Deadly Vows. Brenda Joyce
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groups migrating to the city resided in distinct ethnic clusters.
She was proud that she knew the city well, but she did not know it like the back of her hand. In her very first investigation—into the abduction of a neighbor’s child—she had met a young, outspoken cutpurse, eleven-year-old Joel Kennedy. He had defended her from a thug, and she had taken him under her wing, not just because he knew so many tricks of the trade, but because she had a secret wish to help him improve his lot in life. When she did not have Joel with her—a rare circumstance indeed—she used a map to navigate Manhattan. Today, Joel was with his mother, Maggie, a wonderful seamstress who had become her friend—and possibly a romantic interest of her brother’s. She could imagine the chaos in the Kennedy home just then, as Maggie had been stunned to have been invited to her wedding. Undoubtedly Joel and his siblings were being groomed for the event.
But she did not need her maps. The cabbie she flagged down on the avenue instantly told her that No. 69 Waverly Place was on the north side of Washington Square.
Francesca was relieved. The previewing was but a few blocks from 300 Mulberry Street—which housed police headquarters.
She was on pins and needles. She had not a doubt in her mind that her portrait was at No. 69 Waverly Place. She had begun to wonder if someone wished to agitate her on her wedding day. If so, that someone had certainly succeeded!
Earlier, she had been relieved to find her father’s study empty; perhaps Andrew had been taking his weekend ambulatory in the park. She had made one quick telephone call before leaving the house, and it would have been quicker if the operator, Beatrice, hadn’t tried to converse with her about her wedding. But Hart hadn’t been home—she couldn’t imagine what he was doing on their wedding day—and she had spoken to his butler, Alfred. The butler had asked her if she wished to leave a message, but she had been too frenzied to get downtown to think of anything coherent to say. Before dashing out of the house, Connie had told her that she was a madwoman.
Francesca looked at the small pocket watch she had bought for herself recently; crime-solving was laborious, and she tended to run late. It was half past one. It had taken longer to get downtown than she had thought it would, but she had a good hour yet to explore.
They were on Fifth Avenue, traveling south. Ahead, she saw the green lawns and paved walkways of Washington Square. On both sides of Fifth Avenue she saw old brownstone buildings that were clearly residences, although she also saw a few ground-floor restaurants and taverns. Her hansom turned left onto Waverly Place, which faced the square. More dark brownstones lined the block, shaded by elm trees. Shops were on the lower floors.
She caught the bright sign hanging from one such establishment: Gallery Moore.
“Stop, driver, stop!” Her gaze sought the number above the sign. It was No. 69.
Frantically, Francesca dug into her purse.
“Do you want me to wait, miss?” the cabbie asked. He had a heavy Italian accent.
Francesca quickly looked around. Despite the holiday, the square was full. Women in pretty cotton dresses, some with parasols, were strolling with their children or their gentlemen escorts. Some of the men were in their shirtsleeves, while a few wore suit jackets and top hats. Two cyclists, one a woman in knickers, were on bicycles, weaving precariously along the paths. A few small dogs raced about, while a balloon drifted into the sky. It was a very pleasant, genteel scene.
She looked at the block facing her. Once, the buildings had been fashionable, single-family Georgian homes. There were daffodils growing about the elm trees on the sidewalks, and she saw more flowers in the window boxes. Washington Square was a tired and old neighborhood, but it remained middle-class. Another hansom was passing by and she decided it was safe to let the cabdriver go.
She was in such a rush that she stumbled from the cab. Slamming the door, she turned to face the gallery. Her heart thundered.
Everyone seemed to be in the square; the city block was deserted.
She paused to take her small pistol from her purse. It was loaded. Whoever had stolen her portrait, he or she was, at the least, a thief. And she would certainly not be surprised if that thief was also a blackmailer or an enemy, seeking revenge upon her. She would be a fool to deny her fear.
Her stolen portrait could be inside. She prayed that it was.
There were wide stone steps on her right, leading to the apartments above the gallery. The gallery itself was on the basement level, meaning she had to go down several steps to get to the front door. As she did, the first thing she saw was the white sign hanging on the door. Its bold black letters read Closed.
She paused, clutching the small gun. The door was glass, but set in iron and barred with it. She glanced at the windows on each side, which were similarly barred. Most galleries had large windows, to allow in natural light. She imagined that it was dark and gloomy inside this space.
A smaller sign was in the right-hand window. She went closer to read it.
Summer Hours: Monday-Friday, 12:00–5:00 p.m.
The gallery was closed to the public. Francesca felt her heart leap with relief, but that did not dim her anxiety. A small doorbell was beside the door, and there was a heavy iron knocker on it. Francesca reached for the doorknob.
It gave instantly as she turned it, and the front door swung open.
Clearly, someone was waiting for her.
In that moment, she wished that Hart had been at home, or that Bragg had still been present when she had gotten the invitation. She blinked, adjusting her eyes to the gloom inside. No lights were on, so the gallery was filled with shadow.
Francesca stepped in and closed the door behind her very, very quietly. To her satisfaction, she did not hear even the scrape of iron on the floor.
She could see well enough now and she turned, her skin beginning to prickle, certain she was not alone. She almost gasped.
Her portrait faced her.
She trembled. She had forgotten how stunning the painting was—and how provocative. In it, she wore nothing but a pearl choker. Her hair was up and perfectly coiffed. She sat with her back to the viewer, but she was partially turned. Not only were most of her buttocks visible, so was the entire profile of one of her breasts.
There was no mistaking her identity—and to make matters worse, she wore an expression of naked sensuality and raw hunger.
When she had posed for that painting, all she could think about was Hart.
Her instinct was to rush forward and yank the picture from the wall and destroy it. But there would be time for that later. She fought for composure. What did the thief want? Why surface now? Did he or she want money? Did he or she want to ruin her?
Was she being watched?
She felt as if eyes were upon her—and she did not like it, not one damn bit. She had her back to the door. She looked outside through the bars and glass, but the small concrete space beyond the front door was vacant.
Francesca started forward, gun in hand. If the thief was watching her, there was no point in remaining silent. Now she saw the other paintings on the walls. None were Sarah Channing’s work. Her style, somewhat classical yet impressionistic, too, was very distinct. “Where are you?” she called out loudly, turning the corner behind the center wall. The area there boasted nothing but blank gray walls. “Who are you? What do you want?”
Her words seemed to echo slightly in this smaller back chamber. She saw an open doorway, but hesitated. “Come out. I know you’re here.” She swallowed, straining to listen. All she could hear was her own thundering heartbeat and her rapid, shallow breathing.
She was afraid. Why wouldn’t she be? Someone had lured her to that gallery. She needed to take possession of that painting. “I will pay you handsomely for my portrait!” she cried.
There was no answer.
Standing in the back room, facing a dark,