High Heels and Holidays (13 page)

“Would you
stop
already?” Maggie whispered fiercely from between gritted teeth before she got to her feet and approached Wendell. “I'm so sorry, Steve. What can we, um,
I
do to help?”

“Probably nothing much,” Wendell said, looking over her head to where Saint Just, being a gentleman, had also gotten to his feet and was now smiling most benevolently at the lieutenant. “We're looking for any background information on Oakes. His boyfriend wasn't a lot of help there, at least no farther back than the last two years. What do you remember about him?”

“Not a lot, actually. Toland Books is a small house, and the writers who live in the area do get to meet once in a while—at Christmas parties, dinners during semiannual sales meetings, stuff like that. I sat next to Francis one time, at one of those dinners. He was already pretty much on his way out, I'm afraid. I was . . . I was sort of dating Kirk at the time, and he was Francis's editor, and he told me he'd turned down his last couple of proposals. So that was what—three years ago? Oh, wait, I do remember something, Steve. Francis had only moved to New York about two years or so before that, from somewhere in the Midwest. I think he was hoping for big things, but nothing ever really panned out. But that's it, that's all I've got, sorry. Maybe Bernie can help.”

There was a beep on the intercom and Maggie walked over to press the button, to have Socks tell her that J.P. Boxer was on the way up.

“That's my cue to leave,” Steve said, grabbing his coat that he had draped over the back of the desk chair. J.P. Boxer was a former cop turned defense attorney—meaning she'd gone over to the enemy. Wendell liked her, and J.P. considered him to be a good cop, but that didn't mean they exchanged Christmas cards. “Look, we're not making a lot of noise about this, not wanting to have the press start making up names for some CUNY serial killer or something. They break soon for the holidays anyway, and in the meantime there's a big police presence in the area, just not so you'd notice. They'll be on the lookout for anybody who doesn't look like he belongs in the neighborhood, stuff like that.”

“We'll be as close as oysters, Wendell,” Saint Just promised, taking the man's hint to not return to Oakes's apartment, because he would be seen.

“Yeah, right. Oysters. Who says stuff like that? A clam, Blakely—quiet as a clam. And I'll check with Bernie, Maggie. She was actually my next stop. Blakely? Can I see you outside for a moment?”

Saint Just prudently ignored Maggie's curious look and joined the lieutenant in the hallway.

“I'll make this fast, since J.P.'s on her way up—what don't I know? What aren't you telling me?”

“I don't understand,
Left
-tenant. It's just as I said. I was inquiring about Oakes because of Maggie.” Saint Just complimented himself quietly, as he had told Wendell the exact truth—in a way.

“And yet Maggie barely remembers the guy,” Wendell pointed out. “If there's anything going on, Blakely, I want to know it right—”

“Ah, J.P.,” Saint Just said as the elevator doors opened. “How wonderful to see you again. Say hello,
Left
-tenant.”

“Hi, J.P.,” Wendell said, already heading for the elevator, before the doors could close. “See ya.”

“That was quick. What's he got up his—no, forget it. I just remembered who I'm talking to here,” J.P. said as Saint Just opened the door to Maggie's condo and bowed to the attorney, inviting her to precede him inside.

“J.P., hi,” Maggie said, standing behind one of the couches, rather like a person who hadn't had time to locate a better hidey-hole, but was still hoping she had managed to find some protection. “You're early. Let me take your coat. Oh, and you and Alex talk to each other a while, okay? I need to run down to Mario's to get some tuna salad for our lunch.”

“I hate tuna salad, girlfriend,” J.P. said, tossing Maggie her jacket, the green and white one with the white leather sleeves and the New York Jets logo on the back. “You can't spring for roast beef?”

“Uh, sure. Sure, I can. Alex?” Maggie asked, her eyes openly pleading.

“I'll be happy to entertain our mutual friend, my dear,” he told her, sitting down across from her only after the attorney sprawled onto one of the couches. “You can tell me all about your book, J.P.”

Maggie's pleading look turned hostile. “Not yet, Alex. Wait until I get back. Until we've had lunch.”

J.P. spread her long arms out on either side of the back of the couch. “No, I want to hear what you think now, Maggie. Just a quick thumbnail before we eat. It can't be that bad, can it?”

Maggie took two steps toward the couches, then stopped. “You do know I can't buy it, right, J.P.? And it's only one person's opinion.”

J.P. looked at Saint Just, who raised his eyebrows back at her. “You get the feeling she didn't like it, handsome?”

“But it doesn't matter what I think. I can't—”

“You can't buy it. I got that. So? Is it crap? You can tell me. I'm a big girl, I can take it.”

Maggie rolled her eyes. “Oh, sure, that's what they all say. But they don't
mean
it. You all want to be stroked, and told your book is the next
Da Vinci Code
or something, and if I tell the truth—which is just my opinion, remember—then suddenly I'm not only the bad guy, but you jump all over me. And you're not little, J.P., okay?”

J.P. looked at Saint Just again. “She thinks it stinks on ice.”

“No! No, I didn't say that, J.P. I like the plot—a lot. Why did you tell Bernie it was science fiction? It's a legal thriller.”

“I wanted to see if she'd really read it, or just hand it back with some baloney about science fiction not selling well, or something. And, no, I'm not paranoid. That's not half as bad as putting a hair between the pages halfway through the manuscript, just to be able to check if the editor really read that far—I picked up that hint online, among others, so you can see why I thought it was time to go to the professionals. But you read it, so now I want to hear what you think.”

“Go on, Maggie,” Saint Just prodded. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

“You're such a help, Alex,” Maggie said, and then took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “The plot works. Definitely. But your characters are sticks, and your dialogue is stilted, amateurish. How's that?” J.P. opened her mouth to say something, but Maggie wasn't finished. “For instance—I committed this one to memory—you have a character say, ‘Your brother, Samuel, the blue-eyed blonde who graduated from Yale and now works for Hammer, Burns and Stone, is a suspect in the murder.'”

“Yeah? So? I was describing the guy. What of it?”

“What of it? Cripes, J.P., you were describing him to his
own brother
. In freaking
dialogue
. That stuff doesn't go into dialogue. Look, it's like I said—the plot works. It's really interesting. But everything else is . . . not so good. You need to read authors you like, see how they handle dialogue, point of view, all that stuff. And maybe read some how-to books, join a writers' group, get a critique partner . . . yeah, well, gotta go. Roast beef. Rare, right?”

“Hold it right there, sunshine. Did you take classes, read how-to books?”

“Me? No, I don't do that stuff.”

Saint Just gave a slight cough of warning, but of course it was already too late, and both he and Maggie knew it.

“So you're telling me to do something you didn't do?”

Maggie smiled weakly, and shrugged. “I read authors I like—I still do—and try to learn from them.”

“Uh-huh. So you're telling me to do something you didn't do, that you didn't have to do. And what else? A critique partner, you said? What's that? How about a mentor instead? We could do that. You know, you and me? What do you say, sunshine? You show me how to whip that puppy into shape and get it sold, and it's free legal advice for life.”

“I think you may have just struck a chord, J.P.,” Saint Just drawled, thoroughly enjoying himself. “Somewhere around the word
free
, I would imagine. I am, of course, included in this arrangement.”

“Bite me,” Maggie said, and headed for the door, then hesitated with her hand on the doorknob. “Okay, it's a deal.”

“Sweet girl, and a heart, as you Americans say, as big as all outdoors. There, with that said—I thought she'd never leave,” Saint Just said, rising to go to the drinks table and hold up a decanter of wine, asking if the attorney cared for a glass, which she did. “And now that it's all settled between you, perhaps you'd be so very kind as to explain a legal term to me?”

“You're cashing in fast. Okay, handsome, what is it?”

“Impeding a criminal investigation. What does that entail, by way of penalties, I mean? Oh, and withholding evidence, that would be another one. If, for instance, you were to come upon what might be evidence, but did not know
was
evidence, at least not at that time, would it then, once you knew, become incumbent on you to immediately notify the authorities of the existence of that evidence?”

J.P. jammed her fists against her hips and grinned happily. “Well, shit, handsome, what did you stick your foot in now?”

Chapter Twelve

M
aggie muttered to herself as she walked back from Mario's, head down, more than ready to say something nasty to the person who was clumsy enough to bump into her. But when she raised her head, her intended “Watch where you're going, buster” turned into, “Bruce? Bruce McCrae?”

“The famous Cleo Dooley. It is you, isn't it?” McCrae said, letting go of Maggie's arms once she was steady on her feet once more.

“Maggie. Nobody I know calls me Cleo, Bruce,” she told him, looking up into his dark, handsome face. The guy was halfway to seven feet, and built like Terrell Owens, not an ounce of fat on him. “Are you still growing?”

McCrae showed her his fine white teeth. A lesser, more impressed female might even think the December sunlight winked off one of them. “You always had a mouth on you, didn't you, Maggie? I came by to see you earlier.”

“So it was you,” Maggie said, indicating that he should fall into step beside her. “I thought you lived around here. What's up?”

His smile faded. “I don't know if you've heard, but the writing community has lost one of its own.”

“Francis Oakes,” Maggie said, nodding. “Yeah, I heard about that a couple of days ago. Look, you want to come upstairs? I've got some friends in, and I'm bringing them lunch. Join us.”

They passed Socks, who was looking rather admiringly at McCrae, and headed upstairs, McCrae now carrying the bag that, Maggie noticed, had begun leaking potato salad. “I didn't want to say anything downstairs, Bruce, but you look a little . . . worried?”

“After we've had lunch,” he said as Maggie opened the door to her condo and stepped inside.

“J.P., Alex—I've brought a guest,” she said, trying not to laugh as J.P. all but flew to her feet, simultaneously pulling down the top of her purple running suit and smoothing her hair. “Bruce McCrae, fellow writer, please let me introduce you to my attorney and friend, J.P. Boxer, and my neighbor from across the hall, Alex Blakely. Say hi, everyone, okay, while I go get us some plates.”

“Please let me help you, sunshine,” J.P. said quickly, and actually pushed Maggie toward the kitchen. “I
love
working in the kitchen,” she threw back over her shoulder as she went.

Maggie skidded to a halt in the kitchen. “Why, J.P. Boxer, shame on you. Big bad mama? Scourge of the courtroom? Look at you—you're giggling.”

J.P. raised one eyebrow and tipped her head to the side. “Girl, you do have eyes in your head, don't you? That's Bruce McCrae out there. I buy him just for the photos on the back of the book. I didn't know you knew him. You could have said something you know, introduced us months ago. Girlfriends should think about this stuff. Gimme that,” she said, grabbing the bag from Maggie. “Do you think he'd mind if I cut his sandwich into little bites . . . and fed them to him one at a time? Hey, do you have any grapes? I could peel them, lay him back over my arm, feed—”

“Down, girl, and that's half a sandwich,” Maggie corrected, really not wanting that mental image burned into her mind. “I only bought enough for the three of us. But, since you're willing to feed him, you can give him half of yours. I'll pile them all on a plate and you remember to only take half, okay? Oh, and he is cute,” Maggie said, lifting down plates from the cabinet.

“Cute?
Cute
? Sunshine, that's like saying the Grand Canyon at sunrise is
cute
. Is the Taj Mahal
cute
? No, cupcake—it's one of the freaking
wonders of the world
. And that man out there,” she said, pointing one long arm in the general direction of the living room, “well, that man out there is the biggest, the blackest, the most
killer
man to ever draw breath. We clear now? You got that?”

Maggie giggled as she nodded her understanding, rather overjoyed to see someone else flustered besides her when it came to the men in or hoped to be in their lives. “I'd say I'd gotten it in spades, but I don't know if that's a funny play on words between friends or if it will get my nose broken.”

J.P. seemed to consider this for a moment, and then said, “No, it's funny. Just don't say it again, sunshine. And then you can tell me why you never told me Bruce McCrae is a friend of yours. That was cruel.”

“He isn't a friend, he's more of an acquaintance,” Maggie told her, spooning potato salad into a large bowl. She didn't like potato salad, but people seemed to serve this stuff at lunches. Then again, she really didn't
do
lunches. At least not lunches where you needed more than a paper napkin to hold your slice of pizza. She really had to grow up, if she was going to start having luncheons. “He came to see me because he's upset about something, I think. I'm betting it's about poor Francis Oakes. Well, I'm not betting, because I already know it is. I just don't know exactly what he's upset about . . . about Francis, that is.”

J.P. popped a potato chip into her mouth. “Poor who? That was clear as mud, sunshine.”

Maggie explained as they loaded dishes and other paraphernalia onto a tray. “So that's it. According to Steve, it was meant to look like suicide, but it was murder. The police just don't know why.”

“Well, maybe my soon-to-be honey out there has a few ideas on that one,” J.P. suggested, picking up the tray and heading for the living room once more. “Here we go—who's hungry?”

Alex appeared next to Maggie's elbow and discreetly drew her over to the side of the room as J.P. and McCrae sat down at the table. “I couldn't get any farther with him than polite chitchat. But he's probably here about Francis Oakes. Remember, we're not to know anything.”

“About the murder,” Maggie said, and then winced. “Damn. I already told J.P. Oh, wait, she's my lawyer now, so that was privileged information, right? No, I suppose not. We'll just have to swear Bruce to secrecy, that's all.”

“McCrae? Not J.P.?”

Maggie looked toward the table, where J.P. was fluttering her eyelashes at the writer. “It's probably too late for that one. She's about to tell him everything but her shoe size, and since I'm betting it's at least eleven, I don't blame her. Come on, we're being rude.”

“I believe we're safe with J.P.”

“Oh? What makes you say—you
told
her? While I was gone, you talked to her about Francis? Man, she is good—in the kitchen, she never let on that she already knew. Why did you tell her?”

“Simply idle conversation, my dear. Don't fret. Mr. McCrae,” Alex then said as he held out the third chair for Maggie, then sat down beside her, “Maggie here tells me you knew Francis Oakes, the writer who died recently, is that right?”

McCrae nodded around a mouthful of potato salad. “Suicide, or so they say. But I'm not so sure. It's the timing, see. So soon after I—well, I'm getting a bit ahead of myself, aren't I?”

J.P. laid her hand on his arm. “You just take your time, sugar.”

Maggie and Alex exchanged quick glances.

“Thanks, Jemima.”

Maggie and Alex exchanged quick glances again, and this time Maggie was grinning. The big bad lawyer's name was
Jemima
? All six feet of her? Maggie had wondered a time or two, but always decided that the
J
was for
jugular
, as in “go for the.” What in hell did the
P
stand for?

“I hate to push,” Alex said as J.P. and McCrae seemed to have gotten lost in each other's eyes, “but I believe you said something about timing, Mr. McCrae?”

“Oh. Oh, yes, I did, didn't I,” McCrae said, looking at Alex, his smile sheepish. “I nearly forgot why I came, although I'm so very glad I did, or I wouldn't have met Jemima. Oh, and please, call me Bruce, Alex.”

Maggie lost her appetite. It wasn't that she thought J.P. was unattractive or anything like that but, well, she wasn't any Beyoncé, either. Bruce, on the other hand, was an ebony Greek god. True, stranger things have happened. But have they happened so fast? Maggie didn't know what was going on . . . she just didn't want to see her friend hurt, and J.P. was a friend, damn it. You'd think the guy was lining up free legal service or something.

“You wanted to talk about Francis,” Maggie prodded, giving J.P. a gentle kick under the table, then rolling her eyes at her in a “down, girl” look females usually understood.

J.P. spooned more potato salad onto McCrae's plate. Pitiful. Disillusioning. It was like she'd just learned that Martha Stewart ate frozen dinners over the sink.

“All right, it's like this. And Jemima, I'm sorry if this is upsetting—you too, Maggie—because this isn't exactly optimum lunchtime conversation. I, ah, I got this package in the mail the other day and . . .”

“Yes, please do go on.” Now it was Alex nudging Maggie under the table, but she ignored him.

McCrae patted at his mouth with his napkin and pushed his chair away from the table, got to his feet. “It was some idiot reader with a supposed grudge and too much time on his hands, that's what I figured. But then Sylvia Piedmonte called me out of the blue—you know her, Maggie?”

“No, I don't. Who is she?”

“You don't know her? Sylvia
Piedmonte
,” McCrae repeated in that annoying way people do when they darn well know they'd most certainly been heard the first time. “She wrote
Three Past Midnight
and a half dozen other unfortunately forgettable mysteries for Kirk a long time ago—I don't remember who she's writing for now. In any event, I think she was sort of feeling me out, until she finally told me she and a couple other authors had gotten similar packages in the mail. Sylvia, Buzz Noonan, and Sylvia's good friend, Freddie Brandyce. Pretty much the same thing I got, and around the same time last week. She was calling around to other local writers she knew. She wanted to know if I got one, too. I guess we can't help it—looking for conspiracies everywhere. It must come with a writer's imagination.” He laid a hand on J.P.'s shoulder, gave it a squeeze. “Forgive me, but it's not every day a person gets a dead rat in the mail.”

“O-
kay
,” Maggie said, putting down her own napkin, as playtime was certainly over now. “Time to call Steve.”

“Wait a moment, if you please,” Alex told her, getting to his feet. “Please, allow me a question, if you don't mind. Are you saying that you, and other writers in this area—you did say
local
, correct?—that you
all
received packages containing dead rats?”

“Yeah, that's exactly what I said,” McCrae told him. “And not just the rats. There were vaguely threatening notes, too, inside the same packages.” He shook his head. “Poems. I took the rat and the poem—the package, all of it—to the police station the same day I got it, and the sergeant at the desk told me to get the expletive-deleted rat out of his precinct house and only come back again if I got a box with a human finger in it or something, unless I wanted him to lock me up for public littering.” He smiled weakly at J.P. “You have to love New York, right?”

“So what did you do with it—the rat and everything, I mean? It's all potential evidence, you know, and should have been preserved,” J.P. told him, at last acting like a lawyer and not some moonstruck teenage girl.

Bruce was no longer looking all that lover-like. “Do with it? I certainly wasn't going to take the damn thing home with me and have it bronzed.”

Alex chuckled quietly at that and Maggie threw him a questioning look, but he seemed to be avoiding her eyes.

“So—what did you do with it?” Maggie asked, just to cut the sudden tension between Bruce and J.P. That had been a short-lived love affair.

“I threw it in the first trash can I passed and tried to forget about it. But then, when Sylvia called, I became more concerned. She'd already talked to Freddie, who, like Sylvia, had already tossed his rat in the garbage—just in case anyone was going to ask—and Buzz is in Africa, doing research. But his housekeeper told Sylvia that he had received a package that had an odor to it, so she'd thrown it out, unopened.”

“So there's no evidence of any of these rats? That's too bad,” J.P. said. “Are you going to eat the other half of that sandwich?”

Bruce sat down again and put his hand on J.P.'s and gave it a squeeze. “I'm sorry, Jemima, I was being abrupt. Please forgive me.”

“That's all right, sweetie,” J.P. purred, falling right back into goofy mode. “And, please, go on. I don't want to miss a word.”

Maggie leaned over toward Alex and whispered, “Pull up the pants legs, it's too late to save the shoes.”

Alex smiled at her. “You're such a romantic, my dear.”

“Where was I? Oh, right. Buzz had to have gotten another rat, right? That made four rats, if anyone's counting. That was when I realized what Sylvia already knew, that there was a pattern here, and that was troubling. And all of us living here, in and around Manhattan. And then I read about Francis Oakes in the newspaper and . . . and I began to wonder. We're all Toland Books authors, or at least we all were. I mean, hell, the December royalties couldn't have been that bad, right? So I played our special writer's game of
what if
. What if Oakes had gotten a rat in the mail, like the rest of us? What if he'd killed himself over it? Worse, what if the rats are just warnings, and the next step is murder, with poor Francis being the first victim? Hell, Sylvia's already on a plane to California, to stay with her daughter, and Freddie took off for his cabin in Maine. Let me tell you, they're taking this seriously.”