High Heels and Holidays (6 page)

“Perhaps not, but you're having difficulty accepting his death as a suicide, is that correct?”

“Oh, here we go,” Maggie said, rolling her eyes. “No, I am not second-guessing anything. It was suicide, Alex. That's what's in the papers, that's what it was.”

“Suspected suicide,” Alex pointed out, much too seriously for Maggie's peace of mind. “I'm sure the good
left
-tenant will be able to supply us with more information. Details of the cause of death, manner of death.”

“And now he's dazzling us with technical terms. Secret Squirrel is on the case, Bernie. Are you happy now?”

Bernie shrugged. “I don't mind, Mags. If he discovers anything interesting, maybe Toland Books can reissue Francis's old books. Suicide is good, if he was inventive about it, but murder would be even better. Or did you forget that Francis wrote murder mysteries?”

“You know, if anyone
sane
ever eavesdropped on any of our conversations, we'd all be locked up,” Maggie said, then they all turned as the door opened and Sterling clomped his way into the living room.

“Hello, all,” he said, brushing snow from his pom-pom. He was snow from head to foot, actually, a living snowman, his clothing crusted with the stuff. His nose and cheeks were a cherry red, his grin one of pure delight. “We had a snowball battle. I won.”

“You don't look like the winner, Sterling, sweetheart,” Maggie said, guiding him back to the small rug in front of the door, when he made a move toward one of the couches, Wellington weaving between her legs so he could sniff at some of the frozen snow that had already hit the floor.

“Oh, but I am. Whoever gets hit the most with snowballs is the winner,” Sterling informed them, then frowned slightly. “I would have thought it would be the other way around, but the boys said they were certain of the rules.”

Maggie laughed, and gave Sterling a smacking kiss on his ice-cold cheek. “I love you, Sterling.”

“Thank you, Maggie,” he returned solemnly. “The boys were happy, so that's all right, isn't it? Sometimes we can choose to pretend not to know what we know, if it does no harm and serves to make someone else happy, and all of that.”

Sweet, dear Sterling and his often startling insights on life. Once again, Maggie thought about her father. He was happy, or at least she supposed so. So should she pretend not to know what she knew, what her mother had told her? Was life ever that uncomplicated, that easy? No, not with her mother around, goosing her every chance she got, ordering her to talk some sense into her wandering father's head.
Why me? Why is it always me?

“Maggie?”

“Hmm?” she asked, blinking at Alex.

“Will Wendell be stopping by any time soon, or should I call him?”

“Steve? About what?” Her mind was fully occupied with her own personal pity party, and she'd lost the trail of the conversation.

“About your friend Francis Oakes? You are interested, aren't you?”

“I couldn't really say he was my friend because I barely remember him, and I'm not going to lose any sleep over his death, no. He committed suicide. It's sad, but that's all it is. But okay. Yeah, sure, if you and Bernie want to play detective, go ahead, you can ask Steve. Why ask me? I'm not in charge of him, you know. Why would you think I'm in charge of him? I'm not in charge of anybody. And I am, too, sensitive!”

“Jet lag,” Bernie said around the tissue she held to her nose as Maggie ran out of the room. “Oh, damn, there goes my phone again. . . .”

Chapter Four

“H
ow kind of you to meet with me on such short notice, Wendell,” Saint Just said as he slipped into the opposite side of the booth at an establishment known for its greasy food and its disinterested clientele. Saint Just had ordered a cup of coffee on his way back to the booth, and managed to hide his distaste when he saw the half-eaten hamburger on the lieutenant's plate. “Crass of me to point it out,
left
-tenant, I know, but there's a small dribble of mustard on your chin.”

“Oops, sorry,” Steve said, grabbing a fistful of thin paper napkins from a chrome-sided container and rubbing at his mouth. “You want one? Best hamburgers on the island, no question.”

Saint Just adjusted the long, thin knitted scarf at his neck, all the extra protection from the weather he'd needed other than his navy cashmere sports jacket. He'd walked to the restaurant, occasionally swinging his gold-topped ebony sword stick, happy to enjoy the sunny, blustery day if not the sadly abused gray slush on the sidewalks. “Yes, I'm convinced you're correct. And how wonderfully convenient that we're so close to Lenox Hill Hospital. I've often wondered. Can you actually
feel
your arteries clogging,
left
-tenant?”

Steve grinned around another bite of hamburger. “Maggie says you're always watching that health channel, whatever it is. You know, Alex, one hamburger isn't going to kill you.”

“Ah, true, and I have reason not to worry about my own health, as I swear, I don't believe I've aged a day since I arrived here,” Saint Just said, enjoying his private joke. “But still so much better to employ my George Foreman grill, you know. A truly mind-boggling invention. America is crammed rather full with amazing inventions, you know. I'm fond of my computer, of course, and my plasma television machine but, by and large, I'd have to say I am most fond of my George Foreman grill. I've penned a letter to Mr. Foreman, as a matter of fact, apprising him of my admiration, as I am a firm believer that excellence should be rewarded.”

“You are so freaking weird,” Steve said, popping the last huge bite of hamburger into his mouth. “How's Maggie? You guys sure had a crazy time of it in jolly old England from what I've heard.”

“We're seldom bored, Maggie and I,” Saint Just agreed, smiling up at the waitress who carefully placed his coffee cup on the tabletop, then asked if there was anything else she could get him. Like her phone number.

“You're too kind, dear lady,” Saint Just told her, and she walked away, backfield in motion, to yell to another customer to keep his freaking pants on, she'd been serving the
gentleman
.

“I've always wondered. How do you do that?” Steve asked, leaning his elbows on the table, the left one squarely into a blob of ketchup. “I mean, seriously, Alex. Women fall all over you everywhere you go. Except Maggie, of course. I mean, being your distant cousin and all.” He narrowed his eyelids. “Exactly how distant is that, again?”

“So distant the connection is very nearly nonexistent,” Saint Just said, pulling three napkins from the dispenser and holding them out to Steve. “You've had a slight accident with your sleeve.”

Steve lifted his elbow and took a look. “Oh, would you look at that. This is my best shirt, and I have a—yeah, thanks, Alex.”

Saint Just took a sip of his coffee and then carefully replaced the cup in the saucer. Steve had a rather crude earthenware mug of coffee in front of him, but the waitress had discovered a cup and saucer somewhere for Saint Just. He must remember to be more than his usual generous self when leaving the dear woman a gratuity for her services. One never knew when one would have occasion to revisit such a place as this.

“You were about to say something, Steve? An admission you would rather keep to yourself? But, please, allow me to hazard a guess. You have what you Americans call a date? Why, you do, don't you? You cad.”

“No! I'm not—that is, it's not exactly a—ah, hell. How do you do that?”

“I'm merely observant,” Saint Just told him. “Your hair is combed, which is a departure. It's seven o'clock in the evening and you're still wearing your tie—I would suggest you remove it, but, then, I've never been partial to claret and yellow stripes. You look freshly shaved and I can smell your cologne. You applied mustard and ketchup with your usual gusto, but refrained from adding a slice of raw onion. And, of course, the dead giveaway, as I believe you'd term it—you blushed quite thoroughly when you realized you were about to say something you'd rather I, of all people, did not know.”

He did not add the damning information that Socks had already given the game away, because there was no need for such unnecessary honesty. He would much prefer Wendell be awed by his impressive powers of observation.

“No, I don't want you to know. Because you're Maggie's cousin,” Steve said, pushing his fingers through his shaggy sandy hair. “And a royal pain in my ass. Yeah. I have a date. But you can't tell Maggie.”

“Believe me, my friend, as I say in all honesty, nothing could be further from my mind. But you will tell her, won't you?”

Steve waved his hands in a wonderfully discombobulated gesture. “I don't know. It's not like Maggie and I are really . . . you know,
getting anywhere
? I like her, I really do, but things always seem to get sort of
weird
around her, you know?”

“No, not at all,” Saint Just said with a carefully straight face. “Oh, wait. You're referring to the murders, aren't you? Surely you can't blame Maggie for a few unfortunate incidences? Even if you did suspect her of murdering her publisher, didn't you? That was unfortunate.”

Steve gave his stained shirtsleeve one more swipe, and then glared at Saint Just. “I didn't think that for more than a couple of minutes, not once I got to know her.”

“Of course. You might even say that's why you're still aboveground. Now, tell me about your new friend.”

Steve grabbed the last potato chip and then pushed his empty plate away from him. “There's not a lot to tell. I met her in the subway when some jerk tried to grab her purse. The thing is, Alex, Christine's
normal
. I mean, she works as a secretary to an orthopedic surgeon over on Park Avenue. She likes to cook, she loves going to the movies, she still lives with her mom. . . .”

“And she doesn't land in the briars on a fairly regular basis,” Saint Just finished for him. “In other words, she's boring.”

“No! Not boring.
Normal
. I like Maggie, Alex. I mean, she's beautiful, she's smart, she's a lot of fun. But she's . . . all of you, actually . . . you're just a little, I don't know. Out there?”

“Out there,” Saint Just repeated, calling on every bit of control he had in order to keep from laughing out loud at this poor, confused specimen.

“Yeah. Out there. I spend my days with wack jobs, Alex—and that's just the guys I work with at the Homicide table, even before I get to the perps. I want to be . . . I want to be able to relax when I'm off duty and with a woman, you know? Maggie's life is just too full of... craziness. Are you getting this?”

“Some of it, yes, although I think I lost you for a few moments at
wack job
. I'm not certain, but I believe you mean she's slightly crazy?”

“No, that's not it. Wacky, you know? Her life is wacky. Offbeat—and that's being kind, Alex. She's just always in the middle of something, and it's never normal somethings, like she lost her wallet or forgot to pay her electric bill. When Maggie says she has a problem, it usually means something fairly bizarro is going on and I'm either going to have to bail her out or rescue her from some lowlife.”

“Maggie is fairly good at rescuing herself, and she always has me, you understand. So, if she isn't crazy, are you saying Maggie is still a . . . wack job?”

“Yeah, all right. A wack job. A cute wack job, but a wack job.”

“I see. And the rest of us? Sterling, for one.”

Wendell considered this for a moment. “He calls you Saint Just because Maggie made up her Saint Just guy by describing you. And it's not like he's trying to be funny—he seems to mean it. You're calling that normal?”

“For Sterling, yes. But this is interesting, really. Do you include Tabitha, Maggie's agent, in this mix?”

“Scarf lady? Nah, she's just blond.”

One corner of Saint Just's mouth began to twitch in amusement. “Oh, dear. I can see you've given this all some considerable thought,
left
-tenant. Who else? Ah, I know. Socks. And Bernice, of course. Your opinion, please?”

Wendell shrugged. “Socks is okay. As for Bernie? You're kidding, right? You really need an answer to that one?”

“No, I suppose not. And that leaves me. Am I a . . . wack job?”

Wendell shook his head. “No. You're freaking scary, that's what you are. And I think Maggie likes you, even if she won't admit it to herself. I've never come in first, you know?”

“Indeed,” Saint Just said, taking another sip of coffee. “So you're bowing out of the competition? I'd like us to be clear on that, my friend.”

Pulling a fat brown wallet from his back pocket, Wendell said, “Hell, Alex, I was never in it. Not really. I think I knew that from the beginning. The only thing is, how's Maggie going to feel about . . . well, about Christine?”

Saint Just pondered this for a moment, but only for effect. “She'll be surprised, certainly. I should let her down slowly, were I you.”

“How would I do that?”

“Be her friend,
left
-tenant, as you've always been. Just nothing more. For instance, Maggie is concerned at the moment about a recently deceased gentleman. A fellow author, who purportedly put a period to his own existence five days ago, I believe it was. Now, if you were to assist her in gaining any additional information about this man, about his death, you understand, that would be the act of a friend. You do wish to continue the friendship, do you not?”

“Well, yeah, of course. I like Maggie. So I keep it friendly. I just don't ask her out to dinner anymore, or to the movies, right? Just platonic. I can do that.”

“Splendid, Steve,” Saint Just drawled, reaching into his sports coat pocket and extracting a neatly folded computer printout of Francis Oakes's obituary. “We are told it was a suspected suicide, as I said—”

“You did? When?”

“I said he put a period to his own existence,
left
-tenant. As one would put a period at the end of a sentence—to
end
it? Consider it a euphemism, one meant to spare the listener's sensibilities, instead of coming right out and baldly saying he'd killed himself.”

Wendell grinned. “You were worried about my sensibilities?”

“Not particularly, no,” Saint Just told him, returning the smile. “But to continue? We are told it is most probable the gentleman
offed himself
—”

“Better.”

“Thank you. I am nothing if not amenable. But I could find nothing more definitive on my own about the unfortunate Mr. Oakes. However, with your connections. . . ?”

“Sure, sure, give it over and I'll check it out. It's the least I can do for Maggie,” Wendell said, the hook neatly slipping into his mouth. “Suicide. No problem. How bad could she screw this up, right?”

“How badly indeed,” Saint Just said, reaching for the check the waitress had just deposited on the table. “Please, allow me. And do enjoy yourself this evening,
left
-tenant. Oh, wait, I've just had a thought. Perhaps you should give the information about poor Mr. Oakes directly to me, say, tomorrow at two, at Mario's? Not as much contact with Maggie, you understand . . . thinking platonically.”

Wendell shrugged. “Sure, okay. Hey, thanks for picking up the check. I gotta go, I'm meeting Christine in a half hour.”

“May you both have a wonderful evening,” Saint Just said as Wendell walked away, and then added under his breath as he brought the coffee cup back up to his lips, “Sometimes it's almost too easy. . . .”

A few drops of cooling coffee splashed onto Saint Just's shirtfront as the good lieutenant leaned down to whisper in his ear. “You're up to something again, aren't you? Be ready to tell me all about it, or my information on Oakes stays in my pocket.”

“How remiss of me to forget that you delight in playing the fool,
left
-tenant. Shame on me. But I agree. Tomorrow we will share information.”

“Because there's something going on? What? Cripes, Alex, you guys are only home for a couple of days. What the hell could have gone wrong that fast?”

“Possibly nothing. Hopefully nothing. Then again, if the information you bring me turns out to be what I sincerely hope it is not, possibly quite a lot.”

“Why? Because your Spidey sense is tingling?” Wendell said in a fairly good attempt at sarcasm.

“Yes, I suppose that's it, although I was thinking more of a mammal than an arachnid. Until tomorrow at two, Steve?”