A Deadly Truth: A Cady Delafield Mystery, #1

By Joyce Proell

When Doyle Flanagan finds two strangers in his library—one dead and the other the beautiful but meddlesome Cady Delafield, his life begins to unravel as all clues point to him for the murder.

 

As the sexual tension sizzles and Victorian conventions crumble, Cady risks job, reputation and family ties to help him clear his name.

 

Even as his life hangs in the balance, his passion for her drives him on, but will the truth about him be the one thing to scare her away?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Jul 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781771550604

Book preview

Champagne Books Presents

A Deadly Truth

By

Joyce Proell

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Champagne Books

www.champagnebooks.com

Copyright 2013 by Joyce Proell

ISBN 9781771550604

July 2013

Cover Art by Petra K.

Produced in Canada

Champagne Book Group

#2 19-3 Avenue SE

High River, AB T1V 1G3

Canada

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Champagnebooks.com (or a retailer of your choice) and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Other Books By Joyce Proell

Eliza

Dedication

To my lovely daughter, Kate, who always gives me excellent advice.

One

Chicago

1881

Cady Delafield drew a breath of wintry air and stepped from the hansom cab. Against the sun’s glare, she narrowed her eyes staring up at the austere yet beautiful townhouse, one of dozens lining the prosperous street. What business could a near penniless student like Fiona, a woman short on family and connections, have in this affluent dwelling?

Wait for me please, she directed to the ruddy cheeked driver who held open the cab door. This shouldn’t take long. As quickly as the slick ice covered walkway allowed, she hustled to the building’s door, her brow drawn with question about Fiona’s recent disappearance.

She rang the bell, tapping her foot while an unsettled feeling slithered across her shoulders making her shiver. Where is everyone? She jabbed the bell a second time. A home this size often employed several servants, yet curiously, no one answered. The puzzling matter brought forth two other questions which had plagued her all morning. Whom did Fiona meet here last night and where was she now?

Scowling, Cady gave a hearty rap to the door and was surprised to see it creak open. Curious, she stuck her head inside.

Hello? Bouncing off the high ceiling, her voice ricocheted with an eerie resonance. A wide, carpeted staircase led to a second floor. Alongside it, a center hallway flowed to the back of the house. Hello? Is anyone here?

Her gloved fingers tensed around the door handle. A voice in her head clamored walk away, but she had to find Fiona. When the young woman’s roommate had come to her worried to tears about Fiona not coming home last night, Cady could hardly refuse to help. As school administrator, she knew Fiona was a top student, dedicated, and conscientious and not given to spending the night away from the tiny flat she shared with Rosaline.

When a gust of chilly air pressed at her back, Cady scampered inside prepared to tell anyone she met about the open door. A deserted parlor sat on the right of the entrance while near the base of the stairs two mahogany pocket doors were closed tight.

Hellooo. She tipped her head, straining to hear and caught only the wind whistling off the nearby lake.

This is ridiculous, she scoffed and marched across the foyer. After one unanswered knock, she slid the door open and peeked inside. Heavy drapes cast the room in a dim light. A figure, no more than a shadow, lay on a sofa.

Forgive me, she murmured backing away but something about the woman made her pause.

Fiona?

Getting no reply, Cady paraded over to the bay windows and threw open the drapes. Light spilled through the lace under curtains. Fiona. What in the world… Cady spun about and gasped.

Stretched out on her back, head nestled on a pillow, Fiona stared at the ceiling with lifeless eyes.

The room became a kaleidoscope of dizzy movement. Cady grabbed the top edge of an easy chair for support. Oh, she moaned struggling to regain her equilibrium.

Good God, she whispered, her head reeling. Fist pressed against her lips, she edged closer.

Hair neatly arranged, hands crossed in a virtuous pose over her heart and clothes resting smooth and undisturbed about her limbs, Fiona resembled a body laid out for viewing. But this was no funeral parlor. The whole arrangement, as Cady could think of no better word for what lay before her, was unreal and eerie.

An arctic cold gripped her. Trembling, she crossed an arm over her chest, her fingers digging into her upper arm. Swallowing back the lump in her throat, she poked the young woman’s shoulder and prayed the thick twill of her jacket would rise on a gulp of air. Yet regrettably, Cady knew her student, one of her most gifted, would never graduate, marry, laugh or breathe again. Tears stung her eyes. She brushed them away, aware she must send for a priest, a doctor. No, no. The police.

What are you doing here?

She yelped and twirled toward the blaring voice, heart pounding in her throat. A glowering man filled the doorway. Danger clung to him as tangible as the fur collared overcoat draped over his shoulders.

I…ah… She swallowed convulsively, her gaze riveted to the frightening man. Whiskers shadowed his strong chin while hair, black as oil, spilled in haphazard strands across his forehead.

I asked you a question.

She’s dead, she whispered.

His blue eyes grew wild. What? He exploded into the room.

Cady shrieked and snatched a bronze statue from a nearby end table. Don’t come any closer!

He jolted to a stop and surveyed the weapon clutched in her fist. Put it down.

Not until you explain yourself. Who are you? Her voice wavered like a frightened moth captured in a bottle. She couldn’t trust him. If he would stay put, she could slip around him and run for the police.

His mouth set into a thin slit, he started forward.

No! Don’t come any closer. She brandished the statue determined to use it if necessary.

Don’t be ridiculous, he snapped. I’m not going to hurt you. Now an arm’s length from the sofa, he glanced down at Fiona. If I’d wanted to hurt you, I would have done so before now.

He skimmed a hand across the dead woman’s forehead.

Don’t touch her.

His mouth crimped with annoyance, but to her surprise, he withdrew his hand. Then, in one dramatic, fluid movement, he yanked his coat from his shoulders and hurled it into a nearby chair. He faced her and said, Who are you?

She sucked in a ragged breath. A woman is dead. Have you no feelings? As the tart words slipped from her mouth, she realized the foolishness of antagonizing him.

Of course I care, he said as though she were an idiot. I care very much. Now, please, hand me the statue. He thrust forth an upturned palm.

Uncertain about his intentions, she shifted foot-to-foot. Tired lines rimmed his eyes but his bold manner, as though he ruled the kingdom, suggested he was accustomed to getting his way. Keeping well away from his reach, she edged past the fireplace and closer to the door.

I didn’t kill her, he offered. As you saw, I arrived home only minutes ago and she… His gaze slid in Fiona’s direction. She appears to be dead for some hours. She’s as cold as the room.

Cady blinked not certain if she’d heard correctly. Your home?

My home. You heard correctly. A muscle twitched in his cheek, a certain sign his jaw was tightly clenched. And since you are standing in my library, I should like to know your name.

As she had nothing to hide, she said, I am Miss Arcadia Delafield, school administrator of Women’s Preparatory College. In a defiant gesture, she threw back her shoulders. I didn’t kill her either.

So you say.

She inhaled a strident breath, shocked at his effrontery.

What do you know about this woman? Frowning, he glanced about the room, as if searching for a lost item. Where’s Booker?

I don’t know who Booker is. A wave of sadness rose as she dipped a chin toward the body. She’s Fiona Murphy, one of my students.

Grasping one of Fiona’s hands, he inspected each fingertip then laid the hand on her chest before he repeated the process with the other hand.

What are you doing? No murderer would exam his victim with the same concentration one might use when reading a map.

As if he hadn’t heard her, he inched Fiona’s high collar aside. Cady was startled to see him flinch.

What is it? Sharp pinpricks stabbed at her nerves.

The skin’s been brutally lacerated. A weary sigh escaped his lips. She’s been strangled. His tone sounded so bleak and his expression was so haggard she knew a moment’s pity for him. Strangled with a garrote I suspect. He shot her a dubious glance. But you already know.

No! How could I? I never saw her neck.

Why is it, Miss Delafield…? He inhaled deeply, his broad shoulders rising at the effort. Why is it upon returning home, I find two strange women in my library and one of them is dead? His gaze smoldered. What have you to say?

Well, I…I can’t explain it anymore than you. Cheeks burning, she resisted the urge to glance away from his stony glower. You act as though I killed Fiona when, in fact, you have as much to account for, perhaps even more, given the murder occurred under your very roof.

A nasty sound rolled deep in his throat. She ignored the threatening noise.

Fiona wasn’t in school this morning. She never misses class. Speaking of the girl made her voice hitch. After a labored swallow, Cady continued. When she didn’t return home last night, her roommate reported something was wrong. She set the statue on a table and fished a scrap of paper from her handbag. Her roommate had no further information, but apparently Fiona had an appointment to meet someone at this address last night.

Not possible, he replied with the utmost assurance. I was out for the evening. As to my manservant, he has a standing engagement on Wednesday evening. No one else resides here.

As she studied the elegant cut of his clothing; the black evening suit, the starched bib and stiff wing collar with the top button undone and the missing tie, her suspicions mounted. No man wore full evening dress before noon which suggested he hadn’t been home last night. She had no reason to trust him. Yet to kill someone and leave the body on the library sofa overnight for the servants to find the next day made no sense. But then again, where were the servants?

So you say, but Fiona never came home last night. Blinking back a tear, Cady waved the note in the girl’s direction. You can see the outcome.

His stern face darkened. May I see the note? He thrust forth an upturned palm. She considered slapping it aside.

She hesitated, but as his impatience bristled ever higher, she passed him the paper if only to keep him from ripping it from her hand.

He studied the note, glowered then moved to stick it in his pocket.

No. I’d like it back.

She blanched beneath his formidable gaze, but to her relief, he handed her the note and said, It’s not my handwriting. If you mean to offer this as evidence to the police, it will gain you nothing.

The police would make the final decision. She searched his face for some sign of truth, but his strong features and sharp, quick gaze revealed no clue.

The silence clamored between them like an electrical tension wire. With his brow creased, he stalked over to the window, pushed the curtain aside and lifted the lower sash. Is it your cab at the curb?

Yes, she replied but doubted he heard her over his loud bellow to the driver.

What are you doing?

I need a messenger, he said, closing the window with a thud. He turned and his stare was so intense she looked away.

Did Booker let you in?

Before she could answer, someone knocked. The bow-legged cabbie stood in the doorway. Fingering the rim of his cap, his rheumy gaze swept over the shelves of books and settled on Fiona. His watery eyes widened in alarm.

There’s been an accident, the big man in evening dress said plucking a calling card from his waistcoat pocket. Take this to Inspector Dinsmore. You’ll find him at the Cook County Jail. Only a fool would disregard his curt demand. Tell him to come at once, and tell no one else what you’ve seen.

The driver took the card then slipped her a questioning look.

Yes, do as he requests.

Any smart woman would have taken this chance to run, but she’d made a promise to lead her students to a better life. With Fiona’s future stolen, the promise weighed even heavier. Furthermore, the unsavory aspect of murder would throw the school’s donors into a tizzy. For the sake of both Fiona and the school, Cady needed to learn more about the circumstances surrounding her death. At the very least, she’d watch over the body and ensure no clues were pocketed or destroyed.

And take her with you, directed the tall man in eveningwear who shoved a coin into the driver’s hand. Take her wherever she wishes to go.

No, I’m staying right here. The bold declaration surprised even her, yet with the police about to arrive, she doubted he would cause her harm.

I insist you leave, miss. He motioned to the door.

No, I believe I’ll stay. Despite his thunderous glower, she slipped into an armchair, all grace and good intentions, settled her crocheted handbag in her lap and forced a charming smile. You may go driver. And hurry back.

Two

To his dismay, the bothersome woman took up residence in his favorite armchair, her back straight as a ruler and her resolve unshakable. Doyle sighed, resigned to the stubborn force in his library. Yet who knew? Perhaps she possessed information which might prove helpful. As it stood, he needed an abundance of help and luck to get him out of this mess. For now, he considered her a mere stain among some very dirty laundry.

She shuddered prompting him to glance at the cold hearth and wonder about his missing servant. Where’s Booker? he muttered to himself and headed to the doorway.

You needn’t bother to look. I doubt anyone else is here.

He came to an abrupt stop and stared as if the floor had given way plunging her into the depths of the underworld. What?

I called out when I arrived. No one answered.

You mean Booker didn’t let you in?

She tipped her chin with a hint of challenge. The door was unlatched. When I knocked…it just opened.

His jaw dropped. Incredible. He stalked off.

Wait! Where are you going?

Footsteps slapped against the tiled floor of the foyer while his gut clenched with unease. At the front door, he scanned the glossy length of hardwood, the brass key plate, already knowing the answer. Had it been tampered with, he would have noticed when he came in earlier. Which meant someone must have broken in through the back door.

Behind his back, a clear, high voice spoke. Has it been forced open?

No. Facing her, he gestured toward the parlor. Perhaps you’ll be more comfortable in there, away from the victim. I can light a fire for you."

She shook her head and a bird’s feather attached to the perky little hat wobbled atop her red chignon. A slender brow arched. Fiona came here to meet someone. If not you, then who?

A growl formed at the back of his throat. The last thing he needed was a meddling snoop with questions he couldn’t answer. Clamping his teeth, he swept past her and marched toward the back of the house. Taffeta skirts rustled in the background.

The conclusion seems logical to me, she said, panting softly as she trailed him into the kitchen.

The back door appeared secure and untouched. He swung around with an upraised hand, and she skittered to a stop inches from his palm. On purpose, he projected his most intimidating gaze. Miss?

Delafield, she prompted. Cady Delafield. She had the impudence to act only a bit afraid. "And your name, sir?

Did she dare to mock him? A new wave of annoyance rose inside, and he made a conscious effort to draw in a slow breath. Doyle Flanagan.

Of course!

He flinched at her note of triumph.

Now I remember.

I see my reputation precedes me, he grumbled.

She frowned as though confused. I wouldn’t know about reputation. I am an educator, not a gossip enthusiast. But I recognized you from your visit to the school.

She was clever to deny knowledge of his scandalous past. The newspapers relished exposing every nugget of information about him, whether true or not. How could she not have known?

The school you say.

At Women’s Preparatory College. We teach job skills to women. You had an interview with our employment specialist, Miss Slidell.

Right. About six weeks ago. My sister dragged...er, my sister took me there to see the new typing machine. She claimed the device would be useful in my business.

On the next breath, her mouth parted and her eyes grew large. You! You’re the one who hired Fiona. Flanagan Millwork and Land Holding?

Yes, my company.

Then you do know Fiona, she accused. Crimson marked her cheeks, and her eyes flashed. Yet you acted earlier as though you didn’t. She took a step back fingering the straps of her handbag. At any moment, he expected her to thump him over the head.

I don’t know her, he snapped. Five hundred people work for me. I would have to be the mayor of Chicago to know so many people. He ground his molars together and a muscle twitched near his jaw. God, he didn’t need this now. Sighing, he slid past her and headed toward the front of the house. Determined footsteps padded behind him. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling and prayed for patience.

At the opening to the parlor, he stopped and turned. I don’t hire or supervise staff. I have employees who handle such matters.

How very nice for you.

At her dripping sarcasm, he couldn’t help but glare at her. Large green eyes studied his face, but her mouth remained a thin slit of disapproval and doubt.

Miss Delafield. The police will be here any moment. Are you prepared to answer their questions about me finding you here alone with the victim?

She drew in a noisy breath, her outrage as plain as the dimple in her left cheek. You’re trying to deflect attention away from you. You know I didn’t kill her. Why, she’s cold. You said so yourself. As though freezing, she crossed her arms, her hands sliding along her upper arms. After a moment’s consideration, she glanced up, a question written on her attractive face. I’ll ask this again. Could someone close to you, perhaps a servant, have killed her? Perhaps this Booker person?

In spite of her nosiness, she was feisty and determined which spoke in her favor. Still, the idea someone he knew and trusted committed murder gripped him with a sickening wave. Only Booker and his father had keys to his house. With both doors intact, the idea someone used a key to gain entry chilled Doyle. He needed answers fast, before the police arrived.

Please, he gestured toward the parlor. You’ll be more comfortable if you wait in here.

I prefer to stay with Fiona.

His muscles clenched. He expelled a hot breath, trying to release his frustration. You can’t help her now.

She drew back, appalled. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t do something; to see justice. Scowling, and with, perhaps, a look of hurt in her eyes, she stomped into the library. With little choice, he followed her.

He ignored her standing in front of the cold fireplace, arms gripped beneath her breasts. Walking a circular path about the room, he focused on everything around him, the plush carpet, the furniture, the body on the couch but nothing yielded a definitive clue. He dropped to his knees and swiped his arm back and forth beneath the sofa.

What are you looking for?

Pleased, he leaned back on his haunches and held out an open palm for her to see. She sailed toward him like an unstoppable frigate in high wind.

What is it? she asked staring at the splinter of blue and white pottery.

A broken shard from a Chinese vase. A wretchedly expensive one, he realized, pricked with sudden irritation. He stood up and slid the specimen in his waistcoat pocket. When I was in this room about six last night, it was sitting there. He gestured to a round end table at the foot of the sofa.

So what are you saying?

Standing close to his elbow, he caught a whiff of some pleasant floral scent much like lilacs in bloom.

I suggest there was a struggle and the vase took a tumble.

Brow pulled down, she took a moment to consider. But where are the other broken pieces? Perhaps your servant—

He cut her off with a shake of his head. No, I was the last to leave last night. I’m afraid the important question is why would a murderer bother to clean up after himself?

With an air of uncertainty, she fingered the straps of her reticule which dangled from her wrist and gave a slow nod. I don’t understand the mind of a…a murderer.

He sensed in her a moment of vulnerability. Had she ever faced someone dying? A relative? A friend? He’d bet she’d never witnessed a murdered woman before today. His mouth thinned with anger; anger for her, for him and the hellish situation they both faced. I’ve seen death enough to know this one is much too neat. It exceeds the bounds of normalcy.

She slid a glance to the dead woman then looked away, her expression burdened with sadness.

He walked over to the sofa. With the vague hope he might glean some clue or meaning to this tragedy, he nudged the woman’s chin to the side. Nothing remained but the stark reminder of heartbreak. As he drew his fingers away, a portion of hair fell over her cold cheek.

Why it’s been cut, Miss Delafield said, clutching her throat. Why would someone cut Fiona’s hair?

Why, indeed. What purpose did a lock of hair serve?

The doorbell startled them both, and she shot a nervous glance at the foyer. Wait here, he said and with an air of foreboding, headed to the front door. Doyle maintained a grudging respect for Inspector Dinsmore and would always be grateful for the officer’s help and support in the past. As to the rest of the force—they could go to the devil. He yanked open the door and froze.

Staring up at him through nasty, penetrating eyes was a man with the broad chest and the stocky legs of a circus muscle man. Two uniformed officers flanked his sides.

Inspector Middendorf, Doyle muttered through clenched teeth.

Beneath the bulb of Middendorf’s nose, a tidy mustache flared then narrowed to a point at the corners of his mouth. Mr. Flanagan, I see we meet again. He paused for effect. And under the most trying circumstances.

Doyle snorted with disgust.

You seem surprised. Unbidden, the detective stepped inside. Were you expecting someone else?

Doyle cursed under his breath and tramped back to the library, irritated that the cabbie had failed to locate Dinsmore or perhaps Middendorf pulled rank.

My, my, the inspector simpered as he strolled into the library. What have we here? With a dismissive flick of one pudgy hand, he bade the officers to stand outside the library doors. Two young ladies and one, unfortunately, very dead.

Dressed in a neat, black sac suit, he took the liberty of placing his bowler on Doyle’s desk. For a man of his great size, he moved with grace. He sauntered over to the victim. From a side pocket of his overcoat, he withdrew a short pencil and used it to lift strands of the woman’s hair.

Interesting, he murmured. A lock of hair is missing.

She’s been strangled, Doyle added, anxious to see the damned proceedings concluded.

Middendorf dragged down the collar of her dress with his