Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] by Deadly Promise Page B

allowed it had she known—as she already rued Francesca’s previous reputations, as a bluestocking, an eccentric, and a reformer. However, Francesca had decided that withdrawal was for the best; since embarking upon her new calling as a sleuth, there had been no time to study, and she had repeatedly missed classes.
    Today was Friday, and had she not withdrawn, she would have been at a political studies class, her favorite, undoubtedly engaged in heated debate. Francesca smilednow at Joel as they paused before the grocery on the corner of 11th Street. “Why don’t you post those reward posters up and down this block and the next one as well?”
    The poster read:
    WANTED:
INFORMATION ON THE DISAPPEARANCE OF EMILY O’HARE
LAST SEEN IN THE VICINITY OF AVE. A AND IOTH
MONDAY, MARCH 24, AROUND 4 P.M.
THIRTEEN YRS, DARK HAIR, BLUE EYES, PRETTY
POSTED: $IOO REWARD
HONEST WITNESSES ONLY NEED COME FORTH
    Joel was holding a dozen handwritten pages, a hammer, and a tub of nails. “Right away,” he said with a grin.
    Francesca watched him dash off happily, and then she faced the door of the grocery. A sign hanging inside the window said: OPEN . Through the clear glass she saw a heavyset man fussing with some items on a long oak counter. She smiled grimly and entered the shop.
    Inside, it was neat and clean, the rough planked floors swept bare of any dust or dirt, the counters scrubbed and gleaming with wax. Big sacks of flour and sugar were lined up alongside the counter, while on top of it were loaves of fresh bread and platters of smoked meats. Tins of lard and butter were also present. Several aisles contained other dried food items, soaps and candles, and even some spices. The grocery was a very small shop, as much merchandise as possible crammed into its confines.
    “Mr. Schmitt?” Francesca asked, approaching him as a young woman came out from the back.
    “Can I help you, miss?” Schmitt smiled. He had a thick German accent.
    Francesca took another glance at the young woman, realizing that she was far younger than she appeared—and Francesca now guessed she was probably about fifteen. The girl, who was quite plain and unremarkable, met her gaze and smiled. Francesca returned the friendly gesture andturned back to the grocer. “I do hope so.” She handed him her card, waited while he read it, and said, “I am working on the Emily O’Hare investigation.”
    Schmitt looked up, silent, his gaze impossible to read.
    Francesca was puzzled. “You do know that the O’Hares sent Emily here to your store, last Monday, around four, but she not only never bought the bread she was sent for, she was never seen again.”
    “I know. Beth, please go and start unpacking the dried fruit that just came in.”
    Something was amiss. Francesca turned and saw Beth, now very flushed, staring at her. She instantly rushed behind the counter and into a back room.
    Schmitt smiled proudly. “That’s my daughter,” he said. “I’m really sorry about little Emily. “But I told Brian, I never saw her that afternoon; she never came in.”
    “Can you think about who your customers were that day? Particularly that afternoon?” Francesca asked. “Perhaps one of them saw something.”
    He started. “Young lady, I have a booming business. To try to remember who was in my store on a particular afternoon—that’s impossible!”
    “You won’t even try?” Francesca asked. But she was getting another impression. This man did not want to speak to her, but she did not know why.
    His jowls shook. “You make it seem as though I do not want to find Emily. Of course I do. Very well.” He scowled and folded brawny arms across his thick chest. “Monday afternoons I have some regular customers. Mrs. Sarnoff, Mrs. Polaski, and Mrs. O’Brien. They come in every Monday afternoon for a week’s supply of potatoes, flour, and sugar.” His look seemed to suggest that it was time for Francesca to leave.
    “Where do they live?” Francesca asked, taking