Sterling frowned. "It's not lead on, MacDuff? Well, now, why did I think it was, I wonder."
"I believe, Sterling, that is because Maggie says lead. It is my conclusion that it's an American corruption of the immortal bard's words. This is, after all, a country that spells light 'l-i-t-e.' " Saint Just halted just at the edge of the large window that made up the front of Santas for Silver, and peeked inside. "Ah, and here we are, and there is Mr. Goodfellow, not in his office, but being extremely friendly with Miss McDermont. How convenient. Come along now please, gentlemen—you all know what you are to do."
"Not really, Saint Just," Sterling pointed out as Tony held open the door for them and Gino remained on the sidewalk, glaring at passersby until everyone was safely inside the building, before joining them. They were, as Saint Just felt sure Maggie would term them, goons, but they were very well-trained goons.
He and Tony did have a small conversation before Sterling had arrived, one that had to do with the way Saint Just had "made us look bad to Mr. Campiano," and Saint Just had offered his profound apologies before inviting both men to "take another turn at him" if they so desired—get some of their own back, as it were. "I had the element of surprise riding with me, gentlemen, but I am convinced I could not be so successful again."
Tony had declined Saint Just's invitation, if Saint Just would only tell him where he had procured the sword cane, because he was fairly certain he'd look good carrying one himself, to which Saint Just had agreed that the bodyguard would look fine as ninepence ... to which Tony had said, looking at Gino, "Hear that? Ninepence? Didn't I tell you he's one of them aliens?"
Smiling at the recent memory, and still faintly puzzled as to why he'd offered to teach Tony how to use the sword stick to its best advantage, Saint Just assured himself that his cast of characters was in place behind him before he lightly tapped his cane on the floor and politely cleared his throat.
Marjorie McDermont reacted first, pushing away from Goodfellow with some alacrity and pulling down her tight black sweater. "Thank ... um ... thank you, sir. I believe the eyelash is out of my eye now," she said, and then, her eyes wide as she looked at Tony and Gino, she bent down to pick up her purse. "I think I'll go down to the corner to get some coffee."
She brushed past Saint Just, turning only in time for him to see that her mascaraed eyes were not only wide with fright but also wise in the ways of the denizens of the street. "I didn't see nothin'," she whispered to him as she went. Ah, yes, Tony and Gino had been a masterstroke of inspiration, at least now that Maggie had impressed upon him the need for him to avoid violence whenever possible. Violence nosed out most everything else in many cases, but a bit of carefully constructed deviousness ran a close second.
"What's going on here?" Goodfellow asked, his gaze also concentrated on the inestimable Tony and Gino as he slowly backed toward the door to his office. "I don't want any trouble here."
"Trouble? Indeed, no, who would, Mr. Goodfellow? Although I will say that you are in a bit of a pickle," Saint Just said blandly as he advanced on the man, watching Goodfellow's hands that, happily, remained at his sides. "A word or two, that is all I require. Shall we retire to your inner sanctum?"
"Huh? I remember you now. I'm not going anywhere with you. Nowhere I can't see them, anyway. What do you want?"
"Saint Just?"
"Not now, Sterling, if you please," Saint Just said, stepping closer to Goodfellow and keeping his voice low. He would have enjoyed playing with the fellow, but Sterling appeared to be getting restless. "Let's endeavor to do this as quickly and as painlessly as possible, Mr. Goodfellow. It has come to my attention, sadly, that you are not a nice man, sir. Nor are you honest, or concerned about the plight of widows, orphans, and the like. My friend Sterling Balder, however, is concerned. A good heart, that's what Mr. Sterling Balder possesses. A good and a pure heart."
Goodfellow sneered, at least until he remembered who else was in the room. "Yeah? So?"
Saint Just smiled. "Ah, you're listening. Good. But do lower your voice, we're having an intimate conversation here, remember? As to your question, I will say—so, my good man, in order not to disillusion my friend, rob him of his enjoyment of the generous, giving spirit of the season, I have decided two things. Would you like to know what those two things might be, Mr. Goodfellow? Or should I say Mr. Dill?"
"Yeah, yeah, I figured that one out. You know who I am. You're here to rob me, aren't you? You don't just want protection money—you want it all."
"Protection money? I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with the term. I was just saying something on this head to my companions, as a matter of fact. You Americans certainly do put your own delightful spins on the King's English, don't you? None of which really matters, my good sir, as you were correct with your second assumption. Yes, Mr. Dill, I want all of your money. After some consideration, I've decided that felons of your ilk would disdain banks, wishing to keep your ill-gotten gains close to you. I want you to go into your office now, gather it all up, every last bent penny you've accumulated in your nefarious and dishonorable scheme, and I want you to hand it all over to Mr. Balder and his four friends here, who will then donate it all to the charity of Mr. Balder's choice. I believe he holds a particular affection to something called Toys for Tots. And then, Mr. Dill, I want one more thing. I would appreciate it very much if both you and Santas for Silver were to disappear."
"Or?" Dill asked, looking very much as if he might soon become quite sick to his stomach. "Those are Campiano's guys standing over there, aren't they?"
"In point of fact, at the moment, sir, they are mine, on loan from their employer, you might say, so I suggest you give a valiant attempt to tear your pitifully terrified gaze away from them and lend me all of your attention."
"I heard you. You want me to believe that you want the money for that nimrod over there."
"Another word with which I am not familiar, but I do believe you've just insulted my good friend. You do this, I imagine, Mr. Dill, as you believe I possess no limits to my patience. I feel it only fair to inform you that you'd be incorrect in that assumption."
"Okay, okay, I've got it. I know when I'm screwed. A ... a lot of it is still in coin ... everything comes here every night, and I've just been sorting it and keeping it all piled up back there. But there's a lot, and it's pretty heavy."
"Really? Never fear, Mr. Dill, although your concern is gratifying. I have it on good authority that one of my associates, Anthony by name, is quite capable of carrying bulky, ungainly weights."
Donny Dill took one last peek over Saint Just's shoulder, then seemed to attempt to hide himself behind Saint Just. "I was right. Tony Three Cases. Christ. Look, how about I cut you guys in. Fifty-fifty. No—sixty-forty. I'm not a greedy man. Come on, what do you say? Seventy-thirty?"
"I suggest you sit down, Mr. Dill. Use Miss McDermont's chair, why don't you. I don't believe that astute lady will be returning any time soon."
"Sit ... sit down?"
Saint Just sighed. "You are a rather tedious fellow, aren't you? Yes, sit down. Smile. And then inform Mr. Balder that you have been called to the national headquarters of Santas for Silver—shall we say in Seattle?—and therefore you sadly must of necessity immediately cease operations here in New York."
"That's where you're sending me? Seattle?"
"No, Mr. Dill. Where you go when you leave here is of extreme unimportance to me. I simply desire you gone, although I do dare to suggest that a warmer climate may put some color back in your cheeks. Now, to continue if I might? As you must by necessity depart in an hour, you are turning all responsibility for the collected funds over to the eminently trustworthy Mr. Balder, with the impassioned hope that he deliver those funds to his favorite charity, as Santas for Silver may be disbanding. Are we clear, Mr. Dill?"
Dill, who was now sitting behind the desk—Saint Just could not help but smile as he heard the man's shaking knees making repeated contact with the wood—merely nodded before saying out of t
he corner of his mouth, "You really won't kill me?"
"And ruin such a lovely day? Certainly not. It is, after all, the Christmas season. Now, are we agreed?"
Donny Dill, at last seeming to believe that he had made a lucky escape, nodded furiously.
"I had so hoped you'd understand. And I also hope you will take some time, Mr. Dill, to consider what has transpired here and perhaps mend your ways, redirect your feet onto the straight and narrow."
"Uh-huh, yeah. Sure. Can we hurry this up? I ... I gotta go to the bathroom ..."
It was with a smile on his face and a spring to his step that Saint Just returned to the condo an hour later, lightly tipping his hat to Socks as he approached the door the man held open for him. "Ah, Socks, what a splendid day. Maggie's upstairs?"
"Yup, and all by herself, too, now that the delivery guys left."
"You're going to explain that statement, correct?"
"Sure. Ms. Simmons had a treadmill sent over, and one of those bottled-water dispensers. Maggie tried to tell the guys no, but the stuff's up there now. Money sure gets you service faster than no money does, huh? Maggie's not too happy, so I wouldn't go up there now, if I were you. Oh, and Ms. Simmons is still out, Ms. Toland-James has taken a cab to her offices because Ms. Simmons has the limo, and the damn dog is right inside here, tied to my stool. Sterling told me not to take him back to Maggie until he'd done his business, which he did about ten minutes ago, on my shoe. You'll take him back upstairs for me?"
Saint Just considered this for the space of two seconds. "No." He then handed Socks a twenty-dollar bill, promised him another if Brock was still in one piece when Miss Simmons returned to collect him, and headed upstairs to Maggie's condo ... to come face-to-face with an agitated Maggie.
"Look at this. Look at this. I've got a damn hulking, ugly treadmill in my living room."
Saint Just walked across the room to inspect the machine. "Yes, I see that. Well, my dear, you were just speaking of this corner recently, as I recall it, saying you still had done nothing about finding something to fill it."
"Oh yeah, right. And that's just the perfect thing, too. Much classier than a lighted curio cabinet, or that painted chest we saw a couple of weeks ago. But it's missing something, don't you think? Maybe I should toss a sweaty, smelly towel over it. The perfect accessory." Maggie flopped down on the couch. "I still don't believe it. She says something not two hours ago, and bam, here come these guys with that ... that thing. Unpacked it, set it up, took everything away with them—I ended up tipping them fifty bucks, which shows you how stupid I am. Ten minutes later, here comes this guy with the bottled-water dispenser. It's in the kitchen, if you want to look at it. Actually, that was a pretty good idea. I signed a two-year contract. Not that I'll be here to drink the water—not once Faith comes back and I strangle her."
"You didn't have to accept either delivery, you know," Saint Just pointed out, pouring himself a glass of wine. For a man of his era, water had never been a viable option, most especially in London, but he would have to try this bottled water at some point. Just not right now.
"I know I didn't have to take the stuff, Alex," Maggie said, leaning back against the couch cushions, to run her hands down her belly. "But Faith looks pretty good, you know, and I really probably should exercise, especially now that I'm not smoking anymore. I mean, can you see me at some gym? The only people you see at gyms are those people who don't need gyms, and I'm a good ten—eight pounds from going to a gym. So I guess I'll keep it—but not in here. Oh, and it folds up, so that's good. You and Sterling can help me move it to the guest bedroom once Faith is gone, okay?"
Saint Just nodded, then asked, "Certainly, but why didn't you simply have the deliverymen assemble it there?"
Maggie rolled her eyes. "Are you kidding? Faith has five suitcases open in that room. Clothes everywhere. Stuff, everywhere. She was always like that. We'd go to conferences together and she'd sprawl out all over the room. Her shoes, her clothes, her toiletries. I had about enough space for my toothbrush and a lipstick in the bathroom. Oh, and she used all the towels. And then there was the bath powder. Everywhere. Clouds of bath powder."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but it would seem that you should have been relieved when you two no longer shared your accommodations."
"I know," Maggie said, her head down. "But we had fun, Alex, we really did. There's a lot to be said for being poor together, struggling together. Then she hit the lists and got all weird." She looked up at him. "I'm not all weird, am I? I love being on the lists, but I don't ever want to get all weird."
Saint Just patted her head as he walked behind the couch, then sat down on the facing couch. "Confident. I would be gratified if you could believe more in yourself and your talent, my dear. Other than that, I wouldn't change a hair on your head."
Maggie smiled sheepishly. "Thanks, Alex," she said, sitting up straighter. "So you like me, right?"
"Correct," he said slowly.
"And you respect my opinion."
"Certainly. In all things." He took another sip of wine, wondering when she'd get to the point.
"So if I told you I did something, you'd be all right with that? Even if I didn't run it by you first?"
He thought of his earlier interlude with Mr. Donny Dill. "You are under no obligation to consult with me on every small thing, my dear."
"Right. But this isn't a small thing. I think Bruce McCrae killed Francis and Jonathan."
Saint Just did his best to not react. "Really. And may I ask how you came to hold this opinion?"
"Well, I don't really hold it. I'm thinking it. Except when I'm thinking I'm completely off-base. We need everything to fit, right, and not everything fits. I mean, some does, but some doesn't. Still ... I did something. Had Bernie do something. Not that I told Steve what I did, because you'd just end up in jail, and that can't be a good thing, right? So we have to find another way to prove what I think I know ... if I'm right."
Perhaps he'd like more wine. Yes, probably so. Saint Just got to his feet and made his way across the room to the drinks table. "Would you care to elaborate on what you've just said? Or, even better, start at the beginning and tell me exactly what you've thought ... and what you've done?"
"Okay, sure. Here's how it went down. Bernie was sitting at the computer, touching things the way she does, and she saw Jonathan's manuscript up on the screen. Only she thought it was Bruce's manuscript. Bruce's manuscript, Alex, not Jonathan's. Even though you found it hidden in Jonathan's apartment."
"Yes, my dear, I believe I'm following you," Saint Just said, retaking his seat. "But while I'm still digesting this, do go on."
Maggie stood up, sat down again with one leg tucked up under her, obviously near to bursting with what she had to tell him and unable to sit still. "Here's where it gets really interesting. I didn't tell Bernie what I thought, of course—oh, or J.P., because she was here, too—I'll get to that part. And I forgot to tell you what Steve said when he called, didn't I? Damn, Alex. I've got so much going on. Dad—oh, he called, he's back safe and settling into his friend's apartment. And the phone finally stopped ringing, so that's good. Well, not all good, because I'm hoping Bruce calls—except I wanted you to be here when he did. So I was almost glad to have all those delivery guys coming in and out—so I wasn't alone, you know?—because you weren't around and I really, really needed to talk to you—"
"Maggie, dearest, take a deep breath. I don't think I've ever seen you this agitated."
"Well, I am. If I'm right, I've had a killer right here, in my own home. If I'm not, I could have broken up J.P. and a wonderful guy. If I'm right, we won't have to worry anymore and Faith and Brock the Wonder Kidneys can go home—that's big on the I-hope-I'm-right side, let me tell you! But if I'm wrong, then I may have sullied someone's character, not to mention his career. But if I'm right—"
"Maggie. This is so unlike you."
"No kidding. But it's not every day I try to unmask a murderer who may or may not have
considered me for his next victim. Well, maybe not, not lately—but you know what I mean. I know Bruce. This is just so much more personal. You know?"
"I do, indeed. Now, from the beginning?"
It took some time, but he finally understood what she'd done. Without telling Bernice why, she'd asked her to phone Bruce McCrae and tell him his manuscript was not up to his usual standards and would need tremendous amounts of rewriting, reworking, if it could even be salvaged.
"I know how I felt when Bernie said that about that dumb exorcism drivel I wrote about you, so I figured it was the best way to get a rise out of him," Maggie told him.
But her ploy had not elicited the reaction she'd hoped for. McCrae had taken the news rather well, which, Bernice had told her, was completely unexpected, as McCrae was always very vocally defensive of his work.
"Then I had her ask him to come over here tonight, around eight, to talk to him about the book, because Bernie is bunking in with me now, too, as you thought that, as publisher of Toland Books, she, too, could be in danger."
"I said that? Really?"
"I had to think of something," Maggie told him, "and that was all I could come up with. I figured we should confront him, you know?"
"We. How gratifying. I can remember a time—most probably because it was only days ago—when you wouldn't have been as willing to consider us, well, a team."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah— 'ray, team," Maggie said, actually blushing. "Back to confronting Bruce. After we figure out what he did, how he did it. I've been making notes—they're on the table in front of you. But then I realized that, unless he confesses—and he won't unless he's an idiot, which he isn't—we have no way of proving anything. No way to prove he was Rat Boy—nothing."
"I don't think he is—Rat Boy, that is," Saint Just told her, scanning Maggie's scribbled list of questions and thoughts concerning Bruce McCrae. He looked up at her, for she was on her feet now, pacing. So much was going on in her life right now, changing in her life right now. Was it any wonder she was nervous, poor thing? "Do you?"
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