High Heels and Holidays (18 page)

“Yes, we'll consider that in a moment, shall we?” Alex said, leading Maggie over to the couches so she could sit down. “Bernie, as publisher of Toland Books, you probably have the most information on everyone involved. Can you possibly give us a . . . is the word
rundown?
”

“I can do that, Alex,” McCrae said. “Unlike Maggie, I've kept in touch with most everybody who stayed local. Jonathan still lives in New York, but Maggie's right,
No Secret Anymore
really did him in and he's not writing anymore. I think he gave everything he had to those first few books, and then the well went dry for him, poor bastard. I don't think I've seen him in months. Frankly, he'd started getting a little bit weird.”

“He's not
selling
anymore, you mean,” Bernie put in with a small sniff. “But you're right on the other thing. Whatever Jonathan had, boy, did he lose it. His last three books—ever since
No Secret Anymore
—they all bombed. Kirk offered him another contract two years ago, but he wasn't real happy about the terms, and he turned us down. He can still live pretty well on his royalties, I suppose.
My Only Friend
is in its twenty-sixth printing. Oh, sorry, Bruce. Go on. No—wait. You do know that Lucius Santana died a few years ago? Skydiving, if you can believe that one. Okay, I'm done. Now you can go on,” she ended, popping another cherry into her mouth.

Maggie grabbed a tablet and pen from her desk and began making a list as Bruce told them that Jonathan West had become a semi-recluse. Rather the way Francis Oakes had done. Rather the way she herself had sort of begun doing, until Alex had come into her life . . . but she refused to think about that. Writers, lots of them, were pretty much stay-at-home people, that's all. Not everybody is a party animal....

Bruce kept on talking and Maggie kept scribbling:

She looked up from the page. “I think we can safely say we've figured out at least part of this whole thing, at least enough to show a definite pattern. Do we really still need to know if Jonathan, Faith, and—” she took a peek at her notes; God, she really was bad at names, wasn't she “—and Kimberly also got rats? Yeah, I guess we do, just to nail down our theory.”

“I've got Jonathan's phone number,” Bruce said now, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small electronic organizer. “Shall I give him a call? Ask him if he got a rat in the mail?”

“Good idea, since you know him. And then we have to call Kimberly D'Amico, too,” Maggie said. “And Faith, I guess. Hey, wait a minute, Bruce, don't call him yet, not until we think about this a while. Maybe Jonathan is the one who sent the rats. I mean, think about it. Maybe he blames us for his career going into the toilet and he's finally popped his cork, or something. You said he'd been acting strangely lately, right? We could be calling a murderer. Damn, why did Steve have to leave so soon? Alex, what do you think?”

Alex paused in the middle of shining his quizzing glass against the front of his sweater. “Oh, you've remembered that I'm still here? How gratifying. I was about to go into a sad decline.”

“Knock it off,” Maggie told him. “Come on, we're all a part of the same team, right? Do we call these people or not?”

“I think if we're careful not to alarm them that, yes, Mr. West, Miss D'Amico, and your friend Felicity should be notified as soon as possible. It will also be interesting to see how our Mr. West reacts, won't it? But I would not stop there, as we are not at a point where we can rest on our laurels. It may come to nothing, but we were led in the direction we now agree upon only after reading the letters from Mr. Bryon and Mr. Gates, wasn't it? Mr. Valentino Gates? I would suggest we pay morning calls on both gentlemen. I would further suggest that we offer to include Wendell on those calls, if he's so inclined.”

“Which he doesn't seem to be,” Maggie pointed out. “Bruce, you're calling Jonathan now?”

Bruce held up one finger as he held his cell phone to his ear, then shook his head. “He's not answering—wait, his machine picked up. Jonathan? Jonathan, hi, Bruce McCrae here and I'm calling at . . .” he looked at Maggie, who mouthed the word
seven,
“. . . around seven o'clock on Tuesday evening. I don't want to alarm you, Jonathan, but we may have a small problem.” He looked up at Alex. “I have an appointment tomorrow morning, but two friends of mine would like to stop by and talk to you. You remember one of them—Alicia Tate Evans? I know what you're thinking, but it's important, Jonathan, honest, so be nice and let them in, okay?”

He sighed, closed the phone. “I hope I got through to him. I'm betting he was standing right beside the machine the whole time, listening to me. Maybe I should cancel my appointment and—”

“A generous offer, but I believe we'll manage, thank you. Three morning calls then, Messrs. West, Bryon, and Gates,” Alex said, looking at Maggie, who nodded her agreement.

“I've still got Kimberly's number on file back at the office, I'm sure, if you think it's really necessary to call out to Missouri.”

“I think not, Bernice,” Alex told her. “Depending on what we are able to discover tomorrow morning, Steve would be best equipped to notify the police in Missouri. Maggie? Do you wish to call Felicity, or shall I?”

“Can't we just stop by and see her tomorrow morning? Add her to the list? To the
end
of the list? I'm telling you, if she got a rat in the mail she'll lie and say she didn't. Everybody's got to—”

“Love her, yes, I heard that,” Alex said as Bernie and J.P. gathered up the piles of letters and stuck them back into their folders, then into the briefcases. “Are we all leaving so soon?”

“Don't try to stop them,” Maggie whispered, trying not to move her lips, then said, “Oh, gosh, do you have to? It's still early. We could . . . we could play charades?”

Two short minutes later, Maggie clapped her hands together as she grinned at Alex and said, “All right! Nothing like the suggestion of charades to clear a room. I thought Bernie was going to fall over herself, trying to get out of here. So? What do we do now?”

“You're such a gracious hostess,” Alex told her, slipping his arms around her shoulders and pulling her closer to him. “But you'll notice that I'm still here.”

Maggie ducked out from beneath his arms, putting some space between them. “Yeah . . . about that. This.” She fluttered her hands helplessly. “You know. We probably should talk about it . . . consider the consequences if we . . . well, just because we . . . nobody says we're going to . . . at least not so that anybody else knows, because—will you please stop grinning and help here?”

“Certainly,” he said picking up his glass of wine. “An isolated incident. Succumbing to temptation. A pleasurable but perhaps fleeting infatuation that should not weigh too heavily on either of us. Mutually satisfying—possibly even transcendental in nature—but by no means including a serious commitment by either party. Is there anything else you might have had me say to the many light-o-loves you've paired me with over the years? Ah, I know. Shall I buy you a diamond necklace, or some other such trifle,
sweetings
?”

“Bite me,” Maggie said, storming past him and into the kitchen to wrap up the meat and salads. Nobody had eaten much, and now she had to figure out what to do with three pounds of macaroni salad, starting with what the heck she was going to put it in. “Oh, wait,” she said, stopping before she got out of the living room. “Do you think Sterling is hungry? I could make a sandwich and take it over to him? And macaroni salad. He likes that, right?”

“Actually, Sterling had a request before I joined you this evening,” Alex told her. “He would like to go ice-skating if our meeting adjourned early.”

“Ice-skating? He just got beat up, for crying out loud. Are you sure?”

“I'm merely repeating the request as it was told to me. But, if you would rather not, I'm sure Sterling will understand.”

“No, don't do that. The way I'm figuring it, you're not going to let me out of your sight anyway, not until we find the killer, so we might as well do something fun. I'll go change, and grab my ice skates. Fifteen minutes? Then we can walk over to Rockefeller Center. I've . . . I've got all this
energy
I don't know what to do with.”

Alex tipped up her chin, smiling down at her. “Energy. Is that what it is we're feeling? Shall we explore that notion?”

“Alex, don't—”

But he did. He did, and she was glad.

Chapter Fifteen

“Y
ou seem rather well pleased with yourself this evening, Saint Just,” Sterling remarked as they waited in the foyer for both Socks and Maggie. “Almost inordinately so, actually.”

Saint Just realized he had been smiling for what would appear to be no good reason, and took a moment to lightly scratch at his cheek while he composed his features into one of only gentle amusement rather than lingering . . . was the word
joy?
Odd. He was accustomed to his life being neatly divided, each area separate from the other. But now thoughts of Maggie seemed to have infiltrated all those neat little boxes, scrambling them inside his head. Pleasurably. “The meeting with Bernice and the others was fairly fruitful, Sterling, as a matter of fact. How long did Socks say he would be?”

“Well, he didn't, actually. He just made me promise not to leave before he got back. He loves skating, he told me. And Maggie?”

When he'd left her, Saint Just knew, she was still lying in bed, her chin in her hand as she watched him dress as she apologized for writing him with a dueling scar on his shoulder—the scar she'd earlier kissed, as he recalled the thing. Then, being Maggie, she'd asked if it bothered him during damp weather, and he'd remembered how living inside her mind had often entailed being very light on his feet, in order to avoid the tumbling mass of her constant and diverse thoughts. “I'm sure she'll be down shortly, Sterling. Are you quite positive you know how to skate?”

“Maggie said so in
The Case Of The Overdue Duke
, Saint Just, if you'll recall, on page two hundred and twelve, to be exact—something about me enjoying skating in my youth—so I imagine I'm fairly proficient. It's so nice that we can do anything that she wrote we can do, although I still wish she'd deigned to gift me with more hair and less belly.” Sterling frowned. “I don't recall that she ever wrote that you skate, Saint Just. Perhaps it's a talent you don't possess?”

Saint Just smiled, not worried, as he had never questioned his own abilities. He was, after all, Saint Just. “I imagine I'll pick it up fairly quickly, my friend, don't fret about me. I am evolving, if you'll recall. We both are. I can remember a time you would have taken to your bed for days, after the sort of adventure you had this morning.”

“That? It was nothing, Saint Just. Having so successfully foiled the robbers, I do believe I'm almost invigorated by the experience. And my eye is only red and Socks doesn't think it will turn psychedelic, whatever that means. Ah, and here he is now. Oh my, doesn't he look . . . natty?”

“He most certainly does look . . . something,” Saint Just said, watching as Socks hurried into the foyer. He was dressed all in black from head to foot in what appeared to be dancer's leggings and a form-fitting, long-sleeved pullover, a long white silk scarf wound around his neck, his hair covered in a skull-hugging black cap, a pair of black skates bound together by the laces and positioned over his left shoulder. “Is this then the traditional skating wear, my friend?”

“Who says I'm going to skate, Alex?” Socks said, winking at him. “The object of this game is to
look
like you belong while everyone else is looking at you.”

“Ah, what you would call a dating opportunity, yes? I think I understand. Although don't you think that outfit might be a trifle . . . blatant?”

“If
blatant
means what I think it does, Alex, then damn right it is. That's the whole point. Or don't you believe in truth in advertising? Hi, Maggie.”

“Socks,” Maggie said, slipping her arm through Sterling's, which put Sterling directly between herself and Saint Just. So much for any fears that she might become a clinging vine—not that he could remember having any objection to that possibility. “Sorry I'm late. Are we all set to go?”

“I would suppose so,” Saint Just told her, deftly removing her knotted-together skates from her shoulder and placing them over his own. “And you're sure skates are sold at the skating rink?”

“Pretty sure. I know there are rentals. Oh, it's colder out here than I thought. Socks, are you warm enough?”

“I think he believes he's
hot
, actually,” Saint Just whispered in her ear as she passed by him and onto the street while he held open the door.

Maggie grinned at him. “You're so sexy when you're modern. Oh, and let's take a cab, all right? It seems we're getting a later start than I'd imagined.”

“And you can't imagine why,” Saint Just said before asking Socks if he might attempt to hail a cab for them.

“Yeah, Socks,” Maggie called out gleefully. “Do a couple of high kicks—that ought to stop traffic.”

“Everybody's a comedian,” Socks grumbled as he headed for the curb, then put two fingers into the corners of his mouth and let go with a shrill, piercing whistle as he held his right hand high in the air.

Ten seconds later, they were in a nice warm cab and heading for Rockefeller Center.

As was, or so it appeared, the rest of the civilized world.

“We'll have to stand on line if we want to skate,” Maggie told them as they piled out of the cab. Then she frowned. “For about a week. Jeez.”

“It moves fast, Maggie. The tourists never last long. They just want to be able to tell their lodge buddies back home that they ice-skated at Rockefeller Center. We'll hold a place for you while you find skates for Alex. Sterling can rent a pair when we pay for the rink time—you're paying that, right?” Socks suggested, and then he grabbed Sterling's arm and led him to the end of the long, snaking line.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Maggie asked as Saint Just, his hand at the small of her back, steered them through the crowds of tourists who stopped without notice or a thought to where they were standing when they spotted anything that took their interest. “Buying skates, I mean.”

“To be truthful, I believe I'd rather steel myself to the idea of renting a pair, as the thought of locating an establishment where I can purchase a pair without having to queue up for the privilege is rather off-putting.” He smiled down into her face. “Does that make me a snob with questionable standards in hygiene?”

“No,” Maggie said, grinning at him. “They use sprays—disinfectants—in the skates after each wearing. I doubt your feet will turn black and fall off. Besides, we may never get on the ice. You did see that line, right? Let's just go up top and watch for now, okay? Count noses, maybe? If I remember it right, only a hundred and fifty skaters are allowed on the ice at one time.”

Saint Just took one last look at the line, to see that at least ten more people had joined it, standing behind Socks and Sterling. “The queue is approximately fifty people. Very well, let's take a small tour.”

“Would you like me to tell you about Rockefeller Center? I can do that, you know. Most tourists don't really understand all of it. For instance, my mother insists on calling it
Rocker-feller
Center, not that I correct her—I don't have a death wish. Anyway, John D. Rockefeller sponsored the whole thing, and it is a big thing. It's not just the area where the rink is, where the tree is—it's actually an entire complex, stretching between Forty-eighth and Fifty-first Streets. There are fourteen or more buildings, including Radio City, of course. But it's mostly offices. It's the center of broadcasting, stuff like that. And . . . well, that's it, that's all I've got.”

“Then, please, allow me to expound a bit more, all right? You neglected to mention the art, both that of the buildings themselves, which are mostly in the Art Deco style, as well as the statue of Atlas, and Prometheus here, of course,” he said, gesturing toward the large, recumbent statue that was one of the main focal points of the area.

“You already know all of this? You know about golden boy? I never knew who he was supposed to be, other than a huge golden man smack in the middle of the central fountain. Prometheus, you said? Man, and I live here.”

“I live here now, Maggie. It is a man's responsibility to know his surroundings. And Prometheus is arguably the most tragic of the ancient Greek gods. You are aware that he angered Zeus by sneaking gifts to the mere mortals Zeus disdained? Fire, woodworking, numbers, the alphabet, healing drugs—on and on and on.”

“Zeus didn't want us to have that stuff?”

She was such an attentive pupil . . . he'd simply ignore her way of lumping many things together as
stuff
. Thankfully, when she wrote, she was much more articulate. “Indeed no, Maggie. And, when he found out what Prometheus had done, he ordered the god shackled to the side of a crag high in, I believe, the Caucasus mountains. Every day Zeus's own eagle would tear at Prometheus's flesh—paying particular attention to the poor fellow's liver, for reasons I don't know—and every night that flesh would heal so that it could all begin again the next morning. This went on for centuries, I understand.”

“Well, aren't you fun? You know, Alex, in your spare time, you ought to think about being a tour guide here. Just a great big barrel of laughs for the good folk visiting here from Des Moines.” Maggie made a face. “Poor guy. He looks a lot better here. Imagine being in torment for centuries.”

Saint Just merely nodded, for now was not the time to bring up the possibilities for his own future. He was, after all, as Maggie had made him. He and Sterling had already realized that Sterling would not gain or lose weight, no matter how he tried. A small thing, perhaps, but even small things can prove a point.

He and Sterling would not age unless Maggie wrote them as aging. They would not die, unless Maggie killed them. They were her creation.

Saint Just did not, however, believe he would be like Prometheus, living forever in agony—and life would be agony once Maggie was not here with him. No, Maggie would age, eventually fly free of this mortal coil, and Sterling and Saint Just would depart along with her.

Unless they evolved, which was Saint Just's all-consuming project, each of them becoming more his own man, his own creation—thus more in control of their own destiny. Neither would be immortal, of course, but, Saint Just often wondered, how much would he change, would his thinking change, if he were to know that he was suddenly vulnerable to all the various vagaries of mortal life as was his dearest Maggie. Would he so easily thrust himself into dangerous situations, if he were no longer assured of a happy outcome?

When he'd discussed the entire thing with Sterling, his friend had made allusions to a puppet named Pinocchio becoming a real boy, a happy ending that seemed to satisfy Sterling but did little to ease Saint Just's mind on the subject.

“Alex? You look a million miles away all of a sudden. What's wrong?”

Saint Just smiled at her. “Nothing, my dear. It would appear the shops are open this evening.”

“Oh, goody. First stop, the truffle shop over there, where the trumpeting angels are—see them? I
love
the truffle shop. Wait until you see it. It's small, but always decorated so nicely—for the tourists, I suppose. But at Christmas it's spectacular. We'll have to stand in line there, too, but that's all right, because you always have to wait in line for chocolate this good. It's a rule of chocolate, I think. But don't tell Steve, because when I took him in there and there was a crowd, he flashed his gold shield to get waited on right away. Imagine that one, Alex. Steve, being pushy. Anyway, now he stops there all the time—well, on payday.”

“You're rambling, Maggie. May I say perhaps even babbling,” Saint Just told her as they sidestepped a frazzled-looking couple, each carrying a screaming toddler. “We're having an enjoyable evening, remember?”

“Yeah. Right. Maybe that's because I'm nervous. Or maybe it's because I'm definitely nervous.” She looked up at him again, sighed in a rather theatrical way. “I can't help myself. I have to say it. We can't keep doing this, Alex.”

“Doing? Doing what?”

Maggie rolled her eyes. “Oh, cute. You know darn well what we're doing. Did. We can't keep doing it, okay?”

“Because . . . ?”

She stopped to wait while he opened the door to the crowded shop. “Because we don't know what we're doing, that's because.”

“I beg your pardon, madam,” Saint Just told her, finding himself rather willing to amuse himself at her expense. “I've been laboring under a misapprehension? I'm
not
an exemplary lover? Perhaps if you were to be more . . . specific with your complaints?”

Maggie winced. “Would you, for crying out loud, keep your voice down?” she muttered from between clenched teeth.

But he kept on, enjoying her embarrassment, his mind happily away from Prometheus . . . and Pinocchio. “But I'm serious, my dear. Perhaps if you were to tell me precisely where I've failed? Is it something with the technique? My kisses, perhaps? Are they lacking?”

“I'm going to
kill
you,” Maggie said, grabbing his arm and all but dragging him back to the narrow pedestrian plaza. “And I really wanted a truffle. Look, here's the thing. You're a romantic hero, the kind where the Doubleday Book Club puts an
explicit sex
warning at the end of the book blurb in the catalog. Yet you've been here for a while now, and nothing's been happening for you, right? We won't get into my lack of love life because it's embarrassing.”

“I'll assume you're trying to make a point here?”

“Yes, I am. We're both . . . available to each other. Proximity, you know? It was only natural that at some point we'd . . . get together. But it doesn't mean anything.”