High Heels and Holidays mkm-5

by Kasey Michaels

  "He saw the Post."

  "Oh, sweetings, the story is not limited to the Post. I was first alerted to the fact that the media had picked up on the story as I watched the early morning news."

  "Television, too? Why? Why me? I mean, seriously, folks. This story is about Francis, and Jonathan, not me. So why do I get singled out? What did I ever do to anybody? I mind my own business. I don't cause trouble. No, I don't do anything, I don't go anywhere—"

  Sterling looked up from his task of maneuvering Brock's legs into the plaid coat. "We just got back from England, Maggie."

  "Shh, Sterling," Alex told him. "Don't interrupt her. I think she's almost done. Are you almost done, Maggie? We do need to move on now. First, would you like to hear the message your father left for you?"

  "If it was the only message on there, sure," Maggie said, looking at the rapidly blinking red message alert light. "Oh, okay, I'll do it."

  "Fine," Alex told her, heading for the door once more. "But I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me. Sterling? Please remember that you and George and Vernon are to meet me just outside the Santas for Silver headquarters at ten-thirty."

  Maggie wanted to ask Alex what was going on at ten-thirty, but he was gone before she could open her mouth, leaving her with nothing much else to do but listen to the messages. There were six:

  "Miss Kelly, this is Roseanne Miller calling, from the staff of Fox news? If you'd be so kind as to return this call, Miss Spivak would like to arrange an interview at your earliest convenience. Our number here at the studio is—"

  Maggie hit the skip button. "I don't think so, Ms. Spivak," she said, hunting for her nicotine inhaler on her desktop as Bernie woke her computer.

  "Margaret? This is your mother ..."

  "Yeah, wouldn't have known that one on my own," Maggie said, hitting skip again.

  "Margaret, Dr. Bob Chalfont here. I just saw the morning news, and I'm very concerned about you, my dear. If you feel the need to talk about this, arrange an emergency appointment, please don't hesitate to—"

  Another hit to the skip button.

  "Margaret, it's Dad. I was hoping to talk to you, pumpkin. I saw the newspapers. Are you all right? Why didn't you tell me about this? Look, I'm going to go home this morning. Well, not home, not really. But I have a friend who has a summer place on Eleventh Street he rents out and he said I could crash there—that's the term, isn't it, crash? Isn't that what bachelors do? So, don't you worry about me, I'll be fine. I'll even try to ... try to talk to your mother, see if we can't work something out. Just as soon as she apologizes. All right, I'll call Alex—he gave me his cell phone number in case I needed it. A good man, Alex. I like him, and I know he'll take care of you. And I'll call you tonight."

  "As soon as she apologizes? He's still on that? They're both nuts," Maggie said, shaking her head. "Maybe I can just send them each a nice poinsettia ..."

  "You ungrate—" Maggie hit the skip button with the speed of a frog snagging a fly in midair.

  And the last message: "Maggie, it's Bruce McCrae. Sorry to bother you. Is J.P. there with you? We had a ... we had a small disagreement this morning and I wanted to apologize, so if she shows up, will you have her call me, please? Thanks. Maggie, I saw the news, read the paper. How did they get that stuff about the dead rats? What's the matter with these cops, giving out inside information like that? Unnamed source, it says. What a crock. I can't believe Jonathan's dead, can you? And it blows our theory all to hell, too, doesn't it? Well, anyway, you're not there, obviously, so I'll hang up now. But if J.P. stops by, have her give me a call, okay? Thanks again. Stay safe."

  "Trouble in paradise?" Maggie asked J.P., who had commandeered Maggie's plastic container of M&M's from the desk. "And here I thought yours was a match made in heaven."

  "Zipper it, sunshine," J.P. said, picking through the container and taking out three blue M&M's, Maggie's favorites. "So I'm not the sweet, gullible little girl everyone thinks I am. I'm a criminal attorney, remember, and I don't take anyone at face value. I was checking up on him and, big deal, he caught me. That's all. But, hey, a girl can't be too careful these days."

  "Checking up on him? How? And don't eat the blue ones. I always save those for last."

  J.P. shrugged and picked up one more blue M&M, popped them all in her mouth. "You wouldn't want them back anyway, I already touched them. And nothing too terrible. Remember how we talked about getting people's cell phone records on-line? For a fee? I tried it with Bruce's number that first night. I don't know why, I just did. And Bruce came in and saw the printout I got back this morning before I could hide the damn thing. He'll get over it. He is over it—he just said so in that message."

  "Maggie?"

  "Not now, Faith," Maggie said, trying to ignore the fact that Felicity had come into the room wearing one towel on her head, one wrapped around her body from breast to thigh, and that's all. "And get dressed. Sterling will be back soon and you'll give the poor guy a heart attack."

  "Maggie," Felicity went on as if Maggie hadn't spoken, "I can't stay here. You don't have bottled water, you don't have a treadmill. You don't have a steam shower—Maggie, everyone has a steam shower. There isn't a single green leafy vegetable in your entire refrigerator. I can't live like this, I really can't."

  "Tough," Maggie said, turning her back on the woman. "Believe me, I don't want you here any more than you want to be here, but we're just going to have to make the best of it, that's all. Now go get some clothes on. Please."

  "Well, fine. But I'm ordering a treadmill, Maggie. And a bottled-water dispenser. And some broccoli! You can consider them all a present once I'm gone—oh, and then we're even-Steven for everything."

  "Wait—no, you can't—I don't want—oh, God. Anybody—is there a Welcome sign on my back that I can't see? And why do I let her think I'm a doormat?" Maggie said as she made her way to her desk and began hunting through the top drawer for a nicotine cartridge to slip into her holder. "If anyone knew just how bad I want a cigarette right now ..."

  "Not my drug of choice, but I know how you feel, hon," Bernie told her sympathetically. "Hey, how are you liking this, anyway?"

  "Hmm? How am I liking what?" Maggie asked, ashamed to realize how good it felt to feel the nicotine cylinder pop open inside the inhaler. She lifted it to her mouth, ready to take a long, smokeless drag of air and chemicals.

  "Bruce's book, of course," Bernie said, pointing to the computer screen. "He only gave you a draft, I see, not the finished product, but it's wonderful, isn't it? Maggie? Are you choking?"

  Maggie's attempt to hold back a startled exclamation after her initial inhale had only made things worse, and now she'd swallowed down the wrong throat, as she used to call it when she was a kid, and her eyes were tearing as she ran into the kitchen for a glass of water. A minute later she was back, wiping at her eyes with a dish towel she'd grabbed from the counter. "Did you say what I thought you said?"

  Bernie shrugged. "What did I say? You're reading Bruce's new book. I haven't read all of it yet, but if it holds up, I'd have to say it's the best thing he's ever done. He was a good six months past his deadline, you know, and I was beginning to worry. Especially since his last book didn't exactly burn up the lists. Maggie, are you sure you're all right?"

  "No, I'm not all right. I've got to think, okay? Just everybody be real quiet, and let me think. Damn it, where's Alex?"

  "The phone's ringing, sunshine," J.P. said as Maggie paced the carpet, sucking on the nicotine inhaler.

  Maggie just waved in the machine's general direction and kept walking as Steve Wendell's voice came over the speaker.

  "Maggie? I wanted you and Alex to know, I guess. We did a rush on the post, and West's wounds were not self-inflicted. The ME could tell from calluses on his hands or something that he was right-handed, and the cuts were definitely made by a left-handed person. We already knew some of that, considering there was no bloody knife or razor on the scene. Plus, he had a hell of a knot on his head. So it looks
like the same MO as Oakes—knock the guy out, then hang him up or slit his wrists, make it look like suicide, but not so much so that we wouldn't be able to figure out it was murder. Really stupid. Anyway, it sure looks like we've got a very specialized serial killer here, so stay home, okay, and don't let anyone up to the condo, even if you know them. There was no forced entry, so we're thinking West and Oakes might have known their killer. West and Oakes? Hey, sounds like a singing group, doesn't it? Okay, gotta go. You'd damn well better be in the shower, and not out running around."

  "Ah, he cares—isn't that sweet," Maggie groused, "and it's Hall and Oates that's the singing group. Duo. Whatever."

  "Bruce is left-handed ..."

  Maggie stopped in her tracks to turn and look at J.P. "What did you say? Why would you say that? You think Bruce killed them?"

  "No, of course not," J.P. said, grabbing more blue M&M's. "It was just a comment, that's all. Bruce is left-handed. Big deal. My cousin Chaz is left-handed. It doesn't mean anything."

  "But you checked on his cell phone records," Maggie prodded. Her mind was going in several different directions ... but every different thing she thought about kept coming back to Bruce McCrae.

  "I told you. A woman can't be too careful these days."

  "You went to bed with the man, Jemima!"

  "Don't call me Jemima—and I went to bed with that body. Big difference, sunshine."

  "I'll agree with that," Bernie said, having left the desk, and dipping a hand into the M&M's container on her way over to the couches. "There was this pool boy in Miami about five years ago who'd oil me every day beside the pool—and in my suite. Hmm. You want to talk about bodies—"

  "Bernie," Maggie said flatly, "don't help."

  "Okay, here I am—where's Sterling?"

  Maggie turned to look at Felicity, who was dressed now, war paint in place, and carrying a garment bag over one arm. "Sterling? He's walking your dumb mutt, who's probably constipated from all the treats you gave him last night. And then he's meeting Alex at ten-thirty. Why? And what are you all dolled-up for?"

  "My in-ter-view, Maggie, remember?" she said in a singsong voice, the kind where the you're so stupid is not actually heard but definitely implied. "A new cable show, Noreen At Noon, except we're taping at two for tomorrow's show. Still, I need to be there early, to make sure everything is running smoothly. Well, if Sterling can't take me, how will I be able to go? Everybody says I can't be alone. Maggie, you'll have to go with me."

  "And you'll want me to carry your garment bag and open doors for you, right? Maybe run off and get you a sparkling water to ease your parched throat? Sure, like that's going to happen."

  Bernie stood up, raising her hand. "Your intrepid publisher to the rescue, Felicity. I've got my driver waiting downstairs. You'll be safe with him."

  Felicity pouted. "You won't go with me?"

  "We're a little busy here, Felicity," Bernie told her as, behind Felicity's back, Maggie frantically mouthed the word no over and over again as she shook her head. "Just go down there and tell Clyde where you need to go."

  "Your chauffeur's name is Clyde?" Maggie said after Felicity wafted out of the condo on a nearly visible flying carpet of expensive scent.

  "No, but I can't remember it, so now he's Clyde. Since they come and go so fast, I figure, from now on, they're all going to be Clyde. Hey, I tip well. Oh, and José quit to take a job as a roadie for some rock group, because I know you're going to ask—he said the fringe benefits were better. Now, why couldn't I go with Felicity? Not that I wanted to, you understand."

  "I'm not sure. I'm not through thinking yet."

  "Well, could you give us a clue about what it is you're not through thinking about yet?"

  Maggie narrowed her eyes at J.P., considering the question. "No, I don't think I should. I think I should wait for Alex. Not Steve, not until I talk to Alex because then Steve would know that Alex had—well, I can't think about that part yet." She wheeled about to look at Bernie. "The manuscript, when did Bruce give it to you?"

  Bernie frowned. "Why?"

  "Bernie, work with me here—please," Maggie said, putting her hands together in a begging gesture.

  Bernie looked at J.P. and said, "Oh boy, I haven't heard her sound this desperate since the night she wanted me to include her on my invitation to go backstage at Spamalot. Okay, Maggie, okay, I'm thinking—ten days ago? Two weeks? My assistant had to have logged it in, if you really need to know exactly. I was busy on something else—like getting ready to go to England with you to pick up a little bubonic plague—and let it sit until the other day. But that's probably close to the timeline. I know you authors think we're supposed to read something the moment it comes in—even if it comes in eight months late—but that's not how it works, and you know that, too. But Bruce has been bugging me by e-mail every damn day, so I started it and called him just before we left for England and told him that at least for the first fifty pages it was pretty damn good, and I'd get back to him when I was finished reading. Which I haven't done yet. Now tell me why you need to know this."

  Well, that wasn't making any sense. "So the manuscript was in your office before even Francis was murdered, let alone Jonathan? And you told him you liked it so far, also before Francis and Jonathan were killed."

  "Yes, I think I already heard something like that somewhere. And you need to know this why?"

  Maggie put out her hands, waved off the question. "God, I wish Alex was here—not that I'd ever tell him that, because he'd never let me forget it. But I think—yes, I'm pretty sure I'm heading in the right direction. You have to do me a favor, Bernie. No, two favors, okay? One, do what I'm going to ask you to do—and two, don't ask me why I'm asking you to do it." She took a deep breath and said the words quickly as she exhaled: "I need you to call Bruce and tell him his manuscript stinks. And that's just for starters ..."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  "I'm so sorry, Saint Just," Sterling said, breathlessly skidding to a halt on the sidewalk near the headquarters of Santas for Silver. "Brock was proving most uncooperative and all of that, and I barely had time to leave him with Socks before I donned my Father Christmas suit and met George and Vernon at the corner. I believe Socks requires a bit of remuneration, by the way. At least he was holding his hand out to me, palm up, as I raced by him."

  "Not a problem, Sterling," Saint Just told him, nodding greetings to the Merry Men. "George, how nice of you to carry Sterling's chimney for him."

  "Uh-huh. You said you wouldn't need us for very long today, Alex. Is that true? These costumes rent by the day, you know, so if we can get them back before one o'clock that would be solid."

  "Right," Vernon echoed, looking past Saint Just to the two very large gentlemen standing about ten feet behind him. "Hey, I think I know one of those guys. Wow, that's Tony Three Cases. Geo, you know who I mean. Tony Three Cases. Right over there—look. No, don't look! Oh, okay, look, but don't make it obvious. He walked away with three whole big cases of cigarette cartons from that trailer a bunch of guys boosted in Queens a few years back. Wouldn't drop the cases and run, even when he heard the sirens. Just kept his cool, kept on moving down the sidewalk carrying these three big cases, and the dumb cops figured he had to be legit and just drove right past him." Vernon reverently lowered his voice. "Tony Three Cases. He's a legend, Georgie-boy. We're in the presence of a freaking legend."

  Saint Just smiled in genuine amusement. "You are such an endless fountain of delightful information, Vernon," he said. "However, for today, I'm afraid you must also reconcile yourself to forgetting that you've seen the gentleman and his friend."

  Vernon looked ready to weep. "But ... but I was going to ask for his autograph."

  "Saint Just? You look quite serious. Is something amiss? Why did you want to meet with us here? And who are those two men?"

  "No one for you to concern yourself about, Sterling. You do trust me, don't you?"

  Sterling drew himself up very straight. "I'm insulted that yo
u would even broach such a question to me, Saint Just. Of course I trust you."

  "Ah, splendid. In that case, what I need you to do is to come inside Santas for Silver headquarters with me—you, too, boys—and stand flanking Sterling a few feet inside the front door while I conduct some business with Mr. Goodfellow."

  "Business? I don't—"

  "Shhh, Sterling, I'm not quite finished. While you three are standing there, looking just as splendidly festive as you do now, my other friends will stand behind you looking, er, looking as festive as they know how to look, I suppose. Mr. Goodfellow and I will adjourn to his office for a few minutes, no longer than a few minutes, I'm sure, and then we will be on our way again, everyone back to their own individual pursuits. Is that clear?"

  "No, Saint Just, it most certainly is not. But I've learned not to question you. There's something unpleasant afoot, though, isn't there? Something with Mr. Goodfellow ... something with Santas for Silver. Oh, Saint Just, please don't tell me he's decided to terminate my association with Santas for Silver because of that ruined costume! I've offered to pay for it, I really did, and—"

  "This has nothing to do with your costume, Sterling," Saint Just told him, and then shook his head. He was so new at this—this thinking more of others than he did of himself, the investigation of the moment, the pleasures of the moment. All this evolving, this business of becoming more real, more attuned to the emotions of others? Being mortal wasn't easy. Worth every problem, absolutely—but never easy. "Must I tell you the truth, my friend? I will, if you insist."

  "No, of course not, Saint Just. I've never questioned you before, have I?"

  "We're both expanding our horizons, the parameters Maggie set for us, aren't we? Yes, well, another discussion for another time. Are you ready?"

  "At all times, Saint Just," Sterling said, adjusting his beard, which had begun to sag slightly. "Lead on, MacDuff!"

  Saint Just longed to grab his friend's head, remove the red velvet cap and wig, and plant a kiss on the fellow's balding pate. "The entire quote, Sterling, is 'Lay on, MacDuff, and damn'd be him that first cries, Hold, enough!' and has to do with Macbeth's last words, shouted out as he challenged MacDuff to a fight to the death. I hardly think the quote fits the occasion, but I know the sentiment is there."