High Heels and Holidays (33 page)

“Right,” Maggie broke in eagerly. “But there were still plot holes. One murder tricked out as a suicide? No, that was a little chancy. Because Jonathan was famous once, even if he wasn't now. The police would make a very thorough investigation. Much better to have Jonathan be just one of several murders with pretty much the same MO, right? You called Sylvia Piedmonte and . . . oh yeah, and Freddie Brandyce, but they both took off, so you couldn't use them as part of your plan. Oh, and Garth Ransom—Buzz—he was off shooting rhinos or something.”

“I don't believe hunters are allowed to shoot rhinos anymore, my dear. Let's just say he was in Africa, for clarity, you understand.”

“Picky, picky, Alex. And don't interrupt, I'm really moving now. So, Bruce, who else was out there? Oh, wait, how about good old reclusive Francis Oakes? Little guy, he wouldn't put up much of a struggle. Nobody'd miss him, and he'd have his own dead rat there, you wouldn't even have to go find one of your own. So, first Francis, and then Jonathan—the police said Jonathan had been dead for a while, so you probably made the murders a real one-two punch, huh? Except nobody was looking for Jonathan, nobody knew he was dead, so you came knocking on my door. Maggie Kelly, the woman who's already known for . . . well, for stumbling over bodies. And now, wow, we've got a serial killer here, and Jonathan is just one of two victims so far—just tossed into the mix with the other victims. Who was next, Bruce? Me, right? I was here, local, couldn't really put up much of a fight against a great big guy like you. I was going to be number three, wasn't I? I knew you. I'd let you in the door. And you'd kill me. Bastard!”

“Sunshine, calm down,” J.P. said, moving over to the other couch, to sit beside her. “I can see where you'd be upset, but you haven't really proved anything, except the stealing the manuscript part. But that's a far cry from murder. You've said nothing that would indicate that the fans who sent the rats in the first place aren't the killers. Bruce was a potential victim here, too.”

“Oh, sure, that's what he'd like us all to think. The very
helpful
potential victim, by the way. Remember how he offered to call Jonathan, even left a message on his machine? And by then, Jonathan had already been dead a while. And you must have been thrilled when J.P. checked your cell calls, because there was the record of your concern for Jonathan, all down in black and white. I'll bet it's the same with Francis—calling his apartment long after he was dead, leaving messages. Talk about sick! But it's so much what a smart mystery writer would do to cover his tracks, setting up the misdirection, the red herrings, the whole bit. Man, Bruce, you left tracks all over the place, once I took a good look at your mistakes. Mostly, you were just too darn helpful. And you just couldn't help showing off, watching everyone stumble with the investigation, leading us all along where you wanted us to go, watching as your perfect crime played out. Ego, it gets them every time. But you tried too hard, Bruce. I always can tell your killer in your books—you use too heavy a hand, just the way you did here.”

“That and the fact that we've seen Jonathan West's manuscript,” Alex inserted helpfully, just as Maggie was on a roll. “That did assist us somewhat in our conclusions, didn't it? But you're right, my dear, he did wish to puff himself up. Did I mention that I spoke with Miss Holly Spivak earlier and she was kind enough to tell me that, yes, she knew Bruce McCrae personally. Not that the woman would ever betray a source, but I believe we now know how the media became informed of the details of the case.”

Maggie pointed a finger at Alex. “And that's another thing. The manuscript. Bruce has a Mac, like me. Bernie checked for me, and Bruce sent his version of the manuscript in on a Mac formatted disk, using AppleWorks. The disk we have is PC, with Microsoft Word. Jonathan's disk. I'm not sure what that means, but I'm pretty sure it means something a computer nerd could prove. You know—dates created, dates modified. Oh, yeah, he's screwed. Really screwed.”

“Okay, we're done here. Looks like the serial killer's going to strike again.
Three
times in one night.”

Maggie turned to look back at Bruce, to see that he'd grabbed J.P.'s Glock out of her purse. “Right, just my luck,” she said, shrinking back against the cushions. “But it isn't going to work, Bruce.
Steve
! He's got a gun.”

“Steve?” Bruce shook his head. “You try to pull an old stunt like that, and talk about me being heavy-handed? Like, sure, I believe the lieutenant is going to pop out now from behind a potted plant. Give me a break.”

“I think you'll be getting more like thirty-five to life,” Steve said from the hallway, and Maggie turned to see him in a two-handed stance and looking—well, she wouldn't want to cross him at the moment.

Bruce McCrae, however, didn't seem to hold the same opinion. Then again, Maggie wasn't facing thirty-five to life, was she? As Maggie watched, she heard the explosion of the Glock, saw the flash, and turned just in time to see Alex hit the floor hard after the force of his body had, hopefully, redirected Bruce's aim away from Steve.

“Alex!” Maggie yelled, already on her feet before she realized what she'd done.
Stupid, stupid move
! That was all she could think as Bruce grabbed her and pulled her in front of his body as a human shield.

“Halt! Hold it right there, McCrae, and let her go,” Steve commanded, still with his weapon aimed at Bruce . . . okay, it really was sort of aimed at her, Maggie thought, trying hard to swallow as Bruce's forearm threatened to cut off her breathing, as he dug the muzzle of the Glock into her waist. God, how she hated being Penelope Tied to the Railroad Tracks. It was getting so
old
.

“I don't believe the gentleman is willing to do that,
left
-tenant,” Alex said, getting to his feet, picking up his cane and using it for leverage. “And, although it may mean little to the point, the gentleman is also in extraordinary physical condition. Perhaps we can come to a solution satisfactory to all of us?”

Steve kept his weapon trained on Bruce. “Blakely, not now. Why in
hell
do I ever listen to either of you? You know the paperwork this is going to cost me—if I don't end up walking a beat on Coney Island.”

Bruce tightened his grip, probably so that Maggie would make a sound and redirect everyone's attention to them. It worked. “Aaargh! Hey, guys, I have an idea. How about we just let him go? He's not going to kill a cop—nobody's that stupid. Right, Bruce? How about you just leave, hmmm? You know, we'll walk to the elevator and you can use me as a shield until the doors open, then toss me straight into their arms, ruining Steve's aim until the doors close again with you inside. Come on, Bruce, you've seen it work a hundred times in the movies. It's a good scenario. Isn't it, Alex?”

“Good idea, sunshine,” J.P. said, holding a couch pillow in front of her as if it might protect her from a bullet. “And the sooner the better. There's a full clip in that thing. Enough for everybody.”

“The idea does sound workable,” Alex said with maddening calm. It must be nice to know you can't die. Maggie only hoped he'd remember that
she
could. “What say you,
left
-tenant? Are you thoroughly opposed to McCrae here taking his exit?”

“She goes with me, all the way to the street.”

“Oh, I don't think so,” Alex drawled, the cane now in both hands. “There are limits to my magnanimity, even if you, for the moment, have the upper hand.”

Maggie knew he was planning something, something heroic. She just wasn't sure if her heart was up to those heroics. “No, no, it's okay, I don't mind,” she said quickly. “Come on, Bruce, let's go. Just back up to the door and I'll reach behind you and open it. Really. Anything I can do to help.”

“Maggie—”

“Please, Steve,” she said, cutting him off. “I'm almost more afraid of your gun than I am his, because I can see yours. We'll be fine. Won't we, Bruce? You don't want to shoot me, or anybody. You just want to get away. Hop a bus, hail a cab. Get yourself lost in the city until you can think of some nifty way to disappear. You're smart, you can do this. So—let's get you started, okay?”

Maggie closed her eyes in relief as Bruce's grip tightened slightly as he began moving backward, toward the door.

One step. Two. Seven?

Maggie reached back a hand and located the doorknob on the second try.

She pulled it open.

“Oh, thank you, I wondered how I'd do that with a cat in each hand,” Sterling said behind her . . . just before Napoleon, who was just the sort of animal to carry a grudge after being banished in favor of a dog, leapt free of Sterling's grasp to land, all claws out, on Bruce's back.

This time when Alex grabbed her and pushed her away there was no snow-covered evergreen to break her fall, and she landed with a thud on the hard floor, all the air knocked from her lungs, pretty little silver stars dancing in front of her as she tried to both breathe and admire Alex and Steve subduing Bruce, slapping on the cuffs.

Sterling, still holding Wellington, could only stand there, a puzzled look on his face, poor thing. Once again he'd been the hero, after assuring everyone weeks ago, after the first time, that he would rather not do anything even vaguely heroic ever again.

“Be—beautiful,” Maggie managed as J.P. pulled her unceremoniously to her feet. “Not . . . not exactly as we'd planned . . . but any landing you can walk away from, right?”

“I'm so sorry, sunshine,” J.P. said as she led Maggie to one of the couches. “I should have realized he'd go for my gun.”

“We all should have realized that,” Alex said as he closed the door, Steve and Bruce already headed downstairs. “Truthfully, I didn't think we could make him confess, at least not tonight. I should know that all murderers are, at the heart of it, cowards. You were splendid, Maggie, by the way. All things considered, another rather grand adventure. J.P., did you happen to notice where that shot impacted? I'm afraid I was too busy coming to grips with the notion that I'd attempted to tackle a brick wall.”

“No, I didn't. You saved Steve's life, you know. Cops don't fire unless fired upon—not the good ones, like Steve. Maybe in the ceiling?”

Maggie got up and began looking for a bullet hole. Not that she really cared, but it beat a bout of hysterics any day.

“Nope, not the ceiling,” she said, wandering closer to the place where Steve had been standing. “Not the wall, not the—oh, cripes,” she said, burying her head against Alex's shoulder as he slipped a comforting arm around her. “He killed my treadmill. . . .”

Epilogue

D
ear Fred,

Okay, Fred, here's the scoop—I can't write to you anymore. It was a good idea at the time, it really was, but now things are getting just a little personal between Alex and me, you know? Well, of course you don't know, because I didn't tell you, did I? Trust me—we got personal. Three times so far.

All right, so maybe I'll tell you something. Sex, after thinking you might be dead at any moment, is interesting.
Very
. All that reaffirming life stuff, I guess, something like that. In any case, it's really none of posterity's business, right?

And Alex and I have come to a few conclusions in the last week or so. Conclusions and maybe even compromises. For one, I'm going to allow him to protect me. I used to see that as him interfering with my life, but a couple of hard jolts that knock the wind out of you, a Glock stuck in your ribs—stuff like that?—can really change a woman's perceptions, you know? In other words, if Alex wants to believe he's a hero, I guess I'm just going to have to let him believe that. So we're good there.

What I'm having trouble with is this new idea he has that he has something to say about the development of his character as he appears in my books—operative words here, Fred,
my books
. He's talking about getting married and setting up his nursery, continuing the family name. Can you believe that, Fred? I can't do that. Once he stops being the greatest lover in England, the series is over.

Nobody wants to read about the Viscount Saint Just in love. Not unless . . . hmm. Not unless he gets married and she's really a Cartwright bride. You know what a Cartwright bride is, Fred? I'll tell you. There was this television show a long time ago—
Bonanza
. There were three sons, regulars on the show. Once in a while the writers would give one of them a love interest, because otherwise they'd be worried they had the sixties version of
Brokeback Mountain
, I guess (and as they said on
Seinfeld
: not that there's anything wrong with that), and because female viewers like some romance in their Westerns.

Anyway, the writers were also smart enough to know that none of these guys could live happily ever after or the show would go down the tubes—ergo the curse of the Cartwright bride. Ah, Hoss fell in love. Ah, Hoss is going to get hitched. Ah, Hoss's fiancée just got run over by a stagecoach—
splat
! Those Cartwright brides never lasted more than three episodes, tops.

It was kind of like being the only guy in a
Star Trek
episode wearing a different colored shirt than everyone else.

So I can't do it, Fred. A Cartwright bride would be a cop-out. Saint Just has to be who he is, and the heck with this evolving stuff Alex keeps talking about.

Which is all a roundabout way of saying that Alex and I are fine, we're actually doing pretty well . . . but I don't think we're going to be evolving too much any time soon. To tell you the truth—since I'm going to delete this the moment I'm done here—I don't know if I'd be as attracted to a domesticated Alex. How's that for honesty?

Which takes me to what I
am
going to be doing.

A funny thing happened on the way to Christmas at my parents, Fred—they got separated. Oh yes. One is living in the house, and one is batching it in an apartment on the other side of town. I am now the product of a broken home. I'm also—along with Alex and Sterling—due in Ocean City in two weeks, to
celebrate
the holidays. Yeah, Fred—ho, ho, hoo-boy!

Yeah, well, I don't want to think about that right now, or the fact that all three of the sibs will be there, choosing sides, making everything worse.

So maybe I'll think some more about what Alex wants?

I could give him a loveless marriage, right? You know, a marriage of convenience, only because it is time he set up his nursery—Alex is right about that one. It would be historically accurate.

Okay.

So I give him this independent woman, see. They battle—right off the bat. Two strong personalities, going at it . . . . but slowly, against their will, they're drawn to each other. Big-time. Physically. They keep dancing around each other; advancing, retreating, keeping the readers happy. And all the while she helps him solve crimes. It could work.

Maybe it could work.

I don't know if it could work for Alex and me—I mean, Saint Just and the female character. I did mean that, Fred. That was
not
a Freudian slip!

Tell you what, Fred. I'm going to put this in a folder with the first time I wrote to you, just in case I need to talk to you again. You don't mind being
Untitled Folder
, do you, Fred? Just in case Alex goes snooping on my Mac again?

And you are cheaper than Dr. Bob.

That's a joke, Fred—a joke!

See you after Christmas!