High Heels and Holidays

Chapter Fourteen

"Glasses, napkins, paper plates. Ice. Condiments. This isn't so hard," Maggie told herself as she inspected the informal buffet she'd assembled on the counter in the kitchen. She'd had parties before. Granted, they'd all been catered, soup to nuts. And this wasn't exactly a party, was it?

Definitely not to Steve, at any rate. She could feel him behind her, staring holes into her back.

"Look, Steve," she said, turning around, holding a Ritz cracker in front of her like a shield, "Alex thought he was doing the right thing."

"Yeah, I've heard that story a few times before, Maggie. He was withholding evidence."

"But he didn't know it was evidence when he withheld it. He only thought he was protecting me."

"And you're all right with that?"

Maggie hesitated, feeling defensive about Alex, and maybe about herself. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm at least sort of all right with that. He really can't help himself, Steve, it's just the way he's ... the way he was made. Now come on, stop looking like the high executioner or something, the others will be here any minute."

Steve took the cracker from her, popped it into his own mouth, then followed her into the living room just as the intercom buzzed twice, Socks's signal that someone she knew was on the way up. "You know, Maggie, we probably should find some time to talk sometime soon," he said, looking—gosh, he looked sort of guilty, didn't he?

"Sure. About what?" Not Alex, Steve, she thought. Please, tell me this talk is not going to be about Alex.

"Uh ... nothing much, it can wait. Somebody's already on the way up. I, um, I'm officially off duty, so I think I'll go grab a beer. You want anything?"

"No thanks," Maggie said, frowning as she watched him head for the kitchen once more. Were his ears red? Boy, he was nervous. What was he so nervous about? She was the one who should be nervous. She was the one who had—well, he didn't have to know that, now did he?

At the sharp knock on the door, Maggie trotted over to open it and admit Bernie, who had two fully stuffed briefcases hanging from leather straps over her shoulders.

"This had better work, Mags. I haven't lugged this much work out of the office since I was an assistant editor," she said, dropping the briefcases one after the other to the floor just inside the door. "Here," she said, pulling a jar of cherries out of her purse and handing it to Maggie. "Just ginger ale, four ice cubes, a cherry and some cherry juice in a highball glass, okay?"

"A Shirley Temple? I used to get those when we went out for dinner—when I was a kid. You want me to make you a Shirley Temple? Shirley you don't."

"Funny. No, sweetie, I want a Johnnie Walker on the rocks, but I'll settle for Shirley. Just so it looks good. It's nobody's business that I don't drink anymore."

"It's not Bruce McCrae's business, you mean. Everybody else knows—and we're damn proud of you, Bernie."

"Oh, please. Next you'll be patting me on the head and saying good dog, good dog—like I didn't piddle on the rug, or something." She reached down and picked up the briefcases. "Where do you want these?"

"I don't know." Maggie pointed to the coffee table between the couches. "Over there? Wow, those are all fan letters?"

Bernie hoisted the briefcases, then plopped them down heavily on the coffee table. "Nope. Just the bad ones. We forward the nice ones to the authors, toss the slams, and keep the hate mail."

"Hate mail? We get actual hate mail? Not just unhappy mail—but honest-to-God hate mail?"

"Hate mail, wacko mail, die-you-bitch mail, you name it. Most of it isn't all that bad—amateur critics, I'm-better-than-anything-this-gal-writes-I'll-bet-she-slept-her-way-to-the-top idiots, way too many anal retentives who love to point out typos, and just plain unhappy people who need to get a life, I guess. We just don't let you authors see it, knowing how fragile your egos are."

"Well, hey, thanks, I guess, although I think whoever screens this stuff missed a couple of slams over the years and they made it to me. And I quote, 'You, Ms. Dooley, in your effete way, have only managed to contrive silly, flimsy, inconsequential murder mysteries that are little more than cheap paper stages on which to strut your creation's manifest superiority,' unquote. Manifest superiority —you gotta love that, if not the cheap paper stage. The guy must have used a thesaurus, and manifest means to make real, so hey, I was doing my job, right, since Saint Just is the focus of my books—so what the hell was he complaining about? And he went on, and on, and on like that."

"Not that you're the sort of writer who takes letters like this seriously," Bernie said, shaking her head.

"Yeah, right. I threw it away, if that counts."

"Barely. Not when I know you probably obsessed over the damn thing for a week first. Don't ever listen to people like that, Maggie, listen to me. I'm the professional, remember? And, for God's sake, never write back to them. You didn't write back to this guy, did you?"

"No, of course not," Maggie said as if the question was barely worthy of an answer, not mentioning that she'd actually wasted a full day writing three separate letters—one nice, one not so nice, one that should have been printed on asbestos paper—and only then threw all four letters into the garbage. Then again, there were still the nice ones that sometimes showed up and made her day. Like the e-mail she'd received via her Web site from Kay Ghram, a Kansas librarian, just about a week ago. God bless the woman, she'd written, "All your characters are so fleshed out and real, it's a wonder they aren't in your living room." Oh, Kay, sweetie, if you only knew ...

"I only write back to the nice ones, I promise," Maggie told Bernie, snapping out of her reverie. "But what if someone is actually dangerous? You can't just file those letters or ignore them."

"We send the worst ones to our lawyers, and they decide whether or not we need to contact the police. Oh, relax, Maggie, we haven't sent more than four or five to the cops since I've been at Toland Books. And three of them were from the same guy—he threatened all sorts of mayhem—and he was mad at Toland Books for turning down his opus, not one particular author. We have to take that kind of stuff seriously, you know."

"What happened to the guy?"

Bernie smiled, pushing back her riot of red curls. "That's the funny thing. He went to some nice place with padded walls for about five years, and then wrote about the experience. I understand it was on the short list for an Oprah book last year."

"You're making that up."

"Am I? Oh, hello, Steve."

"Bernie," Steve said, looking at the briefcases. "What's all this?"

"Not love letters," Maggie grumbled, and then opened the first briefcase. "Oh, jeez, this is going to take all night. How are they separated? They are separated, aren't they? By author would be great."

"And much too easy," Bernie said, gracefully collapsing on one of the couches. "They're divided by year, unfortunately. We keep seven years' worth, on the advice of counsel. I've got a folder in there for each year. After that, you're on your own."

The buzzer went again, and Maggie decided to just open the door, then returned to the coffee table. "This was Alex's idea, Steve, because of something Bernie said the other day, some mention she made of fan mail. These are all letters to authors at Toland Books—the nasty letters. We're figuring someone could have sent one to Francis." She eyed the open briefcases. "If we can find it in that mess."

"Great idea, I guess, but I don't think the budget is going to stretch to putting a whole team on the single murder theory, chasing down all these letters. We're already stretching it with more cops up at CUNY, and the damn UN meets for a special session next week, and then the president is going to show up at the end of the week for some fund-raiser, and we all know what that does to the budget," Steve said, sitting down on the facing couch and placing the can of beer on the tabletop.

"That's okay. We volunteered, remember? All of us." Maggie opened the drawer of the table and pulled out a stack of coasters. She knew she'd forgotten something.

"Sorry, Maggie, I always forget," he said, grabbing one and sliding it under the sweating beer can.

Alex doesn't, Maggie thought. For a guy used to servants, he's very neat. And what in hell am I doing—comparing men, measuring them by the way they treat my coffee table? That's just pitiful.

"Knock-knock," J.P. said cheerfully from the doorway, Bruce McCrae standing close behind her. What, they were joined at the hip now? And J.P. was wearing actual clothes—a pale yellow angora sweater and well-cut dark brown tweed slacks, not one of her endless psychedelic running suits. Then again, Bruce was still in the same clothes he'd had on earlier. Did that mean anything? Oh, yeah, that meant something. J.P.'s triumphant grin meant even more. She didn't need to be a romance-cum-mystery writer to know there had been some definite boink-boinking going on.

Maggie blinked, trying to get rid of the mental image of J.P. and Bruce ... okay, it was gone now, thank goodness. "Um ... Steve? This is Bruce McCrae, the guy I was telling you about. The mystery writer, remember? Bruce, Lieutenant Steve Wendell."

The two men shook hands. "Wendell, huh? I think I've seen your name in the papers lately," McCrae said. "Weren't you the cop who—"

"Probably. You want a beer?"

"You know how modest Steve is," Maggie told J.P. nervously when the two men had disappeared into the kitchen. Then she turned around to glare at J.P. "And you, lady? You're nuts. You jumped into bed with him, didn't you? You left here, took him to your place, and ... and—"

"Had my wicked way with him. Twice," J.P. supplied helpfully, holding up two fingers. "Hi, reds," she said as she sat down on the couch Steve had just vacated. "Little Mary Sunshine here is all bent out of shape, but you understand, don't you? Chances like that hunk in there don't come along every day at our age."

"Even every year," Bernie agreed. "You have to excuse Maggie, she's gone celibate on us."

"I have not!" Maggie protested a nanosecond before she realized she should have kept her mouth shut, because now both women were eyeing her curiously.

"Steve?" Bernie asked, and then shook her head. "No, can't be Steve." She turned more fully toward Maggie, all ten red-tipped fingers clutching the back of the couch, "You did it! You finally did it. Well, hot damn!"

"Finally did what?" J.P. asked. "Or is that finally did who?"

"I think you're both twisted. You're sick and twisted," Maggie said, feeling her cheeks grow hot. "And if you say anything, Bernie, if you so much as hint, I'll—Alex. I didn't hear you come in."

"Have I just missed something? Sterling won't be joining us, by the way," he said smoothly, handing her a bottle of wine. "He's still rather overset from his adventures earlier today. Ladies," he ended, bowing to J.P. and Bernie, and then inclined his head to Steve and McCrae. "As we're all here, shall we begin?"

"Yeah, Blakely, let's do that," Steve said, gesturing at Alex with his beer can. "Start with Maggie's rat, why don't you."

"You're off duty, left –tenant?" Alex inquired, indicating the beer can with yet another slight inclination of his head. "Very well then, concerned friend to concerned friend. Yes, I was alerted to the fact that Maggie had received a package while we were still in England, the full gravity of which I did not comprehend, more's the pity, until we learned of Mr. Oakes's sad demise. Unfortunately, it would seem that others who received similar packages also did not preserve them intact. I did, however, manage to retrieve the enclosed note, which I most happily entrust to you now."

Steve took the clear plastic bag and held it up to the light. "You touch it?"

"Left –tenant, I vow, you wound me to the quick," Alex drawled, and Maggie had to bite back a laugh.

"Right, the junior G-man," Steve grumbled. "How could I forget that. Okay, I'll turn this over to the techs, but we already struck out on the fingerprints we found on the note in Oakes's apartment—nothing on file—and the paper is the kind you can buy anywhere in the city."

"True," Alex said, neatly opening the bottle he'd brought. "However, printers are rather individual, so if you were to locate a suspect, a comparison would go a long way in proving our case."

Maggie winced, knowing Alex was showing off, and that Steve was going to blow. Which he did.

"Look, Blakely, I've tried to be nice, but don't push, okay? One, I already know about printers. And two, this damn well isn't our case. It's my case, and I'm only here because I care about Maggie."

"A true friend," Alex agreed, "as we both are well aware, and honest to a fault. I must say, we all appreciate your candor."

Steve sort of ... deflated right in front of Maggie, and she shot a quick questioning look at Alex, whose expression was one of wry amusement. What was going on here? Something was going on here. Man, she hated being left out of the joke—except she was pretty sure this joke wasn't funny. Why did she get the feeling—much as she hated the term, it sure was succinct—that there was some sort of private pissing contest going on here between the two men?

"Okay, that's settled then, isn't it?" she said to fill the awkward silence. "There's food in the kitchen—just go on and help yourselves, please—and Bernie's brought over all the hate mail from the past seven years, so we can each take a stack when we're ready and start looking for wack jobs."

"Wack jobs, yes," Alex said—seemed to purr, actually. "Wendell, do you agree to the plan? You are in charge of our little band of merry men and women."

"Just grab a pile and start reading," Steve told him gruffly as Maggie and Bernie exchanged looks, Bernie indicating with a few quick head shakes that she wanted to see Maggie in the kitchen.

They were halfway down the hall when Bernie pushed her into the spare bedroom, the one Alex and Sterling had inhabited until they moved across the hall and Alex had returned, to sleep in quite another bedroom, and Maggie wished her mind would just shut up, damn it, because if she didn't know better she'd think Steve knew that or had at least guessed and—"Oh, hell's bells."

"He knows," Bernie whispered in the dark. "Steve, that is. He knows. Who told him?"

"You're wrong. He doesn't know," Maggie said, trying to convince herself. "Does he?"

"You saw J.P., right? You saw her, and you knew."

"That's ridiculous, Bernie. With J.P., there were clues. Great big flag-waving clues."

"Exactly," Bernie said, her smile wicked. "If I hadn't already guessed, I would have known it the moment Alex got here. The way you look at him? The way he looks at you? For a minute there, I thought I heard violin music. Steve had to have noticed. He's a trained investigator, for crying out loud."

Maggie shook her head. "No, you're wrong. It's something else with Steve. He was acting funny even before Alex got here. Preoccupied. Maybe even guilty. Wow, do you think—do you think he's been cheating on me?"

Bernie gave Maggie a look best interpreted as her "duh" look. "You did hear yourself ask that last question, right?"

"Right, good point." Maggie dragged her fingers through her hair. "It was easier when I—"

"Wasn't getting any?" Bernie offered helpfully, grinning as widely as her latest BOTOX injection would allow. "Look, Mags, you just need to play it cool. We'll grab something to eat, you'll make me my Shirley Temple, and then we'll go back in there and read letters. Just let things take care of themselves for now. It's not all that bad, I promise. They're men, that's all. Only men."

Maggie folded her arms, rubbed at her bare upper arms. "Oh, Bernie, if you only knew ..." she said, longing to give in to the temptation to tell Bernie everything about Alex. The only problem—besides the fact that Bernie could keep a secret about as long as Britney Spears could stay married—was that, while she'd been drinking, Bernie would have believed her, swallowed the whole crazy thing. Sober, she'd probably have her locked up somewhere, weaving baskets. Even the possibility of the terrific sales generated by a melodramatic Oprah book couldn't make her do that.

Five minutes later they were back in the living room, to see everyone else with a stack of letters in their laps, reading.

"You know, what gets to me is how the rat guy knew my address," McCrae said to no one in particular. "This stuff is all in care of Toland Books, right? I've got an unlisted number, so my address isn't public knowledge. So how'd he get it?"

J.P. swept the pile of letters off her lap and got to her feet. "Maggie, can I use your computer a minute?"

"Sure, go ahead. It's a Mac, so it might seem a little different to you," Maggie told her, watching as J.P. woke the computer. "Search through Safari, J.P. That compass icon over there, on the right. You are doing a people search, right?"

"Exactly," J.P. said, launching the search engine. "Come here, sugar."

McCrae came to heel like a puppy—pitiful, really—as J.P. typed into the search engine. "Hey, I have this same Mac. Love it, don't you, Maggie? I told you, J.P., I'm unlisted. I've looked on those people search sites, and I'm not there."

"Sugar, nobody's unlisted, not anymore, you've just been looking in the wrong places. I can get your address. I can even pay to get your cell phone records on-line, find out who you've been calling, who's been calling you. All I need is your cell phone number, and I've got that. Everybody's up for sale on the Internet, and will be until the government stops talking a citizen's right to privacy and starts believing in it. But let's stick to addresses. Maggie, I'll do yours first. Maggie Kelly. New York. Hit search and—bing-o!"

"I don't believe it," Maggie said, picking up her computer glasses and sticking them on her nose as she leaned closer to the screen. "There I am. Name, address—my unlisted phone number? I knew about the addresses part—and a lot of phone books are on-line now. But unlisted phone numbers? Why did I pay extra for an unlisted phone number? Who lets this happen? Type in Bruce's name."

J.P. did, and up popped Bruce's home address.

"Try mine," Bernie said, coming to stand behind Maggie. When J.P. had done so, Bernie swore quietly. "Well, don't we all feel safe now? I'd been thinking about upgrading my security system. I guess this settles it. Or are they selling private security codes on-line now, too?"

"It's not that terrible. If someone wants to find you bad enough, Bernie, he'll find you," Steve said, shrugging.

"Really? But now somebody's giving out fucking directions."

"I can do that, too. Driving directions, zoom-in satellite photos, you name it, you can get it," J.P. said helpfully, and then seemingly changed her mind when Bernie glared down at her. "Hey, I'm sorry. But that's probably how it was done, sugar. Try typing in Hillary Clinton—and up pops Chappaqua. George Clooney, Jennifer Lopez, both the Bushies, you name it. Unless and until something's done about these sites at the federal level, we're all open books to the world—and any crackpot out there. I'm just glad I'm not with the police anymore. I couldn't stomach it, frankly. And you wonder why the big boys want to get rid of trial attorneys?"

"Okay, off the soapbox and back to work," Maggie said, clapping her hands together a single time. "Alex, give me a bunch of those letters."

They all worked quietly for a while, until McCrae asked another question. "Let me see if I've got this right. Get our rats in a row, as it were. Maggie, Steve said that you got a rat, too?"

"Yes, I did. I just didn't know that the first time you asked. You seem relieved to hear that."

"Not precisely relieved, no, but at least we can add to the pattern. And Francis? He got one."

"But that's not for public knowledge," Steve reminded him, unfolding yet another letter.

Bernie waved her sandwich in the air to get Wendell's attention. "Hey, down here, Steve. Why not release the information? Maybe if this all was public knowledge, we could get somewhere."

"Yeah, we'd get a bunch of crackpots crawling out of the woodwork, that's what we'd get," Steve said. "I'm already bending the rules here—again—just by sitting here with you guys. The rat mailings could be coincidence and have nothing to do with the murder. The rest of you are still alive and kicking, right? Plus, we've first got to rule out a killer working the CUNY campus area. That's priority, straight from the mayor's office. His favorite nephew goes to CUNY and lives in the same block where Oakes was killed, in case you're wondering. Again, since all of you are still alive, frankly, we have to consider that the rats were a one-off thing and just happened to happen now."

"Because barking dogs seldom bite, isn't that right, left –tenant? Unless, of course, they do. Granted, Mr. Oakes is our only fatality thus far, rat related or CUNY related. Or has there been another murder close by his place of residence we're not aware of as yet and that's why the mayor is so worried? You would share that with us, wouldn't you?"

"No, Blakely, no more murders. One B and E in the same block two days after Oakes was killed, but that was just a run-of-the-mill TV and stereo robbery. This could all end up being a one-off thing. All I'm saying is we have to have priorities here, we have limited manpower, and all you people have are dead rats and no more threats. So don't second-guess us—you, too, McCrae, all right? We're doing our job."

Gee, this is fun, Maggie thought, picking up yet another letter. I should give these little parties more often, except next time we should probably all play charades. It's quieter. She removed the paper clip that held the envelope to the letter and began reading. "Oh, wait a minute, I remember this guy," she said after reading the first two paragraphs of the three-page, single-spaced letter. "George Gordon Bryon."

"Byron," Alex corrected punctiliously.

"He wishes," Maggie said, rolling her eyes. "He took me over the coals for something I wrote about the real Byron in one of my first books. The man slept with a loaded pistol under his pillow—that's known fact. But not to Bryon. I'd maligned his hero. But he never threatened me."

"So why is a letter from him in the file?" Steve asked.

"I don't know," Maggie said, quickly reading. "Oh, wait, this is probably why. 'To imply that Lord Byron had an incestuous affair with his half-sister is a blasphemy not to be countenanced!' " She smiled at everyone. "Another guy who writes with a thesaurus at his elbow. Anyway, he goes on, 'If you do not remove this offending offal from the shelves of every bookstore forthwith you may inform your author—let it be war upon you both!' " Maggie put clown the letter, grinning now. "That last bit? That's straight out of Phantom of the Opera, maybe even word for word. I never touched that part of the Lord Byron story, because there are too many versions out there, some for incest, some against."

"There's somebody out there for incest?" J.P. asked, winking at McCrae. "And she says I need to clean up my dialogue? Oh, right. Maggie? I wanted to tell you—you're off the hook, sunshine. Bruce has volunteered to mentor me, haven't you, sugar?"

"Well, I'm crushed," Maggie mumbled, folding the letter and clipping it to the envelope once more.

"I'll take that, thank you," Alex said, snatching the letter from her hand. "There are two more from Mr. Bryon that I've located, and he was nice enough to include his return address, which is to Bryon's Book Nook. The address is in Greenwich Village, I believe. I think it might be prudent to pay a small visit to the gentleman."

"But he never did anything," Bernie pointed out. "Hell, everyone in publishing knows about good old George G. Bryon. He's a flake, but he's harmless."

"This one doesn't sound so harmless," McCrae said, handing a letter to Bernie. "Valentino Gates. Does that name ring any bells?"

Bernie adjusted her rimless reading glasses and began to read, her lips moving even as her eyes widened. "Why in hell wasn't this one turned over to the lawyers?" She squinted at the envelope. "Postmark's here in Manhattan, late last year."

"What's in the letter, Bernie?" Maggie asked, walking over to lean down on the back of the couch.

"It's about Jonathan West," Bernie told everyone, "and it's directed to Kirk—you all remember Kirk, right?"

There was a general murmur of agreement, because they all remembered Kirk Toland, although some of them had only learned about him after his death. His murder, actually.

Maggie read the typed letter over Bernie's shoulder. " 'Greatest writer of our age ... coldly, callously shunted aside ... genius denied ... a pinheaded idiot who wouldn't know talent if it jumped up and bit off his nose' —yup, definitely directed toward Kirk," she ended, grinning at Alex.

"But no overt threat?"

"No, Steve, no overt threat," Bernie said. "Just creepy. There's just this underlying tone of malice. Demand you acknowledge your mistake ... Jonathan West will be avenged ... you have six months —damn it, that part is kind of overt, isn't it, if not specific? This should have gone to the lawyers."

"Valentino Gates," Steve read when Bernie handed him the letter. "You think that's an alias?"

Alex was already at the computer, as J.P. had left the search engine on the page where she'd demonstrated how easy it was to get anyone's home address. "He's real enough," he said a few moments later. "And here's a coincidence—his address also, I believe, is in Greenwich Village."

"Oh, wait a minute," Bernie said, holding up a hand. "Valentino Gates, I know that name. He's a writer—well, he thinks he's a writer. The truth is that if every published author in the known world suddenly was vaporized by a Martian death ray, Valentino Gates still couldn't get published. But what he's got to do with Jonathan West, I don't know. Just a dedicated fan, I guess. Very dedicated."

Maggie rubbed her hands together. "Okay, but now at least we're getting somewhere." Then she frowned. "Where are we getting?"

J.P. returned her pile of letters to the coffee table. "Maggie's right. This is nothing more than a fishing exhibition. So far, none of these letters are about Francis Oakes, and he's our stiff. You've got nothing, Steve, no grounds for warrants. Zilch. Speaking as a defense attorney, it's my opinion that—"

"Don't, J.P., please," Steve said, pulling the plastic bag from his jacket pocket. "Let's work on this a while. What's all over this, Blakely? Oh, wait, never mind, I think I know. And it's just another stupid poem, like the one we found in Oakes's apartment, and signed the same way. Nevus."

"Nevus? You didn't tell me that, Alex."

"A thousand apologies, my dear," Alex said, handing Maggie a glass of wine. "Our miscreant, it would seem, mails dead rats and thinks of himself as a mole."

"But that makes no sense, Alex," Maggie said, getting to her feet and going over to Steve, keeping her hands behind her back as she looked at the note. "And yet, there it is. Nevus. Maybe it's some sort of personal thing only the guy knows, you know? Maybe he's got a lot of moles?"

"Or one great big one on his nose, like the Wicked Witch of the West," Bernie offered, toasting Maggie with her Shirley Temple. "Try saying it backwards, Mags. I know you can say supercalifragilisticexpealadocious backwards."

"It's not backwards letter-for-letter the way Mary Poppins sang it. Docious-ali-expe-istic-fragi-cali-rupus. Just another of my enormous and completely useless talents," Maggie said absently, already mentally reversing the letters in nevus. "S-U-Suven? That makes no sense. How about Never Ever Violate US—no, sorry."

"Yes, well, not that this hasn't been fun," Steve said, checking his wristwatch as he got to his feet.

"Do you have an appointment, left –tenant?"

"No, Blakely, I've got a murder to solve. Here's the deal, folks. Terrific as this has been, we're not getting anywhere. Bernie, thanks for the letters. Mr. McCrae, I suggest you exercise vigilance but do not panic."

"We're good there, Steve," J.P. said, opening her huge purse and pulling out a gun that looked to be about a foot long.

Maggie ducked behind Steve, because he was closest.

J.P. waved the nasty-looking weapon in the air. "I've got him covered. Don't I, sugar? Any way you want to take that one."

"Jeez. You have a permit for that cannon, J.P.?"

"Everything I need to carry concealed, Steve, and I know how to use this baby, too."

"You were a cop, yeah, I know. But you worked in the mayor's office, J.P. When was the last time you were at the range?"

"Details," J.P. grumbled as the weapon disappeared back into her purse.

Steve looked at Maggie. "Where the hell was I with you guys before I lost what's left of my mind? Oh, okay. There's still the very real possibility that the packages you and some other writers received were nothing more than a coincidence of timing, and that there's no killer loose at CUNY, and that Oakes's is an isolated crime. I already said that, I think. Right now we're taking a second look at the former boyfriend, although, personally, I'm pretty sure that's a waste, unless Oakes had a new boyfriend and we're dealing with the jealousy card."

"Is that how you're treating it, Wendell, even after reading these letters—as true love gone wrong?" Alex asked, walking Steve to the door.

"I'm not treating it any way at all, Blakely. We're considering all the angles and, statistically, the spurned-lover motive is usually pretty high on the list. No forced entry—Oakes knew his killer. I'm not saying you guys aren't close to being on to something, but I need another twenty-four hours to chase down these other leads. So just keep an eye on Maggie," he added quietly.

"It will be my pleasure, left –tenant," Alex said with a polite inclination of his head. "Do have a pleasant evening with your young lady."

"She's not—I gotta go."

"What was all that about, Alex?" Maggie asked, picking up Steve's empty beer can. Steve hadn't kissed her good-bye, had he? "He didn't even take the letters with him. This was a real bust, wasn't it?"

"Not entirely. We do have this fellow Bryon and Mr. Gates to drop in on, evaluate."

"Why? Neither of them threatened Francis, or any of us."

"True, but they both live here and the packages were postmarked here. When you have nothing, Maggie, you rake whatever small crumbs you've been handed. That is the nature of detection."

"Maggie, Alex? Look at this," Bernie said, holding up several sheets of paper. "I've got two more letters from Valentino Gates and another from Lord Bryon—all about how we were so mean to Jonathan West, and all in the folder for last year. You think that's a coincidence? Oh, and something else I forgot to give to Steve. The lawyers sent over photocopies of the letters we forwarded to them. You know, the ones from the real nuts. I didn't look at them yet. Maggie—they're in my purse."

"Scott Imhoff," Maggie said as she handed the letters to Alex after quickly looking through them. "Remember him, Bernie? One of those celebrity stalkers. He was trailing after Faith for a while. Man, she really freaked out, didn't she? Not that I wouldn't have—this guy showing up outside her building, snapping her picture, giving her flowers. She finally got a restraining order, right?"

Bernie pulled the cherry stem out of her mouth. "She's not the only one. Imhoff was after Jonathan West, too." She blinked, looked at Alex. "Did I say Jonathan West? Aren't we all saying Jonathan West here?"

Alex took the letter from Maggie. "Mr. Imhoff, it would appear, also resides in Manhattan. Does anyone else have letters they'd like us all to look at?"

Bruce McCrae tossed two letters onto the coffee table. "So we're going on even without the lieutenant? Good. Those were a bit flaky, but one's from California, and I'm getting the idea we're trying to stay local. And the other one is six years old. So, no, sorry, I've got nothing. J.P.?"

"I've got one here from this Valentino Gates guy, about another author," J.P. said, sorting through the letters she'd been reading and pulling out one of them. "Told her she's no Jonathan West—so there's that name again. We're are seeing a lot of him, aren't we?"

"He was one of our top-selling authors for a few years, so that's really no surprise," Bernie explained. "The bigger you get, the more you manage to bring out the weirdos. I'm surprised there aren't more, beginning when he started writing those stinkers, but I guess they weren't threatening, and we threw them out."

"But this one isn't just about West, remember? Who knows Sylvia Piedmonte?" J.P. asked, waving the letter. "Anybody?"

"Maggie," McCrae said, "Sylvia Piedmonte. Remember? She's the one who called me, told me about her rat, the rats that went to Buzz Noonan, to Freddie Brandyce?"

"Oh, right," Maggie said, nodding. "I'm sorry. I'm lousy with names."

"Names, faces, places," Bernie said as she returned from a quick trip to the kitchen, the open jar of cherries in her hand. "If Maggie had her way, the whole world would wear nametags. You know all of them, Maggie, because you met them all at one time or another at one of our dinners. But let me help you out—Buzz Noonan writes as Garth Ransom. Ringing any bells now, honey?"

"Maggie?" Alex prompted as Maggie stared into the middle distance, and then began counting on her fingers.

"That's it!" she said at last, grabbing Alex by the shoulders and kissing him square on the mouth ... which was as good as screaming eureka any day of the week. "It's that stupid book I wrote!"

"I beg your pardon. My books are not stupid."

"My books, and I didn't really write it. Not all of it. Don't move, anybody, I'll be right back!"

Her hands trembling with excitement, Maggie ran into the spare bedroom and skidded to a halt in front of one of the many bookcases she had placed in every room of the condo. She kept stuff in this room that she really couldn't in good conscience throw away, but didn't want to look at every day.

What was the matter with her? She should have thought of this sooner, much sooner. It was Alex's fault, obviously. He'd distracted her, made her lose her focus. No wonder athletes didn't have sex before a big game ...

"Let it be here, let it be here, let it be—ah, it's here!"

Taking the book from the shelf, she ran back into the living room, holding it over her head. "This is it—I've found the connection!"

"My God," McCrae said, shaking his head. "Of course it is. It's so obvious. Why didn't I think of it?"

Maggie looked at him. Yeah. Why didn't he if it was so obvious? "I didn't, either, Bruce. It's no big deal."

"In all fairness to both of you, nothing hit me, either. But you're right, Maggie. That has to be it," Bernie said, chewing on another cherry. "Well, I'm glad that's settled. Anybody else want a cherry? Please say no, they're all I've got."

"Delighted as you all must be," Alex said, reaching for the book Maggie was still holding above her head like first prize in some contest, "may I?"

"Sure, here you go, Alex," Maggie said, realizing she was almost breathless with excitement. Giddy, even. She shoved the book into his hands. "See? No Secret Anymore. Absolutely the worst book in the history of the world. Look—see the names? Jonathan West—you can't miss his name, it's two inches high. Then Sylvia Piedmonte, Garth Ransom ... and then the rest of us going down the cover like an inverted pyramid. The peons. Look hard, the print's that small."

Alex took his quizzing glass from his pocket and lifted it to his eye. "Why are the names so small?"

"Because we were all small potatoes, that's why," Maggie told him. "Book buyers weren't really supposed to see us, all hidden on the cover. Jonathan was the biggest draw and they were supposed to buy the book for him, and get us as a bonus they might not have wanted. So Jonathan got top billing, then Sylvia, then Garth—damn, I didn't know his real name was Buzz Noonan. I might have put the pieces together faster if I'd known that. But look, Alex—look at those names."

Alex read the names out loud. "Jonathan West, Sylvia Piedmonte, Garth Ransom, Kimberly Lowell D'Amico. And then, in smaller print, Lucius Santana, Frederick Brandyce, Bruce McCrae. And in even smaller print—it hardly seems possible—Francis Oakes, Felicity Boothe Simmons, Alicia Tate Evans. Ah, before my time, I see," he said with no small pleasure, handing the book back to Maggie, who made a face at him, then gave the book to J.P.

"One of Kirk's brainstorms," Bernie explained as Maggie grinned at her own brilliance. "Well, Jonathan West's brainstorm initially, but Kirk was all over it. He saw it as the perfect—and cheap—way to promote his mid-list authors. Buy the book for Jonathan, or maybe for Sylvia or Garth, and discover a new Toland author you might like and then buy. I'm sorry I didn't realize it sooner, which is probably because I've spent eight years trying to block the whole episode from my mind. We took a bath, critically and financially. Not because of you, Maggie, or even you, Bruce, but Jonathan got a very large chunk of change he never earned back."

"Right, the book bombed big-time, and the critics ripped Jonathan, also big-time. I don't think he ever recovered," Maggie broke in, because, hey, it was her idea, so it was her story to tell, right? Not that she was crowing or anything—but, boy, it sure felt good to be the one who came through with some answers, rather than Alex, always the great super sleuth Viscount Saint Just.

"Here's the deal. Bruce, Bernie, you already know all of this, but I want to explain to J.P. and Alex. Ten different authors, each assigned to write one sixty-five-hundred-word chapter of a single book. It was doomed before we started. Ten short stories, maybe, even connected novellas. But a chapter each, all for the same book? Anyway, we each got a bible—that's like a set of rules for what we have to write, J.P., in case you think we were on some holy mission, because we sure weren't. We all met a few times to talk about the work, the authors who lived in New York, but trust me, we were no Algonquin Round Table. All in all, an experience I obviously tried to forget, although I got twenty-five thousand, which was great, and a cheesy one percent of the royalties. But we never saw any royalties."

"I got forty-five thousand, and one and one-half percent," Bruce interrupted.

"And a larger font on the cover—bully for you," Maggie said, glaring at him for a moment. "If I might continue? Jonathan wrote the bible because the whole thing was his idea in the first place, and he was the biggest draw. With Jonathan's name to carry us, and help from the next couple of authors down the line, like Bernie said, the idea was that the book would hit the Times and Kirk could then technically put New York Times Bestselling Author on all our book covers. He'd have seven new NYT mystery writers in one shot."

"Only it didn't work," Bernie added. "Jonathan wasn't easy to work with, was he, Maggie?"

"Easy? I wanted to kill him. We all wanted to kill him, didn't we, Bruce? He kept changing the bible, demanding a million rewrites from all of us. I worked with it because I had to—the advance money kept me in peanut butter for a long time after Kirk dropped me and I could come up with Cleo Dooley and Saint Just. But Faith nearly had a breakdown. She'd call me, screaming, ranting, begging me to help her because—ohmigod, Faith! Do you think she got a rat? She'd never tell, you know. Not Faith. Everybody has to love her. She'd never tell anybody she ever got hate mail."

"Yes, we'll consider that in a moment, shall we?" Alex said, leading Maggie over to the couches so she could sit down. "Bernie, as publisher of Toland Books, you probably have the most information on everyone involved. Can you possibly give us a ... is the word rundown?"

"I can do that, Alex," McCrae said. "Unlike Maggie, I've kept in touch with most everybody who stayed local. Jonathan still lives in New York, but Maggie's right, No Secret Anymore really did him in and he's not writing anymore. I think he gave everything he had to those first few books, and then the well went dry for him, poor bastard. I don't think I've seen him in months. Frankly, he'd started getting a little bit weird."

"He's not selling anymore, you mean," Bernie put in with a small sniff. "But you're right on the other thing. Whatever Jonathan had, boy, did he lose it. His last three books—ever since No Secret Anymore —they all bombed. Kirk offered him another contract two years ago, but he wasn't real happy about the terms, and he turned us down. He can still live pretty well on his royalties, I suppose. My Only Friend is in its twenty-sixth printing. Oh, sorry, Bruce. Go on. No—wait. You do know that Lucius Santana died a few years ago? Skydiving, if you can believe that one. Okay, I'm done. Now you can go on," she ended, popping another cherry into her mouth.

Maggie grabbed a tablet and pen from her desk and began making a list as Bruce told them that Jonathan West had become a semi-recluse. Rather the way Francis Oakes had done. Rather the way she herself had sort of begun doing, until Alex had come into her life ... but she refused to think about that. Writers, lots of them, were pretty much stay-at-home people, that's all. Not everybody is a party animal ...

Bruce kept on talking and Maggie kept scribbling:

Jonathan West. New York. Rat??????

Sylvia Piedmonte. Massapequa Park, Long Island. Rat. Left town.

Garth Ransom (Buzz Noonan). New Jersey. Currently in Africa. Possible rat.

Kimberly Lowell D'Amico. Missouri. Rat??????

Lucius Santana. New Mexico. Deceased.

Frederick Brandyce. New York. Rat. Left town.

Bruce McCrae. New York. Rat.

Felicity Boothe Simmons. New York. Rat??????

Moi. New York. Rat.

Francis Oakes. New York. Rat. DEAD!!!

She looked up from the page. "I think we can safely say we've figured out at least part of this whole thing, at least enough to show a definite pattern. Do we really still need to know if Jonathan, Faith, and—" she took a peek at her notes; God, she really was bad at names, wasn't she "—and Kimberly also got rats? Yeah, I guess we do, just to nail down our theory."

"I've got Jonathan's phone number," Bruce said now, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small electronic organizer. "Shall I give him a call? Ask him if he got a rat in the mail?"

"Good idea, since you know him. And then we have to call Kimberly D'Amico, too," Maggie said. "And Faith, I guess. Hey, wait a minute, Bruce, don't call him yet, not until we think about this a while. Maybe Jonathan is the one who sent the rats. I mean, think about it. Maybe he blames us for his career going into the toilet and he's finally popped his cork, or something. You said he'd been acting strangely lately, right? We could be calling a murderer. Damn, why did Steve have to leave so soon? Alex, what do you think?"

Alex paused in the middle of shining his quizzing glass against the front of his sweater. "Oh, you've remembered that I'm still here? How gratifying. I was about to go into a sad decline."

"Knock it off," Maggie told him. "Come on, we're all a part of the same team, right? Do we call these people or not?"

"I think if we're careful not to alarm them that, yes, Mr. West, Miss D'Amico, and your friend Felicity should be notified as soon as possible. It will also be interesting to see how our Mr. West reacts, won't it? But I would not stop there, as we are not at a point where we can rest on our laurels. It may come to nothing, but we were led in the direction we now agree upon only after reading the letters from Mr. Bryon and Mr. Gates, wasn't it? Mr. Valentino Gates? I would suggest we pay morning calls on both gentlemen. I would further suggest that we offer to include Wendell on those calls, if he's so inclined."

"Which he doesn't seem to be," Maggie pointed out. "Bruce, you're calling Jonathan now?"

Bruce held up one finger as he held his cell phone to his ear, then shook his head. "He's not answering—wait, his machine picked up. Jonathan? Jonathan, hi, Bruce McCrae here and I'm calling at ..." he looked at Maggie, who mouthed the word seven, "... around seven o'clock on Tuesday evening. I don't want to alarm you, Jonathan, but we may have a small problem." He looked up at Alex. "I have an appointment tomorrow morning, but two friends of mine would like to stop by and talk to you. You remember one of them—Alicia Tate Evans? I know what you're thinking, but it's important, Jonathan, honest, so be nice and let them in, okay?"

He sighed, closed the phone. "I hope I got through to him. I'm betting he was standing right beside the machine the whole time, listening to me. Maybe I should cancel my appointment and—"

"A generous offer, but I believe we'll manage, thank you. Three morning calls then, Messrs. West, Bryon, and Gates," Alex said, looking at Maggie, who nodded her agreement.

"I've still got Kimberly's number on file back at the office, I'm sure, if you think it's really necessary to call out to Missouri."

"I think not, Bernice," Alex told her. "Depending on what we are able to discover tomorrow morning, Steve would be best equipped to notify the police in Missouri. Maggie? Do you wish to call Felicity, or shall I?"

"Can't we just stop by and see her tomorrow morning? Add her to the list? To the end of the list? I'm telling you, if she got a rat in the mail she'll lie and say she didn't. Everybody's got to—"

"Love her, yes, I heard that," Alex said as Bernie and J.P. gathered up the piles of letters and stuck them back into their folders, then into the briefcases. "Are we all leaving so soon?"

"Don't try to stop them," Maggie whispered, trying not to move her lips, then said, "Oh, gosh, do you have to? It's still early. We could ... we could play charades?"

Two short minutes later, Maggie clapped her hands together as she grinned at Alex and said, "All right! Nothing like the suggestion of charades to clear a room. I thought Bernie was going to fall over herself, trying to get out of here. So? What do we do now?"

"You're such a gracious hostess," Alex told her, slipping his arms around her shoulders and pulling her closer to him. "But you'll notice that I'm still here."

Maggie ducked out from beneath his arms, putting some space between them. "Yeah ... about that. This." She fluttered her hands helplessly. "You know. We probably should talk about it ... consider the consequences if we ... well, just because we ... nobody says we're going to ... at least not so that anybody else knows, because—will you please stop grinning and help here?"

"Certainly," he said picking up his glass of wine. "An isolated incident. Succumbing to temptation. A pleasurable but perhaps fleeting infatuation that should not weigh too heavily on either of us. Mutually satisfying—possibly even transcendental in nature—but by no means including a serious commitment by either party. Is there anything else you might have had me say to the many light-o-loves you've paired me with over the years? Ah, I know. Shall I buy you a diamond necklace, or some other such trifle, sweetings?"

"Bite me," Maggie said, storming past him and into the kitchen to wrap up the meat and salads. Nobody had eaten much, and now she had to figure out what to do with three pounds of macaroni salad, starting with what the heck she was going to put it in. "Oh, wait," she said, stopping before she got out of the living room. "Do you think Sterling is hungry? I could make a sandwich and take it over to him? And macaroni salad. He likes that, right?"

"Actually, Sterling had a request before I joined you this evening," Alex told her. "He would like to go ice-skating if our meeting adjourned early."

"Ice-skating? He just got beat up, for crying out loud. Are you sure?"

"I'm merely repeating the request as it was told to me. But, if you would rather not, I'm sure Sterling will understand."

"No, don't do that. The way I'm figuring it, you're not going to let me out of your sight anyway, not until we find the killer, so we might as well do something fun. I'll go change, and grab my ice skates. Fifteen minutes? Then we can walk over to Rockefeller Center. I've ... I've got all this energy I don't know what to do with."

Alex tipped up her chin, smiling down at her. "Energy. Is that what it is we're feeling? Shall we explore that notion?"

"Alex, don't—"

But he did. He did, and she was glad.