High Heels and Homicide (5 page)

Which meant that Maggie spent a lot of her time on the front porch, with her father, as the woman seemed to have morphed into a timid mouse the moment they'd crossed the threshold Wednesday afternoon.

Saint Just, his hands thrust deep in his slacks pockets, walked the beach, his head down, reliving the high spots—actually the low points—of the past three days.

Maggie's opening comment, very badly timed, inquiring whether there was a wake going on in the house, led to Maureen dragging her from table to table, explaining that the multitude of flowers had all come from Tate: “He told Mom he has so much to be thankful for. Isn't that sweet? Look, this one's an actual magnolia tree. Isn't that something?”

Maggie's floral offering, ordered via the Internet, had been at last tracked down, located in the second-floor guest bathroom.

That had been the beginning, but there seemed still to be enough room left to go downhill from there. Saint Just shook his head, remembering…

They were giants, the Kellys were, or at least Tate and Maureen were. Upon meeting them, Saint Just had for a moment thought he might be able to comfort Maggie with the idea she may have been a changling. But that thought had evaporated when the patriarch of the clan, Evan Kelly, entered the room; not very tall, rather thin, and with a rather haunted look about him, he appeared much like a puppy grown used to daily beatings.

And then there was Mrs. Kelly, mother to these giants and to Maggie.

Saint Just heard her. One was always hearing Mrs. Kelly. One simply didn't
see
her, which had been made clear by the bellow from the first-floor master bedroom just as Maureen was reciting the affecting contents of Tate's card from the potted magnolia tree in the dining room.

“Margaret? Is that you, Margaret? About time you showed up! And look what you're responsible for this time. Come here, look! Last-minute guests. How could you just spring them on me like that? I told your father you always find a way to make a shambles of everything, and you've done it again. I had to put the extra leaf in the table, for your
friends
, and now my back's gone out, and I'm stuck in this bed like some invalid. Come in here! Be some use for a change. Help me to the bathroom.”

It had been amazing, and quite the eye-opener, to watch as both Maggie and her father reacted to the woman's voice. They seemed to shrink in place, the pair of them.

Maggie had headed down the hallway, and Saint Just had barely been able to hear her mumbled greeting. He did, however, have very little difficulty hearing Mrs. Kelly say, “My God, Margaret, you're
fat
. How could you let yourself
go
like that?”

Nearly every hour on the hour, sometimes again on the half hour, Alicia Kelly would bellow, and someone would pay the price. Maureen seemed to do so gladly, with a smile that possibly owed something to the vial of small pink pills she kept in her pocket, and Tate was somehow excused.

But Maggie and her father were very definitely the woman's main whipping boys.

And it explained so much. Why Maggie backed away from loud voices, angry confrontations, and people who presented themselves as so very
sure
of themselves. Why she was so sure she was always in the wrong. Why physically imposing or large people seemed to turn her in on herself, leach all the spirit out of her. Why she'd been visiting Doctor Bob once a week for nearly five years, with no end in sight.

Obviously, the famous Doctor Bob hadn't been able to rid Maggie of her childhood memories, or trauma, or whatever people like Doctor Bob called such things, leaving it up to Saint Just to put some starch into the poor girl's backbone.

He had no idea how to accomplish that feat, however.

“Alex! Wait up!”

Saint Just halted, turned to see Maggie running across the sand, her hair and skirt blowing in the wind, her sea-green cashmere sweater hugging her lithe curves, her feet bare on the cold sand. Yes, she had become slightly more rounded in the past six weeks, but he liked her with fewer sharp edges. Her dark copper, chin-length hair, with its exquisite highlights, begged to be touched.

And happiness, lately so lacking in her Irish green eyes, shone from her now.

He could pen an ode to her beauty. She was fresh and sparkling, totally unaffected, and unaware of her impact on the male of the species. Not that terribly small, but in this land of Kelly Giants, a veritable Pocket Venus.

“Maggie,” he said as she fell into step beside him. “Is your presence here in the way of a companionable stroll with a friend, or am I serving as a bolt-hole?”

“Both, I guess. Dad and I had another nice talk earlier—I actually feel like I'm starting to know him a little bit. He's afraid of Mom. He didn't say it, but he is. And yet, he loves her very much. Strange,” she said, pushing her hair out of her face as she smiled up at him. “Oh, and I just told Tate to shove it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I told him off, Alex,” she said, dancing ahead of him into the last little wavelet to roll up onto the beach. “Oh, cold! And I'm so
hot
.” A shoe in each hand, she spun around in a circle, her head back, spinning round and round, until she lost her balance, and Saint Just caught her.

“I'd say you were a tad in your altitudes, except that it hasn't quite gone noon and you rarely drink.”

“I'm drunk on life, Alex! I told him
off!
”

“Really. And what, pray tell, prompted this confrontation?”

She sobered and stepped away from him. “You did, Alex. I couldn't stand the look in your eyes every time Mom yelled and I went running like some Pavlov dog. And I could see that muscle working in your jaw whenever Tate started on one of his damn lectures. I'd had enough. I mean, not coming home? Avoiding them? That's not the answer. I had something to say, and I finally said it. I'm a big girl now, all grown up, and I've got to stop reacting like some intimidated child.”

“Remarkable,” Saint Just said, longing to take her in his arms. She looked so
free
, so very liberated. He'd been very worried she'd suffer a backward slide, reach for the solace of Dame Nicotine while upset, but she hadn't. She'd gone on the offensive. “Would that I could have been there, my dear.”

“No, no. This one I had to do on my own.” She narrowed her eyes. “And I was
brilliant
. Oh, yes.
B
-
r
-
i
-double-
l
-brilliant! I tell you, I sliced him into a million pieces, and he's so thick he didn't even realize it until he tried to walk and came apart like a string of paper dolls. I think I want to go back, take on Maureen, tell her it's time she stopped being a mouse and got a life. You know, while I'm on a roll.”

“Oh, I really don't think so,” Saint Just said, pulling her arm through his and heading them both off down the beach. “One victory a day should be sufficient. And my congratulations. Your brother is a bit of a twit. Not enough to expend my energy on, but certainly no one who should be able to cow my own dear Maggie.”

“And I was
good
,” Maggie said, leaning her head against his shoulder. Then, suddenly, she sobered, this being-high-on-life business obviously a tad transitory. “Oh, boy, now I've got to go back, and Maureen will have run tattling to Mom, and all hell's going to break loose. Quick, drown me.”

“I have a better suggestion, if you don't mind. You and Sterling and I could drive up the coast, to Atlantic City. I understand the trip is no more than eight miles and there are baccarat tables in every casino. Much akin to faro, I believe, or at least close enough as makes no matter.”

And that's how it came to pass that after turning in the rental SUV at Philadelphia International Airport, Saint Just embarked upon his first airplane ride with a six-figure cashier's check tucked in his pocket.

He left behind a small thank-you gift for his hostess, a five-carat diamond tennis braclet hidden inside a long velvet box tied with a silver ribbon.

It was silly, a petty revenge, but he doubted that Tate's floral excess looked quite so good to Mrs. Kelly anymore. Of course, if Maggie ever found out he'd put her name on the card, the entire world would not be large enough for him to hide in—but as duels were frowned upon, and punching the arrogant fool's lights out would only upset everyone needlessly, thoroughly trumping the man's magnolia would have to suffice.

 
 

We're on a hook, we're on a hook. The plane goes up, the hook comes out, it attaches to the line, and we're on the hook until we land. It's just a big bus, no, an old trolley car. And we're on a hook…

“Maggie? Do you intend to release that death grip you have on the arms of your seat and open your eyes? We've been in the air for at least five hours. I don't think anything untoward is going to happen.”

“Don't bother me, Alex, I'm meditating,” she said, opening her eyes only slightly, not moving her head as she shifted her gaze toward him. “And don't look out there. I never look out there. If I look out, and down, then the plane will drop. I'm holding this thing up with sheer willpower, and you should be damn grateful. Stop it! How can you keep looking out there?”

“It's elementary, actually. I turn my head toward the window, and I
look
. But you're correct. There's nothing much in the way of a view, save the clouds below us. I once partook in a balloon ascension in Hyde Park, as you know, but that was tame indeed when compared to modern jet flight.”

He leaned across her and spoke to Sterling, whose seat was on the other side of the aisle. “Enjoying yourself, Sterling?”

Sterling's grin was heartwarmingly naive, in Maggie's opinion, clearly that of a man who didn't understand the dangers of flight. “Oh, yes, Saint Just. Have you made use of the facilities? You really should. Completely fascinating…although one does wonder where everything, um,
goes
.”

“Some of us wonder, Sterling. Others of us do not,” Alex said as Maggie giggled. “I'm so gratified that you're amused, my dear. While you've been meditating, as you call it, Sterling here has been running amok in the aisles. I think we, in the role of parents, will soon be considering putting him in leading strings.”

“Oh, let him alone,” Maggie said, reaching over to pat Sterling's hand. “You're enjoying yourself?”

Sterling nodded. “I've located all of the emergency exits, and I know that my seat cushion serves as a flotation device, and that I should put on my air mask when it drops down, then place one on my child.”

“You don't have a child, Sterling,” Maggie pointed out.

“True. I'll concede that. But I am prepared.” He held out a small bag. “Pretzel?”

“Thanks, but no. I think we land soon, if I adjusted my watch correctly. Now, Bernie told me Heathrow Airport is a real zoo…”

“With—”

“Figuratively speaking,” Maggie added quickly, before Sterling, always so literal, would ask if they had monkeys and elephants. “So we stick together, find our way to the luggage carousel, look for the limo the production company arranged for us, and get the heck out of there as fast as we can. Then it's a straight shot south to Surrey and Medwine Manor, or so I'm told. Any questions?”

Sterling raised his hand. “Won't we have time to see London at all?”

“Yes, Maggie, it's unseemly to just rush about and not at least take a drive through London. I very much want to see Carleton House again. Such a magnificent grand staircase, and the Prince Regent entertained lavishly.”

“Um, Alex? They tore down Carleton House sometime in the eighteen-twenties. They tore down a lot of places. We're not landing in Regency London. I'm sorry, but except for palaces and Parliament and all that stuff, you won't know this London a whole lot more than you knew Manhattan when you first got there. They've got McDonald's here now.”

Alex was quiet for some moments, then said, “I think we should like to see it, in any case. And, much as you may naysay me, I most especially wish to visit a particular establishment a few steps off Threadneedle Street. As your research is always so very much on the mark and the family has been serving at the pleasure of his majesty since the sixteen hundreds, I am going to assume the shop is still there in one form or another.”

“What kind of shop?”

“One devoted to the best in umbrellas and walking sticks. Very
specialized
sticks, if you take my meaning. You know I was forced to leave my cane in New York, what with the metal detectors at the airport.”

Maggie sat back in her seat, blew out her breath, recited mentally:
Saint Just is Saint Just
. “A sword cane. You want another sword cane. Is that really necessary?”

“You'd have me go naked in my homeland?”