Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] Read Online Free

and most of the city knows it.”
    “What are you getting at?”
    “First an
F
, and now a
B
,” she murmured.
    He understood and started. “You think the killer is toying with you and me?”
    Francesca shrugged. “I don’t know. How could I? We haven’t even begun to investigate. But the notion did occur to me, unfortunately.” And fortunately, she had quickly recovered her composure. For it was not a foregone conclusion that the letter
F
had been painted on Sarah Channing’s wall.
    “Well, I do hope you are wrong, because that would indicate a very maddened killer, Francesca.”
    Francesca nodded, but her senses all felt heightened now,for this was what she did best, as she had so recently discovered. “Bragg? There is one more difference, obviously, between the Neville and Channing Incidents.”
    And it was a huge difference indeed. Sarah had discovered the crime at five-fifteen in the morning and had lived to speak of it. That is, she had not seen or encountered the vandal, and there had not been a murder.
    “Yes, as Sarah lives and Miss Neville does not,” Bragg said, clearly thinking in the same vein as she.
    “Is Sarah in danger?” Francesca asked slowly, with dread. She had become quite fond of Sarah since meeting her.
    Bragg hesitated. “I simply don’t know, Francesca,” he finally said.
    Francesca inhaled and faced Miss Neville again. There was no more avoiding what she must do. But Bragg touched her elbow, a gesture of restraint. She met his gaze. “I’m fine.”
    “It isn’t pleasant,” he warned.
    “Death is never pleasant.” She walked slowly across the room, avoiding the patches of paint, aware of Bragg following her.
    Miss Neville’s face was turned away from her, which was fine. Francesca looked first at her gray suit. Splotches of angry paint had been cast upon her, too. It made Francesca angry, for she imagined the killer throwing paint upon his dead victim. “He murdered her before he vandalized the studio,” she said.
    “Not necessarily. She might have surprised him in his act of destruction and become rather paint-splattered as a result.”
    Francesca simply did not think so. She felt that Miss Neville had been dead when the murderer had begun to tarnish her with paint. And while the fitted suit was not a custom-made one, it was of a good quality, and it indicated that Miss Neville was a gentlewoman. Francesca glanced at her shoes—they were black-and-white kid with fancy heels and they had cost a few dollars. The petticoat frothing aboutthe unevenly turned hem of the gray skirt was French lace. Francesca was perplexed.
    Miss Neville lived frugally, but she dressed well. In fact, there were two rings on the fingers of her outstretched hand, and one of them was a sapphire flanked by two small diamonds. She wore it on her left index finger—had she been engaged? Married?
    The other ring was a simple silver band flecked with tiny red stones. Francesca assumed the stones to be garnets.
    Francesca allowed her gaze to move up Miss Neville’s still form—she had a very fine figure, a small waist and a voluptuous bosom—and finally to her neck. She saw marks that were turning black-and-blue upon her throat, both on the front of her neck and on the back. Whoever had done this, he had been a strong man, probably with large hands. Her gaze moved higher. Miss Neville’s hair was a pretty, bright chestnut, although severely drawn back into a chignon. A dove gray hat was pinned to her head and the skin of her right cheek was fair and flawless.
    Francesca walked around her to the other side, so Miss Neville was facing her now. She sank down to her knees, looked at her stunning and very familiar face—and she cried out.
    “Francesca?” Bragg reached for her.
    Francesca allowed him to pull her up, simply too stunned to speak.
    “What is it?” Bragg demanded.
    Francesca gulped down air. “That . . . she isn’t Miss Neville . . . Bragg! That . . . she is Grace Conway!” Francesca