High Heels and Holidays (14 page)

“Because you told them about Francis Oakes, and your theory?”

“Of course I told them, Maggie. Why wouldn't I? And, yes, because I also told them about how the cop wouldn't take
my
rat seriously. In the paper, it was
suspected
suicide, not
definitely
suicide, so it would only be a bunch of fiction writers—all of us mystery writers at that—up against the fact that nobody had been hurt. So now I'm trying to find out how many others got packages, and warn them. Was everyone at Toland Books getting rats for Christmas this year? I know Bernie's a bit of a flake, but cripes! No, it has to be some kind of vendetta. Against mystery writers in general, maybe, or just against Toland Books authors—but something sure as hell is going on.”

“A writer's fertile imagination,” Alex said. “Fascinating how you all think in scenarios, and worst-case scenarios at that. I think I could safely say that Maggie here would have come to the same conclusions.”

J.P. looked at Maggie. “You get a package, sunshine?”

“Nope. It's hard to believe, but maybe I've finally lucked out on something,” she told the attorney. “Still,” she said, winking at Alex, “we'll play, right? Alex here loves looking for clues. Don't you, Alex? We'll call Steve, fill him in, and then ask to tag along.”

“That's the second time you mentioned a Steve. Who's Steve?” McCrae asked, leaning his elbows on the table, which J.P. seemed to take as an invitation to rub his back. “Another writer?”

“No, he's a New York City police homicide lieutenant. We've worked together before, on other cases,” Maggie told him, feeling some pride as she spoke, whether that pride was in Steve or in the fact that she “worked” with him, she was not anxious to consider at the moment. “Not only that, but he was just here a while ago, to ask if I knew Francis, because he's been assigned as primary on the case.” With Alex's eyes on her, but pretending not to notice that, she confided, writer to writer, “You were right, Bruce. Francis
was
murdered.”

McCrae sat back, and then slammed a fist on the tabletop, rattling the plates. “I knew it!”

“Not that he was supposed to know it,” Alex said in an undertone as he dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “I do believe now is the moment you're to swear him to secrecy, my dear.”

Maggie shrugged. Alex was jealous, that's all. He liked to be the big guy, the guy in charge. The great Regency sleuth. Yeah, well, tough beans. “Bruce can help, Alex,” she told him as he handed her a plate and motioned that she should follow him into the kitchen. “Think about it,” she said as she loaded the plates into the dishwasher. “Bruce writes mysteries. I write mysteries.
Jemima
is an ex-cop turned top-notch defense attorney. You're a . . . well, you're nosy. Put us all together, and we make a pretty decent team. Steve could do worse than to have us on the case. And, hey, for once I'm not a part of the case. Thank God. I mean, think of the novelty of it, just for starters. I love being on the outside looking in—because I sure wouldn't want to think that I could be the target of some nutcase with a rat supply.”

“Yes, about that,” Alex said, taking hold of her shoulder as she started to return to the living room, as leaving those two lovebirds alone wasn't in her plans for the afternoon. “I think we should discuss that particular conclusion a bit more.”

Maggie turned to him. Slowly. Looking up at him through her mascaraed lashes. “No. Oh, no. You're
not
going to tell me that—”

“Maggie? Alex? You'd better get in here!”

“She sounds upset,” Alex said, motioning for Maggie to lead the way.

Maggie didn't move. “I got one, didn't I? I got my own personal rat—and you can take that one any way you want to.” Her mind was ticking over in double time. “My bra. You grabbed that package out of my hands so fast I—that's why, right? You thought it was another rat? Or maybe something even worse? And that's why you've been sticking to me since—since we got
home
! You've
known
since then?”

“Maggie! It's Sterling. He doesn't look so good.”

Alex was out of the kitchen before Maggie could fully digest J.P.'s last words, because her mind was too full with the humiliating idea that Alex had taken her to bed last night, stayed with her last night, because he was worried about her.

No! She wouldn't think that way. Too Stupid To Live heroines thought that way in bad romances, and the author then spent three hundred pages trying to get the hero and heroine to, for crying out loud, talk to each other. She was
not
a TSTL heroine, damn it. Alex had not taken her to bed. She'd walked there, on her own, knowing what she was doing, what they both were doing—succumbing to the inevitable.

But that didn't mean she wasn't going to kill him, first chance she got!

“Maggie! Bring water and towels!”

“Oh, shit—Sterling?” Maggie flew into action at Alex's command, grabbing a clean kitchen towel and running for the living room, only to stop when she saw Sterling sitting on one of the couches, looking like he'd been run over by a truck. Several times.

His wig and beard were hanging askew, his bell-tipped Santa hat clutched in both his hands. There was black street dirt all over him, as if he'd been rolling around in a slushy gutter, and the right shoulder seam had been ripped open. He had the beginnings of a black eye and his bottom lip was split.

And he was smiling.

“Sterling? Honey, what happened to you?” Maggie asked, pressing the towel to his lip.

“Nothing too terrible, actually. I was accosted on my way home,” he told her, taking the towel from her and dabbing at his own lip. “But I prevailed, and very little the worse for wear.”

The door flew open and Socks skidded into the room, fairly breathless. “He all right? I've got his chimney safe downstairs, but I couldn't come up with him because Mr. Bolton in Six-B needed me to—wow, he's going to have a shiner, isn't he? Well, maybe not—but that eye isn't going to win him any beauty contests. Who'd mug Santa?”

“I lost my bell, Maggie,” Sterling told her, slowly pulling off his wig and the connected beard. “But it did make a formidable weapon, I will say that. They didn't get any of my silver.”

“You should have given it to them, Sterling,” Maggie told him, looking at his rapidly bruising cheekbone. “They could have had weapons. Knives. Guns. Didn't anyone try to help you?”

“It's New York, Little Mary Sunshine, remember? A good mugging is like street theater to most people,” J.P. said, gathering up her purse and jacket. “Bruce? You ready to go, sugar?”

Alex had been very quiet, Maggie realized. She knew that particular silence—it was the one that did not bode well for whoever had attacked his friend if the Viscount Saint Just found him. “Alex? Shouldn't they stay?”

“I think we know all we need to know from them at the moment, my dear,” he answered dismissingly as he continued to look at Sterling. “Bruce? I believe you'll be hearing from
Left
-tenant Wendell by this evening. Please tell him everything you've told us. And do take care, mind how you go.”

J.P. slipped her arm though McCrae's. “Oh, don't worry about that, handsome. He won't be alone.”

“I've got to have a talk with that woman about the concept of playing hard to get,” Maggie said as Alex helped Sterling to his feet. “Do you hurt anywhere, Sterling? Do you want to go to the emergency room? Alex, don't you think we should take him to the emergency room, get him checked out?”

“Certainly,” he agreed. “Are you in need of medical treatment, Sterling?”

“No, thank you very much, and all of that,” Santa Sterling said, heading for the door. “I think a good soak will be enough. But what of my lovely uniform, Saint Just? It's fairly well ruined, isn't it?”

“That doesn't matter, Sterling,” Maggie told him sternly, “because you're not going back out there again. It's too dangerous, if this could have happened in the middle of the day, with people all around.”

“Oh, no, Maggie, I must do my duty,” Sterling told her. “I gave my word, and the little children are depending on me.”

“Ah, sweetheart, I know, but—”

“He'll be fine, Maggie,” Alex told her, opening the door for his friend. “You just go strip out of that ruined suit, Sterling, and I'll be there directly to run you a tub.”

“
You're
going to run his tub for him? The great Viscount Saint Just?” Maggie asked as the door closed behind Sterling. “To quote a line from some cartoon
—Fractured Fairy Tales
, I think—‘Now there's something you don't see every day, Chauncey.' ”

Alex smiled thinly. “I do ask, from time to time, that you develop Clarence's character more fully, in the hope he might one day join us here. The complete gentleman's gentleman. How I miss him.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Maggie said, waving away that old argument—as if she could
plan
having one of her characters poof into her life . . . their lives. “I mean it, Alex. Sterling isn't going back out there.”

“He would be greatly disappointed if we were to deny him the pleasure,” Alex pointed out. “But not to worry your head about such things. I already have an idea.”

Maggie held out her hands in a classic “whoa” gesture. “No. I know what that means. You're planning to find whoever mugged Sterling and . . . and cane them, or something . . . make their guts into garters . . . whatever. And that's not happening. We've had this discussion, Alex, and you can't do that, remember? That's called taking the law into your own hands, and we frown on that here in the real world. I . . . I won't allow it.”

Alex smiled in a very kind, maddeningly condescending sort of way. “Maggie. My dearest girl. It would be impossible for me to locate a few random thugs in this large metropolis. I would have absolutely no idea where to begin.”

“You promise?”

“I promise. Now, if you'll please excuse me, I need to run Sterling's bath, and then make a few calls.”

“Oh yeah?” Maggie said, walking after him. “Who to? To whom? Hell—who are you calling?”

“Why, Vernon and George, of course. It has occurred to me that they will make exemplary bodyguards. Is it street smarts? Yes, I believe that's the term. Vernon and George should have them in abundance, don't you think? Or, to put it another way—it takes one to know one? If there are suspicious characters wandering about, eyeing Sterling and intent on anything nefarious, those two exemplary young gentlemen will quickly send them about their business, don't you think?”

“You're kidding. You're going to have them guarding Sterling? They'd scare everyone away and Sterling wouldn't make a cent.”

Alex stopped, seemed to ponder this for a moment. “Yes, I see your point. George would do well enough, but Vernon could prove a problem.”

“People nicknamed Snake often do prove to be problems,” Maggie pointed out, trying not to smile.

“Yes. I'll have to think on that. In the meantime, if you would please get in touch with the good
left
-tenant? I do believe it's time we all spoke again. In fact, I believe it would be easier, and very possibly better for us, if he meets Bruce McCrae here as well. For some time this evening—if the good
left
-tenant is free, that is. We probably should speak to him about your rat.”

“You got that in one! And, just to put us both on the record here, you're lucky I'm speaking to
you
at all. Hiding the rat from me like that. The more I think about it, the madder I get. What were you thinking?”

Alex retraced his steps, cupping her chin in his hand. His gaze was hot, intense, mind-melting. She was beginning to feel some real pity for the imaginary ladies she threw in his path in their books.
Her
books. She really had to stop even mentally referring to them as
their
books. “Why, I'm thinking of you, of course. Of you, my dear. As always, only of you.”

“Yeah, well, don't,” she told him, backing away, figuring she'd get closer to sanity the farther she got from him. “I mean, not all the time. I mean, I can take care of . . . not that I'm not happy that you'd care enough to . . . that is—oh, go take care of Sterling.”

Alex bowed, most elegantly. “Certainly, my dear. Your wish, as I believe it is said, is my command, and I remain, as always, your obedient servant.”

“Yeah, right. As it is also
said
—and pigs fly.”

Chapter Thirteen

S
aint Just spent the better part of an hour on the phone, but by the time he'd finished he felt fairly well pleased with himself that Sterling would now be able to report for duty at nine the next morning and Saint Just would have no qualms about allowing the good-hearted man out and about with his chimney of silver.

Santas for Silver.

He didn't like the name, and he'd cared less for the entire idea when, at Sterling's request, he'd called the local headquarters to report Sterling's unfortunate incident. Not a single question was asked about how Sterling had fared in the attack, all the questions having to do with the costume, the chimney, the lost bell and, most definitely, the silver.

This seeming lack of compassion for one of their unpaid volunteers smacked to Saint Just of ingratitude, at the very least, and coldheartedness at the most. Quite an unusual thing in a charitable organization, one would think.

Saint Just did not consider himself to be naïve. In the course of
The Case of the Lingering Lightskirt
, he and Maggie had explored a considerable portion of the Regency London underworld, including more than a few unsavory denizens of Piccadilly, many of whom were experts in the way of manufactured infirmities, artfully applied running sores, and other such unpleasant artifices meant to goad the unwary to part with a few coppers.

Or a few pieces of silver.

During the course of his literary adventures, he'd learned that appearances very often were not the only criteria by which one should judge others, that much had been made clear as his character had found it necessary to wade through cruel pimps, depraved women selling their own children, clever liars, in order to get to the truth and solve the case.

In this particular case, it had been Maggie who had looked up Santas for Silver on the Internet and declared the organization to be aboveboard.

But, then, Maggie was so adorably innocent and trusting at times. Saint Just would much rather follow his own instincts when it came to ferreting out possible miscreants, and in this case, his instincts told him that Sterling's sacrifice of his body in order to protect a few pieces of silver meant for the underprivileged should have been met with more compassion by one Mr. Joshua Goodfellow.

Joshua Goodfellow? It was as if the man had been named especially so that he could elicit good
will
.

All of which took Saint Just back to his laptop computer and, within moments, to the Web site of Santas for Silver. Ignoring the heart-tugging photos and glowing testimonials, Saint Just concentrated on names, and was disappointed in the lack of them. Other than Joshua Goodfellow himself, there were only three: Roberta Astley, Maryjane Rucker, and Marjorie McDermont. All women.

And, at times, women could be naïve . . . or as bad or worse than men.

Saint Just closed his laptop and retrieved his topcoat and scarf from the closet, his sword cane from the elephant foot umbrella stand. Lastly, he picked up the bag containing Sterling's ruined costume and told his friend he was on his way to return the thing and obtain another—yes, a size forty-two short, if one was available, and most definitely, a new bell. He had more than an hour before Lieutenant Wendell and the others were slated to convene in Maggie's condo. Just enough time to do a bit of sleuthing.

“Maggie?” he called out as he used his key to enter her condo.

She appeared a few moments later, her hair still wet from her shower, her slim body wrapped in a thick white terry cloth robe. She looked delicious, but he was a man on a mission. Truly, the sacrifices one must make for one's friends....

“I'm glad you're here,” Maggie told him, drawing the lapels of the robe more closely over her breasts—a move Saint Just could have pointed out did nothing but concentrate his mind on those same breasts as he had last seen them. “Let's talk about the rat, shall we?
My
rat?”

“Certainly, my dear, although I am on my way to procure a new costume for Sterling,” he said, holding up the paper bag. “What is it you wish to know?”

“I don't know,” she said, sitting down on one of the couches and drawing her knees up and under the bathrobe. “Let's start at the beginning. When did I get it? How did you know I got it? Was Socks in on it? I'll bet he was. Oh, and did it ever occur to you—to either of you—that you were tampering with the United States mail?”

Saint Just set the paper bag on the credenza beside the door and leaned on his sword cane. “Let's see, which question should I answer first?”

“Take them in any order you want, buster—just tell me what you know I want to know.”

“Very well, and you look quite fetching, I feel it necessary for me to say. Soft and rosy from your bath, and with your skin gleaming, inviting. That scent—I so identify it with you, my dear.”

“It's only baby oil,” Maggie muttered, tugging the hem of the robe lower. “And don't change the subject.”

“Yes, I sense that you won't be derailed,” Saint Just said, smiling. “Very well, the truth. I received a phone call from Socks on my cell while we were in England, telling me of the package and its accompanying odor that had led him to open the thing, whereupon he discovered the rat.
Your
rat. Directing him to keep the evidence intact, I then personally inspected it the moment we returned—”

“In the basement.
That's
why you were in the basement,” Maggie said, pointing an accusing finger at him. “I
knew
you'd never do physical work if you could find a way out of it. So the rat was there when I came downstairs? I was right there, wasn't I? And you
still
didn't show it to me?”

“Alas, the poor mammal wasn't quite fit for polite company by that time,” Saint Just told her, “but I was able to rescue the poem that accompanied the thing.”

“You did? Where is it? I want to see it. Steve needs to have it.”

“And he will, I assure you, when he arrives. Now, if there is nothing else?”

“Oh, there's a lot else, Alex. For starters, you've got to get it through your head that I'm a woman of the twenty-first century, and you are a man of the nineteenth. An arrogant man of the nineteenth. But you're here now, in the twenty-first century, and I'm not one of your innocent debutantes who need protection. I pull my own weight. You don't protect me. I want . . . I want to be seen as capable of taking care of myself.”

“Certainly, my dear. By whom?”

“By whom? By
me
. I want . . . I want to believe in myself, okay?”

“At which point I will no longer be necessary?”

“No! Cripes, Alex, I didn't mean it that way. I love it that you . . . that you
care
. But don't hide things from me—not when they concern me. Are we clear now?”

“We are, most definitely. Please accept my most sincere apologies for not informing you that some demented creature, possibly with homicidal tendencies, sent you an odoriferous, decomposing rat that, clearly, I should have presented for your personal inspection the moment we returned from the airport rather than to dispose of the thing and then watch carefully over you to see if the rat was a genuine threat or just a malicious prank, and all in the mistaken notion that a man is placed on this earth to protect his woman.”

“Hoo-boy. You're pissed,” Maggie said, making a face. “I knew you'd be pissed. I mean, you can take the boy out of the Regency, but you can't take the Regency out of the boy—or something like that. Okay, Alex, I forgive you. Your heart was in the right place. But Steve may not be so charitable when we tell him what you did, you know? Have you thought about that?”

“I have. Indeed, J.P. has assured me that I could not have known how potentially serious the rat and poem were and, now that I'm more than willing to cooperate—now that I have more information—there's really nothing the good
left
-tenant can do about it. In other words, my lawyer does not think you will be forced to post bail for this sorry creature, as I believe is the term.”

“You know, Alex, that was
my
free lifetime legal advice you were using. But I'm glad to hear it. J.P. is a good lawyer. Or she was, before Bruce McCrae showed up. Was that sickening, or what?”

“I have no fears for J.P. She was momentarily dazzled. Only time will tell if her emotions are truly involved. And now, as everyone is gathering here in less than an hour, I really should be on my way.”

“So you're really going to let Sterling go back out on the streets?”

Saint Just opened his mouth to tell Maggie, well, to tell her not very much, actually, but he quickly reconsidered. “For the moment, yes, I am, although not without George and Vernon by his side.”

“I still don't think that's going to work, Alex. Sure, George is gorgeous, but Snake—Vernon—has
criminal element
written all over him, poor thing. He'll chase away contributors. Especially the moms and kids.”

“Yes, you mentioned that earlier, but I believe I've come up with a workable solution. George and Vernon are to be Santa's elves. Mary Louise has agreed to outfit them appropriately and have them here tomorrow morning, to escort Sterling to his assigned corner, where they will caper and cavort and in general behave as Santa's merry elves—all the while keeping a close eye out for potential trouble.”

Halfway through his explanation, Maggie fell back against the couch, clutching her stomach as she laughed out loud. “Will they have feathers in their caps and . . . and pointy shoes with bells on them? Caper and cavort? Oh, God, Alex—that's hysterical!”

“Yes, well, I'll leave you to your unseemly mirth then, won't I. Oh, and I notified Mario that we'll need a reasonable meat tray, breads, and salads delivered by six o'clock, as well as a cake, preferably a flavor he knows Sterling to favor.”

“Because I should at least offer to feed everybody, right. I would have thought of that,” Maggie said, sobering. “Eventually. Thanks, Alex.”

And with that he was gone, hastening his steps, but not so much as to seem to be rushing, like so many unfortunately harried-looking others on the pavement at five o'clock, as he made his way to the headquarters of Santas for Silver.

Once inside the small storefront, a bell above his head surely alerting anyone inside as to his presence, Saint Just was quickly confronted by a rather blowsy blond woman wearing clothing guaranteed to greatly constrict her breathing and possibly even the blood flow to her feet. “Good afternoon, madam,” he said, bowing gracefully. “I am Alexander Blakely, here to exchange my friend's battered costume that has been damaged in a recent assault upon his person.”

“Huh?” The woman shifted a large wad of gum from one cheek to the other. “Oh, right. You called, right? For that guy Sterling, right?”

“Right,” Saint Just said, feeling facetious. “And you'd be—?”

“Oh, right. Marj McDermont. That is, I'm Ms. Marjorie McDermont. I'm Mr. Goodfellow's, um, personal assistant. I handle all sorts of things for Mr. Goodfellow. So you can just gimme that, okay?”

Saint Just handed over the bag and the woman opened it, poured out its contents on a remarkably clear desk, if one were to discount the bottle of nail polish, a nail file, and a copy of
Soap Opera Digest
.

“Wow, what a mess, right? You weren't kidding, were you?” She spread the bits of costume across the desk. “I don't see it. Where's the money?”

Straight to the heart of the matter, Saint Just thought, not feeling very in charity with Miss McDermont. “Safely tucked away until Sterling brings it to you tomorrow after his . . . shift, is it? Is Mr. Goodfellow available?”

Miss McDermont was shoving the costume back in the bag. “He's here, sure, but he's not—hey!”

Saint Just employed the tip of his cane to push back the small wooden gate in the low railing dividing the lobby from the few desks and opened the mottled-glass–topped door to what one could only assume—correctly, as it turned out—to be the office of one Joshua Goodfellow.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Goodfellow,” he said loudly, so as to be heard over the noise of a fairly elaborate coin-sorting machine the tall, blond-haired man was operating. Saint Just had seen a similar machine in Atlantic City when he'd gone to one of the cashier windows to redeem chips he'd won at blackjack. A half dozen or more full burlap bags were already stacked in the corner, and the bags attached to the machine at the moment were fairly well bulging with newly sorted coins.

Joshua Goodfellow looked to be a man who enjoyed his work—but not interruptions.

“Damn pennies, they screw up the machine every time, Marj. Can't these losers remember not to—who are you?” he asked, turning off the machine. “Who let you in here? Marj! You in a coma out there, or what?”

Saint Just looked the man up and down, and then concentrated his gaze on Joshua Goodfellow's handsome face. “One of your volunteers, Sterling Balder by name, was accosted this afternoon and done bodily injury. Sir.”

“Did he lose the money?”

Saint Just smiled. “Thank you, sir, for salving my conscience over any assumptions I might have made without first bothering to indulge my curiosity in any actual investigation. And, to answer your question, no, Mr. Balder did not relinquish the money. Indeed, he will be on duty at his assigned corner tomorrow morning, battered but unbowed. Loyal to a fault, Mr. Balder is, sir.” He let the space of three seconds count out, and then added, his eyes squarely on the man, “As am I. Good day, sir.”