High Heels and Homicide (29 page)

“Hand over that bag. It's mine!”

“Of course, Robin,” Alex said, bowing, “as you do appear to be holding the upper hand.” He stepped back, slowly, then sort of
whirled
around, grabbing the Troy Toy's sword cane out of the actor's hands. A heartbeat later, it was unsheathed, and Alex was facing Stockwell once more, both of them in the
en garde
position.

“Alex, for crying out loud, that's a
prop
,” Maggie said, really worried now. “You can't fight him with a prop sword. Give him the jewelry. He won't get far.”

“I should, shouldn't I?” Alex said, not taking his eyes off Stockwell. “But this man murdered two people. We cannot allow him even an attempted escape.”

“Oh, great, you're doing that
honorable
thing again, right? Well, cut it out!” Maggie looked behind her. “Where's the jewelry? Who's got the jewelry? Hand it over, okay?”

“Why?” Bernie asked, then blew her nose. “Alex and I already looked at it. It's fake.”

Maggie worried that her eyes might just pop right out of her head. “It's—”

“Fake. Paste. Glass,” Bernie elaborated. “I know my jewelry. Uncle Willis stole fake jewelry. Good fakes, so the pieces are worth something, but not all that much. Life's a bitch, ain't it?”

Maggie's head was spinning. Looking at Alex, who was looking at Stockwell—the two of them still squared-off—she tried to sort out this entire mess in her mind.

“You know,” she said, “it could make sense. People back then often replaced their real jewelry with fakes when they needed money. Good fakes, too. But if Uncle Willis stole the jewelry and took it to a pawnbroker, then everybody would
know
the family was broke.”

Now she was pacing, well clear of Alex and Byrd Stockwell, who were beginning to look a little silly posing like that. “They had to find that jewelry, and they couldn't let Uncle Willis out to tell anybody the family secret, either. If he figured it out once he actually inspected the pieces, and told anybody, they'd be ruined. Tradespeople would start calling in their accounts, they'd end up in debtor's prison, the whole nine yards. I mean, you think we all live on credit now? Those guys were ten times worse than us. And then, once he'd maybe figured out he was locked up for life and would be hunted down and killed if he escaped with what he knew—not just with the jewelry, but with what he
knew
—Uncle Willis went mad and got his revenge. God, I
love
this! I want to
write
this!”

“Appeals to your romantic, and often bloodthirsty, fiction-writing mind, yes, I'm sure,” Alex said, still watching Byrd. “I believe, however, the late Mr. Undercuffler and the late Miss Pertuccelli might not share your joy.”

“That's true,” Maggie agreed, still running scenarios in her head. Yes, this could be a good story. She could drop Saint Just in the middle of it, have him solve the crimes. The idea was definitely better than the book she'd just finished. But Alex was still talking, so she really should pay attention.

“Stockwell, it's over. You murdered two people for paste and have been ungentlemanly enough to attempt to blame two females for your crimes. You weren't about to share with Mr. Undercuffler, and you killed him while Miss Pertuccelli watched in horror—even borrowing her stopwatch cord to do the deed. Miss Pertuccelli must have been terrified, realizing, as you did, that all the jewelry was much better than half. I imagine you discovered her trying to escape, flee for her life, and you stabbed her with one of the kitchen knives.”

“So much for showbiz,” Maggie said. “But Nikki here is all after the fact, right?”

“Miss Campion merely happened to discover the jewels and want them for her own, nothing more,” Alex agreed. “Put down your weapon, Stockwell—which is, by the by, also fake. The real sword cane,
my
sword cane, is in my hand. Mr. Barlow has been very kindly keeping it safe for me.”

“Really?” Maggie looked from one thin sword to the other. “Troy's been lugging the real one around? Honest to God, Alex?”

“You doubt me, my dear?”

Again, maybe it was the fatigue. Maybe it was the four teaspoons of sugar. Most probably, it was Sir Rudy's brandy. Maggie grinned at Byrd Stockwell. “Is it real or is it fake? Well, punk? Huh? Do you feel
lucky
?”

An audible sigh came from the couches as Dennis Lloyd said, “Americans. No wonder you don't appreciate Shakespeare.”

Byrd yelled and went on the attack, only to be stopped in his tracks when Alex poked him hard in the solar plexus with the cane part of the sword cane. He grabbed onto his stomach and gasped for air. It was a simple matter for Sterling and Perry to, at Alex's suggestion, “Cage the robin, if you please, while we await the constable. Tie him up, Sterling.”

Maggie watched as Alex retrieved both sword canes, reassembled them, then tried to hand one to Troy, who wouldn't touch it.

“Alex? Were you bluffing?”

“As in any game of chance, my dear,” he said, smiling, “the winner is not obliged to show his cards once the other party has folded his. What do you think?”

“I think you switched them at some point. I don't know why you did, or if the Troy Toy just picked up the wrong one at some point and you decided that switch might come in handy and let it alone. But, yes, I think Byrd was holding the fake one. I think you even left it where Byrd might get hold of it because you were itching for a fight and it never occurs to you that you could lose a fight, even with a fake sword—except you're not that crazy, and you had the real one. I think I know you that well. So? Am I right? Alex, damn it, stop smiling at me like that. Am I right?”

S
terling returned to his seat on the plane after yet another short constitutional, as Perry had told him that it was important to stretch one's legs while on long flights…and after Perry had made that statement clearer, Sterling had realized that he'd meant getting up and walking the aisles from time to time.

He reached into the pocket on the back of the seat in front of him and retrieved his journal, but didn't yet open it, as Bernie and Tabby were in the seats in front of him and they were speaking to each other.

“No, of course I won't see Dennis again. Isn't that what a fling is about—mad passion and then never seeing each other again? Besides, he told me his favorite movie line of all time is ‘I'll alert the media.'”

Bernie laughed, then coughed.

“Okay, so that's almost funny. But you know what isn't, Bernie? Unless I tell him, David will never even know I had revenge sex. And even worse, if I do tell him, he might not care.”

Sterling quickly opened his journal, believing he'd heard more than he probably should have, and pulled his pen from his shirt pocket. He really should finish his entry, as they'd be landing soon and he wanted to watch as New York appeared outside his window.

 
 

How good it will be to be home again, dear Journal. And as I've already told you, we all travel together this time. Even Mr. Undercuffler and Miss Pertuccelli, although they are, most unfortunately, traveling below us, in the baggage compartment.

Saint Just told me as I spoke with him on this recent constitutional that, no, Mr. Byrd Stockwell has not yet made a clean robin redbreast of things, but Saint Just is confident that the man will not escape justice. He said there would be fingerprints and all sorts of what is called forensic evidence for the police to discover, although Saint Just is no longer interested, as there's really not all that much dash and romance—his words, dear Journal—in mucking about with such things.

Miss Campion remains in England, but on the much lesser charge of stealing fake jewelry, and Maggie assures me I'm not to worry about her overmuch, as the woman is bound to land on her feet.

Sadly, dear Journal, it would seem that the movie about Saint Just and myself will now be unavoidably delayed. Sir Rudy, who had seemed such a convivial gentleman, all but tossed everyone out on their ears the moment the rain stopped and the water receded.

Saint Just is convinced the man is a tad overset to learn that his lifelong dream has ended in a huge, horribly expensive house that sits in the middle of flood water several times a year, with no treasure to hunt for anymore and all his village chums openly laughing at him. I think he is pining for Marylou, who is also on this airplane, along with everyone else. She and Evan Pottinger seem to be hitting it off quite nicely, which is a surprise to me but not to Saint Just, who is rarely surprised by anything.

We saw very little of England during this short and quite eventful trip, sadly, but perhaps we will all return one day. In the summer, when it isn't raining.

But, dear Journal, all has not been murder and mayhem. Saint Just and Maggie have most definitely cried friends again, and once more my hopes run high in that quarter. After all, they are sitting side-by-side now, and Maggie had been resting her head against Saint Just's shoulder, which I consider an excellent sign. I even have begun to hope that they will soon Come To An Understanding.

 
 

“What do you mean,
you
solved it?”

“Now, Maggie, you must admit that—”

“
Me
, Sherlock.
I
did it. Okay, so you helped. A little. You pulled that harebrained stunt with the sword canes, I'll give you that. But I'm the one who jumped in that stupid lake and—”

“I think you might wish to rephrase that, my dear. As in, ‘I stupidly jumped into that lake.'”

“Oh, yeah? Bite me.”

“Here? In first class? Is that acceptable?”

Sterling smiled, sighed, and wrote:

 
 

Then again, dear Journal, perhaps it is not yet time for the fairy-tale ending I dream of. But at least things are back to normal…

Mystery author Maggie Kelly is getting ready to celebrate her first Christmas with Alexandre, Viscount Saint Just—her once-fictional, but now all-too-real sexy hero and boyfriend. But her romantic Christmas plans go haywire when murder decides to deck the halls…

Bad Tidings We Bring!

There's nothing I'd rather be doing this time of year than singing Christmas carols while I trim my tree and snuggle next to my man, Alex, while we watch
It's a Wonderful Life
for the umpteenth time. But this season, it seems some Grinch with a
really
bad sense of humor is delivering packages of rotting rats and death threats to me and the other authors who contributed to the mystery collection
No Secret Anymore
.

To You and Your Kin!

Sure, even I'll admit the book was terrible. But why can't this sicko just go to the bookstore and get a refund? It's Christmas, buddy—
not
Halloween! But then Jonathan West—the brainchild of
No Secret Anymore
—turns up dead, and Alex and I aren't so sure anymore that the murderer is a just a disgruntled reader…

Bad tidings for Christmas
—
and a
Murderous
New Year!

Jonathan had finally completed a new novel, which his agent claimed to be his best. This leads us to think that maybe a jealous rival is the killer—that is, until two of Jonathan's obsessed fans surface. So now we're scrambling to solve this mystery before eight writers—including yours truly—don't live to see the New Year…

 
 

Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek at the next
Maggie Kelly mystery,
HIGH HEELS AND HOLIDAYS,
coming next month!

Dear Fred,

First off, Fred you're probably wondering why I'm calling you Fred. It's a valid question, especially since I don't know anybody named Fred.

You see, I found Sterling's journal about our lives the other day and, although it's delightful and pretty close to the truth—Sterling is delightful, as well as dedicatedly honest, unfortunately—I began worrying what people might think if in four hundred years somebody found his journal still in one piece in some old box or something and read it, read about me, and I figured I probably should set the record straight. Straighter. Something like that.

Okay, truth time, huh? Here's the deal, Fred. For some strange reason, I'm worried about future generations thinking I'm a few bricks shy of a full load. So just bear with me because you, Fred, have just been named the star witness for the defense (of me and my mind, that is).

Not that Sterling's sweetly naive account of what's happening in our lives wouldn't take the archeologist's mind off wondering about the societal implications of stuff like the concept of speed dating or the sex life of SpongeBob SquarePants.

But back to you, Fred, if just for a moment. Sterling addresses his musings to Dear Journal, and I didn't want to copy him. That confusion thing again, you know? And Dear Diary? I don't think so! I outgrew Dear Diary a lot of years ago. Right after my mother found mine and read my poem at the dinner table (“Alone, I am alone. We live and die alone.” Something like that anyway—it would seem I've finally successfully blocked most of it). You want to see a grown woman rotate her head like Linda Blair in
Exorcist
? Write something like that when you're twelve and then lose the key to your Barbie diary.

Anyway. I know a lot of other writers keep journals, or diaries, or Internet blogs, but I'm not one of them. I don't write unless there's a reasonably good chance I'm going to get paid for it, which I think makes me practical and Alex says proves I'm cheap—but he's only kidding. I'm simply frugal. So this is a departure for me, but I think a necessary one, Fred, or I wouldn't be doing it, especially since Bernie told me my last manuscript was pretty much crap (she was right, but I had a good reason, and his name is Alex), and I've got a deadline coming at me pretty soon.

Okay, enough stalling, Fred, here we go. And anybody reading this—if anyone still reads anything written on paper in four hundred years—please just skip over that first part. I was just easing my way in, you know? I'll get better at this as I go.

My name is Margaret Kelly and I am a writer (stop laughing, I said I'd get better as I go along!). I always was a writer, even at twelve, although I'm glad I gave up poetry, because who wants to get paid in copies? Also, I don't look good in berets.

Writer. Right. One with a marvelously organized brain, obviously (that's a joke, Fred).

I was born and raised in New Jersey and then got out of there as fast as I could. Not that I don't like Jersey. Jersey's great—sand, surf, casinos, what's not to love? In fact, there's only one problem with the place—my family lives there. They wouldn't have minded if I wrote poetry and starved in a garret. But popular fiction? With S-E-X in it? Enough said.

So I came to New York City, naturally, and damn near starved in a fifth-floor walk-up while I wrote historical romance novels under the name Alicia Tate Evans. If I was lucky, my publisher printed three copies (none bought by my family). I mean, I bombed! The market was glutted with romance novels, and if you didn't hit the
Times
by your fourth or fifth time out of the gate, you were history. Within a few years, I was history. But I had Bernie, bless her. Bernice Toland-James, my editor, who snuck me back in the door at Toland Books once her ex-husband had cut me.

Now I'm Cleo Dooley (What can I say? I think O's look impressive on a book cover), and I write a historical mystery series set in Regency England (that's between 1811 and 1820, Fred), starring Alexandre Blake, the Viscount Saint Just, and his comic-relief sidekick, Sterling Balder. Yes, that Sterling. Fictional Sterling—who's currently writing a journal in New York City. I've got your interest now, Fred, don't I? Thought so.

A little background on Saint Just is probably a good idea, Fred, just to get you in the picture. Saint Just is, you see, perfect. I created him to be perfect. The perfect Regency hero, that is. Drop-dead gorgeous, as I made him up out of the best parts of some of my favorite movie stars (can we say Val “I'm your huckleberry” Kilmer's mouth, just for starters? That reminds me, I need a new DVD of
Tombstone
, having worn the other one out).

Saint Just, my creation, is also rich. Intelligent. Witty. Sophisticated. Deliciously arrogant. The world's greatest lover. He can dance, fence, box, swim, shoot, etc., etc., etc. You getting this, Fred? I pulled out all the stops, created this perfect, to-die-for hero, and plopped him down in the perfect romantic era. Throw in a crime he solves while expertly bedding various gorgeous and extremely grateful young things, and, wow, I had a winner. Every woman's fantasy. Definitely mine.

I hit the
NYT
with the second Saint Just mystery, and now I not only hit the list, I stay in the top five for a good six weeks. In other words, I'm not starving anymore. Mom is
so
not proud.

Life was good. Dull. Boring. But good, you know? And then one day a couple of months ago I turned around in my condo and there stood Alexandre Blake, dressed in all his well-tailored Regency finery. Next to him was cute, pudgy, friendly Sterling, munching on the KFC chicken leg I was saving for my lunch.

I recognized them both immediately. Hell, I'd made them, remember? It was a shock. But I reacted well. I fainted.

Alex explained what happened—I call him Alex Blakely now and pass him off as a distant cousin from England I'd patterened Saint Just after, although Sterling is still Sterling because he'd get too confused with an alias, and he still calls Alex Saint Just. According to Alex, I'd made him very real. Sterling, too. Made them so real that they came to life inside my head, kicked around there for a couple of years getting to know the place, then decided I was a mess who needed their help, and
poofed
themselves into my apartment, into my life.

I know this is tough to swallow, but I mean it, Fred. That's exactly what happened.
Poof
! And it's still happening!

Do you know what it's like to have the perfect hero making himself at home in your condo apartment? Huh? The gorgeous, yummy, to-die-for man you created out of all your personal hopes, dreams? Okay, and desires and even fantasies. I admit it. There's that stuff, too.

Well, Fred, I'll tell you what it's like. It's not all good. I mean, you cannot know the depth of my sympathy for Dr. Frankenstein! I read that Mary Shelley was high on opium when she wrote that book, but I don't even have that excuse.

So what's my problem, you ask, Fred? For one thing, arrogant Regency heroes can be a pain in the rump. I am not a helpless female, but try telling that to Alex, who thinks his purpose in life is to protect me. Granted, I've needed a bit of protection now and then these past months, as I seem to have developed this way of…well, of tripping over murders. I think it's Alex's fault, frankly, because I never even saw a dead body until My Hero showed up.

He's really complicated my life. You try writing a love scene with the object of that love scene living in the condo across the hall and waltzing in and out of your condo all the time without warning, looking luscious in person just as you have him…well, have just written him into the middle of an insert tab A into slot B situation. Creepy, I tell you. Especially since I'm writing those love scenes from memory, considering the nonexistence of my own personal love life these days.

Now for the part I want to clear up for posterity, okay, Fred? You see, Sterling seems to think that Alex and I are meant for each other. You know…
that
way? Hey, I'm here to tell you and anyone who finds this, not that way, not
no
way! Think about it. Alex is here, no getting around that. But for how long, Fred, huh? He poofed in—he could poof out again. And where does that leave me?

Okay, so we know where that leaves me. Lusting after my perfect hero, that's where, and knowing I'd have to be a total idiot to start something we might not be able to finish.

Steve Wendell—he's a cop, Fred—now this is a guy I should be going nuts over, you know? Cute, rumpled, fallible, and incredibly sweet. But every time I look at him, I think about Perfect Alex. The man has ruined me for other men. I always thought that was a dumb saying, and way too melodramatic, but that about says it.

So, Fred, if you've been keeping score here, everything is Alex's fault. Everything. I'm the innocent party here, and none of this imaginary hero come to life stuff was my idea.

I just wanted to make that clear, Fred, okay—for you, and for posterity.

 
 

Maggie Kelly

 
 

P.S. You know, I feel a lot better now, Fred. Maybe I should keep writing to you once in a while, huh? You're sure cheaper than my weekly sessions with Dr. Bob. That's a joke, too, Fred. Sort of.