High Heels and Homicide (31 page)

Socks shook his head. “Women. It's times like these that make me so glad I'm gay.”

Saint Just chuckled, then frowned as he lifted a finger to his mouth, warning Socks to silence. “Someone's approaching.”

A few moments later Maggie popped her head around the corner of a pillar, holding a shovel in what some might consider a threatening manner. She sighed, and put down the shovel, the look in her green eyes daring him to mention the makeshift weapon against Things That Go Bump in the Cellars. “Alex? I thought I heard someone talking. What are you doing down here?”

“Maggie, my dear,” Saint Just said smoothly, inclining his head in acknowledgement of her presence. “One could reasonably ask the same of you. I was assisting Socks here with something he had to carry downstairs for Mr. O'Hara. You?”

“You carried something down here? Performed manual labor? Why can't I get a mental picture of that?” Maggie said, turning back the way she'd come, Saint Just and Socks exchanging “whew!” glances before they followed her. “But I'm glad you're here. I was upstairs, just sort of looking for something to do.”

“Something such as unpacking your suitcases?”

“Yeah, right. My favorite thing,” Maggie said, stopping in front of one of the many wire storage cages that lined the walls. “Anyway, I was looking around, and I suddenly realized that it's December, and we're not going to be here for Christmas unless we have a blizzard and they close the New Jersey Turnpike—which has never happened, even though I've prayed for it every year. I usually put up my Christmas decorations over the Thanksgiving weekend, so I can enjoy them longer, but we went straight to England from Jersey this year and now the condo looks naked, you know? So…who's going to help me get all of these boxes upstairs?”

Saint Just peered through the wire of the cage, at the stack of boxes that seemed to be three deep and reach to the rafters. “Your holiday decorations are in those boxes?
All
of those boxes?”

“Yes, most of them anyway. And you love manual labor, right, Alex?”

Socks shrugged. “I'll go get the dolly, and we can use the freight elevator.”

“Thank you, Socks.” Maggie said as she slipped a key into the lock that hung on the door, then stepped inside the storage area. “My mother hates Christmas, you know. The Grouch Who Stole Christmas, every damn year,” she told Saint Just, who was still mentally counting boxes.

“So, naturally, you adore the holiday to the top of your bent, correct?”

Maggie's grin was deliciously wicked. “You know me so well. Oh, Alex, you're going to love New York during the holidays. The tree at Rockefeller Center, the office party drunks ice skating nearby, the department store windows. Barneys is always so
out there
. Oh, that reminds me. I've got to get to Bloomie's for a cinnamon broom. I get one there every year—it's a tradition. I
love
the smell of cinnamon. And cookies. We're going to make
lots
of cookies.”

She lifted up two fairly flat cardboard boxes and handed them to Saint Just. “You see, I've just decided something. Bernie's already got next year's hardcover in-house, so I'm just not going to worry about writing again until after the new year. You've been here for months now, Alex, you and Sterling, and I've never really shown you New York. So that's what we're going to do.” She added a third cardboard box to the two Saint Just was holding. “Right after we decorate the living crap out of my condo. Come on, Alex,
smile
. It's Christmas!”