"Tough on her," Bernie said, hefting the soda can as if toasting Maggie. "Sales of your Saint Just novels have been going through the roof ever since you've been getting into the tabloids. Another month, another murder. The reading public is eating it up, Mags. Hey, do you suppose we could work good old Francis in there somehow?"
"You're a ghoul, Bernie." Maggie leaned her forearms on the table, the better to look around the corner of the kitchen and down the hall leading to the living room. "I've got to start locking my door again. Hello? Who's there?"
"It's only us, Maggie," Sterling called out moments before appearing in the kitchen, dressed for a noonday stroll in beautiful downtown Siberia. He had a heavy brown corduroy coat buttoned up to his neck and topped by a thick knitted yellow scarf, red mittens, and a red knit cap on his head—complete with a huge yarn pom-pom on top. They'd stopped at a small store after their dinner last night, and Sterling had instantly fallen in love with the hat. "Some of the boys have invited me to go to the park with them. Isn't that nice?"
"The boys?"
Alex leaned one burgundy cashmere-clad shoulder against the doorjamb. "Sterling has become quite the bon vivant, my dears. He's taken up an association with several lads from the neighborhood during his scooter rides. Haven't you, Sterling?"
Sterling blushed beneath his bright red cap. "We're going to build a snow fort. I think it sounds a jolly idea."
"And it is, Sterling," Maggie told him. "I think it's wonderful that you've been making friends. I'm only ashamed to say that I didn't realize it snowed last night."
"Maggie the hermit. Shame she doesn't have any windows, isn't it, boys?" Bernie said, lifting her soda can in yet another toast.
"Hey. Snow is sneaky. No lightning, no thunder, no raindrops piddling against the windows. You just wake up, and there it is. Poof!"
"Poof indeed. She has such a way with description, doesn't she, Bernie," Alex said as he retrieved a can of soda from the refrigerator, pouring its contents into a glass he'd loaded with ice cubes, of course, as the Viscount Saint Just didn't drink from cans. "You toddle off, Sterling, but please take care to return before three."
"What happens at three?" Maggie asked, waving goodbye to Sterling. "What am I missing?"
"Nothing too terrible. I've invited Mary Louise, George, and Vernon to stop by so that I can properly thank them for their help in my last case."
"Your last case," Maggie said flatly. "You're something else, Alex. What happened in England wasn't your case. And, if memory serves, you weren't in it alone. I was there, too, remember?"
"Now, now, children. Mommy's already got a headache," Bernie said as Alex sat down at the table. "You were both marvelous, even if my cold and I slept through most of it. But what did your motley crew do, Alex?"
"In point of fact, Bernice, they were the source of some important information."
"Yeah, Bernie, remember? Mary Louise and company are the ones who filled us in on Nikki Campion's connections here in New York. Okay, so they helped. What are you planning for them, Alex? I should contribute, too."
He had the devil in his eyes as he said, "I had thought new automobiles would be welcome."
Maggie knew Alex was trying to get a rise out of her, just so he could point out how frugal she was, and she decided to play along. "Cars? Are you nuts? Do you have any idea what that would cost?"
Alex smiled at Bernie. "I thought that would rattle her cage, as you Americans say. But relax, Maggie, I only wanted to see how committed you are to the project."
"I'd have to be committed before I'd agree to three new cars. But, now that I've made you happy by playing your straight man, what you're really saying is that you haven't a single idea what to get them and you need my help, right? Without coming right out and asking for it, of course."
"I am as a pane of glass to you, my dear, aren't I? But I've already stepped out and purchased a rather lovely necklace for Mary Louise—a single small diamond teardrop on a silver chain. As befits a young woman. Understated elegance, which is what I've been attempting to impress on Mary Louise, and I'm happy to say that she only wears two earrings in each ear these days, which I see as a major accomplishment on her part. But suitable gifts for George and Vernon? I fear I must admit defeat there. I'm much more used to buying baubles for the ladies."
Maggie took a sip of soda, and then reluctantly nodded her agreement. The Viscount Saint Just was always dropping diamonds or rubies in the laps of the women he then replaced with other women, the cad. And yet the readers loved him. If her fictional creation ever fell in love and got married, the series would tank in a heartbeat. "Okay, I see the problem. What do you buy for a Snake and a Killer?"
"They've left those unfortunate appellations behind them, Maggie, as well you know, just as they have abandoned their, shall we say, innocently nefarious ways. They answer strictly to Vernon and George now, and strive daily to raise themselves above their more unfortunate beginnings."
Mary Louise and Snake and Killer had been the very first people Alex had encountered in New York, and Mary Louise had, for a price, supplied Alex and Sterling with counterfeited identification—just one of the many things Maggie knew but kept trying to erase from her memory. Now Mary Louise was posing with Alex for Fragrances By Pierre while attending college, and Snake and Killer had gone straight, or maybe just weren't as crooked as they used to be. Only in America ...
"And now they're your business partners in the Street Corner Orators and Players, doling out sage advice and heartfelt sermons on the sad state of the world. Right. Like I could forget. I know—why not put both of them up for the Nobel Peace Prize?"
Bernie sat with her chin in her hand. "You two fascinate me. I've never met two people more suited to either becoming lovers or killing each other," she said, and then sniffed. "I passed one of your street corner orators on the way over here, Alex. He had quite a crowd around him, too. I only caught a few words. What's today's message? Crass commercialism in Christmas?"
Alex smiled. "Why go with the obvious, Bernice? No, today's message is a rather lovely description of Manhattan in June. The park, the flowers, the street performers, the children frolicking, trips to the ballparks to see the Mets or the Yankees, etc. Nostalgia on a cold, snowy day. I'm confident our revenues will reflect the correctness of my choice."
Bernie shrugged. "Looked to me like a few pockets were opening. You know, I still want to publish a collection of your speeches one of these days."
"Oh, please, Bernie, don't encourage him. He's already got about fifty employees and thinks he's the Donald Trump of street corners." Maggie had thought Alex's idea to create a flow of income without actually having to work—as Regency gentlemen collect income from their estates, or invest in the exchange, they do not work —would be a bust, a failure. She should have known better. Between his orators and his modeling contract with Fragrances By Pierre, the man's income had skyrocketed in the few short months he'd been in New York. Hell, the man had an accountant. He wasn't real, but he had an accountant. Sometimes she got a little dizzy, just thinking about that one.
"I'm not encouraging him, Maggie. I think the book would be a hit, in a weird sort of way. You know, how an Englishman looks at America, that sort of thing? Now, back to gifts for the boys."
Maggie looked at her friend in some confusion. "Why? You don't care about that."
"No, of course not," Bernie said in her usual honesty. "But I do want to talk about Francis, now that you put the idea in my head, and who better to talk to than Alex, our resident supersleuth?"
Alex looked to each woman in turn. "I'm missing something here, aren't I? Who is Frances? Do I know her?"
"Francis Oakes, Alex, and he's a he. Well, was a he, used to be a he."
Alex waved a hand in front of himself. "Would this be anything like Socks's friend Jay-Jayne?"
"I think I've got your headache now, Bernie," Maggie said, getting to her feet and tossing the empty soda can in the recycling bin. "No, Alex. Jay is a cros
s-dresser. Francis Oakes is just dead."
"Really. How unfortunate for the man," Alex said, following after Maggie and Bernie as they returned to the living room, where Bernie's Fendi bag could be heard playing the first few bars of the William Tell Overture. "Bernice, isn't that your phone?"
"I'm ignoring it," Bernie said, stuffing a cushion over her purse as she sat down, drawing her long legs up on the couch. "Oh, and you could get your business partners subscriptions to the Wall Street Journal. If they can read?"
"Et tu, Brute?" Alex said, seating himself in Maggie's swivel desk chair.
"Yeah, Bernie, insulting remarks are my job," Maggie complained as Wellington jumped up on the couch beside her, a gilded miniature pinecone in his mouth. "Give," she commanded, holding out her hand, which Wellington ignored, so that within moments a tug-of-war ensued, with Wellington growling and Maggie pleading.
"Oh, for God's sake, Mags, let him have it," Bernie said, piling another pillow on top of her purse, because the ringer must have been on Excruciatingly Loud. "If that's the office, by the way, they'll ring you next, so I'm not missing anything."
"Let him have it? Sure, so he can barf it up on my bedspread at midnight. Damn cat thinks he's a dog. Wellington give!"
"You could turn off the ringer, you know," Alex suggested as he walked behind the couch, snapped his fingers, and then held out his upturned palm to the cat, which promptly gifted him with the pinecone.
"I hate you," Maggie said without heat as Alex then dropped the pinecone in her lap, complete with cat drool. "But he's right, Bernie. Please turn off that damn ringer. Every time I hear that ring my mind starts repeating the cereal that's popped from guns over and over in my head. My dad used to sing it every morning as he poured his puffed rice into the bowl."
"Oh, all right," Bernie said, flinging the pillows to the floor and then reaching into her bag and pulling out her cell phone. "Wow, nine missed calls, and all from our tragedy queen. Persistent, isn't she? I may have to go to the Hamptons for the weekend and leave my cell phone at home."
"Again, I'm missing something, aren't I? But, being a gentleman, I won't pry," Alex said, returning to the desk chair. He hit the return button on Maggie's computer keyboard so that the computer woke up, and then opened her search engine, typing in Francis Oaks. "Oaks as in grand old oak tree, or with an E?"
"With an E. And he's off! You had to tell him, didn't you?" Maggie complained to Bernie through clenched teeth.
Bernie shrugged. "Really, Mags. How long do you think a sophisticated New Yorker like myself could be fascinated with choosing gifts for snakes and killers? Especially sober. Besides, knowing Alex, he'll get us more information on Francis than Steve will give us."
"True. I hate to admit it, but true. Alex? Find anything?"
"I'm looking at Amazon.com at the moment, Maggie, which is where Google led me. You didn't tell me Oakes was a writer," Alex said, his back to the women as he punched keys. "Four books, all of them out of print. And all of them published by Toland Books, the most recent one six years ago. This is an intriguing title, The Axeman Cometh. Ah, here's one of those reader reviews you abhor, Maggie. Couldn't finish it. Well, that's pithy. The mind boggles at the audacity, however, that Bookluver—that's l-u-v-e-r—from Phoenix believes his or her opinion to be definitive."
"Why shouldn't Bookluver think that? Everybody's reviewing books these days," Maggie said, wrapping the soggy pinecone in the tissue Bernie had handed her. "And the supposed pros aren't much better. Bernie? Remember that one review on my last book? Dooley writes with a sort of accidental panache? Now I ask you, what the hell is accidental panache? I can't do panache unless it's by accident? How does the guy know it was an accident? Maybe I planned that accident. Maybe it was on purpose panache. Does the guy even know what he's saying, or is he just pulling words out of his—head," she said after a slight hesitation during which she remembered Alex was still in the room, "thinking he's impressing people? You know, in my next book, I think I'm going to have to do a riff on critics. Maybe something lousy one of them said about Jane Austen, or something. I'll say the critic believes she employed accidental panache."
"Careful, Maggie," Bernie warned. "You know what they say—never piss off a critic."
"Wrong, Bernie. Never piss off a writer. More people read us. I mean, come on, Bernie. Accidental panache?"
"There's a second definition of panache, you know, Maggie," Bernie said, winking at Alex. "The first is, of course, dash, verve. But the second is a bunch of feathers or a plume, especially on a helmet. So maybe the reviewer believes you got a bunch of feathers in your hair without intending to do it?"
"You're such a help," Maggie grumbled, and then looked at Alex. "Anything else? Or am I going to spend the next hour wondering if I can stick some accidental plumes into my next book?"
"Ummm," Alex said, heading back to Google. "I took a moment to read that accidental panache quote on Amazon, and discovered a new reader review. It would appear that Barb-Four-Books believes, and I quote, 'Saint Just can park his high-topped Hessian boots under my bed any time.' " He swiveled around on the chair and grinned at her. "Imagine that."
"Thanks," she said, deadpan. "You're always such a big help." She tried to look past him. "A new page just came up on the screen. What are you after now?"
"I've discovered the obituary," Alex told them, turning back to the computer, then scrolling down the page he'd found. "Author ... forty-eight years old ... discovered by a student ... suspected suicide." He swiveled the chair to look at Maggie and Bernie. "You didn't mention that. Only suspected? It's not definite?"
"I guess the coroner hadn't ruled on it yet when that was published," Maggie said, wishing she could keep her mouth shut. But what was the point? Once Alex knew anything, he needed to know everything. "I'm kind of shocked, to tell you the truth. Francis was such a milquetoast." Just like your father, Maggie's inner self reminded her, yet look at the old boy now! "But I really didn't know him very well."
"Perhaps not, but you're having difficulty accepting his death as a suicide, is that correct?"
"Oh, here we go," Maggie said, rolling her eyes. "No, I am not second-guessing anything. It was suicide, Alex. That's what's in the papers, that's what it was."
"Suspected suicide," Alex pointed out, much too seriously for Maggie's peace of mind. "I'm sure the good left –tenant will be able to supply us with more information. Details of the cause of death, manner of death."
"And now he's dazzling us with technical terms. Secret Squirrel is on the case, Bernie. Are you happy now?"
Bernie shrugged. "I don't mind, Mags. If he discovers anything interesting, maybe Toland Books can reissue Francis's old books. Suicide is good, if he was inventive about it, but murder would be even better. Or did you forget that Francis wrote murder mysteries?"
"You know, if anyone sane ever eavesdropped on any of our conversations, we'd all be locked up," Maggie said, then they all turned as the door opened and Sterling clomped his way into the living room.
"Hello, all," he said, brushing snow from his pom-pom. He was snow from head to foot, actually, a living snowman, his clothing crusted with the stuff. His nose and cheeks were a cherry red, his grin one of pure delight. "We had a snowball battle. I won."
"You don't look like the winner, Sterling, sweetheart," Maggie said, guiding him back to the small rug in front of the door, when he made a move toward one of the couches, Wellington weaving between her legs so he could sniff at some of the frozen snow that had already hit the floor.
"Oh, but I am. Whoever gets hit the most with snowballs is the winner," Sterling informed them, then frowned slightly. "I would have thought it would be the other way around, but the boys said they were certain of the rules."
Maggie laughed, and gave Sterling a smacking kiss on his ice-cold cheek. "I love you, Sterling."
"Thank you, Maggie," he returned solemnly. "The boys were happy, so that's all right, isn't it? Sometimes we can choose to pretend not to know wha
t we know, if it does no harm and serves to make someone else happy, and all of that."
Sweet, dear Sterling and his often startling insights on life. Once again, Maggie thought about her father. He was happy, or at least she supposed so. So should she pretend not to know what she knew, what her mother had told her? Was life ever that uncomplicated, that easy? No, not with her mother around, goosing her every chance she got, ordering her to talk some sense into her wandering father's head. Why me? Why is it always me?
"Maggie?"
"Hmm?" she asked, blinking at Alex.
"Will Wendell be stopping by any time soon, or should I call him?"
"Steve? About what?" Her mind was fully occupied with her own personal pity party, and she'd lost the trail of the conversation.
"About your friend Francis Oakes? You are interested, aren't you?"
"I couldn't really say he was my friend because I barely remember him, and I'm not going to lose any sleep over his death, no. He committed suicide. It's sad, but that's all it is. But okay. Yeah, sure, if you and Bernie want to play detective, go ahead, you can ask Steve. Why ask me? I'm not in charge of him, you know. Why would you think I'm in charge of him? I'm not in charge of anybody. And I am, too, sensitive!"
"Jet lag," Bernie said around the tissue she held to her nose as Maggie ran out of the room. "Oh, damn, there goes my phone again ..."
Chapter Four
"How kind of you to meet with me on such short notice, Wendell," Saint Just said as he slipped into the opposite side of the booth at an establishment known for its greasy food and its disinterested clientele. Saint Just had ordered a cup of coffee on his way back to the booth, and managed to hide his distaste when he saw the half-eaten hamburger on the lieutenant's plate. "Crass of me to point it out, left –tenant, I know, but there's a small dribble of mustard on your chin."
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