"No, unfortunately. Something as gross as dead rats just isn't his style—Bruce's that is—except that, of course, would be the beauty of the thing, wouldn't it? Remember, he writes mysteries, makes up plots for a living. He isn't going to think like your usual murderer. He'd plan a murder like someone else would plan chess moves, always working three moves ahead. It's like—it's like we have to try to outplot him, or something, and I don't know who's better at plotting, him, or us—who's got the better endgame."
"We do, my dear, without question." Saint Just deposited his wineglass on the table and got to his feet. "Go fetch your coat."
"What? Why?" Maggie asked, although, to his delight, she was already on the way to collect her coat, gloves, and scarf. "Where are we going?"
"First, to luncheon, as I haven't broken my fast all day and it's already well past one o'clock. After that, I would suggest the shop of your choice and the purchase of a new winter coat."
Maggie slid her arms into the coat and looked down at the front of it. "Oh, come on, it's not that—okay. Then what? Because you'd better have more than that."
"Oh, I do. Then, my dear, we will travel again to Greenwich Village, where we will visit once more with both Mr. Gates and Mr. Bryon, and this time we will not be quite as conciliatory as we were on our initial visits."
Maggie exited the condo ahead of Saint Just as he held the door open for her. "Oh, goodie. Do I get to be the one who's snarky to Lord Bryon?"
After a leisurely lunch at Bellini's where they discussed strategy, and a delightful interlude at a small, exclusive boutique Saint Just had chosen weeks earlier as the perfect establishment for Maggie, they were in another cab and on their way to Greenwich Village. Maggie looked splendid in a new, thigh-length camel wool coat and soft rust and loden green cashmere scarf that flattered her coloring. Her old coat, along with a long black cashmere dress coat even Maggie had to agree was worth the hefty price, would be delivered to her condo.
Saint Just adored it when the world worked to his order.
"So, who do we tackle first?" Maggie asked, rubbing her gloved hands together in the sort of gleeful anticipation best suited to young tots confronted with their first amusement fair—or perhaps an evil inventor admiring his first successful monster.
Saint Just looked out the window of the cab as it slowed in traffic. "I had thought we would confront Valentino Gates at his apartment, but it would appear he's on the move." He leaned forward and knocked on the partition. "You can let us out here, thank you."
"He looks like he's going to a funeral in that black suit," Maggie said as they followed after Gates, staying on the other side of the narrow street. "And doesn't he own a coat? It's freezing today."
"It would be my opinion that Mr. Gates is on his way to something both important and local, something for which he felt he needed to dress appropriately, if not warmly. Ah, and there he goes, around the corner. You remember what's located halfway down that street, don't you, Maggie?"
"Bryon's Book Nook, check," she said, nodding. "Maybe we'll be lucky, and get ourselves a twofer. You be good cop—I want to be bad cop."
Saint Just looked at her curiously. "It's gratifying to see you so enthusiastically into the game, my dear."
"Yeah, well, people have been playing with my head long enough. I've got a checklist. Mom, Dad, Rat Boy, Boobs, Bruce, Dr. Bob, Christmas. And, lest we forget—Brock, the incontinent canine. I need to check something off, and we may as well start here. I mean, maybe it's selfish, but I want my life back—and my condo. I had no idea it was so small until Faith moved in. You and Sterling together didn't crowd me as much as she does. Unless I just started thinking bigger, now that I've seen Faith's place. An office suite? I've got a desk in the corner of my living room. And everybody eats my M&M's. I want a separate office, Alex, I really do."
"And no one could blame you," Saint Just assured her as they cut across the street and watched Valentino Gates disappear into Bryon's Book Nook. "We'll give them a moment, and then join them."
"Right. Hey, look at this," she said, pointing to a black-edged notice taped to the dirty window of the bookstore. " 'To commemorate the life and career of Jonathan West. A gathering of his friends and admirers, with remarks, readings, and refreshments.' Oh, wow, the regulation bookstore three R's. And it's today, Alex. In an hour. Bryon really was a fan."
"As was Mr. Gates, who is perhaps even our chief mourner? Shall we join them now, my dear, and avoid the crowds?"
Maggie grinned at him. "I love it when you're snarky."
They entered the store, Saint Just performing a quick inventory of patrons that did not take long, as there were only two, and then they headed for the curtain and the room they'd seen previously. "As I recall, there is this entry, and a marked and lighted exit to the right and rear, most probably leading to the street. We'll need to position ourselves so that those portals are at least partially blocked, agreed?"
"Agreed. So, do we say we're here for the three R's, fans of Jonathan's?"
Saint Just considered this. "No, I believe we ran out that string announcing ourselves as Mr. Oakes's fan club—and by introducing you to Mr. Bryon. Let's just join them, then simply see what develops."
He held back the curtain to allow Maggie to precede him into the small, poorly lit room, where they quickly moved into the shadows and visually inspected George Gordon Bryon as he stood behind the podium, unaware that he had company, fussing with various papers. Gates, Saint Just noticed, was nowhere in sight. Perhaps they'd overlooked him among the towering shelves in the bookstore proper? He repositioned Maggie so that their backs were against the wall.
"Holy cow," Maggie whispered, staring wide-eyed at George Gordon Bryon. "Would you look at that? The balloon pants and slippers. The red and gold silk robe. The pin at his throat. The turban. I know that outfit—I've got a copy of the portrait in one of my research books. The sixth Baron Byron himself, painted as a corsair. All that's missing is the mustache." She cocked her head and looked again. "The mustache ... and the soulful eyes, the rounded chin, the intense expression, the proud carriage. Okay, let's face it—Bryon looks like he's decked out for Halloween."
"A sad man, one who lives, soars, only in his dreams. Byron wrote his dream, lived his fantasies and, as I've now been able to read a biography detailing what happened to him after he was drummed out of England by his enemies, most unfortunately died in Missolonghi, fighting the good fight. But this man? Ah, Maggie, this man only dreams of the daring, the adventure, the righteous crusade."
"But maybe he found a crusade," Maggie whispered as Bryon sorted through a small stack of file cards he'd picked up from the podium. "Maybe he found Jonathan West, and took up his cause? Maybe he even knew Jonathan personally—should we go see if his books on the shelves here are autographed? No, scratch that, let's just run with this before he sees us. Let's say he did know Jonathan, and got to hear Jonathan curse us all out for having ruined his career. And let's suppose Bryon finally decided to do something about it."
"Bryon and Gates. But where, I wonder, did they find the rats?"
"Are you kidding? In this dump? All he'd have to do would be set some traps at night. But now we have to ask ourselves the biggie, Alex. Two biggies. Did they send the rats? And, if they did, why in hell did they send one to Jonathan? I have a theory about that second part, but only if the answer is yes to the first part."
"Shh, sweetings, I believe the man is about to rehearse his prepared speech."
George Gordon Bryon, a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses now perched on his nose, cleared his throat as he held up one of the file cards. "And so, in closing, allow me to most humbly and heartfeltedly proclaim—old Jonathan West was the very, very best. And the very, very best was he. Lesser talents betrayed him, they mocked and dismayed him, but never a better will we ever know."
Maggie spoke before Saint Just could warn her to silence. "Ever know? Alex, did you hear that? That should be ever see. See rhymes with he. Bryon wrote those p
oems. He is Rat Boy. And heartfeltedly isn't even a word, for crying out loud. Oops. Alex, stop him!"
Saint Just was already on the move, however, as Maggie's voice had risen in tandem with her joy of discovery and Bryon had heard her, seen them, and taken off at a full run for the door below the Exit sign.
Chapter Twenty-Two
"I know you. George and I talked about you and your friend—and your lies. You shouldn't be here," Valentino Gates told Maggie as he grabbed her by one shoulder and whirled her around to face him.
"Oh, yeah, right, I'm scared," Maggie said, shrugging out of the man's grip. She'd really had a long week, and she wasn't in the mood for dramatics unless they were her own. "You send dead rats and lousy poetry to people, trying to frighten them. But that doesn't exactly make you and Bryon frightening. It makes you pathetic."
"You ruined Jonathan West's life," Gates shot back at her, although he didn't try to touch her again.
"Wrong, buster. Jonathan ruined Jonathan's life. He wrote a couple of pretty great books, and then he went wacko with his own importance. The plot, the premise, the gang of contributing authors—everything about that stupid book was his idea. The characters were his idea. He wouldn't let anyone else edit anything. He rewrote all of our chapters until we didn't even recognize them anymore. That was Jonathan's book—our names were just on it with him. He dug his own hole, Valentino, with his own inflated ego."
Then she stopped, ran the lines of what she'd said past her mental eyesight one more time. "Wow, that was almost profound, wasn't it?" She shook her head. "Look, Valentino, I'm sorry, but if Jonathan lost his edge—whatever—after the book tanked, it wasn't because of anything the rest of us did. Nobody likes to blame themselves, so Jonathan blamed us. Hey, and don't look now, but none of us exactly got a big career boost from that bomb. I had to change my name and start over from scratch. But that's the thing, Valentino—I started over. Jonathan quit."
"He published more books. But the critics were against him."
"Wrong again, Valentino. He dusted off two old manuscripts that should have stayed in the drawer and made Toland Books publish them. It was the only way they could get him to fulfill his contract and hope to get back any of the advance money they'd poured all over him. They shouldn't have done it, but they did—well, Kirk did, Bernie tried to talk him out of it. But no matter what, Valentino, Jonathan West never wrote another word after No Secret Anymore. Not until he—never mind."
"Having a pleasant coze with Mr. Gates, my dear?"
Maggie turned to smile at Alex, who was urging Bryon ahead of him at the point of his sword cane. "Put that thing away. Remember, Alex, you promised to use your powers only for good. Hey, Lord Bryon, you lost one of your magic slippers."
"I want you people to leave. Coming in here uninvited, accosting me in my place of business," Bryon said, dusting off his costume. "I'm going to go call the police."
"Saving us the trouble, thank you," Alex said, sheathing his sword stick. "Or would you rather simply tell us why you sent dead rats and atrocious rhyme to Miss Dooley here and others?"
"It was his idea."
Unfortunately, both Gates and Bryon uttered the same accusation at the same time, and it was some moments before Alex could physically separate the two men.
"It's never pretty when thieves fall out," Alex said once everyone was seated on four of the folding chairs in the room. "Now, gentlemen, decide between you which of you is going to tell us what we want to know."
It was Bryon who spoke, recounting his and Valentino's admiration for Jonathan West. When West happened into Bryon's Book Nook one fine day, they'd all three of them formed a friendship that had, over the ensuing years, gone all the way to the point where Jonathan was mentoring Valentino, inviting the two of them to his apartment for drinks and conversation—all that good stuff meant to have the two fans all but worshipping at West's shrine.
As Jonathan fell deeper into the bottle, many of his conversations with the men had to do with Toland Books and, most especially, the ungrateful authors who had ruined his career.
"We begged him to forget all of that and write another book," Valentino told Maggie. "He didn't want to do it, but then, about a year ago, he outlined a plot idea to us. Just last month he even read us bits and pieces of what he'd written—didn't he, George? And it was brilliant! We were so honored!"
"He talked about a plot with you? He read you something?" Maggie grinned at Alex in triumph and not a little relief. It would be tricky to maneuver the timeline, but at least now there was a way to prove what she and Alex believed, without landing Alex in the slammer for absconding with evidence—Steve would go along with them; he always did. "So, if you were asked, you'd be able to say that Jonathan West read you a portion of his new novel? You'd recognize those portions if someone read them to you again. Do I have that right?"
Both men nodded furiously.
"But he said he'd never publish it. He'd never open himself up to such vitriolic criticism and humiliation again. We begged, and we begged, but he wouldn't do it. And we knew why," Valentino said. "It was because of you—you and the others who ruined him. A bright light, gone from the literary world because of hacks, no-talents."
"Literary world? Oh, come on. He wrote mystery novels. I write mystery novels. See? That was Jonathan's problem. He wanted to be the critics' darling. I hate when a writer becomes ashamed of what he or she does well, just because it isn't literary."
Bryon's upper lip curled rather effectively. "We decided that Jonathan would never agree to be published again until the greedy vermin that had eaten away at his literary soul were punished, were given a good scare, even." He subsided against the back of his chair. "So we sent you all the rats. We thought that would make Jonathan feel better, maybe even make him want to publish again."
"You forgot Kimberly Lowell D'Amico," Maggie told him.
"No, Valentino couldn't find an address on her," Bryon explained. "He sent half, I sent half, but he couldn't find her address."
"Let me take a wild stab at something here, just for my own satisfaction," Maggie interrupted. "One of you gift-wrapped your share of the dead rats, yes?"
"Valentino did, for some ridiculous reason, yes. But it was all for naught, because when we told Jonathan what we'd done—sure he'd be pleased to have had some revenge—he told us we were incompetents, idiots, and banned us from his apartment. He even threatened to call the police to tell them what we'd done." He then angrily whirled on Valentino Gates. "But that was no reason for you to kill him, you fool!"
"Me?" Valentino looked, as Maggie might write in one of her Saint Just mysteries, suddenly pale to the marrow. "I didn't kill him. You killed him. Didn't you?"
Alex got to his feet, holding out a hand to Maggie. "I think we're done here, sweetings. Neither of them killed Jonathan West or, as would naturally follow, Francis Oakes. To question them further would only muddy the waters for Left –tenant Wendell, who most certainly will be interviewing them shortly."
"Agreed. Just one more question, Alex." Maggie looked at Bryon who, ridiculously, seemed the more intelligent of the two men. "Why did you send Jonathan a dead rat?"
Gates and Bryon exchanged looks, and then answered in unison, "We didn't send Jonathan a rat."
"No, I thought not. Thank you, gentlemen," Alex said as he tucked his cane under his arm. "And remember, gentlemen, when the constable arrives, that the truth shall set you free. Or some such drivel. Maggie? Shall we be on our way?"
Maggie was still feeling pretty darn good when she and Alex got back to her condo. In fact, she was almost giddy—right up until the moment she walked in to see all the suitcases piled in the living room.
At that point, her mood rose to the nearly euphoric.
"Going somewhere, Faith?" she asked as she saw—mercy of mercies—Brock's small traveling cage.
Faith laid her full-length pink faux fur coat over the control panel of the treadmill. "Oh, Maggie, you're back. Good. Yes, I'm going somewhere. N
oreen invited me to hide out with her at her lodge up in Stowe until the murderer is caught. I think she said Stowe. Somewhere up there, anyway. Oh, and she wants to interview you for her show. You know, the murder mystery author turned potential victim? You need to do it, Maggie, it would be great PR."
"Not happening, Faith, thanks anyway," Maggie said, grabbing the container of M&M's and frowning at how few of the colorful candies remained, none of them blue. "Is that what you talked about in today's interview, Faith? The fact that you're also a potential victim? You cried, didn't you. You always cry."
"Noreen's hoping for a daytime Emmy," Faith said, ignoring the insult, probably because she thought it was a compliment. "I hope so—for her sake. She's a lovely woman."
"So you two struck up a friendship this afternoon? You and Noreen."
"Oh, yes, definitely. You can't know how overcome I was by her show of friendship—offering to harbor me in my hour of need. She even escorted me back to my apartment. She was absolutely mad about the decor—we'll be taping a video tour for her audience, to air before Christmas, naturally. I picked up a few more things, my boots, my ski togs, and she'll be sending a car for me in—oh, twenty minutes. I just have time to redo my makeup. Excuse me."
Maggie, tongue literally stuck in cheek, watched as Felicity toddled back down the hallway on her four-inch heels. "You're welcome, Faith, I was happy to have you," she muttered, then gave in to impulse and tried on the faux fur. She had to admit it really did feel good, even if she was pretty sure she looked like cotton candy on a stick.
"It's not your color, my dear," Alex said, walking in unannounced, as usual. "And not nearly elegant enough for you."
"Saved by the belated sucking up," Maggie told him as she slipped out of the fur and draped it back over the treadmill. "Faith's flying the coop, she got a better offer."
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