly determined not to respond.

      “Where is your father?” Francesca tried.

      Bridget glanced sullenly at her. “In jail.”

      Francesca bit her lip and quickly exchanged a glance with Bragg.

      “Is he in a prison in Ireland? Or is he in the city?” Bragg asked quietly.

      “He’s in Limerick.”

      Francesca was disappointed. Briefly, she thought they might have had a lead.

      Then Bridget started to cry. “He’s still supposed to be there. But today, after school, I thought I saw him across the street!”

      Francesca stood, staring at Bragg, who stared back. “Darling,” she said, clasping Bridget’s shoulder, “you think your father is here, in the city?”

      “I swear I saw him!” Bridget was in tears. “But if Mama finds out, she will be more afraid than she is now!”

      Francesca knelt before the child, clasping both of her hands. “Why do you think your father hates you? Why was he in jail? And why would your mother be afraid if your father were here in the city?”

      She bit her lip. Finally she whispered, “Mama says I am not allowed to speak of it.”

      “This is a police matter,” Francesca said gently. “You cannot withhold information from the police. It is against the law.”

      “I can go to jail?” she gasped.

      “No one is sending you to jail,” Francesca said firmly. “But surely you wish to obey the law?”

      Bridget nodded glumly. Then, in a rush, she spoke. “Papa tried to murder Lord Randolph!”

      Francesca stood. She didn’t have to ask. Bragg said, “Who is Lord Randolph?”

      Bridget covered her face in her hands. “The man Mama loves.”

      AS HE TOOK THE steps in the narrow stairwell two at a time, Evan Cahill was well aware that his heart was racing. He could not shake the conversation he had just had with Francesca from his mind. But his leaping pulse had nothing to do with romantic matters. He felt sure of it. He was very fond of Maggie and the children, but his adrenaline was the result of fear and determination, nothing more.

      Still, he had not visited her and the children in some time and he was eager to see them all. He was equally aware of that.

      He paused before her door, noticing that it was freshly painted a cheerful shade of blue. As he finger-combed some pieces of hair back into place, he wondered if she had painted the door herself. He hoped that Joel had done it for her. She worked herself to the bone as it was. The last time he had been there, the brown paint on the door had been flaking and peeling away from the wood.

      He straightened his tie and knocked. As he waited for a response, his heart tightened unmistakably, and then he heard Maggie’s voice on the other side of the door. He felt himself smile.

      “Paddy, stop. You know we do not open doors until we know who is on the other side,” she scolded.

      Paddy was five and a mischievous handful. He looked just like Maggie, except that his red hair was far brighter. “It’s Joel,” Paddy cried in protest.

      “Probably,” she said. “Who is it?” she then called.

      He felt his smile increasing. “Evan Cahill.” An image of her pretty blue eyes filled his mind and he could imagine Paddy pressed against her skirts.

      And he felt her surprise and could almost see her hesitate. A moment later the door opened and she stood there in a simple dove-gray skirt and white shirtwaist, her hair swept back into a bun, her eyes wide with surprise. She appeared breathless.

      “Hello,” he said. And even as distressed as he was with the circumstance of the Slasher striking two doors down, he held a paper bag filled with cakes and cookies in his arms. He knew Maggie would refuse a sack of groceries.

      Her mouth trembled. “Hello, Mr. Cahill. I…I’m sorry, we were not expecting company. The flat is a mess!” And as she spoke, Paddy cried out in delight and tackled him about the knees, hugging him there.

      “Mrs. Kennedy, please do not stand on formality with me. I was in the neighborhood and I thought to bring the children some treats.” He made no move to step inside but he could see from the corner of his eye that the flat was as clean as a whistle and as tidy as always. He did not know how she fed and housed her four children so properly. His admiration for her knew no bounds. “Paddy, my boy, if you do not loosen up I may keel over.” He was joking and he winked at Maggie.

      But she did not smile now. “Please, come in,” she whispered nervously.

      As he did, Mathew whooped and barreled over to hug him, too. Evan set the bag down on the kitchen table, draped in a blue-check tablecloth, and he slapped the seven-year-old on the back. “How are you, buddy?” he asked with a grin.

      “Great,” Mathew grinned. “I got an A in arithmetic!”

      “That’s wonderful,” Evan said, meaning it and feeling oddly proud of the child. “And what grades did you receive in reading and writing?”

      “Bs,” Mathew said earnestly, eyes wide. Like Joel, he had midnight-black hair and the dark eyes to match.

      “Good job,” Evan said softly, pulling him close for a moment. Then he felt Maggie come to stand behind him and his entire body tensed. Slowly, he released the boy and turned, uncertain now of why he reacted to her so. He felt somewhat breathless.

      “I’ll put up some tea. Lizzie just went to sleep and Joel is out,” Maggie said, her eyes wide and riveted on him.

      He gave up. There was something so pretty about her, and why deny it? That meant nothing, of course, as he was very involved with Bartolla, whom he would probably one day marry. And Bartolla was the kind of woman he was insanely attracted to—gorgeous, bold and far from innocent. But Maggie was lovely and he had always had an eye for attractive women, so of course he would notice her. But there was something else about her, something he could not put his finger on. In a way, she was like a ray of the purest light.

      However, Maggie and he were from different worlds. They both knew it. The gulf of class and economy that separated them was as wide as the Atlantic Ocean. So even if Francesca was right—which she was not—any feelings on his part, other than the noble ones of admiration, respect and friendship, were entirely inappropriate.

      “Thank you,” he said very quietly. He was uncharacteristically shaken.

      “Joel and your sister are on a case,” Maggie said, hovering over the kettle she had just set to boil.

      He stared for a moment at her slim back. Most women who had had four children had long since gone to fat. Maggie remained slender. Not for the first time, he thought her a touch too thin. But then, he knew her rather well now and he knew she gave the best of everything, including their meals, to her children. He saw a pot on the stove. Now curious, he wandered over.

      She whirled and they were face-to-face, mere inches separating them, her back to the stove.

      For one moment, he did not move, impossibly aware of her, realizing that she wore the faintest scent, floral and sweet. Then he stepped aside. “I beg your pardon,” he murmured, glancing into the pot. She was making a stew, a few potatoes and onions simmering with some bones. There was no meat to be seen.

      Maggie had scurried to the kitchen table and grasped the back of a chair. “Have you had supper?” she said very breathlessly. “I mean,