High Heels and Holidays (27 page)

“And that, sir, if you don't mind my saying so, along with the physical limitations of this narrow restaurant, is the problem. It is not enough to appear dangerous, as do these two fine gentlemen here. One must
be
dangerous, so that no one with assassination on his mind even dares to approach so closely.”

“Like you, pretty boy, huh?” Campiano said, holding out his hands to take the sword cane, which Saint Just handed over without a qualm. “An unusual toy. I like it. I like you. But we're at peace now, and have been for years—just businessmen, you understand. All legit,
capisca?
Still, I'm curious. What do you suggest I do, besides training these two to be faster on their feet?”

For the space of two hours, as Saint Just discovered what he believed would be a lifelong passion for something called meatballs, the men discussed strategy, from Caesar's brilliance on the continent to Napoleon's tactical blunders at Waterloo. It wasn't quite his gentlemen's club, but he was enjoying himself to the top of his bent, a gentleman, in the company of another gentleman.

Using condiments and broken bread sticks as props, Saint Just then demonstrated a reconfiguration of the restaurant, making the path from door to main table one of staggered dining tables—a maze to be navigated rather than the current large center aisle, with all the tables against the two walls.

“Now, after removing that large front window and replacing it with something solid so that it isn't obvious from the street that you are at dinner, I would then place half-wall dividers here, and here—decorative, but of bulletproof glass, of course—I've seen something very close to what I'm thinking of on the Internet. The seconds gained by the maze, combined with the quick access to protection that still allows you to see your attacker should even the playing field, don't you think? Oh, and the ceiling is high enough for you to build a catwalk, as I believe is the term, from one side to the other, so that two men can be stationed up there, able to see everything that is going on below them. Well-dressed so as to not alarm your patrons, well-mannered, but discreetly armed, of course.”

“O'course,” Campiano said, poking Tony's gut with one of the bread sticks. “Why you didn't think of this, huh? A catwalk? I like that.” He peered at Saint Just as a waiter took their empty plates. “All this from watching
Godfather
? You're more than a pretty boy, aren't you? I should have known that. And you say what you think.”

“I'm sorry,” Saint Just said. “I fear it's a failing of mine. But, Mr. Campiano, in order for a gentleman to enjoy his leisure, it is, I believe, imperative for him to at all times be prepared for any . . . contingency.” He smiled. “
È questa verità
?”

“It is truth, yes,” Campiano said, returning that smile. “But enough of this. You want to know about this Goodfellow? Not a nice man, not a gentleman of good heart, like us—you and me. I sent one of my boys by, just for a quick look-see, and he recognized him right away. Same cell block up at Attica a few years ago,
capisca
? Gino, tell the man what your cousin Johnny told you.”

Gino looked at Saint Just as if he wanted to break his sword cane over his head, but then he just shrugged, for his master had spoken. “The guy's real name is Donny Dill—they called him Pickles. He was on the tail side of a nickel when my cousin knew him. Fraud.”

“A nickel?”

“A five-year sentence,” Campiano supplied helpfully. “Now he's out, and back to his old tricks. You want me to take care of this for you, my friend? I cannot let this stand, now that I know.”

Saint Just shook his head. “No, thank you very much, but I believe I should attempt to handle the matter on my own.”

“You sure? I'm no angel myself. But to steal from the poor at Christmas?” He shook his fist in the air. “
Vorrei per alimentare a questo uomo il suo proprio naso. Capisca
?”

“My Italian has its limits, but I believe you said you'd enjoy feeding the man his own nose. I applaud the sentiment,” Saint Just said evenly, reaching for a small bunch of grapes from the fruit plate just deposited on the table. “My plan is to pay our friend a small visit tomorrow morning, to see if I can point out the error of his way, persuade him to terminate this operation he is pursuing. . . .”

“Scam. He's working a scam—that's how we say in American. You foreigners maybe don't know that,” Campiano said helpfully, then took a large bite from a ripe apple. “And the money?”

“It's my hope he will turn that over to my associate—a very kind, trusting man—who will see that it is all delivered to a legitimate charity. That is a large part of my plan, Mr. Campiano—that my friend not realize he has inadvertently become part of a, as you said,
scam
. I wish to protect his innocence, and, yes, his almost childlike belief in the inherent goodness of his fellow man. This is important to me.”

“And if this Pickles dweeb says no?”

Saint Just tugged a single juicy purple grape free and held it in front of him, looking at it. “Yes, I've considered that possibility. It's a ticklish thing, sir. You see, I have this other friend who does not understand that there may be times when one feels the need to
handle
things outside the boundaries of established law.”

“A woman, yes? It's always a woman. And you listen to this woman?”

“When possible, yes.”

“And when this is not possible?”

Saint Just merely smiled—a smile other men understood. “I'd appreciate being able to borrow these two fine gentlemen from you for a short space tomorrow morning—them or someone with their same rather intimidating physical appearance.”

Campiano moved his chair closer, hunched his shoulders. “You're thinking muscle? In the morning, you say. Gino's taking his grandmother to the podiatrist over in Hempstead at nine—she's got the hammertoes very bad. But he'll be back by ten. Come on, tell me more of what you want.”

“I'm thinking, sir, that a show of strength is rarely a bad thing. All I would need is for them to stand just inside the door, mute, while I negotiate with our Mr. Dill, feeling free to look as menacing as they wish. They could crack their knuckles a time or two, if you don't think that's too dramatic.”

“No, no, they're good at that. Aren't you, boys? And if this doesn't work? If this Pickles prick says no?”

“Well, then, sir, I will have tried, won't I? My conscience—thinking again of my friends—would thus be clear as I hand Mr. Dill over to you with my compliments. I would not so insult you as to add that the money Mr. Dill has fraudulently collected would still be redirected to a suitable charity.”

Campiano gave Saint Just a shove that nearly sent him sprawling onto the floor. “Why can't my niece Nikki meet a man like you? No, she goes for idiots, and surfboards. I like you, boy! I send you more fruit!”

“That would be very nice, sir. But, if I am not being too forward, I would prefer the possibility of a container of meatballs. I fear I am in love. . . .”

Chapter Twenty

M
aggie went from asleep to awake in the space of a single heartbeat, her arms and legs thrashing as she tried to get away from the hand covering her mouth.

“Shhh, sweetings, it's only me. I didn't wish to wake Felicity. Can I safely take my hand away now? You won't cry out?”

She nodded furiously.

Alex lifted his hand.

Maggie punched him, hard, in the chest.

“Well, that was only to be expected,” he said, rubbing at his chest as she kicked back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed—then hauled back to hit him again. “And even condoned,” he added, neatly sidestepping the intended blow so that a still groggy Maggie sort of pinwheeled back down onto the mattress. “Once, that is. I didn't expect you to retire so early, my dear.”

Maggie pushed her fingers through her hair, then rubbed at her eyes. “Faith thought we were going to have a pajama party—talk about boys and braid each other's hair, so I told her I had a headache and came in here. And it wasn't a lie, either. Still isn't, as a matter of fact. What time is it?”

“Nearly midnight,” Alex told her, holding out her slippers, the white ones embroidered on the front with the words
left
and
other left
. “Please forgive me. There's something I feel I should show you, but I was detained on my errand quite a bit longer than I'd intended.”

“Detained, huh? That's pretty Englishman's code for you ran out like a coward and left me here with Faith.” Maggie pushed away the slippers and headed for the bathroom, wishing she could accomplish that feat in one straight line, but she couldn't. Sleep always turned her sense of direction and her balance temporarily stupid, and she half staggered toward the door, scratching at an itch on her left side. “Don't say anything else until I get back. I've got to brush my teeth and—I've got to brush my teeth. I'll meet you in the living room, okay?”

“Only if I can control my passion, my dear,” Alex called after her quietly.

“Bite me. . . .”

Once blinking at the bright light in the bathroom, Maggie tried to focus on her reflection in the mirror above the sink. How many times had she written that her heroines woke wonderfully sleep-tousled? How many times had she continued at dawn a love scene that had begun the evening before and ended with the lovers sleeping in each other's arms?

Good thing she wrote fiction, because reality was a whole other bag of worms. Imagine how her readers would like it if she wrote a morning love scene filled with spiky, ratted hair, sleep-creased cheeks, a mouth that tasted like something had died in it—oh, and a crushing need to use the facilities?

Yeah, that'd sell a lot of copies. Critics complained that romance novels gave an unrealistic vision of life. That wasn't true. Happily ever after—or at least lifelong commitment to each other—wasn't a fantasy. Heroines that didn't rumple, who were always freshly combed and dewy-eyed? Now
that
was a fantasy someone really should address. Just not her.

Still widely opening and closing her eyes in her attempt to shift her brain into gear, Maggie entered the living room to see Alex standing at her desk, holding a floppy disk by its edges.

“What's that?”

“Something I happened to discover this afternoon at Jonathan West's apartment, actually.”

Okay, she was awake now. “You
what
?” She turned to look down the hallway, then repeated in a near whisper. “You
what
? That's . . . that's
evidence
, Alex. For crying out loud, you took
evidence
? Where was Steve? He doesn't know you have this, does he? No, no, of course he doesn't. Cripes, Alex, how many times are we going to have to go through this, huh? There are
rules
.
Laws
.
Consequences
. You can't just—where exactly did you find it? What makes you think it's special?”

“Fifteen seconds,” Alex said, replacing the large gold watch he carried on a chair and tucked into his pocket. “I believe we're making progress.”

“If I were more awake, I'd have a snappy comeback for that,” Maggie said, carefully taking the disk out of his hand before sitting down at her desk and waking her computer. “Now tell me all about this thing before we look at it.”

Alex's recounting of what had transpired at Jonathan West's apartment took only a few minutes, and by the time he was finished Maggie's curiosity had completely overcome any thoughts about the legality of what they were about to do. She slipped the disk into the machine and double clicked on the icon to open it.

“You know, I couldn't do this if I hadn't bought that new program—Microsoft Office for Macs—because this is a Word program. I use AppleWorks because it comes free with my Mac, but I bought the Microsoft stuff because I'm always getting files in Word and then I have to tell the person I can't open them. Well, maybe I could, but I don't read manuals because I don't understand them. Click here, stupid—that I understand. Ah, here we go.”

She slipped on her computer glasses and leaned closer to the monitor as Alex read over her shoulder, turning her new wide-screen monitor slightly in his direction. “‘There exists in this world a fine line between love and hate. Lovers do not believe this, of course, until the moment . . .' It's a manuscript?”

“Yeah, sure looks like it. Well, that's okay then, except if you'd copped a copy of Jonathan's favorite solitaire program you wouldn't be going to jail,” Maggie said, using the mouse to roll through the first pages. “No title page, no header, no pagination—nothing. And see all those squiggly red underlines, those squiggly green underlines? Red's for misspelled words, green is for bad spacing, incorrect phrasing, stuff like that.”

She swiveled around to look at Alex. “This is Jonathan's all right. Bernie told me this is how he used to send his stuff in to her. It drove her nuts, but Jonathan said he was an
artiste
, and couldn't interrupt his muse for mundane things like headers, and punctuation. He didn't run the spell-checker, that's for sure. But the program keeps a page total at the bottom and there are over four hundred pages here, Alex. This is probably a complete manuscript. Wow, an undiscovered West. How about that. Bernie will go nuts. It'll sell, even if it stinks, just because Jonathan was murdered.”

“Is there a way for you to know when he wrote this?”

“Sure,” Maggie said, swiveling back to the desk once more. “I just need to hit info and—there it is. Created, January second of this year, and modified—meaning the last time he changed anything on it—November nineteenth. He'd just finished it a couple of weeks ago. And you found this in the
toaster
?”

“Unusual, I grant you, although we should admit that anyone looking for the computer disk would hardly look there, so it was quite safe—although why he would feel the necessity for safety is troublesome. Then again, the man did drink a bit, and what seems strange to us may have appeared quite logical to him. But more unusual is that I did not see a computer on the man's desk.”

“Maybe he had a laptop and kept it in a closet, or something?”

“Perhaps. We'll have to inquire of the
left
-tenant, as I'm confident he conducted a thorough search of the premises. However, not being bound by rules of evidence and all that sort of drivel, why don't we suppose, just for the moment, that someone—our murderer—removed Jonathan's computer.”

“Because they wanted something that was on that computer,” Maggie said, fully alert now and happy to take this ball and run with it. “And maybe that's why you found the disk in the toaster. Because Jonathan was afraid someone was trying to steal his work and wanted to hide a copy? But why would anyone want to steal Jonathan's manuscript? His last books were lousy.”

“May he rest in peace,” Alex said with a wink, then poured them each a glass of wine and they moved to the couch, Maggie curling up in one corner. “Plus, as long as we're considering things—if we're to connect the dead rats with the murders, and those rats were sent by devotees of Mr. West's books, why is the man dead at all?”

“Right. That doesn't make sense, does it? I was so caught up with Faith and that urine machine that I hadn't really thought about that too much yet. Why kill Jonathan? Unless we're wrong, and some fan—fans—of his aren't behind the rats, and someone just wants everyone who contributed to
No Secret Anymore
dead. We took a giant leap of logic there, Alex, assuming it was someone who felt we'd destroyed Jonathan's career. Maybe there's something in the plot of
No Secret Anymore
that pulled some nutcase's chain.”

“Can you summarize the plot for me?”

“Sure. Crime in the past uncovered in the present. Ten chapters, ten suspects, then Jonathan wrapped it all up in this
ridiculous
epilogue that made about as much sense as one of those ING commercials. Do you think we have to go back to Valentino Gates and Lord Bryon? That one or both of them is Nevus—Rat Boy? Because I still say they couldn't kill anybody. Oh, that's right! That's where we got the idea about someone wanting to avenge Jonathan—from the fan letters. But with Jonathan dead?” She shook her head. “Man, I don't know what's going on, but I have the feeling you're going to tell me that Faith has to stay here, right?”

“I'm sorry, my dear.”

“Not half as much as I am. She got all nuts about someone trying to kill her and refused to take Brock out for his evening walk, and Paul wouldn't do it and Sterling was sleeping on the couch when I went looking for him, so I had to walk the damn dog. And she dressed him up first in his own coat and booties—booties, Alex!—even a stupid matching plaid tam hat with a pom-pom on it. So there I am, walking this damn dog, carrying a plastic bag with me for his—well, you know what for. I'm not doing it again, Alex. Let her toilet train the mutt, or something.”

“You went out on your own?” Alex asked, getting to his feet. “I thought we understood—”

“No,
you
understood.
I
had a whiny little dog crossing his back legs and looking like his eyeballs were starting to float. Besides, nobody could have done anything to me out there—they'd be too busy laughing their butts off at Brock. Now go away and let me read more of Jonathan's opus, because we're going to have to figure out some way to give it to Steve tomorrow without having him slap us in handcuffs. Well, you. I'm just the accessory after the fact. Go away now—I can't read anything with someone hanging over my back.”

Maggie would have kept reading all night, until she'd finished the manuscript, except that reading Jonathan's jumble of mistakes along with his words had her eyes crossing by page two hundred and she gave it up and went to bed, only to wake up to the sound of someone chanting . . .
and two, and three, and four, and rest. And one, and two, and three
. . .

She slammed her way down the hall to see Faith dressed in skintight Day-Glo pink workout leggings and a matching sleeveless top that definitely strained around the boobs. She had a small step thingamabob in the center of the room and was hopping up and down on it as some ditz with an annoyingly nasal voice counted out cadence from the TV.

“
What
are you doing?” she asked, stepping between the television and Faith. “Are you nuts? It's seven o'clock in the morning.”

“It's eight-thirty, and I'm exercising, which would be obvious to you if you ever did it,” Felicity told her, not missing a beat as she hopped up, hopped down, hopped up again. “Oh, Sterling came by earlier and took Brock out for me—wasn't that nice, isn't he a dear? Brock wasn't feeling cooperative, though, so Sterling will have to do it again. Come on, Maggie, have a nice big glass of OJ and join me.”

“I'd rather eat glass,” Maggie said, heading for the kitchen and the orange juice part of Felicity's recommendation. Sipping from a large tumbler, she made her way back to the living room, swinging her right hand in time with the television workout Nazi as Felicity laid on the floor, her hands under her lower back, bicycling her legs in the air. “Feel the burn, oh yeah, baby, feel the burn!” she instructed, undoing the dead bolts on the front door and hoping no one had walked off with her newspaper.

“Bernie? J.P? What are you two doing here so—”

“We met up in the lobby,” J.P. told her. “It's eight-thirty, why aren't you dressed yet?”

“Why do you think I'm a writer—so I don't
have
to get dressed.”

The two women slipped past Maggie into the living room, Bernie waving a copy of the
Post
above her head. “You've done it again, Maggie. Made the front page this time, too. Look!”

Maggie tried to reach the newspaper. “I would, if you'd stop waving it like a flag. And what do you mean I—oh,
God
!”

Bernie gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I couldn't be prouder of you if you were my own daughter—which you're not, because I'm not that old. Isn't it terrific! You can't
buy
this kind of publicity.”

“‘Life Imitates Art—When it comes to death, is best-selling novelist Cleo Dooley a carrier?' Oh, yeah, Bernie, that's just terrific. Just peachy,” Maggie said, opening the newspaper. “Oh, look at this—a sidebar listing all the murders I've been involved in—even England. They've got a freaking timeline! Who
told
them?”