High Heels and Holidays mkm-5

by Kasey Michaels

  Maggie glared at Alex, who had the decency to shrug his shoulders in an apologetic way before she followed Felicity Boobs Simmons into the large, marble-tiled foyer with at least a fifteen-foot ceiling and a crystal chandelier that could have played the stunt double in Phantom of the Opera. A huge round table sat in the middle of the foyer, a two-foot-high vase on top of it, loaded with a fresh flower arrangement that had to stand another three feet high. "Wow, Faith, this is really ... something."

  The foyer opened into an enormous living room, salon, saloon—whatever it was, it was freaking big, and decked out in gold and white and—good God—pink, and in the style of Louis XIV or XVI, or one of those Louis. Heavy silk draperies slathered all over twenty-foot-high windows, puddling on plush white carpeted floors. A white fake Christmas tree decorated all in pink and silver that nearly reached that ceiling was backed by the wide, curving marble staircase that led to an exposed balcony and the second floor of the unit (she had a second floor!). The tree was lit with a million small fairy lights. Revolving. It probably even snowed on itself.

  "Check around, Alex," Maggie said as Faith made herself comfortable on a white-on-white silk brocade couch that could probably comfortably seat thirty-two people. "She may have stashed Marie Antoinette here somewhere."

  "Maggie? Are you just going to stand there? You've seen fine furnishings before, surely?"

  "You can take the snark out of Brooklyn Heights, but you can't take the snark out of the woman, or something like that. You know what I mean," Maggie said to Alex out of the corner of her mouth as she smiled at Faith, then spread her arms as if to encompass the entire room. "Why do I feel this sudden hunger for cotton candy?"

  Felicity's tinkling laugh affected Maggie like knuckles on a cheese grater—meaning the sound wasn't so bad, but it was still damn painful. "I'll take that as a compliment, Maggie. It is delicious here, isn't it?"

  "Oh, yeah. Delicious. Who's that over the fireplace?" Maggie asked, gawking at the life-size painting. "The guy leering over the nursing-mother redhead."

  "Derek Whitehead, of course, modeling for my latest cover. I don't know the female model's name—they're so interchangeable, aren't they. That's the original art. I have all my covers in oils—the rest are back there, in my suite of offices; I'll show them to you later. I plan to always have the current cover above the fireplace. So you like it? Oh, I know you're positively salivating, aren't you! I won't tell you what I paid for the place, but if you thought five million you'd be thinking much too small. But what do I labor so hard for, if not to allow myself a few creature comforts?"

  "A warm bath and fuzzy slippers are creature comforts, Faith. Chicken noodle soup and bread and butter with sugar on it are creature comforts. Just call this place what it is, okay? You, showing off."

  "Yes, I am, aren't I?" Faith said, giggling again. "I can afford to."

  "Three weeks, wasn't it?"

  Maggie's allusion to the staying power of Felicity's latest hardback on the NYT finally took the smile from the woman's face.

  "You were mean, Maggie. Suggesting that Bernie has found someone to replace me. Oh, yes, I knew what you were doing. You know, you may have saved my life at the last We Are Romance convention, and I'm grateful, but there is a limit to what I should be forced to endure from you. I was never anything but a loyal friend."

  "Yeah, sure you were. Right up until the minute you forgot to invite me to your cocktail party at WAR because you wanted it limited only to your fellow NYT authors. The year before that conference, Faith, you and I roomed together and shared doggie bags we'd brought back from the Toland Books dinner, because we were so short of cash. Remember those days, Faith?"

  Felicity waved away the question as she smiled over at Alex, who had been admiring a bust of some Greek goddess and doing the typical man thing of ignoring two women who were obviously indulging in a distasteful cat-fight. "I'm dying to hear your opinion of my new home, Alex. You English have such exemplary taste."

  "It's quite you, Felicity," Alex said, and Maggie bit back a giggle of her own, because she knew a dig when she heard one—which Felicity did not.

  "Oh, thank you, Alex," Felicity trilled. "Ah, and here comes Trixie, my assistant. Honestly, I don't know how I'd exist without her. You understand, don't you, Maggie? I mean, how does one possibly answer all one's fan mail without an assistant? All those requests for bookmarks, autographed photographs. Oh, and Trixie arranges my speaking schedule, of course—just a million things I couldn't possibly have time for if I wanted to continue writing my books, pleasing my fans. Trixie, come here, dear. I want to introduce you to my good friends and you can then get them whatever they want to drink." She eyed Maggie up and down. "Diet soda, Maggie?"

  Fun was fun, and all of that, but it was time to shut Faith up, damn it. "Francis Oakes is dead and so is Jonathan West and they both got dead rats in the mail and threatening poems and we've figured out that somebody is after all the authors who contributed to No Secret Anymore —some weird serial killer with his own reasons that nobody understands because we were figuring someone was out to avenge Jonathan, not kill him—so we know you got a dead rat, too, and your life could be in danger and ... well, and Alex here figured you should know and take precautions."

  Felicity's carefully painted mouth had dropped open somewhere around some weird serial killer. "What are you talking about? That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard, Maggie Kelly, and you just said it to frighten me. Shame on you!"

  "I did not!"

  "Oh yes you did. I know you, Maggie. You're mean. And to say that I received a dead rat in the mail? That's ludicrous. You might get one, I can see that. But my fans would never do such a thing. None of my readers would ever send me a dead rat."

  "No, only your friends," Maggie said with a grin.

  "That's it, Maggie, mock me. But I know my fans. They love me. They send me afghans they've knitted for me. They send me homemade cookies, needlepoint bookmarks—Fruit of the Month!"

  Maggie snapped her fingers as she turned to point a finger at Alex. "That's it. I can get Tate a year's worth of Fruit of the Month Club stuff. Smother him in grapefruit. Barrage him with Bartlett pears. Drive him crazy with boxes of ... of kumquats."

  "Maggie, dear, your mind is wandering," Alex pointed out as he polished his quizzing glass with a fine linen square of cloth.

  "Oh yeah, right," she said, turning back to Felicity once more. "You had to have gotten a dead rat, Faith, everybody else did. Okay, not Kimberly D'Amico, but she lives in Missouri and we think they ran out of postage—"

  "Or rats," Alex supplied helpfully, holding up his quizzing glass now as he examined a bit of jade in the form of a butterfly.

  "Right, or rats. Something. But everyone else got dead rats and poems. Everyone who lives in this area got a dead rat, and now two of those people are dead. Murdered. You got one, Faith, so don't lie and say you didn't and try to blow our theory."

  "The hell with your theory. I did not get a dead rat, Maggie Kelly."

  "You did so."

  "Did not!

  "Did too!"

  "Did not!"

  "Did—"

  "Ladies, ladies, please. Miss—Trixie, is it? Pardon me for saying so, but you seem a bit uncomfortable. Is there by any chance something you'd like to say?"

  Maggie turned her attention to the rather mousy young woman who was one of those people who seemed capable of becoming invisible. "Yeah, she doesn't open her own mail, does she? Trixie? Did Faith get a rat?"

  "Uh. Um. Ms. Felicity? I'm afraid you did, ma'am. One day last week, I really don't remember the exact day. It was disgusting, ma'am, and I threw it down the chute the moment I saw what it was. If there was a poem, I didn't see it. I only saw the rat. I ... I'm sorry."

  When Felicity just sat there on her lovely white brocade couch, both manicured hands to her silicone-enhanced breasts, her BOTOX-plumped lips moving soundlessly, Maggie looked at Alex and asked, "Okay, now what?"

  "In a moment,
Maggie. There are those who were not born with your admirable resilience," Alex said, walking unerringly to a large armoire that, when he opened the upper doors, revealed a mirrored bar. He poured both Felicity and the assistant glasses of wine and pressed them into their hands before asking of Trixie: "What do you remember of the package, my dear? Most, I'm afraid, have been destroyed, and although we doubt the perpertrator was kind enough to include a return address, I would like to hear just what you remember about what you saw. Do you think you can do that?"

  "Thank you." Trixie drank down half of the wine, then nodded furiously. "It was ... it was just one of those bags, you know? From the post office? I'm sorry, but I don't remember a return address. I could feel that there was a box or something inside the package, something the size of a shoe box, I thought, and when I pulled it out, it was gift-wrapped, so I opened it and—"

  "It was gift-wrapped? Alex, you didn't mention that before. Was my rat gift-wrapped?" Maggie asked.

  Alex shook his head. "No, my dear, it was not."

  "Ha!" Felicity exclaimed in triumph, lifting her glass in a salute, as if she'd just won some sort of contest.

  "You're pathetic," Maggie told her, shaking her head. "And so am I. We've got two murdered writers, Faith, and you or I could be the next target."

  "Maggie's correct, Felicity, and charming as I believe Trixie here to be, I would not feel comfortable allowing you two ladies to remain here, or for Trixie to remain here with you gone. She could become an accidental victim of the person or persons looking for you."

  Trixie finished off her wine in one long gulp, some color finally in her pale cheeks. "Okay, folks! That's it, that's all I've been waiting for—a good excuse. Felicity? You are the worst boss in the history of lousy bosses, the pay stinks, and you can consider this my two weeks' notice in full. Oh, and the next time you want someone to paint your toenails, pinkie, spring for a fucking pedicure. I'm out of here!"

  "I ... well ..." Felicity smiled weakly up at Alex. "Not to sound trite, but good help is so hard to find, isn't it?"

  "How many assistants does that make, Faith? You probably go through at least two a month. You know, just in case the concierge and doormen are running a pool I might want to get into."

  Felicity got to her feet. "That's none of your business, And now that you've lost me an assistant and frightened me half out of my mind, why don't you just leave. And don't worry about the housewarming gift. I'd just throw that down the chute, too!" She collapsed back onto the couch, her chin quivering. "If I knew where it was."

  Maggie looked at Alex, who was returning her look levelly. "What? You're blaming me for this? I wasn't the one who wanted to come here, remember? She makes my teeth hurt, Alex, and you know that. Ever since she dropped me—

  "Like a hot rock after she'd found success and you were still struggling to survive and, so that you don't feel the need to remind me, after the two of you had made a pact that whichever of you became successful first would help the other one. Yes, I remember. But that does not negate the fact that she, too, is a potential victim."

  "Yes, I know that. I'm not stupid. She has to get out of here, go somewhere until the killer is caught."

  "Did you hear that, Felicity?" Alex said, sitting down beside the woman and taking one of her hands in his. "You can't stay here, my dear."

  "Yeah. Right. You can't stay here, Faith."

  "Which is why you'll be moving in with Maggie for the duration."

  "Yeah, which is why you'll—what! Oh no. No, no, no, no!"

  "Maggie, it's only common sense. It will be much easier to protect you ladies if you're both in the same place. Unless you'd want to move in here?"

  Maggie looked around at Faith's palace, which more and more reminded her of a cross between Barbie's Dream House and Madonna's Material Girl phase. "Nope, not happening, Alex. She gets to go slumming in my guest bedroom. I'll move the flamingo in there so she feels more at home, but I'm not coming here. So that's it, Faith. Get up, get moving. Pack your toothbrush and let's go before I change my mind and leave you here."

  Felicity was dabbing at her eyes—very carefully—with Alex's handkerchief. "Thank ... thank you, Maggie. I ... I could go to a hotel, I suppose?"

  Maggie was beginning to feel guilty, damn it. "You can't just stay locked up in a hotel room. No, it's better if you move in with me. Alex and Sterling will be right across the hall, and Steve might want to talk to you. It's just better this way. Not great, but better."

  Felicity got to her feet. "All right. But I have to pack. Oh, and see if you can find Brock."

  "Brock? What's a Brock?"

  "My dog, Maggie. I named him after the hero in my last book. He's very shy, and is always hiding somewhere when he hears voices other than mine. Check in the kitchen, will you? He likes to hide behind the bottled-water holder. You do have one, don't you? A bottled-water holder? I only drink bottled water. Toxins, you understand—hell on the complexion. Well, never mind, I'll have Trixie—that is, I'll order some delivered. Oh, and don't forget to pack Brock's food and his dishes. And his toys. And his eyedrops—I think Trixie keeps them in the cabinet beside the Sub-Zero. And his bed—how could I forget his little bed? You should see it, Maggie. It looks like real zebra fur. That's upstairs, in my suite. I'll take care of that."

  As Felicity spoke, she was climbing the staircase to the upper floor, her last words issued as she leaned over the balcony, then turned, opened a pair of gold-trimmed double doors, and disappeared.

  "One day, Alex Blakely, you will pay for this," Maggie told him as she stomped in the direction, hopefully, of the kitchen. "You won't know when, you won't know how—but you will pay for this. Brock. Who names a dog Brock? And what are Wellington and Napoleon going to say, huh? A dog, Alex. Poor babies, they'll be frightened out of their minds. Wow, granite countertops, cool. And an island. I've always wanted an island. Brock? Here, Brock. Where are you, Brock? Wanna go bye-bye, Brock? Oh, my God, that's Brock?"

  It was small, smaller than Napper. Tan. With eyes so big they looked as if they might pop out onto the floor if someone touched them. With ears bigger than its entire head.

  "I think it's a Chihuahua," Maggie said, inching closer, bent nearly in half, her hands on her knees. "Hello, Brock. Aren't you a sweetie, huh?"

  The dog immediately piddled on the tumbled sandstone tile floor, and then sat in his mess.

  "Oh, this is going to be fun," Maggie said as Alex chuckled behind her.

  "With luck, my dear, it will only be for a few days."

  "I'll hold you to that, Alex. Now let's find all Brock's stuff and get out of here."

  Except that, thirty minutes later, Felicity had still not reappeared downstairs, so that Maggie had to go on the hunt for her while Brock and Alex waited.

  Maggie poked her head into the suite, as Felicity had called it, trying hard not to notice the king-size bed, with its canopy, the whole thing propped on a dais, no less.

  "Faith? Come on, what's keeping you, I want to get—what in hell are you doing? We're not going to Europe for a month, you don't need all of this."

  "Yes, Maggie, I do. I've got a television interview tomorrow afternoon—you'll arrange transport for me, won't you? I need to take at least two outfits, just in case the interviewer wears something the same color, or in a similar style. But you know that, don't you? No, of course you don't. I saw you on the Today show, you know. You and Katie both wearing red? Good planning would have avoided that."

  Maggie was biting on the inside of her cheeks now, as Felicity ducked back into the bathroom—Maggie could see part of it, and she was pretty sure the ladies' room at Grand Central Station was smaller.

  Felicity reappeared again, this time carrying two toiletry bags, and with a large canvas bag with the words Gold's Gym printed on the side slung over her shoulder. "My workout necessities. You have a treadmill, of course. I'll miss my elliptical, but I understand we have to make some small sacrifices at a time like this."

  "I don't have a
treadmill, Faith."

  "Don't be silly, of course you do. Everyone owns a treadmill. Look around, you've probably piled it high with dirty clothes and just can't find it. Then again, that probably explains why you look a little ... chubby?"

  "I am not chubby," Maggie gritted out from between painfully clenched teeth. "I quit smoking, and my metabolism is adjusting, that's all."

  Felicity smiled. "My mistake. All right, I think that's it. Ready?"

  Maggie looked at the five suitcases on the floor. "Sure. And, hey, just to show I'm not a poor sport about this, I'll help carry this stuff for you. I'll take some, and you and our helpful Alex can carry the rest, okay?"

  She picked up one of the small toiletry bags and left the room, swinging it in her hand like Little Red Riding Hood on her way to Grandma's house, and smiling for the first time since Alex had come home with the news about Jonathan West.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Saint Just had been pleased to receive the call from Salvatore Campiano and the excuse to distance himself from females for a space, as dangling constantly at women's shoe tops was proving tedious. Even Maggie was proving tedious, in her own inimitably adorable way, and it was time for the company of men.

  He had not as yet had time to examine the contents of the computer disk he'd found in Jonathan West's apartment, but that could wait until later. With Maggie's desk and computer situated in her living room, it would be better if Felicity had retired for the evening before he showed his small prize to Maggie.

  He was also delaying the inevitable argument he would get from her about tiresome things like tampering with a crime scene, absconding with evidence, and being a general trial to her. That would take at least twenty minutes, but then she would agree that it might be interesting to see what the disk contained. In other words, she was just as bad as he was—only she felt this need to at least pretend to feel guilty about it all, while he labored under no such sensibilities.