High Heels and Holidays (23 page)

“No, I'm right there with you. He knows something about the packages. It's possible we've got two things going on here—my Rat Boy
and
your unsub, to borrow your description of the killer. After all, Francis is the only one who's dead, not that I'm wishing anyone else dead, you understand. Most especially me. I've got . . . I've got unfinished business, and I'm not ready to go yet.”

“Ah, a topic for an interesting late-night conversation one day soon, I do believe,” Saint Just told her as he guided her along the street, turning at the corner to approach Bryon's bookstore, as he had planned out his route earlier, using a city map. “Are you ready for suspect number two?”

“Not really, no, considering how suspect number one really shot a hole in our theory. But let's get it over with and then go see Faith, God help me. Just in case Valentino back there
is
the best actor in the world. Oh, and what was all that with Quentin? I should be mad, but it was kind of fun, actually. Were you showing off for me, big boy?” she asked, grinning at him.

“Truthfully, I don't know why I behaved as I did, other than to say that I've noticed that, sometimes, when thrown into certain situations, I open my mouth and your version of me comes spilling out.”

“So it's my fault Quentin will be walking funny for a week. Is that what you're saying?”

Saint Just smiled at her. “Yes, let's, as you say, run with that one.”

“Bite me. Where's this bookstore?”

Bryon's Book Nook was located in the middle of the next block, a rather narrow store wedged between a Thai restaurant and a print shop. There was a single show window that hadn't seen a cleaning rag in possibly decades, and the interior was musty-smelling, with towering, odd-shaped bookcases jammed in cheek by jowl, leaving little room for Saint Just and Maggie to walk without turning sideways.

“Rather a charming hodgepodge, don't you think?”

“I think I've just discovered that I'm claustrophobic,” Maggie told him, whispering, as if perhaps they were in a library, or a church. “I want to check out his mystery section, see if I'm there.”

“Naturally,” Saint Just said, following where she led. “Ah, there we are.”

“Yeah.
We
,” Maggie muttered as she went down on her haunches, as the
D
's were shelved on the bottom shelf. “One, two—he's got five of the latest hardback, so that's good, considering the size of this place. And one each of my backlist.” She got to her feet. “I think I'm going to like this Bryon guy. Be nice to him, okay?”

“Me? I am nothing if not congenial.”

“Yeah, tell that to Quentin, now that's he's going to have to sing soprano in the church choir.”

“Your attempts at bawdiness are delicious,” he told her, which earned him another of her very
speaking
looks just before a middle-aged gentleman approached dressed in baggy corduroy trousers and a dandruff-dusted black turtleneck sweater that seemed to serve to keep his chin raised, it was that tight and that high.

“May I be of some assistance? You appreciate a good mystery novel?”

“Actually,” Saint Just said, knowing Maggie would never do so, “my friend here is an author, and has learned, to her delight, that you have deigned to shelve her books in this very prestigious establishment. Is the owner in? I'm sure Miss Dooley would like to convey her thanks to the gentleman and then perhaps autograph the copies on the shelves.”

“Dooley? Oh, yes, you mean Cleo Dooley. My assistant, Bruce, insists I carry her, and I must say, she sells very well to a . . . certain element. I'm George Bryon, the owner. And you'd be Ms. Dooley?”

“Yeah, good guess. What certain element?”

George Bryon lifted his hands in a slightly fluttering movement. “Oh, you know. The
popular fiction
crowd.”

“Ah, yes, I understand what you mean now. The hoi polloi, the great unwashed—that crowd?” Maggie countered, stepping closer to Saint Just. “I take it all back—be as snarky as you want to be.”

Saint Just trotted out the same story he'd used to such interesting effect on Valentino Gates, and was not disappointed in Bryon's reaction, for the man's already pale complexion colored hotly at the mention of the dead rats, even before Saint Just had gotten to the part about Oakes's murder.

“I don't know anything about Francis Oakes or any dead animals or threats, and I resent the implication that I should or do. As for a contribution? Don't be ridiculous.”

But Maggie, at least, wasn't done, and gave the man another verbal push. “Gee, that's too bad. The last place we stopped? The guy there gave us fifty bucks. Valentino Gates. He seemed real broken up about Francis. Do you know him? Gates, I mean?”

“I most certainly do not.” And with that Mr. George Gordon Bryon turned on his heel and made a rather dramatic exit past a heavy green velvet curtain that led—Saint Just peeked—to a small room holding several rows of folding chairs and a small podium.

Maggie pushed him aside and took a look for herself. “Oh, he probably holds readings back there. I hate that. Bernie tried to send me out on a tour where I'd do readings from my books, but I shot her down. Somebody wants to read my books, let them read them. I'm not going read them
to
them.”

“Because you loathe being the center of attention,” Saint Just said as once more they found themselves standing on the sidewalks of New York.

“Yes, thank you, you finally figured that out. So you're not going to do what you did back in there ever again, right? Not in bookstores, not in public, not ever. I'm Maggie Kelly. If I wanted to blow my horn, I'm damn well capable of doing it myself. But I don't. I just want to write my books and be left alone. It's easier. And not half so insulting. At least I can pretend I'm famous—until somebody like Steve's Christine, or Bryon in there shoots me down. Which
always
happens. One time, just one time, I'd like somebody to gush—and I don't mean just about the love scenes, but the book, the
writing
. Is that too much to ask, huh, is it?”

“This leads back to your family, doesn't it?” Saint Just asked, slipping his arm around her waist. “Your family and their lack of appreciation for your talents. People like that insipid boor back there only serve to reinforce that lack of the parental praise you still crave. Poor Maggie.”

“You ever visit Dr. Bob again, Alex, and I'll have to write a wart on the end of your nose,” she said and stepped to the curb, hailing a passing cab. “You coming?”

“And how could I turn down such a gracious invitation?” Saint Just purred, holding open the door of the cab for her, then giving the driver an address on the Upper East Side, just out of the fashionable area.

“Faith is just off Park. Where are we going?”

“Ah, I forgot to tell you, didn't I? The good
left
-tenant has agreed to meet us at Jonathan West's apartment. We'll just be on time, as it works out.”

“Steve? No, I don't want to see him.” She tapped on the plastic divider and gave the driver her own address, then sat back and folded her arms beneath her breasts. “And don't tell me I'm being chicken.”

“I most certainly will not, considering that I haven't the vaguest idea what that means. I do think you're only avoiding the inevitable, however, and can only wonder why.”

“I don't know,” Maggie said, looking at him with those innocent green eyes. “I'm happy for him. I'm happy for us—for as far as it goes. But I think we all need a little . . .
space
. Or weren't you as uncomfortable last night as I was? No, never mind, you don't have to answer that. You're never uncomfortable, are you? Besides, if Valentino and good old George put their pointy heads together and sent the rats—which may or may not be a viable theory, based on their reactions—then we're wrong and the rats and Francis's murder have nothing to do with each other except a coincidence in timing. Right?”

“Correct. Lowering, but correct. And, if correct, all we've learned is that two dedicated fans of Jonathan West may have taken it upon themselves to send empty threats to several of the authors who collaborated on
No Secret Anymore
, even as one of our conspirators has just soundly denied knowing the other. Except, as the author in Missouri is, shall we say, sans rat, we may not even be correct in that assumption. It would go a long way toward proving at least that part of our theory if Mr. West and your friend Felicity did receive missives from, as you call him, Rat Boy. Not to Wendell, of course, who puts little stock in things like our
feelings
about those we believe to be suspects, but it would help satisfy my curiosity, which is why I do not as yet intend to inform the good
left
-tenant of what we've just discovered about our new friends, Gates and Bryon. “

“Yeah, well, then you just keep your secrets while you go along and use poor Steve to help you satisfy your curiosity. As of now, I'm out of it. I've got shopping to do, remember? I guess the idea of getting Mom and Dad a flat-screen TV for their family room is sort of shot, huh?”

“I'd rather you didn't leave the apartment for the nonce,” Saint Just told her, putting his hand on her arm as the cab pulled up in front of their condo building. “I wasn't worried this morning, as you traveled in a cab directly from the condo to Dr. Bob, but I don't much care for the idea of you roaming about willy-nilly.”

“Look, Alex, it's over. Steve was right to shoot us down, and right to concentrate on the CUNY area. We gave it our best high school try as mystery writer and her hero, and we fell short, our theory doesn't hold water, or at least not enough of it. End of story.”

“Maggie?”

“Oh, all right, all right, I'll fool around on the Internet, see if I can get some of my shopping out of the way. Except I hate that. I like to see things, touch them. You can't do that on the Internet.”

“Yes, you're a very tactile person, aren't you, in your own delightfully suppressed way? Thank you, my dear,” Saint Just told her, not really knowing why he was still concerned, but confident enough in his feelings of disquiet that he was relieved to know that Maggie would behave while he was gone. “However, that still leaves us with Felicity and Mr. West, I'm afraid, before we can put a firm period to the end of this adventure.”

“You're going to talk to Jonathan, so that's one down. I'll go upstairs and call Faith, Scout's honor, ask her if she got a rat so that she can lie to me if she did,” Maggie said, rolling her eyes. “Now let me out.”

“Certainly,” he said, lifting the wrapped box. “Your fudge?”

“Give it to the driver. Just don't tell him it's sugarless, or he won't take it. I mean, who would?”

Five minutes later, the ten-dollar bill Valentino Gates had given him now, along with the box of fudge, residing with the cabdriver, Saint Just joined Steve Wendell on yet another sidewalk, this one in a decidedly more upscale neighborhood than were the locations of his first two morning calls.

“Wendell, so good to see you. My apologies for my tardiness,” he said as the lieutenant pulled open the door to the vestibule and fairly leaned on the buzzer button above the mailbox marked
West
.

“Right. Let's cut to the chase here. You and Maggie—you're together now? I always thought there was something there.” He depressed the button four more times in quick succession.

“My, that was direct, wasn't it? I will gladly accept your felicitations,
left
-tenant, should you wish to offer them, but I have no intention of applying to you for permission.”

“But you're cousins.”

“Very distant cousins, as you already know. And now, for the comfort of both of us, we'll leave the subject. Mr. West is a bit of a recluse, according to Bruce McCrae, and may not answer his buzzer. I suggest we find another way to gain admittance.”

“Do you now,” Wendell said, looking as rumpled as usual, but more distracted than usual. “We're coming up empty at CUNY, you know. Overtime for a dozen cops, and all we've gotten out of it so far is a minor-league peeper and a pizza delivery guy looking for an address two of the idiots rolled on. Guy was so scared he dropped forty-seven bucks' worth of double cheese the department now has to pay for, hoping we don't get sued. We're back to square one, Alex, unless this hunch of yours and Maggie's plays out, and my captain is not a happy man, which means I'm not a happy man.”

“I understand completely. In the main, I am not the sort to do this sort of thing, you understand, but when needs must, and to assist a friend? Yes, I think I can make an exception here,” Saint Just said, depressing the button above the name
Myers.
When a woman's voice came through the speaker, he leaned closer and said crisply, in his best American accent, “Police, ma'am. Patrolman Swidecky, badge number two-four-six-seven-nine-oh. We've got word of a possible intruder in the building. Can you buzz us in? We'd appreciate it, ma'am. And then please remain in your apartment until we give the all clear. You are in no danger, ma'am.”

“I could have done that,
Officer
Swidecky,” Wendell groused as another buzzer sounded, followed by the opening click of the inner door lock.

“Yes,
left
-tenant, but you wouldn't have, at least not without first putting us both to the trouble of a tedious argument about right and wrong and other trifles we really don't have time for, do we? Remind me to stop by and thank Miss Myers when we're finished.” Saint Just bowed and gave a graceful sweep of his arm. “After you?”