High Heels and Holidays

Chapter Eleven

Saint Just was angry with himself, on many levels. Most obvious was the feeling that he should be presented with a white feather for cowardice, as he had been more than happy to find all sorts of diversions rather than speak to Maggie about what was really important: their evening together, and Francis Oakes's murder.

He was not the sort who would ever wish to engage in a mutual retrospective on an evening spent in a woman's arms; the idea smacked too much of a critique, a plea for reassurance that the night had gone well. He was intelligent enough to know how the evening had gone, and it had gone very well. He would much rather move on to the next evening, and the next.

In the past, his past, that would have meant another evening, another woman. Maggie knew that; she had created him, guided him through more than a half-dozen years of amorous evenings with a wide assortment of comely creatures.

She knew this was different, what they'd shared was different.

Didn't she?

Well, perhaps he'd think about something else.

He'd only just sat down in front of his laptop computer, planning to recheck Maggie's conclusions on Santas for Silver, when there was a quick, loud rapping on his door.

"Alex, you in there?"

"Left –tenant Wendell," Saint Just muttered under his breath. "Perhaps I have left it all too late." He got to his feet, but by the time he'd opened the door, Wendell was knocking on Maggie's door. "Are we having a party, left –tenant?"

Wendell turned around quickly and punched a finger in Saint Just's direction. "You we'll talk about later, okay? And don't tell me it wasn't you, because who else is a handsome as sin Englishman, huh? You've got an admirer, Blakely, and you know just who I mean, don't you?"

Saint Just smiled. "Ah, Jeremy, yes? You two have spoken?"

"No, Alex, me and Jeremy haven't spoken."

"Jeremy and I haven't—"

"Shut up. Jeremy and I haven't spoken—my captain and I have spoken. Not that I did much of the talking. You're famous, Alex, freaking famous. And if you get any more famous, you might just find yourself being charged with trespassing, impeding a police investigation, and anything else I can think of to stick on you, and we would have, except that the scene wasn't an official crime scene when you did your little B and E and you'll probably say the door was open when you got there and I don't have time for you anyway. What in hell were you doing at Oakes's apartment?"

"As you said, left –tenant, we'll save that for later, shall we? Or are you here with more information for me?"

"For you? Yeah, that's happening. I'm here to figure out why you wanted to know about Oakes, okay? So just shut up and let me talk to Maggie."

"Of course," Saint Just said silkily. "And how is Miss Christine today?"

Wendell gave Saint Just a look that would have had a lesser man ducking for cover, but Saint Just only kept a politely interested expression on his face. "You're a piece of work, Blakely. All right, all right. I'll tell you this much. It definitely wasn't suicide. Oakes was—hey, hiya, Maggie."

Saint Just watched as Wendell attempted a kiss and Maggie turned her head just as the good lieutenant turned his, so that they ended up butting noses instead. Ah, the falling off of what had never been a great romantic bond in the first place. How delicious to watch. He cleared his throat politely, which earned him a searing glance from Maggie before she invited them both inside the condo.

"I'm glad you're back, Maggie. So, what's up? Anything new going on I should know about?"

Saint Just bit his bottom lip as he watched sheer panic leap into Maggie's eyes. Sterling, it would appear, wasn't the only one who could be very literal minded. She was flustered, obviously, and didn't quite know what to do with a question like that, or with her supposed boyfriend and her lover together in the same room, so Saint Just—gentleman that he was—came to her assistance by pulling out the desk chair and indicating that Wendell should seat himself while he—still playing the gentleman—searched the kitchen for liquid refreshments.

When he returned to the living room, three soda cans and three ice-filled glasses on a tray bearing the likeness of Crusader Rabbit, Maggie was telling Wendell about their recent trip to England.

"So I want to thank you again, Steve, for all your help with background checks," she said, then looked to Saint Just. "Don't we, Alex?"

"Indeed, yes. The information about our fellow guests was invaluable. Soda?"

"Thanks," Wendell said, ignoring the glass in order to drink directly from the can. A good man, with a pure heart, but sadly lacking in the niceties at times, which was a pity. "Maggie, I'm sorry I couldn't get here sooner but, um, I'm working a new case. Two of them, actually—I just got handed a second one this morning. You know how it is."

"Oh, that's fine," Maggie said quickly, then too quickly added, "I mean, I was disappointed not to see you when I first got back but, um, well, you're here, right?" This time when she looked at Saint Just her expression bordered on pleading. Poor thing. She was so good with words on a page; the delightful turn of phrase, the quick comeback, the witty banter. But put her into a real-life situation where those same things are needed, and she quickly folded herself into a mass of insecurities.

How he adored her.

Saint Just sat down on the couch beside her, patting her hand as he told Wendell that the reason Sterling wasn't here to greet him was that he had become a Santa for Santas for Silver. "He's quite enthused about the thing. Have you by any chance heard of this organization, Wendell?"

"No, can't say I have. But they're a dime a dozen this time of year. Tell Sterling I said hi, okay?" Then he shifted slightly on the chair and looked to Maggie once more. "This case I've just been assigned to?" he began, sparing a moment to look at Saint Just as if to say Yes, and it's all your fault, damn you.

"A murder case?" Maggie asked, clearly happy to be on ground that was not at all personal. If she only knew ...

"Yes, Maggie, and I'm wondering if maybe you knew the victim, since you're both writers."

"Oh, Steve," Maggie said, "this is New York, remember? You can't walk ten feet in any direction without tripping over somebody who tells you he or she is a writer. Just like all the waiters in this town are actors."

"But you might know this one, Maggie. He wrote for Toland Books."

"Francis Oakes?" she asked, leaning forward on the couch. "Really? Bernie told me he'd died, but the papers reported it as a suspected suicide. Is it Francis? No. Who'd want to kill him? The guy was about as threatening as—as Woody Allen."

Saint Just, who had been sipping from his glass, coughed and sputtered as politely as possible, earning himself a few slaps on the back from Maggie, who clearly believed his difficulty to be a distraction.

"Was it Francis, Steve?" she asked again.

"You all right, Blakely?" Wendell asked, and Saint Just could hear the amusement in the man's voice.

"Fine as ninepence, left –tenant, thank you. But you fascinate us with this story, although you've said very little so far, haven't you? Please, do go on. I assure you, we're hanging on your every word."

"I'll just bet you are." Wendell got up and began pacing the carpet. "Here's the deal, Maggie. Yes, the vic is Francis Oakes. At first look the primary believed the guy hanged himself. You know, living in an attic, no money, no prospects—all that stuff. Oh, and his lover had just broken off with him a couple of weeks before he died. Top that off with the fact that we all know how many suicides there are around the holidays, and for a while Oakes looked like just one more unhappy schmuck who didn't want to face another new year."

"Poor guy, that's so sad. But it wasn't suicide? The first officers on the scene didn't get that? Francis would have left a note, if he'd committed suicide. He was a writer. He had to have left a note. That would be like an astronaut leaving earth without his spaceship. Well, something like that. Alex, didn't we say that about Sam Underwood? That he hadn't left a note, and writers would always leave a note? Hanging. Man, there's a lot of that going around, isn't there? Oh, sorry, Steve. I won't interrupt again, I promise."

"That's okay. But that was one of the things that stood out, Maggie, yeah. No note. Still, that isn't all that unusual. Some people decide something at the last minute, and then act on it before they can chicken out, you know? But there was something there, some kind of sicko poem from somebody who sent the guy a dead rat."

"A dead rat?" Maggie shivered. "That's just plain creepy."

Saint Just already knew this part, because Wendell had already told him about the poem, the rat. Yet, at that time, the police had still believed Oakes had committed suicide, that the poem and rat had been the proverbial straw that broke his writer's back. Wendell may consider what Saint Just had done as meddling, but it would appear that meddling had at least bumped the incompetent detective from the case and had him replaced with the much more competent lieutenant.

Which didn't mean Saint Just couldn't have a little fun at the man's expense. "This is all very interesting, Wendell. Could you tell us what prompted Oakes's COD to be readjusted to homicide?"

"Would you listen to him?" Wendell said to Maggie, shaking his head. "COD—cause of death. Everybody's into the lingo these days." He turned to Saint Just. "MOD, in case you're wondering—manner of death—is still asphyxiation by hanging. But we found a lot of pre-mortem bruises at post, indicating that maybe the guy may have had a little help taking that final leap. Can we get on with this now?"

"Yeah, sure," Maggie said, giving Saint Just a quick slap on the knee. "Stop interrupting, Alex. Tell us about the poem, Steve."

"I don't have a copy with me, Maggie. It was just four lines—maybe from a nursery rhyme? But the last two lines didn't rhyme, even though they easily could have, you know? The last lines referred to the dead rat, and hinted that Oakes could be just as dead."

Maggie hugged herself. "I'm trying to imagine opening a package and having a dead rat fall out on your lap. Poor Francis. A big, ugly, smelly rat. With those pointy teeth and that long skinny tail. Blecch!"

" Yes, thank you for that image, my dear. But let's try to concentrate on poor departed Francis, all right?"

"I know," Maggie told Saint Just. "But I was just thinking. We're afraid of rats because they're dirty, and ugly, right? But then there's the name—rat. That couldn't help, right? I shiver just at the word. I mean, what if they'd been called puppies? Would we still think they were ugly, with such a cute name, or would we think puppies was an ugly name? Think about it. How effective would it have been in that old movie, if James Cagney had said 'You puppy, you dirty puppy!' Nothing. It would have been a big nothing."

"Is this going anywhere, Maggie?" Wendell asked, earning himself a smile from Saint Just.

"No. But one more, okay? Shakespeare said a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. So he'd probably think a rat was ugly even if we started calling them puppies, right? Oh, and the other way around—puppies would be cute even if we called them rats, right? Have we talked about this before? It all seems so familiar. Maybe last month? No, I don't think so. Well, maybe. Must have been another reference to Shakespeare. Jeez, a dead rat ..."

Saint Just smiled in real amusement. "She goes on like this from time to time, Wendell. Endearing trait, don't you think?"

"Uh ..."

Maggie's cheeks colored adorably. "I'm sorry, Steve. So the rat and the poem, right? They weren't connected with the murder, is that what you're saying? They were just a coincidence?"

"That's what we're not sure of," Wendell admitted, sitting down once more. "The threat—the poem was definitely a threat—might have been quickly followed by the murder. Except for one thing. If you got a dead rat in the mail, wouldn't you immediately get it the hell out of your apartment? So we started thinking maybe the killer brought it with him, although we can't think of any reason to do that."

"Are there fingerprints on the box, the wrappings?" Saint Just asked.

"No, it came back clean, which sent up another red flag. Damn shows on TV make people believe this stuff is checked in ten minutes, but it takes days. And who said the rat was in a box, Blakely?"

"Forgive me, left –tenant," Saint Just said without missing a beat. "I am guilty of an assumption there, aren't I? I considered the logistics of the thing, if the rat had been delivered via the post. You did say it was sent, correct? I suppose it could just as well have been delivered via messenger. But consider the possibilities, if you please. A dead rat, in a bag, even a sturdy bag? The shape and feel alone might easily have alerted someone, not to mention the biological laws of decomposition that could have—"

"Okay, thanks Alex, we got it," Maggie broke in, making a face. "Satisfied, Steve? Because he could go on if we let him. I'm not the only one who does that."

Wendell nodded, then said, "Where was I?"

"Mired in questions with, to this point, no answers," Saint Just supplied helpfully. "What a shame the trail of clues had been left to grow cold while the authorities labored under a misconception. You did say you were only very recently assigned to the case, didn't you, Wendell? I believe Bernice mentioned Mr. Oakes's sad demise had occurred last week. Heaven only knows how the scene may have been corrupted, isn't that right? Civilians tripping in and out of the deceased's apartment, disturbing valuable crime-scene evidence unless, of course, they were very careful, which the police, it would seem, were not. Yes, yes. A pity. Is it truth or fiction that any homicide that remains unsolved after forty-eight hours is often never solved at all?"

"Would you stop already?" Maggie whispered fiercely from between gritted teeth before she got to her feet and approached Wendell. "I'm so sorry, Steve. What can we, um, I do to help?"

"Probably nothing much," Wendell said, looking over her head to where Saint Just, being a gentleman, had also gotten to his feet and was now smiling most benevolently at the lieutenant. "We're looking for any background information on Oakes. His boyfriend wasn't a lot of help there, at least no farther back than the last two years. What do you remember about him?"

"Not a lot, actually. Toland Books is a small house, and the writers who live in the area do get to meet once in a while—at Christmas parties, dinners during semiannual sales meetings, stuff like that. I sat next to Francis one time, at one of those dinners. He was already pretty much on his way out, I'm afraid. I was ... I was sort of dating Kirk at the time, and he was Francis's editor, and he told me he'd turned down his last couple of proposals. So that was what—three years ago? Oh, wait, I do remember something, Steve. Francis had only moved to New York about two years or so before that, from somewhere in the Midwest. I think he was hoping for big things, but nothing ever really panned out. But that's it, that's all I've got, sorry. Maybe Bernie can help."

There was a beep on the intercom and Maggie walked over to press the button, to have Socks tell her that J.P. Boxer was on the way up.

"That's my cue to leave," Steve said, grabbing his coat that he had draped over the back of the desk chair. J.P. Boxer was a former cop turned defense attorney—meaning she'd gone over to the enemy. Wendell liked her, and J.P. considered him to be a good cop, but that didn't mean they exchanged Christmas cards. "Look, we're not making a lot of noise about this, not wanting to have the press start making up names for some CUNY serial killer or something. They break soon for the holidays anyway, and in the meantime there's a big police presence in the area, just not so you'd notice. They'll be on the lookout for anybody who doesn't look like he belongs in the neighborhood, stuff like that."

"We'll be as close as oysters, Wendell," Saint Just promised, taking the man's hint to not return to Oakes's apartment, because he would be seen.

"Yeah, right. Oysters. Who says stuff like that? A clam, Blakely—quiet as a clam. And I'll check with Bernie, Maggie. She was actually my next stop. Blakely? Can I see you outside for a moment?"

Saint Just prudently ignored Maggie's curious look and joined the lieutenant in the hallway.

"I'll make this fast, since J.P.'s on her way up—what don't I know? What aren't you telling me?"

"I don't understand, left –tenant. It's just as I said. I was inquiring about Oakes because of Maggie." Saint Just complimented himself quietly, as he had told Wendell the exact truth—in a way.

"And yet Maggie barely remembers the guy," Wendell pointed out. "If there's anything going on, Blakely, I want to know it right—"

"Ah, J.P.," Saint Just said as the elevator doors opened. "How wonderful to see you again. Say hello, left –tenant."

"Hi, J.P.," Wendell said, already heading for the elevator, before the doors could close. "See ya."

"That was quick. What's he got up his—no, forget it. I just remembered who I'm talking to here," J.P. said as Saint Just opened the door to Maggie's condo and bowed to the attorney, inviting her to precede him inside.

"J.P., hi," Maggie said, standing behind one of the couches, rather like a person who hadn't had time to locate a better hidey-hole, but was still hoping she had managed to find some protection. "You're early. Let me take your coat. Oh, and you and Alex talk to each other a while, okay? I need to run down to Mario's to get some tuna salad for our lunch."

"I hate tuna salad, girlfriend," J.P. said, tossing Maggie her jacket, the green and white one with the white leather sleeves and the New York Jets logo on the back. "You can't spring for roast beef?"

"Uh, sure. Sure, I can. Alex?" Maggie asked, her eyes openly pleading.

"I'll be happy to entertain our mutual friend, my dear," he told her, sitting down across from her only after the attorney sprawled onto one of the couches. "You can tell me all about your book, J.P."

Maggie's pleading look turned hostile. "Not yet, Alex. Wait until I get back. Until we've had lunch."

J.P. spread her long arms out on either side of the back of the couch. "No, I want to hear what you think now, Maggie. Just a quick thumbnail before we eat. It can't be that bad, can it?"

Maggie took two steps toward the couches, then stopped. "You do know I can't buy it, right, J.P.? And it's only one person's opinion."

J.P. looked at Saint Just, who raised his eyebrows back at her. "You get the feeling she didn't like it, handsome?"

"But it doesn't matter what I think. I can't—"

"You can't buy it. I got that. So? Is it crap? You can tell me. I'm a big girl, I can take it."

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Oh, sure, that's what they all say. But they don't mean it. You all want to be stroked, and told your book is the next Da Vinci Code or something, and if I tell the truth—which is just my opinion, remember—then suddenly I'm not only the bad guy, but you jump all over me. And you're not little, J.P., okay?"

J.P. looked at Saint Just again. "She thinks it stinks on ice."

"No! No, I didn't say that, J.P. I like the plot—a lot. Why did you tell Bernie it was science fiction? It's a legal thriller."

"I wanted to see if she'd really read it, or just hand it back with some baloney about science fiction not selling well, or something. And, no, I'm not paranoid. That's not half as bad as putting a hair between the pages halfway through the manuscript, just to be able to check if the editor really read that far—I picked up that hint on-line, among others, so you can see why I thought it was time to go to the professionals. But you read it, so now I want to hear what you think."

"Go on, Maggie," Saint Just prodded. "In for a penny, in for a pound."

"You're such a help, Alex," Maggie said, and then took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "The plot works. Definitely. But your characters are sticks, and your dialogue is stilted, amateurish. How's that?" J.P. opened her mouth to say something, but Maggie wasn't finished. "For instance—I committed this one to memory—you have a character say, 'Your brother, Samuel, the blue-eyed blonde who graduated from Yale and now works for Hammer, Burns and Stone, is a suspect in the murder.' "

"Yeah? So? I was describing the guy. What of it?"

"What of it? Cripes, J.P., you were describing him to his own brother. In freaking dialogue. That stuff doesn't go into dialogue. Look, it's like I said—the plot works. It's really interesting. But everything else is ... not so good. You need to read authors you like, see how they handle dialogue, point of view, all that stuff. And maybe read some how-to books, join a writers' group, get a critique partner ... yeah, well, gotta go. Roast beef. Rare, right?"

"Hold it right there, sunshine. Did you take classes, read how-to books?"

"Me? No, I don't do that stuff."

Saint Just gave a slight cough of warning, but of course it was already too late, and both he and Maggie knew it.

"So you're telling me to do something you didn't do?"

Maggie smiled weakly, and shrugged. "I read authors I like—I still do—and try to learn from them."

"Uh-huh. So you're telling me to do something you didn't do, that you didn't have to do. And what else? A critique partner, you said? What's that? How about a mentor instead? We could do that. You know, you and me? What do you say, sunshine? You show me how to whip that puppy into shape and get it sold, and it's free legal advice for life."

"I think you may have just struck a chord, J.P.," Saint Just drawled, thoroughly enjoying himself. "Somewhere around the word free, I would imagine. I am, of course, included in this arrangement."

"Bite me," Maggie said, and headed for the door, then hesitated with her hand on the doorknob. "Okay, it's a deal."

"Sweet girl, and a heart, as you Americans say, as big as all outdoors. There, with that said—I thought she'd never leave," Saint Just said, rising to go to the drinks table and hold up a decanter of wine, asking if the attorney cared for a glass, which she did. "And now that it's all settled between you, perhaps you'd be so very kind as to explain a legal term to me?"

"You're cashing in fast. Okay, handsome, what is it?"

"Impeding a criminal investigation. What does that entail, by way of penalties, I mean? Oh, and withholding evidence, that would be another one. If, for instance, you were to come upon what might be evidence, but did not know was evidence, at least not at that time, would it then, once you knew, become incumbent on you to immediately notify the authorities of the existence of that evidence?"

J.P. jammed her fists against her hips and grinned happily. "Well, shit, handsome, what did you stick your foot in now?"