Free Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03] by Deadly Affairs

brown hair. “Hello. And what is your name? I am Fran. My niece calls me Auntie Fran.”
    Big blue eyes stared suspiciously up at her. The six-year-old did not speak.
    “That’s Katie, an’ her sister is Dot,” Joel said.
    Impulsively Francesca ran her hand over Katie’s head. She pulled away, scowling. Her gaze remained wary and even hostile. Francesca smiled at Dot. The little blonde had been watching her, and now she grinned back. She had several new baby teeth and the grin was enough to melt anyone’s heart.
    Francesca faced Mrs. Jadvic. “Did Mary express any fears to you recently? Did she know her life was in danger?”
    Mrs. Jadvic shook her head. “No. She was happy with her new job. She’d come here with food and trinkets for the girls, humming a ditty beneath her breath.”
    It was so unfair, Francesca thought, more determined than ever to bring Mary’s killer to justice. “When did you last see her?”
    “Sunday,” she said, without hesitation.
    So Francesca had seen her more recently, last Tuesday. Perhaps on Sunday, Mary hadn’t known that her life was in danger.
    “And her husband? Is he around?” Francesca asked.
    “She never spoke of him to me.” The blonde hesitated. “I don’t think the girls have the same father.”
    Francesca nodded, hoping she was not blushing. “Where did Mary work before she was hired by the Jansons? And for how long? And when was that?”
    “She worked in a small tailor shop with four other seamstresses; it’s on Broadway, maybe on Eighteenth Street. She’s been with the Jansons five or six weeks now, less than two months. They would know better than me,” Mrs. Jadvic added.
    Her mother-in-law had been unpacking the groceries, which consisted of several old potatoes, a loaf of stale bread, three eggs, and a slab of bacon. Francesca realized they were about to cook dinner. Mrs. Jadvic took two coats off of wall pegs and, along with them, several scarves. She handed Francesca a small burlap sack. “They each have a change in here, and a Sunday church dress. Mary was devout.”
    Francesca accepted the sack, then handed it to Joel. “Is there anyone else who was close to Mary? Someone that I might talk to?”
    “Maggie Kennedy was her good friend. You might try some of the girls at the Broadway shop.” She shrugged.
    “And that is all?” Francesca asked.
    “There’s her brother,” Mrs. Jadvic said. “Mike O’Donnell.”
    Francesca used the door knocker at No. 11 Madison Square. The door was opened almost instantly by a huge man. Peter was undoubtedly six inches over six feet, broad-shouldered, and large of frame. He was blond and blue-eyed; Francesca thought he was Swedish. He rarelyspoke, although Bragg had said he was quite wise, and he was Bragg’s man. That is, he did just about everything and anything for Bragg; when Francesca had first met Peter, she had thought him to be a police officer.
    “Hello, Peter,” she said brightly, clutching Katie’s and Dot’s hands. She had given both girls lollipops, and they were busy sucking on the candy sticks.
    Peter nodded, glancing from her to the two children, then at the cab waiting in the street. He then espied the burlap sack that Joel held.
    “Peter, this is a dire emergency,” Francesca was brisk, and with courage she walked around him—no easy task—with the two girls and into the narrow entry of Bragg’s town house. “These two little girls are homeless. I would bring them home with me, but I am rather in a predicament with my parents—I am not allowed to sleuth. However, I shall find these girls a new home—within the week, I assure you. But until then,” and she did smile at him, “they must remain here. I shall send over a nanny.”
    Peter’s expression did not change. If he was surprised or dismayed, he did not show it. He asked, “Does the commissioner know?”
    “I am on my way to headquarters even as we speak,” she said, very brightly. “You know Bragg. He will never turn