Deadly Kisses. Brenda Joyce
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Название: Deadly Kisses
Автор: Brenda Joyce
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Короткие любовные романы
Серия: Mills & Boon M&B
isbn: 9781408953099
isbn:
“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.”
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