High Heels and Holidays mkm-5

by Kasey Michaels

  Unless they evolved, which was Saint Just's all-consuming project, each of them becoming more his own man, his own creation—thus more in control of their own destiny. Neither would be immortal, of course, but, Saint Just often wondered, how much would he change, would his thinking change, if he were to know that he was suddenly vulnerable to all the various vagaries of mortal life as was his dearest Maggie. Would he so easily thrust himself into dangerous situations, if he were no longer assured of a happy outcome?

  When he'd discussed the entire thing with Sterling, his friend had made allusions to a puppet named Pinocchio becoming a real boy, a happy ending that seemed to satisfy Sterling but did little to ease Saint Just's mind on the subject.

  "Alex? You look a million miles away all of a sudden. What's wrong?"

  Saint Just smiled at her. "Nothing, my dear. It would appear the shops are open this evening."

  "Oh, goody. First stop, the truffle shop over there, where the trumpeting angels are—see them? I love the truffle shop. Wait until you see it. It's small, but always decorated so nicely—for the tourists, I suppose. But at Christmas it's spectacular. We'll have to stand in line there, too, but that's all right, because you always have to wait in line for chocolate this good. It's a rule of chocolate, I think. But don't tell Steve, because when I took him in there and there was a crowd, he flashed his gold shield to get waited on right away. Imagine that one, Alex. Steve, being pushy. Anyway, now he stops there all the time—well, on payday."

  "You're rambling, Maggie. May I say perhaps even babbling," Saint Just told her as they sidestepped a frazzled-looking couple, each carrying a screaming toddler. "We're having an enjoyable evening, remember?"

  "Yeah. Right. Maybe that's because I'm nervous. Or maybe it's because I'm definitely nervous." She looked up at him again, sighed in a rather theatrical way. "I can't help myself. I have to say it. We can't keep doing this, Alex."

  "Doing? Doing what?"

  Maggie rolled her eyes. "Oh, cute. You know darn well what we're doing. Did. We can't keep doing it, okay?"

  "Because ... ?"

  She stopped to wait while he opened the door to the crowded shop. "Because we don't know what we're doing, that's because."

  "I beg your pardon, madam," Saint Just told her, finding himself rather willing to amuse himself at her expense. "I've been laboring under a misapprehension? I'm not an exemplary lover? Perhaps if you were to be more ... specific with your complaints?"

  Maggie winced. "Would you for crying out loud keep your voice down?" she muttered from between clenched teeth.

  But he kept on, enjoying her embarrassment, his mind happily away from Prometheus ... and Pinocchio. "But I'm serious, my dear. Perhaps if you were to tell me precisely where I've failed? Is it something with the technique? My kisses, perhaps? Are they lacking?"

  "I'm going to kill you," Maggie said, grabbing his arm and all but dragging him back to the narrow pedestrian plaza. "And I really wanted a truffle. Look, here's the thing. You're a romantic hero, the kind where the Doubleday Book Club puts an explicit sex warning at the end of the book blurb in the catalog. Yet you've been here for a while now, and nothing's been happening for you, right? We won't get into my lack of love life because it's embarrassing."

  "I'll assume you're trying to make a point here?"

  "Yes, I am. We're both ... available to each other. Proximity, you know? It was only natural that at some point we'd ... get together. But it doesn't mean anything."

  "There you go again," Saint Just said, shaking his head in mock despair. "If you'll excuse me, I believe I feel a need to go find a woods somewhere and tiptoe inside to fall on my sword."

  Maggie rubbed her mittened fingers against her temples. "I should write you a note. I do much better writing this stuff down. And it's not that you aren't good. I mean, hell, you're perfect. I wrote you, remember? I sort of have an in on what women want, what they like ... what I like. So you're a great lover. I just don't know that this is going anywhere, if it even can go anywhere—you know, that whole poof thing—so maybe we just oughta slow things down for a while, that's all I'm saying."

  Saint Just stepped closer and ran the backs of his fingers down her cheek. "Is that what you want, Maggie? What you really want?"

  She looked up at him at last, her eyes wide. "Are you nuts? No, of course that's not what I want. You're the freaking perfect hero, remember? What kind of masochist do you think I am? I'm pointing out possible reasons for what happened earlier ... and the first time. I'm just ... I'm simply trying to be adult here."

  Saint Just smiled. "And you're being very, very adult, my dear. I commend you. And you've had your say, so that I am forewarned and will protect my heart, I promise." Then he leaned closer, whispered in her ear. "Of course, it's also only fair to say that it already may be too late for that last small bit."

  Maggie stepped back, her mouth opening and closing rather like a fish—but he adored her, so he believed she looked quite delightful. "I ... you ... we're slowing down, Alex. You evolve, and I'll go on a hunt for my brain, and we'll ... well, we'll just ... you know. Let's go watch the ice-skaters for a while."

  Believing they had taken this particular conversation as far as it could go without possibly sending Maggie into spasms, Saint Just agreed. They found a place at the railing and looked down at the rink and the people crowding the surface. He tried to understand the concept, but it was proving difficult.

  "Everyone is going in the same direction. Round, and round, with nothing to look at but the back of the person in front of you. They look rather like lemmings heading for the sea, except there's nothing but that endless oval, is there? Who's leading?"

  "Nobody's leading, silly. Everyone's just skating, that's all. If they don't all go in the same direction there'll be pileups, and it won't be pretty. Oh, wait, look at that guy."

  Saint Just looked where Maggie was pointing, to see a young man in suit and topcoat, skating backward. Unnecessarily, he said, "He's going backward."

  "He's plowed, that's what he is. Drunk as a skunk," Maggie said as the businessman bucked traffic in a rather wobbly reverse. "Oh! Down he goes. One ... two ... three ... four—and he's up. And he's ... skating backward! He's too drunk to go forward. That's hysterical—oh, he knocked into somebody. That poor girl, he really knocked her down hard, didn't he? Uh-oh, the boyfriend approaches. This should be interesting ..."

  Saint Just watched and waited. He didn't have to wait very long.

  "That's ... that's Steve. Alex? That's Steve. Steve and a ... Steve and a blonde." Maggie blinked furiously, leaned over the railing. "Velcro blonde. Look at her—she's all over him. He ... didn't he say he had to work tonight?"

  "I believe he said he had something to do," Saint Just said, watching Maggie's face for her reaction.

  "A date. He had a date. He's probably had a bunch of dates, unless the blonde gets that chummy right out of the gate. Well, huh." Maggie looked up at Saint Just. "Why don't you look as surprised as I feel?"

  Saint Just put his palm to his chest. "Shall I say that I am aghast, agog?" He tipped his head slightly. "Would you wish me to call him out? I would, of course, as your every wish is my command. Although perhaps I should first point out that you and I have been more than ... dating."

  Maggie made a face. "Good point, damn it. And you know what? I'm relieved. Really. I mean, I love Steve, he's a doll. But ... but it wasn't going anywhere, was it? Not with you around. The first time in my life I meet a guy I could really like, and my imaginary hero shows up to mess with my mind. I mean, what are the odds?"

  "Probably not quite as high as the good left –tenant would have liked to believe," Saint Just said as he waved to the man, then gestured toward the side of the rink. "I think he's seen us. Ah, yes, he has, and now he's pointing to a spot over there and leaving the ice. Shall we join him?"

  "Yeah, why not," Maggie said, doing a pretty good imitation of dragging her feet as they made their way to the edge of the crowd. "Am I smiling? I
suppose I should be smiling. Smiling, and cheerful, and delighted to meet the blonde and—this is ridiculous. He's the one who should feel embarrassed, not me. Right?"

  "Feel free to cling to me like a limpet if it will help your disposition at all. Oh, and you have my permission to address me as darling. Or, if you wish, we could change our minds and give him the cut direct, depressing his intentions quite effectively, or at least it would with someone more sensitive—which the good left –tenant is not. He confided in me, only a few short weeks ago, that he enjoys professional wrestling exhibitions on television. Imagine that? I would have told you sooner, but I wanted you to see the light, as it were, on your own."

  "Bite me ... darling," Maggie said, but allowed Saint Just to put his hand on her lower back as Wendell and his female companion, the former nearly tripping over his untied shoelaces, approached them.

  "Maggie ... Alex—hi!" Wendell said, much too cheerfully, Saint Just would have told him. "How about that—meeting you guys here, huh? I mean, who would have thought that—"

  "Not you, obviously," Saint Just drawled, turning his attention to the young lady. "Left –tenant, if you would be so kind as to introduce us to your friend?"

  "What? Oh, right, right. Christine Munch—Maggie Kelly and Alex Blakely."

  Realizing that this would be the extent of Wendell's introduction, Saint Just took it upon himself to take Miss Munch's extended hand and bow over it, saying, "Charmed, I'm sure."

  Christine Munch giggled and then pressed her cheek against Wendell's sleeve.

  Just the sort of female the good left –tenant needed. Saint Just felt much better. "Ah, Miss Munch, what a delightful laugh. A whisper of springtime on this chilly December evening. Oh, I just realized that Wendell here has been a bit remiss—haven't you, left –tenant? Miss Munch, this dear woman is indeed Maggie Kelly, but she is also Cleo Dooley, a very famous author."

  "Alex, for cripes sakes ..."

  "An author? Wow, no, Steve didn't tell me." Christine's smile faded and she shrugged. "I'm afraid I don't read. Well, I know how —I just don't do it. Sorry. Does anyone really have time for that anymore? Oh, but I'm sure you're very good."

  "Oh, yes, I'm excellent." Maggie gave Saint Just a closed-mouth smile accompanied by raised eyebrows, all combining to form a silent I told you not to do this stuff because it always come back to bite you.

  "Um ... Maggie?"

  She looked at Wendell. "Yes, Steve?"

  "About ... this," he began, and Saint Just longed to box the lummox's ears, for it was clear that the good left –tenant was about to open his mouth and insert both of his feet. He wasn't certain, but he believed the modern-day parlance was that, when it came to the ways of women, Steve Wendell was a schmuck.

  "Wendell," Saint Just broke in quickly because he was, at the bottom of it, a good-hearted man. "Maggie and I are so delighted to meet Miss Munch. We've been fretting about you, you know, leading a lonely bachelor life. Have you two been seeing each other long?"

  "Since just before Thanksgiving," Christine Munch said happily. "He rescued me in the subway when some kid tried to grab my purse." She looked up at Steve, her huge blue eyes innocent and uncomprehending of any tension. "My knight in shining armor."

  "Gag me ..." Maggie whispered out of the corner of her mouth, then said brightly, "Well, then, that explains it, doesn't it? Alex and I left town on Thanksgiving, didn't we, darling?"

  Years of training, most probably employed to keep an unmoved, steely expression when dealing with felons, stood Wendell in good stead, except for a momentary flaring of his nostrils as he looked at Saint Just before the virtual penny, as it were, dropped, and he seemed to realize that he'd just had a very lucky escape.

  "Does anyone want to go get some coffee?" he asked in a tone that seemed hopeful that no one would. "If not, I just want to tell you that Bernie called me on my cell earlier to tell me about this Scott Imhoff fellow. The celebrity stalker? I checked him out, and it's not him. He's been in lockup for a month now." He grinned. "You'll never guess who he was after this time—our mutual friend, Holly Spivak."

  "Holly Spivak," Christine gushed, nearly going to her knees in delighted shock. "You know Holly Spivak? From Fox News? Ohmigod, Steve, why didn't you tell me you know someone famous!"

  Maggie leaned close to Saint Just. "Hear that faint chopping noise, Alex? That's me, under the knife. Chopped liver. I love people. Really. I can't imagine why I don't try to get out more, don't you?"

  Saint Just manfully repressed a smile. Maggie was such a—writer. Longing for anonymity, upset when no one knew who she was. "Then that's one suspect eliminated, left –tenant, good. However, Maggie and I intend to visit Valentino Gates and George Bryon tomorrow, simply to satisfy our own curiosity, if you were about to ask. Oh yes, and one thing more. After you left our small party earlier, we all realized that we might have found a connection between the rats and our killer."

  Maggie stepped slightly in front of Saint Just. "My story, Alex. It's true, Steve. You see, all the people who got rats also had all contributed to this one book together and—"

  "All the people who got rats are connected through a book? Bernie didn't tell me that. Well, I sort of cut her off, I guess, because I was running late, picking up Christine here. Sorry. So you found a connection. Let's hear it."

  "We don't really know much more, Wendell. There are still a few names to check on, two here in the city, and one out west."

  "Then you've got a hunch, a lead, but nothing definite yet. All right, good work, but we'll still need to concentrate on the CUNY area, if that's all right with you junior detectives—at least until we have something more definite to go on. I'll call you tomorrow morning sometime, Blakely, and get the names from you. You two want to check on Gates and Bryon, be my guest, but I'm betting they're harmless. Just run-of-the-mill flakes. But that's it, then you're out of it, agreed?"

  "Out of it?" Maggie jammed her hands on her hips. "You had spit before we figured out the connection, Steve, and don't hand me that CUNY connection again, because I'm not buying it—that's politicians thinking CYA and public relations. So don't tell us we're out of it. If Alex and I are right, I could be a target, you know. I got a rat, remember. Two of the authors left town—Alex, do you remember their names? Never mind, it's not important. What's important is that someone sent rats and now one of the someones who got one is dead and some of the someones who got rats took a hike, cutting down on the number of local targets still available to Rat Boy—and I'm one of those targets. So don't you tell me to—"

  "Maggie?" Saint Just inquired gently as she stopped talking, her finger still in the air, her mouth still open. "You've harangued yourself into an unhappy conclusion, haven't you, my dear?"

  "I'm a target," she said quietly. "Me. A target. Somebody could be wanting to kill me. Be watching me, right now. Waiting for his big chance. I don't feel so good. Alex? Let's go get Sterling and Socks and go home. And lock the doors ..."

  "If you'll excuse us?" Saint Just said, inclining his head to Wendell and Christine. "Miss Munch, it truly has been a delight. And don't worry, Wendell. I won't leave her for a moment."

  "Yeah, I already had that one figured out," Wendell said flatly. "Like I said, I'll get those names from you in the morning, of the local authors. Pay them a visit. Just keep her safe. House arrest until this is over."

  At that Maggie rallied. "House arrest? Hey, I'm not the bad guy here, damn it! It's Christmas. I've got shopping to do, a life to lead. Don't you say house arrest to me, Steven Wendell."

  Saint Just sighed. "You never knew her very well, did you, Steve?" he said kindly. "But it's not to worry. I've long since known that my mission in life is to be at Maggie's side," Saint Just said. "Miss Munch, please forgive our interruption and enjoy the remainder of your evening."

  Within five minutes Saint Just had rounded up Sterling and Socks, who had gotten to precisely the head of the line and were next up to pay for rink time. Sterling protested for a moment, bu
t then looked at Maggie, who was still rather pale. "Has something gone amiss, Saint Just?"

  "Nothing more than earlier, no, Sterling," Saint Just told his friend as they all four climbed into the cab Socks had hailed with his usual expertise. "Maggie has just belatedly realized that she may have somehow become the target of a killer. Happily, we are here to protect her."

  "Protect me, yes. But don't smother me, okay? I mean, I'm not one of those stupid women who say, oh no, I refuse to stop living my life, change my routine, when they know damn full well some depraved stalker with a machete and a hockey mask is out to kill her. I mean, I'm not stupid. But I've got Christmas staring me in the face in a couple of weeks. I've got things to do."

  "So, first on the list, my dear, would be to solve the crime, yes?"

  Maggie blinked several times, and then a slow smile lit her face. "Exactly! And did you see Steve back there? Tomorrow is soon enough for him to hear the other authors' names and just how we put it all together? Oh yeah, he's all hot to solve the case. Not! He's playing patty-cake with Christine Mun-something, that's what he's doing. Well, you know what? We're going to solve it for him."

  "Because you need something to do, because having something to do—anything to do—is better than locking yourself in your condo until the miscreant is locked in a cell."

  "You betchum, Tonto!"

  "She is woman, hear her roar," Socks piped up from the front seat. "Have I ever told you guys how much I like being a part of the gang?"

  "We have a gang?" Sterling asked, concerned. "A coterie, perhaps, but a gang? Isn't that above all things wonderful! Should we have a name? Gangs have names. I know this because Vernon and George used to belong to a group called the One-hundred-and-thirty-fifth Street Hell Warriors. Although Mary Louise told me it was purely a social club. Still, I think we should have a name."

  "Maggie's Menagerie," Maggie suggested drily, sliding across the cracked leather seat and into Saint Just as the cabbie took the turn too fast.