"Oops, sorry," Steve said, grabbing a fistful of thin paper napkins from a chrome-sided container and rubbing at his mouth. "You want one? Best hamburgers on the island, no question."
Saint Just adjusted the long, thin knitted scarf at his neck, all the extra protection from the weather he'd needed other than his navy cashmere sports jacket. He'd walked to the restaurant, occasionally swinging his gold-topped ebony sword stick, happy to enjoy the sunny, blustery day if not the sadly abused gray slush on the sidewalks. "Yes, I'm convinced you're correct. And how wonderfully convenient that we're so close to Lenox Hospital. I've often wondered. Can you actually feel your arteries clogging, left –tenant?"
Steve grinned around another bite of hamburger. "Maggie says you're always watching that health channel, whatever it is. You know, Alex, one hamburger isn't going to kill you."
"Ah, true, and I have reason not to worry about my own health, as I swear, I don't believe I've aged a day since I arrived here," Saint Just said, enjoying his private joke. "But still so much better to employ my George Foreman grill, you know. A truly mind-boggling invention. America is crammed rather full with amazing inventions, you know. I'm fond of my computer, of course, and my plasma television machine but, by and large, I'd have to say I am most fond of my George Foreman grill. I've penned a letter to Mr. Foreman, as a matter of fact, apprising him of my admiration, as I am a firm believer that excellence should be rewarded."
"You are so freaking weird," Steve said, popping the last huge bite of hamburger into his mouth. "How's Maggie? You guys sure had a crazy time of it in jolly old England from what I've heard."
"We're seldom bored, Maggie and I," Saint Just agreed, smiling up at the waitress who carefully placed his coffee cup on the tabletop, then asked if there was anything else she could get him. Like her phone number.
"You're too kind, dear lady," Saint Just told her, and she walked away, backfield in motion, to yell to another customer to keep his freaking pants on, she'd been serving the gentleman.
"I've always wondered. How do you do that?" Steve asked, leaning his elbows on the table, the left one squarely into a blob of ketchup. "I mean, seriously, Alex. Women fall all over you everywhere you go. Except Maggie, of course. I mean, being your distant cousin and all." He narrowed his eyelids. "Exactly how distant is that, again?"
"So distant the connection is very nearly nonexistent," Saint Just said, pulling three napkins from the dispenser and holding them out to Steve. "You've had a slight accident with your sleeve."
Steve lifted his elbow and took a look. "Oh, would you look at that. This is my best shirt, and I have a—yeah, thanks, Alex."
Saint Just took a sip of his coffee and then carefully replaced the cup in the saucer. Steve had a rather crude earthenware mug of coffee in front of him, but the waitress had discovered a cup and saucer somewhere for Saint Just. He must remember to be more than his usual generous self when leaving the dear woman a gratuity for her services. One never knew when one would have occasion to revisit such a place as this.
"You were about to say something, Steve? An admission you would rather keep to yourself? But, please, allow me to hazard a guess. You have what you Americans call a date? Why, you do, don't you? You cad."
"No! I'm not—that is, it's not exactly a—ah, hell. How do you do that?"
"I'm merely observant," Saint Just told him. "Your hair is combed, which is a departure. It's seven o'clock in the evening and you're still wearing your tie—I would suggest you remove it, but, then, I've never been partial to claret and yellow stripes. You look freshly shaved and I can smell your cologne. You applied mustard and ketchup with your usual gusto, but refrained from adding a slice of raw onion. And, of course, the dead giveaway, as I believe you'd term it—you blushed quite thoroughly when you realized you were about to say something you'd rather I, of all people, did not know."
He did not add the damning information that Socks had already given the game away, because there was no need for such unnecessary honesty. He would much prefer Wendell be awed by his impressive powers of observation.
"No, I don't want you to know. Because you're Maggie's cousin," Steve said, pushing his fingers through his shaggy sandy hair. "And a royal pain in my ass. Yeah. I have a date. But you can't tell Maggie."
"Believe me, my friend, as I say in all honesty, nothing could be further from my mind. But you will tell her, won't you?"
Steve waved his hands in a wonderfully discombobulated gesture. "I don't know. It's not like Maggie and I are really ... you know, getting anywhere? I like her, I really do, but things always seem to get sort of weird around her, you know?"
"No, not at all," Saint Just said with a carefully straight face. "Oh, wait. You're referring to the murders, aren't you? Surely you can't blame Maggie for a few unfortunate incidences? Even if you did suspect her of murdering her publisher, didn't you? That was unfortunate."
Steve gave his stained shirtsleeve one more swipe, and then glared at Saint Just. "I didn't think that for more than a couple of minutes, not once I got to know her."
"Of course. You might even say that's why you're still aboveground. Now, tell me about your new friend."
Steve grabbed the last potato chip and then pushed his empty plate away from him. "There's not a lot to tell. I met her in the subway when some jerk tried to grab her purse. The thing is, Alex, Christine's normal. I mean, she works as a secretary to an orthopedic surgeon over on Park Avenue. She likes to cook, she loves going to the movies, she still lives with her mom ..."
"And she doesn't land in the briars on a fairly regular basis," Saint Just finished for him. "In other words, she's boring."
"No! Not boring. Normal. I like Maggie, Alex. I mean, she's beautiful, she's smart, she's a lot of fun. But she's ... all of you, actually ... you're just a little, I don't know. Out there?"
"Out there," Saint Just repeated, calling on every bit of control he had in order to keep from laughing out loud at this poor, confused specimen.
"Yeah. Out there. I spend my days with wack jobs, Alex—and that's just the guys I work with at the Homicide table, even before I get to the perps. I want to be ... I want to be able to relax when I'm off duty and with a woman, you know? Maggie's life is just too full of ... craziness. Are you getting this?"
"Some of it, yes, although I think I lost you for a few moments at wack job. I'm not certain, but I believe you mean she's slightly crazy?"
"No, that's not it. Wacky, you know? Her life is wacky. Offbeat—and that's being kind, Alex. She's just always in the middle of something, and it's never normal somethings, like she lost her wallet or forgot to pay her electric bill. When Maggie says she has a problem, it usually means something fairly bizarro is going on and I'm either going to have to bail her out or rescue her from some lowlife."
"Maggie is fairly good at rescuing herself, and she always has me, you understand. So, if she isn't crazy, are you saying Maggie is still a ... wack job?"
"Yeah, all right. A wack job. A cute wack job, but a wack job."
"I see. And the rest of us? Sterling, for one."
Wendell considered this for a moment. "He calls you Saint Just because Maggie made up her Saint Just guy by describing you. And it's not like he's trying to be funny—he seems to mean it. You're calling that normal?"
"For Sterling, yes. But this is interesting, really. Do you include Tabitha, Maggie's agent, in this mix?"
"Scarf lady? Nah, she's just blond."
One corner of Saint Just's mouth began to twitch in amusement. "Oh, dear. I can see you've given this all some considerable thought, left –tenant. Who else? Ah, I know. Socks. And Bernice, of course. Your opinion, please?"
Wendell shrugged. "Socks is okay. As for Bernie? You're kidding, right? You really need an answer to that one?"
"No, I suppose not. And that leaves me. Am I a ... wack job?"
Wendell shook his head. "No. You're freaking scary, that's what you are. And I think Maggie likes you, even if she won't admit it
to herself. I've never come in first, you know?"
"Indeed," Saint Just said, taking another sip of coffee. "So you're bowing out of the competition? I'd like us to be clear on that, my friend."
Pulling a fat brown wallet from his back pocket, Wendell said, "Hell, Alex, I was never in it. Not really. I think I knew that from the beginning. The only thing is, how's Maggie going to feel about ... well, about Christine?"
Saint Just pondered this for a moment, but only for effect. "She'll be surprised, certainly. I should let her down slowly, were I you."
"How would I do that?"
"Be her friend, left –tenant, as you've always been. Just nothing more. For instance, Maggie is concerned at the moment about a recently deceased gentleman. A fellow author, who purportedly put a period to his own existence five days ago, I believe it was. Now, if you were to assist her in gaining any additional information about this man, about his death, you understand, that would be the act of a friend. You do wish to continue the friendship, do you not?"
"Well, yeah, of course. I like Maggie. So I keep it friendly. I just don't ask her out to dinner anymore, or to the movies, right? Just platonic. I can do that."
"Splendid, Steve," Saint Just drawled, reaching into his sports coat pocket and extracting a neatly folded computer printout of Francis Oakes's obituary. "We are told it was a suspected suicide, as I said—"
"You did? When?"
"I said he put a period to his own existence, left –tenant. As one would put a period at the end of a sentence—to end it? Consider it a euphemism, one meant to spare the listener's sensibilities, instead of coming right out and baldly saying he'd killed himself."
Wendell grinned. "You were worried about my sensibilities?"
"Not particularly, no," Saint Just told him, returning the smile. "But to continue? We are told it is most probable the gentleman offed himself—"
"Better."
"Thank you. I am nothing if not amenable. But I could find nothing more definitive on my own about the unfortunate Mr. Oakes. However, with your connections ... ?"
"Sure, sure, give it over and I'll check it out. It's the least I can do for Maggie," Wendell said, the hook neatly slipping into his mouth. "Suicide. No problem. How bad could she screw this up, right?"
"How badly indeed," Saint Just said, reaching for the check the waitress had just deposited on the table. "Please, allow me. And do enjoy yourself this evening, left –tenant. Oh, wait, I've just had a thought. Perhaps you should give the information about poor Mr. Oakes directly to me, say, tomorrow at two, at Mario's? Not as much contact with Maggie, you understand ... thinking platonically."
Wendell shrugged. "Sure, okay. Hey, thanks for picking up the check. I gotta go, I'm meeting Christine in a half hour."
"May you both have a wonderful evening," Saint Just said as Wendell walked away, and then added under his breath as he brought the coffee cup back up to his lips, "Sometimes it's almost too easy ..."
A few drops of cooling coffee splashed onto Saint Just's shirtfront as the good lieutenant leaned down to whisper in his ear. "You're up to something again, aren't you? Be ready to tell me all about it, or my information on Oakes stays in my pocket."
"How remiss of me to forget that you delight in playing the fool, left –tenant. Shame on me. But I agree. Tomorrow we will share information."
"Because there's something going on? What? Cripes, Alex, you guys are only home for a couple of days. What the hell could have gone wrong that fast?"
"Possibly nothing. Hopefully nothing. Then again, if the information you bring me turns out to be what I sincerely hope it is not, possibly quite a lot."
"Why? Because your Spidey sense is tingling?" Wendell said in a fairly good attempt at sarcasm.
"Yes, I suppose that's it, although I was thinking more of a mammal than an arachnid. Until tomorrow at two, Steve?"
Chapter Five
"Gin," Maggie said, discarding a six as she laid down the rest of her cards with a flourish. "That's twelve million dollars you owe me, Sterling. You don't want to play anymore, do you?"
"No, I suppose not. But we could do something else, couldn't we?"
What was going on here? Something was going on here, that was for sure. She decided to see if she was right. "I could grab my jacket and we could go to the park, see if your friends are there. You could stay with them, let them pelt you with snowballs, and I could go do some shopping. I don't have a single gift bought yet, you know. How does that sound?"
Sterling's complexion turned white, then rosy red. And the guy wondered why he couldn't win at cards? "Oh. Oh, no, Maggie. I shouldn't think you'd want to go shopping alone. We could go together, I suppose? Although it's fairly cold outside, and it's so nice and warm in here. We should stay here. Yes, I think we should stay here. It's better here. Alex would want to know where we are, don't you think?"
"Where did you say Alex is, Sterling?" Maggie asked as she stood up, stretched, then walked over to admire her tree, hoping she sounded only politely interested, and not like she wished Sterling would go find Alex, and then the two of them could go somewhere. Like to the moon. Right after one of them told her what the hell was going on.
Alex had "joined" her for breakfast, which meant that he'd come strolling in with the morning newspaper and a suggestion that she consider bacon and scrambled eggs as a fine start to another lovely crisp, sunny December day.
The pans were still soaking in the sink, damn him, and she'd given in to the urge to try the homemade plum jam Socks's mother had sent over a month ago and she'd been pretending hadn't been sitting in the cabinet. Stop smoking, gain ten pounds, lose two, eat plum jam, and gain back three. It was just the way the world worked ...
She'd kicked Alex out at noon, after a morning spent discussing the debacle that had been their trip to England, and within moments Sterling was at the door, volunteering to help her with the rest of her Christmas decorations. Not one to turn down a volunteer, they'd spent the next hour setting out Maggie's favorite pieces, winding fairy lights around two of her fake potted plants, and then dragging all of the empty boxes to the freight elevator and back down to the basement storage area. After that, Sterling pulled a deck of cards from his pocket and sat down at the game table in one corner of the room, as if digging in for the duration—whatever the duration was.
When Sterling didn't answer her question, Maggie finished adjusting one of the crystal bells on the Christmas tree and turned to look at him. He was wearing the Santa hat again, and admiring his reflection in the mirror. "You look very nice, very festive. Getting in the spirit, are you?"
Sterling frowned, pulling off the hat. "I don't think so, no," he told her, dropping back onto one of the couches. His sigh was deep, and heartfelt. "It's all this crass commercialism, you understand."
Biting back a grin, Maggie decided it was time to pull up a couch of her own and try to take a peek inside Sterling's mind. "Crass commercialism? Where did you hear that, Sterling?"
He spread his hands. "Everywhere. It's all about gifts, and decorations, and more gifts and ... well, and more gifts. It's all very depressing. Almost enough to put a person into a sad decline."
"Yes, I can see that," Maggie said, rubbing her chin. "What would you like Christmas to be about, Sterling?"
He shrugged, looking at her over his gold-rimmed glasses. "I'm not sure. I ... well, I just don't think your Santa Claus helpers should be selling watches and purses and such on street corners, do you?"
"You mean they should be giving them away instead?"
Sterling's expression went unnaturally stern. "No, I don't think I mean that at all, Maggie. But should Santa Claus be selling things?"
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," she said, reaching for her nicotine inhaler. She was pretty sure she'd been a nicer person when she smoked. "There are other Santas, you know, Sterling. Santas who collect money for, uh, for those less fortunate."
"Tell me," Sterling said, leaning forward on the couch, and Maggie found hers
elf giving him a thumbnail sketch of holiday charities and holiday Santas, all of which served to return a smile to Sterling's unusually sad face.
"Okay," she then said, clapping her hands together as she got to her feet. "Now what do you say we give the tree one last inspection, and then I think I'll go take a shower?"
Sterling got to his feet and walked over to stand beside Maggie as the two of them looked the tree up and down.
Maggie reached out after a few moments and bent one of the smaller branches on the artificial tree so that the tassel on one of the ornaments could hang straight. "That's better."
"It all looks very nice, even if it isn't real," Sterling agreed. "You really do like Christmas, don't you, Maggie? And all the fol-da-ral."
"Fol-da-ral? Wow, Sterling, that's a good one. But, yes, I do like it. I adore Christmas."
"Even when you get it wrong," Sterling said, and then quickly clapped his hands to his mouth.
"Excuse me?" Maggie rather glowered at Sterling as he backed away from her. "And why does that sound like you opened your mouth, Sterling, but Alex's voice came out?"
"Oh, no. No, certainly not. Surely not."
Maggie made come-to-me-speak-to-me gestures with her hands, and Sterling backed up another step. "What did he say? He had to have said something. God knows he's always got to say something."
"Well," Sterling said, forced to stand still now that he'd inadvertently cornered himself between Maggie and the back of the nearest couch, "you just made a simple mistake, that's all. Nothing important, really. Oh, you know what, Maggie? I think I forgot to feed Henry. Poor thing, running on that wheel of his all day. He must be famished. I really must be going now, and surely Saint Just will be back at any time. It's already past three, isn't it? So that's all right."
"Right, it's past three. And we'll get to that next, Sterling—why it's all right, whatever it is, because Alex will be home soon. But for the moment, let's get back to me getting it wrong. Getting what wrong, Sterling? Where? How?"
"It's ... um ... not that it wasn't an honest mistake ... and you were much less experienced at the time and ... why, anyone could make the mistake ..."
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