Deadly Vows

“Of course not!” he cried. “Everyone is worried about you!”

She tensed. Hart wasn’t worried, not at all. Her heart broke all over again, but she decided to ignore it. “I received this by hand this morning, shortly after you left,” Francesca said, taking the envelope marked Urgent out of her purse. She handed it to him, the invitation inside.

He quickly read it and paled. “The portrait?”

She nodded, glad to be back on the firm ground of the investigation now. “When I got there, the gallery was closed for summer hours but unlocked. I went in and I saw the portrait. It is nailed to one wall. I felt that I was not alone and I began to explore. Perhaps a half hour later, someone locked me in from outside.”

Bragg made a harsh sound—she knew he was angry. “Go on.”

She wet her lips. “I called for help, but no one heard me. Then I tried to climb out a very small window in the back office. I had to break the pane. That is how I got cut on my face.”

He took her hands in his, not looking down. “How did you hurt your hands?”

“Clawing the wall as I tried to get up to that window.”

His expression, already tight, hardened even more.

She couldn’t help comparing his reactions to Hart’s. Had Calder even noticed her cuts and scratches? “Eventually two children heard me. Their father and a roundsman let me out.”

For one more moment he held her hands, and she had the impression that all would be right in the world again. As she thought that, she recalled Hart’s cold black gaze, his deliberate cruelty and his words “It is over.” She flinched. It could not be over.

Bragg released her, picking up the receiver from the telephone on his desk. Shockingly, he actually had two phones in his house—the other was upstairs in his bedroom. That was truly scandalous, but he claimed it was practical. “It’s Bragg. I want Gallery Moore, at No. 69 Waverly Place, cordoned off as the scene of an attempted abduction. No one is to get in or get out, and that includes Moore, the gallery owner. It also includes the police. Let me be clear. You are to cordon off the gallery—I repeat, no one is to go inside. I will be there in thirty minutes.” He listened for another moment and hung up. Then he faced her. “You do not have to come downtown, Francesca. I can manage the case now.”

Her eyes widened. “Of course I am coming with you!”

He smiled then. “Somehow, I thought you might say that.”

She smiled back at him. Very shortly, the gallery would be secured by his men, and no one would be able to get inside to view her portrait. They had to get downtown, but there was less urgency now. She touched his arm briefly. “Have I ruined your evening?”

“No.”

His tone was so hard and decisive that she started. Was something wrong? But he then added more quietly, “We agreed to investigate the theft of your portrait privately, but after the events of this day, I do not see how I cannot use the resources at my disposal.”

She hesitated. “Hart did not make any headway with his investigators.”

“No, he did not—and they visited every single gallery in Manhattan and Brooklyn. No one had seen or heard of your portrait.” He said grimly, “Obviously no one can ever see that painting. Let us hope that tonight we recover it, once and for all.”

She hugged herself. Hopefully they would recover the portrait within the hour, but that would still leave the thief at large. Why hadn’t she gotten more involved? Of course, when the portrait had vanished on April 27 from Sarah’s studio, she had still been trying to find the deadly Slasher before he murdered another innocent woman. Then Daisy Jones had been murdered. When Hart had immediately become the prime suspect, her focus had been doing everything possible to clear him. Fortunately, it had taken only four days to solve that case. Marion Gillespie had confessed to the murder of her own daughter on June 6.

“What’s wrong?” Bragg asked softly.

“I was just thinking that I wish I had been more involved. But hindsight is useless.”

“It is very useless,” he agreed. “I understand why Hart chose to thoroughly comb through the city’s art world. I expected him to turn up something. But I never expected this, and I am as much to blame as anyone for today’s events.” He reached for the phone. “Has anyone told your parents that you are safe and sound?”

“You are not to blame!” When he did not respond to that, she knew he did not agree. “Rick,” she began.

“Do Julia and Andrew know that you are all right?” he repeated.

“Alfred sent word.” She prayed that he would not ask her if she had seen Hart.

He stared, then said, “Still, I feel obligated to call Andrew.”

She nodded. “That is fine. I think they would like to be reassured by you, but I cannot face my mother right now.”

He gave her an odd look. “Operator, please connect me to Andrew Cahill’s home.” He laid his hand over the mouthpiece. “Do you wish to speak to your father?”

“Not quite yet. Can you tell them I am fine, that there was some trouble, and I have fallen asleep in your guest room?” she tried.

“Francesca,” he objected.

“I am going downtown with you. I have hours to come up with a plausible reason for having missed my own wedding,” she said rather defensively.

He sighed. “Hello, Andrew. I have very good news. I am with Francesca, who has suffered a very trying day.… I am afraid she was lured away from your house deliberately, but she is now fine.… Yes, someone wished to interfere with the wedding.… She has fallen asleep on my sofa.… Yes…I will personally get her home in the next few hours. Good night.” He hung up, looking at her.

“I have made you a partner in crime. I am sorry.”

“Think nothing of it.” Then he softened. “It is hardly the first time, is it? I do not mind telling a white lie for you—and sometimes I enjoy being a partner in crime with you.”

She bit her lip, almost thrilling. “It is partly the truth.”

He said bluntly, “Have you seen Calder yet?”

She flushed, filled with tension instantly. “Yes. Are you ready to go downtown?”

His gaze was as piercing as a hawk’s. She waited, refusing to discuss Hart now. He finally nodded at the door. She started out of the study and he followed, calling for Joel. She said, “Who do you think would want me to miss my wed ding?”

Joel came downstairs, apparently having been visiting with the two girls. As they left the house, Joel leading the way, Bragg said, “Hart has enemies, Francesca—hundreds of them, in fact. We agreed two months ago that trying to investigate a list of his enemies was impossible.”

“So this thief might want to strike at Calder, not me.” They approached the driveway behind the carriage house where Bragg’s Daimler was parked.