High Heels and Holidays (26 page)

“Maggie's correct, Felicity, and charming as I believe Trixie here to be, I would not feel comfortable allowing you two ladies to remain here, or for Trixie to remain here with you gone. She could become an accidental victim of the person or persons looking for you.”

Trixie finished off her wine in one long gulp, some color finally in her pale cheeks. “Okay, folks! That's it, that's all I've been waiting for—a good excuse. Felicity? You are the
worst
boss in the history of lousy bosses, the pay stinks, and you can consider this my two weeks' notice in full. Oh, and the next time you want someone to paint your toenails,
pinkie
, spring for a fucking pedicure. I'm out of here!”

“I . . . well . . .” Felicity smiled weakly up at Alex. “Not to sound trite, but good help is so hard to find, isn't it?”

“How many
assistants
does that make, Faith? You probably go through at least two a month. You know, just in case the concierge and doormen are running a pool I might want to get into.”

Felicity got to her feet. “That's none of your business. And now that you've lost me an assistant and frightened me half out of my mind, why don't you just leave. And don't worry about the housewarming gift. I'd just throw that down the chute, too!” She collapsed back onto the couch, her chin quivering. “If I knew where it was.”

Maggie looked at Alex, who was returning her look levelly. “What? You're blaming
me
for this? I wasn't the one who wanted to come here, remember? She makes my teeth hurt, Alex, and you know that. Ever since she dropped me—”

“Like a hot rock after she'd found success and you were still struggling to survive and, so that you don't feel the need to remind me, after the two of you had made a pact that whichever of you became successful first would help the other one. Yes, I remember. But that does not negate the fact that she, too, is a potential victim.”

“Yes, I know that. I'm not stupid. She has to get out of here, go somewhere until the killer is caught.”

“Did you hear that, Felicity?” Alex said, sitting down beside the woman and taking one of her hands in his. “You can't stay here, my dear.”

“Yeah. Right. You can't stay here, Faith.”

“Which is why you'll be moving in with Maggie for the duration.”

“Yeah, which is why you'll—
what
! Oh no. No, no, no,
no
!”

“Maggie, it's only common sense. It will be much easier to protect you ladies if you're both in the same place. Unless you'd want to move in here?”

Maggie looked around at Faith's palace, which more and more reminded her of a cross between Barbie's Dream House and Madonna's Material Girl phase. “Nope, not happening, Alex. She gets to go slumming in my guest bedroom. I'll move the flamingo in there so she feels more at home, but I'm not coming here. So that's it, Faith. Get up, get moving. Pack your toothbrush and let's go before I change my mind and leave you here.”

Felicity was dabbing at her eyes—very carefully—with Alex's handkerchief. “Thank . . . thank you, Maggie. I . . . I could go to a hotel, I suppose?”

Maggie was beginning to feel guilty, damn it. “You can't just stay locked up in a hotel room. No, it's better if you move in with me. Alex and Sterling will be right across the hall, and Steve might want to talk to you. It's just better this way. Not great, but better.”

Felicity got to her feet. “All right. But I have to pack. Oh, and see if you can find Brock.”

“Brock? What's a Brock?”

“My dog, Maggie. I named him after the hero in my last book. He's very shy, and is always hiding somewhere when he hears voices other than mine. Check in the kitchen, will you? He likes to hide behind the bottled-water holder. You do have one, don't you? A bottled-water holder? I only drink bottled water. Toxins, you understand—hell on the complexion. Well, never mind, I'll have Trixie—that is, I'll order some delivered. Oh, and don't forget to pack Brock's food and his dishes. And his toys. And his eyedrops—I think Trixie keeps them in the cabinet beside the Sub-Zero. And his bed—how could I forget his little bed? You should see it, Maggie. It looks like real zebra fur. That's upstairs, in my suite. I'll take care of that.”

As Felicity spoke, she was climbing the staircase to the upper floor, her last words issued as she leaned over the balcony, then turned, opened a pair of gold-trimmed double doors, and disappeared.

“One day, Alex Blakely, you will pay for this,” Maggie told him as she stomped in the direction, hopefully, of the kitchen. “You won't know when, you won't know how—but you
will
pay for this. Brock. Who names a dog Brock? And what are Wellington and Napoleon going to say, huh? A dog, Alex. Poor babies, they'll be frightened out of their minds. Wow, granite countertops, cool. And an island. I've always wanted an island. Brock? Here, Brock. Where are you, Brock? Wanna go bye-bye, Brock? Oh, my God,
that's
Brock?”

It was small, smaller than Napper. Tan. With eyes so big they looked as if they might pop out onto the floor if someone touched them. With ears bigger than its entire head.

“I think it's a Chihuahua,” Maggie said, inching closer, bent nearly in half, her hands on her knees. “Hello, Brock. Aren't you a sweetie, huh?”

The dog immediately piddled on the tumbled sandstone tile floor, and then sat in his mess.

“Oh, this is going to be fun,” Maggie said as Alex chuckled behind her.

“With luck, my dear, it will only be for a few days.”

“I'll hold you to that, Alex. Now let's find all Brock's stuff and get out of here.”

Except that, thirty minutes later, Felicity had still not reappeared downstairs, so that Maggie had to go on the hunt for her while Brock and Alex waited.

Maggie poked her head into the
suite
, as Felicity had called it, trying hard not to notice the king-size bed, with its canopy, the whole thing propped on a dais, no less. “Faith? Come on, what's keeping you, I want to get—what in hell are you doing? We're not going to Europe for a month, you don't need all of this.”

“Yes, Maggie, I do. I've got a television interview tomorrow afternoon—you'll arrange transport for me, won't you? I need to take at least two outfits, just in case the interviewer wears something the same color, or in a similar style. But you know that, don't you? No, of course you don't. I saw you on the
Today
show, you know. You and Katie both wearing red? Good planning would have avoided that.”

Maggie was biting on the inside of her cheeks now, as Felicity ducked back into the bathroom—Maggie could see part of it, and she was pretty sure the ladies' room at Grand Central Station was smaller.

Felicity reappeared again, this time carrying two toiletry bags, and with a large canvas bag with the words
Gold's Gym
printed on the side slung over her shoulder. “My workout necessities. You have a treadmill, of course. I'll miss my elliptical, but I understand we have to make some small sacrifices at a time like this.”

“I don't have a treadmill, Faith.”

“Don't be silly, of course you do. Everyone owns a treadmill. Look around, you've probably piled it high with dirty clothes and just can't find it. Then again, that probably explains why you look a little . . . chubby?”

“I am not chubby,” Maggie gritted out from between painfully clenched teeth. “I quit smoking, and my metabolism is adjusting, that's all.”

Felicity smiled. “My mistake. All right, I think that's it. Ready?”

Maggie looked at the five suitcases on the floor. “Sure. And, hey, just to show I'm not a poor sport about this, I'll help carry this stuff for you. I'll take some, and you and our helpful Alex can carry the rest, okay?”

She picked up one of the small toiletry bags and left the room, swinging it in her hand like Little Red Riding Hood on her way to Grandma's house, and smiling for the first time since Alex had come home with the news about Jonathan West.

Chapter Nineteen

S
aint Just had been pleased to receive the call from Salvatore Campiano and the excuse to distance himself from females for a space, as dangling constantly at women's shoe tops was proving tedious. Even Maggie was proving tedious, in her own inimitably adorable way, and it was time for the company of men.

He had not as yet had time to examine the contents of the computer disk he'd found in Jonathan West's apartment, but that could wait until later. With Maggie's desk and computer situated in her living room, it would be better if Felicity had retired for the evening before he showed his small prize to Maggie.

He was also delaying the inevitable argument he would get from her about tiresome things like tampering with a crime scene, absconding with evidence, and being a general trial to her. That would take at least twenty minutes, but then she would agree that it might be interesting to see what the disk contained. In other words, she was just as bad as he was—only she felt this need to at least pretend to feel guilty about it all, while he labored under no such sensibilities.

He had made his excuses as Maggie and Felicity were still arguing over the animal situation, which had proved problematic for some time, as the cats had cornered Brock beneath Maggie's desk and were refusing to let him out again. With Wellington on one side, Napoleon on the other, Brock had been industriously demonstrating the surprisingly copious capacity of his bladder by releasing some of its contents in occasional frightened spurts, all over Maggie's carpet.

Yes, it would be good to be out and about, doing more manly things. Gentlemen had needs. Gentlemen needed space, for one thing. Gentlemen needed to show that they were men, first and foremost, enjoying the company and manly pursuits of others of their gender. That's why gentlemen's clubs had been in vogue nearly since the beginning of time. He himself belonged to Whites, Brooks, and his own very exclusive club, the one he'd founded two years after coming into his majority—the club so exclusive it did not even deign to bother with a name.

Perhaps that's what was lacking in his life now that he was residing in twenty-first-century Manhattan. A club of his own. A dark and comfortable space filled with the smells of aged brandy, good cigars, fine leathers. A place where devoted servants pressed the morning papers with a warm iron before delivering them to the members, and even washed the coins a gentleman must by necessity carry in his pockets. A place where a wagering book was always available, and a gentleman could rely on the daily boiled dinner to be a reminder of his childhood if he deigned to partake of it. Boon companions with whom he could debate the politics of the day, discuss sporting events, play a few hands at whist or perhaps set up a faro bank—even brag just a bit about their accomplishments at turf and table. And all without the worry of women in their midst.

Who would he ask to join him? That was a bit of a dilemma, wasn't it? By rights, only those of the peerage, or with families that could be traced back to the time of William the Conquerer would be even considered for membership.

Then again, these were, for the most part, often dull-as-ditchwater gentlemen whose blood had been combined one too many times, leading to a propensity for weak chins, knobby knees, dreadful overbites, and the occasional peer who seemed happiest when dribbling into his soup.

Thank goodness for Sterling. Saint Just enjoyed Steve Wendell, and Socks was a near constant surprise to him. Then there were George and Vernon but, no, they wouldn't do. They were simply too young. He remembered the story—Maggie had recounted it in one of their books—of the disaster caused when a London gentlemen's club catering to younger members had been shut down for renovations and the members of one of the more prestigious clubs had offered to share their own space with them for the duration.

Rolls had been tossed, not passed, from one end of the dining table to the other. Noise and drunkenness had been a major problem. And then there was the young gentleman who had poked his nose against that of a slumbering member in the smoking room and then loudly inquired, “I say, is this old codger sleeping or dead? I want to sit down.”

Saint Just stepped out onto the sidewalk, still pulling on his black kid gloves, for the day was turning to early December night and the temperature had dropped considerably. He'd have to discuss the idea of their own club with Sterling when next he saw him. Sterling understood the need for some sort of decorum, after all. Not too high in the instep, but an establishment required a certain level of dignity in order for it to be a comfortable haven.

“Sterling?” he said a moment later as his dignified and decorous friend approached along the sidewalk, all but skipping, still clad in his bright red Father Christmas costume, and flanked by his Merry Men, who seemed to be flagging slightly in their green elf suits. Ah, well, perhaps the idea of a gentlemen's club could wait for another day. “Vernon. George. Have you had a productive afternoon?”

“It was above all things marvelous, Saint Just,” Sterling told him, giving his bell a hearty ring, at which time George, not looking all that merry, reached over and snatched the thing out of his hand.

“I hear that frigging bell ring one more time, Sterl-man, I'm going postal all over your pudgy little body,” George warned tersely. “I warned you, remember? Ding-ding, ding-ding! Hour after hour! I can't stand it any more!”

“There, there, George.” Saint Just lifted a hand to his mouth to hide his smile. “Don't you all look—festive.”

“Vernon was a huge success, Saint Just,” Sterling told him happily. “He brought that small folding table with him, and he put these three walnut-shell halves on top of it, with a dried pea—that's what it was, wasn't it, Vernon, a dried pea? At any rate, he encouraged everyone to watch him place the pea beneath one of the walnut shells and then he mixed them round and round on the tabletop and people gave him money to guess where the pea had gone. They hardly ever guessed correctly. Wasn't that a brilliant idea?”

“I think I'd call it
inventive
,” Saint Just said, looking at the youth lately known as Snake, the one whose mother, a recent resident of the state's penal system, had given her son an engraved switchblade for his birthday. “And how much money did you earn this way for Santas for Silver, hmmm?”

“Uh . . . well, I . . . I don't know, Alex. I put it all in the chimney. Didn't I, George?”

“Yeah, that's right. That's what he did. In the chimney. All of it.”

“Of course he did. Unless he forgot some of it? Perhaps slipped a few bills into his pockets for safekeeping and then simply forgot about them? All that money for the needy children—we wouldn't wish to overlook a penny of it, would we? I have a thought—why don't you just check your pockets, my friend. Now.”

“Yeah, sure, Alex,” Vernon said, digging in the pockets of his elf costume and coming out with a wad of crumpled bills in both hands. “Wow, look at that. I must have forgotten to put some of it in the chimney, huh?”

“A forgivable offense, as your heart was in the right place, wasn't it, Vernon. Now, if you'll simply hand the money over to Sterling?”

“It's all right, Vernon,” Sterling said, stuffing the bills into the chimney. “Oh, this is so exciting. I'll wager Mr. Goodfellow will be handing out gold stars to the three of us tomorrow for collecting more money than any of the other Santas. Won't that be nice?”

The boys grumbled, their faintly sickly smiles failing to register as anything less than delight to the innocent, trusting Sterling.

“And there was no trouble?” Saint Just asked George, who shook his head.

“A couple of guys looked like they wanted to try something, but that's all. You need us again tomorrow? Please say no.”

Saint Just reached into his pocket and took out his money clip, counting out two hundred dollars and handing the money to Vernon and George. “For your trouble, you understand, and you will still be paid your usual rate for the Street Corner Orators and Players. Now, I'm sure you'd like to be on your way and out of those charming outfits. I'll phone you in the morning if I need you. Thank you again.”

“Yes, thank you, you're both splendid,
splendid
gentlemen. And didn't we have
fun
!” Sterling said, shaking their hands as they both looked at him as if he was a sweet, slightly slow fellow they would kill for if such a thing became necessary.

Once the boys were in a cab and on their way—even a Snake and a Killer, Saint Just supposed, would not readily wish to ride the subway in green elf suits—Saint Just told Sterling about the demise of Jonathan West and the new living arrangements he would find upstairs, including the resolution he had reached concerning Brock.

“Miss Simmons refused to be parted from her animal, so Napoleon and Wellington will for the nonce be residing with us. I've moved Henry's cage to the top of your wardrobe chest, where I'm sure he'll be safe. I'm sorry, Sterling, but it was the only solution I could think of at the time, as Brock seemed near to suffering an apoplexy.”

“That's all right, Saint Just. I'm sure you'll discover the identity of the murderer soon enough, and we'll all be able to return to our usual routines. Is that where you're going now? To solve the murders?”

“I am nearly unmanned by your faith in my abilities, my friend. Actually, I'm off on a small errand on an entirely other matter,” Saint Just said, motioning to Paul, who had just come on duty.

The idiot boy waved at him.

“Allow me to clarify my gesture, Paul. Gratified as I am to see you, I was indicating that you should attempt to secure a cab for me.”

“A cab? You want a cab? Jeez. All you had to do was ask. You didn't have to go all fancy talk on me.”

“Remind me, Sterling, if you will, that I have decided to gift Paul with a lovely assortment of sugarless fudge for the holidays.”

“How kind of you to remember him at all. Do you want me to come with you, Saint Just?” Sterling asked, hefting his Santas for Silver chimney. “I could just go upstairs and change. It would only take a minute.”

“No, Sterling, thank you. You go see to the animals if you would, and then visit with Maggie and Miss Simmons until I return. Do try to keep them from clawing at each other, all right?”

Sterling frowned. “But you said you put the cats in our condo.”

“Maggie and Miss Simmons, Sterling. I was referring to the ladies.”

“Oh,” Sterling said, looking confused as Saint Just inclined his head toward his friend before passing a bill to Paul and entering the cab that would take him to Long Island.

The restaurant he entered forty–five minutes later could not have been more than twenty feet wide, but it was at least three times as long as it was wide, and the air smelled delicious; a mix of oils and sauces and, most definitely, garlic.

He saw Salvatore Campiano almost immediately, as the man, a large white square tucked into his collar, stood up and waved a spoon in his direction, summoning him to the table the man occupied alone, although the pair of pilot fish stood slightly behind him, one to each side of their employer.

“I'm fascinated by the
Godfather
movies,” Saint Just said as he took his seat to the left of Campiano. “Do you mind that I am loathe to sit with my back to the door? Oh, and if you'd be so kind as to answer a question for me, as you told me earlier on the telephone that you own this restaurant.”

Campiano spoke around a mouthful of linguine. “Anything. Anything you want to know. Of course, then I should have to kill you,” he ended, laughing so hard at his own joke that he began to choke on his food and one of the man-mountains quickly stepped forward to slap him on the back as he glared at Saint Just. “
Basta
! Enough, Tony! What—I'm a baby here? You going to burp me? The man is asking me a question.”

“Sorry, boss,” Tony said, stepping back once more, his large hands folded in front of him as he stood, legs slightly apart, a near twin to the other bodyguard. Rather like Gog and Magog, the pair of straw giants that once stood sentinel outside the London Guildhall.

Gentleman that he was, Saint Just went on as if nothing had happened, and asked his question. “It is a matter of logistics, sir. As the history of your . . . of your profession, shall I say for lack of a more fitting descriptive word . . . is numbered by several occasions upon which a gentleman, such as yourself, is shot down by his enemies in an establishment such as this—why do you persist in taking your meals in such an establishment? That is, defensively, you're fairly without options here, aren't you? Only one way to go if under attack, and sitting here rather like a duck on a pond. What is it I'm not seeing, Mr. Campiano?”

Campiano shrugged. “My boys here, they're armed. Show him, boys.”

Before Tony or his companion could pull their large personal cannons from their waistbands, Saint Just had captured Tony in a headlock, while the point of his unsheathed sword stick caressed the Adam's apple of the second bodyguard. The patrons at a table near them all hit the floor with an alacrity that brought a small smile to Saint Just's lips.

“Tell them I mean no harm, Mr. Campiano,” Saint Just said, tightening his grip on Tony's thick neck as the man struggled to shake him loose. “Tell them I'm merely attempting to demonstrate my point, that point being that, were I serious, Tony here would already be shaking hands with his maker, this other gentleman would be skewered, and you, sir, would have swallowed your last bite of linguine.”

Campiano sat back and applauded Saint Just's efforts, motioning for him to release his men. “Ah, my friend, but you would never have gotten so close if I had believed you dangerous.”