High Heels and Holidays (17 page)

“Don't, J.P., please,” Steve said, pulling the plastic bag from his jacket pocket. “Let's work on this a while. What's all over this, Blakely? Oh, wait, never mind, I think I know. And it's just another stupid poem, like the one we found in Oakes's apartment, and signed the same way. Nevus.”

“Nevus? You didn't tell me that, Alex.”

“A thousand apologies, my dear,” Alex said, handing Maggie a glass of wine. “Our miscreant, it would seem, mails dead rats and thinks of himself as a mole.”

“But that makes no sense, Alex,” Maggie said, getting to her feet and going over to Steve, keeping her hands behind her back as she looked at the note. “And yet, there it is. Nevus. Maybe it's some sort of personal thing only the guy knows, you know? Maybe he's got a lot of moles?”

“Or one great big one on his nose, like the Wicked Witch of the West,” Bernie offered, toasting Maggie with her Shirley Temple. “Try saying it backwards, Mags. I know you can say
supercalifragilisticexpealadocious
backwards.”

“It's not backwards letter-for-letter the way Mary Poppins sang it.
Docious-ali-expe-istic-fragi-cali-rupus.
Just another of my enormous and completely useless talents,” Maggie said absently, already mentally reversing the letters in nevus. “S-U-Suven? That makes no sense. How about Never Ever Violate US—no, sorry.”

“Yes, well, not that this hasn't been fun,” Steve said, checking his wristwatch as he got to his feet.

“Do you have an appointment,
left
-tenant?”

“No, Blakely, I've got a murder to solve. Here's the deal, folks. Terrific as this has been, we're not getting anywhere. Bernie, thanks for the letters. Mr. McCrae, I suggest you exercise vigilance but do not panic.”

“We're good there, Steve,” J.P. said, opening her huge purse and pulling out a gun that looked to be about a foot long.

Maggie ducked behind Steve, because he was closest.

J.P. waved the nasty-looking weapon in the air. “I've got him covered. Don't I, sugar? Any way you want to take that one.”

“Jeez. You have a permit for that cannon, J.P.?”

“Everything I need to carry concealed, Steve, and I know how to use this baby, too.”

“You were a cop, yeah, I know. But you worked in the mayor's office, J.P. When was the last time you were at the range?”

“Details,” J.P. grumbled as the weapon disappeared back into her purse.

Steve looked at Maggie. “Where the hell was I with you guys before I lost what's left of my mind? Oh, okay. There's still the very real possibility that the packages you and some other writers received were nothing more than a coincidence of timing, and that there's no killer loose at CUNY, and that Oakes's is an isolated crime. I already said that, I think. Right now we're taking a second look at the former boyfriend, although, personally, I'm pretty sure that's a waste, unless Oakes had a new boyfriend and we're dealing with the jealousy card.”

“Is that how you're treating it, Wendell, even after reading these letters—as true love gone wrong?” Alex asked, walking Steve to the door.

“I'm not
treating
it any way at all, Blakely. We're considering all the angles and, statistically, the spurned-lover motive is usually pretty high on the list. No forced entry—Oakes knew his killer. I'm not saying you guys aren't close to being on to something, but I need another twenty-four hours to chase down these other leads. So just keep an eye on Maggie,” he added quietly.

“It will be my pleasure,
left
-tenant,” Alex said with a polite inclination of his head. “Do have a pleasant evening with your young lady.”

“She's not—I gotta go.”

“What was all that about, Alex?” Maggie asked, picking up Steve's empty beer can. Steve hadn't kissed her good-bye, had he? “He didn't even take the letters with him. This was a real bust, wasn't it?”

“Not entirely. We do have this fellow Bryon and Mr. Gates to drop in on, evaluate.”

“Why? Neither of them threatened Francis, or any of us.”

“True, but they both live here and the packages were postmarked here. When you have nothing, Maggie, you take whatever small crumbs you've been handed. That is the nature of detection.”

“Maggie, Alex? Look at this,” Bernie said, holding up several sheets of paper. “I've got two more letters from Valentino Gates and another from Lord Bryon—all about how we were so mean to Jonathan West, and all in the folder for last year. You think that's a coincidence? Oh, and something else I forgot to give to Steve. The lawyers sent over photocopies of the letters we forwarded to them. You know, the ones from the
real
nuts. I didn't look at them yet. Maggie—they're in my purse.”

“Scott Imhoff,” Maggie said as she handed the letters to Alex after quickly looking through them. “Remember him, Bernie? One of those celebrity stalkers. He was trailing after Faith for a while. Man, she really freaked out, didn't she? Not that I wouldn't have—this guy showing up outside her building, snapping her picture, giving her flowers. She finally got a restraining order, right?”

Bernie pulled the cherry stem out of her mouth. “She's not the only one. Imhoff was after Jonathan West, too.” She blinked, looked at Alex. “Did I say Jonathan West? Aren't we
all
saying Jonathan West here?”

Alex took the letter from Maggie. “Mr. Imhoff, it would appear, also resides in Manhattan. Does anyone else have letters they'd like us all to look at?”

Bruce McCrae tossed two letters onto the coffee table. “So we're going on even without the lieutenant? Good. Those were a bit flaky, but one's from California, and I'm getting the idea we're trying to stay local. And the other one is six years old. So, no, sorry, I've got nothing. J.P.?”

“I've got one here from this Valentino Gates guy, about another author,” J.P. said, sorting through the letters she'd been reading and pulling out one of them. “Told her she's no Jonathan West—so there's that name again. We're seeing a lot of him, aren't we?”

“He was one of our top-selling authors for a few years, so that's really no surprise,” Bernie explained. “The bigger you get, the more you manage to bring out the weirdos. I'm surprised there aren't more, beginning when he started writing those stinkers, but I guess they weren't threatening, and we threw them out.”

“But this one isn't just about West, remember? Who knows Sylvia Piedmonte?” J.P. asked, waving the letter. “Anybody?”

“Maggie,” McCrae said, “Sylvia
Piedmonte
. Remember? She's the one who called me, told me about her rat, the rats that went to Buzz Noonan, to Freddie Brandyce?”

“Oh, right,” Maggie said, nodding. “I'm sorry. I'm lousy with names.”

“Names, faces, places,” Bernie said as she returned from a quick trip to the kitchen, the open jar of cherries in her hand. “If Maggie had her way, the whole world would wear nametags. You know all of them, Maggie, because you met them all at one time or another at one of our dinners. But let me help you out—Buzz Noonan writes as Garth Ransom. Ringing any bells now, honey?”

“Maggie?” Alex prompted as Maggie stared into the middle distance, and then began counting on her fingers.

“That's it!” she said at last, grabbing Alex by the shoulders and kissing him square on the mouth . . . which was as good as screaming
eureka
any day of the week. “It's that stupid book I wrote!”

“I beg your pardon. My books are not stupid.”

“
My
books, and I didn't really write it. Not all of it. Don't move, anybody, I'll be right back!”

Her hands trembling with excitement, Maggie ran into the spare bedroom and skidded to a halt in front of one of the many bookcases she had placed in every room of the condo. She kept stuff in this room that she really couldn't in good conscience throw away, but didn't want to look at every day.

What was the matter with her? She should have thought of this sooner, much sooner. It was Alex's fault, obviously. He'd distracted her, made her lose her focus. No wonder athletes didn't have sex before a big game....

“Let it be here, let it be here, let it be—ah, it's here!”

Taking the book from the shelf, she ran back into the living room, holding it over her head. “This is it—I've found the connection!”

“My God,” McCrae said, shaking his head. “Of course it is. It's so obvious. Why didn't I think of it?”

Maggie looked at him. Yeah. Why didn't he if it was so obvious? “I didn't, either, Bruce. It's no big deal.”

“In all fairness to both of you, nothing hit me, either. But you're right, Maggie. That has to be it,” Bernie said, chewing on another cherry. “Well, I'm glad that's settled. Anybody else want a cherry? Please say no, they're all I've got.”

“Delighted as you all must be,” Alex said, reaching for the book Maggie was still holding above her head like first prize in some contest, “may I?”

“Sure, here you go, Alex,” Maggie said, realizing she was almost breathless with excitement. Giddy, even. She shoved the book into his hands. “See?
No Secret Anymore
. Absolutely the
worst
book in the history of the world. Look—see the names? Jonathan West—you can't miss his name, it's two inches high. Then Sylvia Piedmonte, Garth Ransom . . . and then the rest of us going down the cover like an inverted pyramid. The peons. Look hard, the print's that small.”

Alex took his quizzing glass from his pocket and lifted it to his eye. “Why are the names so small?”

“Because we were all small potatoes, that's why,” Maggie told him. “Book buyers weren't really supposed to see us, all hidden on the cover. Jonathan was the biggest draw and they were supposed to buy the book for him, and get us as a bonus they might not have wanted. So Jonathan got top billing, then Sylvia, then Garth—damn, I didn't know his real name was Buzz Noonan. I might have put the pieces together faster if I'd known that. But look, Alex—look at those names.”

Alex read the names out loud. “Jonathan West, Sylvia Piedmonte, Garth Ransom, Kimberly Lowell D'Amico. And then, in smaller print, Lucius Santana, Frederick Brandyce, Bruce McCrae. And in even smaller print—it hardly seems possible—Francis Oakes, Felicity Boothe Simmons, Alicia Tate Evans. Ah, before my time, I see,” he said with no small pleasure, handing the book back to Maggie, who made a face at him, then gave the book to J.P.

“One of Kirk's brainstorms,” Bernie explained as Maggie grinned at her own brilliance. “Well, Jonathan West's brainstorm initially, but Kirk was all over it. He saw it as the perfect—and cheap—way to promote his mid-list authors. Buy the book for Jonathan, or maybe for Sylvia or Garth, and discover a new Toland author you might like and then buy. I'm sorry I didn't realize it sooner, which is probably because I've spent eight years trying to block the whole episode from my mind. We took a bath, critically and financially. Not because of you, Maggie, or even you, Bruce, but Jonathan got a very large chunk of change he never earned back.”

“Right, the book bombed big-time, and the critics ripped Jonathan, also big-time. I don't think he ever recovered,” Maggie broke in, because, hey, it was her idea, so it was her story to tell, right? Not that she was crowing or anything—but, boy, it sure felt good to be the one who came through with some answers, rather than Alex, always the great super sleuth Viscount Saint Just.

“Here's the deal. Bruce, Bernie, you already know all of this, but I want to explain to J.P. and Alex. Ten different authors, each assigned to write one sixty-five-hundred-word chapter of a single book. It was doomed before we started. Ten short stories, maybe, even connected novellas. But a chapter each, all for the same book? Anyway, we each got a bible—that's like a set of rules for what we have to write, J.P., in case you think we were on some holy mission, because we sure weren't. We all met a few times to talk about the work, the authors who lived in New York, but trust me, we were no Algonquin Round Table. All in all, an experience I obviously tried to forget, although I got twenty-five thousand, which was great, and a cheesy one percent of the royalties. But we never saw any royalties.”

“I got forty-five thousand, and one and one-half percent,” Bruce interrupted.

“And a larger font on the cover—bully for you,” Maggie said, glaring at him for a moment. “If I might continue? Jonathan wrote the bible because the whole thing was his idea in the first place, and he was the biggest draw. With Jonathan's name to carry us, and help from the next couple of authors down the line, like Bernie said, the idea was that the book would hit the
Times
and Kirk could then technically put
New York Times Best-selling Author
on all our book covers. He'd have seven new
NYT
mystery writers in one shot.”

“Only it didn't work,” Bernie added. “Jonathan wasn't easy to work with, was he, Maggie?”

“Easy? I wanted to kill him. We
all
wanted to kill him, didn't we, Bruce? He kept changing the bible, demanding a million rewrites from all of us. I worked with it because I had to—the advance money kept me in peanut butter for a long time after Kirk dropped me and I could come up with Cleo Dooley and Saint Just. But Faith nearly had a breakdown. She'd call me, screaming, ranting, begging me to help her because—ohmigod, Faith! Do you think she got a rat? She'd never tell, you know. Not Faith. Everybody has to love her. She'd never tell anybody she ever got hate mail.”