Deadly Kisses. Brenda Joyce

dismiss us when Mr. Hart called.”

      Francesca’s insides lurched and tightened. She should have been expecting that, she realized grimly. “And after Mr. Hart and I became engaged?”

      “She entertained Miss Cooper a few times, but other wise, she would go out, which was usual, or stay in alone.”

      Francesca blinked. “Miss Cooper does not live here now?”

      Homer seemed surprised. “No, she does not. But she calls once or twice a week.”

      It did not sound as if Daisy and Rose had resumed their former relationship. Or, if they had, it sounded as if it had lost some of its fervor, Francesca thought. “Who did Miss Jones see last night?’

      “I don’t know,” he said apologetically.

      Francesca’s mind raced. Before she and Calder had become engaged, he had called on Daisy and she had dismissed the staff. On a few occasions, she had dismissed the staff in order to see Rose. Calder, of course, had arrived at Grand Central Station at seven o’ clock—she had the ticket stub to prove it—so he could not have been her caller last night, for Daisy had dismissed everyone at half past five. Surely she had been expecting someone by six or seven o’clock. Had she been expecting Rose? “Perhaps she was going out?” Francesca had to rule this possibility out.

      “Oh, no! She had me prepare a small supper, which she said she would take later. She also asked that I chill champagne and ice two glasses. It was odd, because the supper was for one.”

      Francesca tried to breathe. Daisy had intended to have drinks with her caller, but not dine with her or him. This was another fantastic lead! “You went to your rooms at half past five? And that is when Mrs. Greene went home and Annie went to her room?”

      “Yes.”

      “And this morning? Was the champagne gone? Had both glasses been used? Had she eaten her supper?”

      He met her gaze. “No one drank anything last night. I had opened the bottle for her, and two glasses had been poured, but neither had been drunk. Her supper was untouched.”

      Francesca tried to fight her excitement. If Homer had been instructed to open the bottle of champagne before retiring for the evening, then Daisy’s caller had been expected shortly after five-thirty. Had Daisy greeted the killer with champagne? If so, she had seemed to intend an intimate rendezvous with her murderer. And if the drinks and her supper had not been touched, had she just narrowed down the time of her murder? “Did she say at what time she was expecting her caller? And did you see or hear anything last night?”

      “She made no mention of when she was expecting her caller.”

      Francesca said, “And you did not see or hear anyone?”

      “I went out for a while, Miss Cahill, to take a drink with some friends. When I returned, it was well past eight—it was close to nine-thirty or ten. The house was dark, which I found it a bit strange, but I saw some lights upstairs and I decided it wasn’t my business. I was tired and I went to bed. Mr. Hart awoke me at midnight.”

      Francesca’s mind raced. “So you did not hear anything when you came in at nine-thirty or ten?”

      “No.”

      Francesca’s thoughts veered. “Hart has admitted that he came to see Daisy last night.”

      “It was very odd, him calling like that,” Homer said.

      “Why? Why was it odd?” Francesca asked quickly.

      “Well, he hasn’t called in months.” He blushed. “I am sorry, Miss Cahill, but this is so awkward, with this being his house and you being his fiancée.”

      “Please, Homer, do not fret on my account! When I accepted Hart’s offer of marriage, I was well aware that he was keeping Daisy, and as we both know, he stopped seeing her at that time.”

      Homer glanced away.

      Francesca did not like that. “That is what you said, isn’t it?”

      “Except for last week,” he amended somewhat glumly.

      Francesca tensed. “Last week? He came here last week?” And a treacherous image arose of Daisy smiling at Hart and handing him a glass of champagne.

      Homer hesitated, wringing his hands. “I don’t know what I should say or do,” he said. “He is my employer.”

      She fought the dismay. “He called on Daisy last week.”

      Homer’s brows shot up. “Not that way, Miss Cahill! He came in the afternoon, last Thursday, I think. The visit was a brief one, and there were no refreshments. Miss Jones made it clear she did not wish for them to be disturbed. I don’t think he stayed for even a half an hour. I don’t know what they discussed,” he added hastily.

      There was relief, but on its heels came fresh dismay. What affair had they been conducting? “You didn’t hear anything?”

      “She sent me away. No. I didn’t hear anything.”

      Francesca inhaled. Hart’s call had been the day before he had left on his business trip.

      “Miss Cahill?” A woman whispered, her tone tentative.

      Francesca saw a housemaid approaching, her dark eyes huge in her pale, freckled face. “Are you Annie?”

      Annie nodded, appearing frightened and stricken. “I heard them,” she said hoarsely. “I heard them shouting—arguing—and I heard Miss Jones crying.”

      Francesca froze. “What were they arguing about?”

      “I don’t know. But Mr. Hart was furious when he left. He was so angry that he broke the door—I saw him do it. And Miss Jones? She collapsed on the sofa, weeping.”

      CHAPTER FIVE

      Tuesday, June 3, 1902—11:00 a.m.

      MIKE O’DONNELL STOOD ON the threshold of the small parlor, a weather-beaten man with a suntanned face and hands and bleached-blond hair. He was not a gentleman, Leigh Anne saw instantly, as he wore a flannel shirt tucked into corduroy trousers, and the boots of a workman. An older woman accompanied him, plump and pleasant in expression, also dressed in the drab clothes of a working woman. Katie had not rushed over to him. Instead, she stood near Leigh Anne, wide-eyed and tense. She clearly recognized him.

      “Why don’t you sit down, Mr. O’Donnell?” Leigh Anne said graciously. She had been returned to her wheeled chair and Mr. Mackenzie stood behind her, ready to move her at her command.

      “I should like to do that, ma’am,” he said very deferentially. “An’ thank you for lettin’ me an’ Beth in to see Katie an’ Dot.” He went to sit on the sofa, holding his knit cap between his hands.

      The heavy older woman smiled at Francesca. “My nephew has no manners, Mrs. Bragg. I am Beth O’Brien, his aunt—Katie’s great-aunt.”

      Leigh Anne was ill with fear and dread, but she smiled. “Do sit down, Mrs. O’Brien.” She glanced at the door, where Peter stood. “Peter, please bring some refreshments for our guests, and ask Mrs. Flowers to bring Dot down.”

      The big man left.

      But Beth O’Brien did not sit. She beamed at Katie. “You don’t remember me, do you? But then, I haven’t seen you since you were five years old, when I came to visit your mama for the Christmas holiday.”

      Katie just shook her head.

      “I was living in New Rochelle until last month,” Beth told Leigh Anne amiably. She had warm brown eyes with a kind sparkle to them. “But my mistress died and I came to the city to find a job. I decided to look Mike up—and Mary, my niece and the girl’s mother. I was stunned to learn that she had died,” Beth added, no longer smiling. “How tragic for the girls!”

      “It was very tragic,”