High Heels and Holidays

Chapter Seventeen

"Here you go, sport. Merry Christmas."

Saint Just neatly snagged the gaily wrapped box before it could do serious damage to his solar plexus and fell into step beside Maggie, who seemed hell-bent on going somewhere, somewhere far away from him.

"Allow me to hazard a guess. Your session with Dr. Bob was not all you'd hoped?"

Maggie sliced him a look that chilled the air between them below that of the actually rather fine, sunny December morning. "I'm not speaking to you."

"Actually, my dear, you are. You just did."

"Don't split hairs with me you, you traitor. And get us a cab."

"Oh, dear," Saint Just remarked with a sigh. "Obviously your Dr. Bob is not a man of his word."

"Oh, he's a man of a lot of words," Maggie said, climbing into the backseat of the cab Saint Just had neatly summoned to the curb. Once they were both settled in the backseat and Saint Just had given directions, she asked, "What were you thinking? Why did you go see him? To rat on me?"

"An interesting choice of words," Saint Just said as he reached across Maggie to take hold of the seat belt strap, as she seemed rather preoccupied at the moment with subjects other than her safety. "In truth, my dear, I had two reasons for dropping in on the good doctor. One, I wished to see this man who has been a part of your life for so many years—"

"And what did you think of him?"

"I found him to be an interesting mix of intelligence, avarice, and, perhaps, an inflated sense of self-consequence."

"That's nice. He thinks you're a nutcase," Maggie told him, not without a hint of satisfaction in her voice. "Possibly certifiable."

"Indeed."

"And arrogant."

Saint Just merely smiled. "My second reason for visiting the gentleman had to do with our ... Rat Boy. I wished Dr. Bob's educated opinion on the potential seriousness of the threat. That, of course, was before we'd been informed of the unfortunate demise of Francis Oakes."

"Well, there's a first—you, asking for help. And what did he say?"

"He said I should tell my hypothetical friend that, yes, there could exist reason for real concern."

"Your hypothetical friend. Hoo-boy. That's how you presented everything? Hey, well, that wasn't transparent, was it? But, if Dr. Bob knew I was your hypothetical friend, why didn't he let me know he knew? I told him someone might be trying to kill me and all he wanted to know was how that made me feel."

"Perhaps there are limits to the man's unprofessionalism?"

Maggie nodded. "Yeah, that's probably it. Or he thinks we're both past saving and headed for padded rooms."

"There is always that," Saint Just agreed as the cab slid to the curb and he handed the man a ten-dollar bill, refusing change. "And here we are, the domicile of one Valentino Gates. Shall we? Oh, and forgive me for not mentioning this sooner, but I was a bit distracted. Left –tenant Wendell phoned this morning to report in. I believe he's feeling somewhat guilty for not taking our theory more seriously last night."

"That's an understatement. He barely listened to us."

"He did, however, listen to Bernice this morning. She gave him the list of authors for No Secret Anymore, as well as their whereabouts, as best we know them, and he was kind enough to contact Kimberly Lowell D'Amico in Missouri—who did not, it would seem, receive her own dead rat and poem. Which, I'm afraid, has put the good left –tenant back into the ranks of the unimpressed as regards our theory."

"Oh, great," Maggie said as Saint Just held open a thick wooden door that probably owed half that thickness to several generations of paint. "Though that doesn't really prove anything. All the rats were sent to authors in and around the city. All that could mean is that Rat Boy didn't trust dry ice to get one of his macabre little presents all the way to Missouri without being discovered along the way. Then again, considering the state of the New York post office, the damn rat could still be there."

"That's true enough," Saint Just agreed, having located Gates's apartment number on one of a row of mailboxes in the narrow foyer. "Third floor. Shall we climb?"

"Like we have a choice in this dump? Back to the packages. Those packages had to cost a lot. The dry ice. The postage. Rat Boy could have run out of postage."

"Or rats," Saint Just supplied helpfully, earning himself a speaking glance from his beloved as they paused at the second-floor landing.

"Funny. So do you agree with Steve now?"

"Unfortunately, no. I would rather believe that geography played a part in our unsub's plans."

"Unsub. Unknown subject. Next you'll say Feebies for F.B.I., and then I'll have to hit you," Maggie said, still leading the way up the stairs. But once at the third-floor landing she turned back to him, her expression troubled. "What are we going to say to this Valentino Gates guy, anyway? Hi, did you send me a dead rat?"

"A rather direct approach, but I doubt the man will then immediately fall on our necks to confess to murder. To be truthful, I haven't thought much beyond meeting the man, sizing him up as it were, taking his measure."

"Oh, well, that's fine then, as long as you have a plan, bright eyes," Maggie said, her sarcasm marred only by the fact that she was slightly out of breath from the climb.

Saint Just raised her hand to his lips. "Being romantically involved with a gentleman supposedly makes women soft and malleable. May I say how delighted I am, sweetings, that you are proving the exception."

"Hey, take it somewhere else you two, you're blocking the landing."

Saint Just looked behind him to see a rather large man standing two steps below them on the stairs. A rather large, angry man with forearms like hams and apparently the disposition of a warthog, with the manners to match. It was as if he and Maggie somehow had been transported to the Regency-era dregs of Piccadilly. Fairly certain the answer to his question would be in the negative, he nevertheless inquired: "Valentino Gates?"

"Think you're funny, don't you? Do I look like that pansy?"

The growled reference rather baffled Saint Just, but he decided to assume the question had been rhetorical and did not require an answer. "Well, then, sir, please don't allow us to detain you any longer from what I am convinced is your very important business." He stepped back slightly, allowing the man to step onto the landing. "Ah, obedient as well. There's a good fellow. Be on your way now."

"Oh, jeez, how did I know this was going to happen?" he heard Maggie half groan from behind him. "Hold onto your knickers—here we go."

"Think you're smart, don't you?" the large man said, looking down at Saint Just, who had slightly mistaken the man's height if not his breadth. "How'd you like a quick trip down to the second floor, pansy boy? I can arrange that, you know."

"Excuse me, but you really don't want to try that," Maggie warned, pushing herself back into the corner, "Trust me in this one, Popeye."

"Popeye? And aren't you the funny bitch," the man said, distracted by the sight, Saint Just believed, of a woman clad in clean clothes and possessing all her teeth. "Whaddya say you and me get rid of this clown and have us some fun?"

"Hey, that's original. I never heard that line before. Alexander? Stop playing with the nice gentleman and let him go away."

He'd brought this on himself, Saint Just knew that the moment he'd first opened his mouth and heard himself spouting those lines from one of his books—words Maggie originally had put in his mouth. Only one more example of his knowledge that he was, thanks to Maggie, invincible. Which did not mean that Maggie was, or that he himself couldn't end up rather creased at the conclusion of this encounter.

Which did not, as it happened, keep him from neatly inserting his cane between the buffoon's legs as the fellow stupidly attempted to advance on Maggie, and then bringing it up with a considerable amount of force. After all, even a gentleman should be allowed a little fun from time to time.

The thud of the man's body hitting the landing, to be followed by his rather high-pitched whimpers, served as their introduction to Valentino Gates, who opened his door to check on the commotion.

"Mr. Gates?" Saint Just asked, raising his voice above the whimpers, inclining his head to the slightly-built man with the look of a poet whose greatest wish would be the opportunity to starve in a garret. "Mr. Valentino Gates?"

"Ah ... er ... yes, I suppose so." Gates looked down at the man who was now rather inelegantly grasping his most private parts as, bent double, he did his best to climb to the next landing. "What did you do to Quentin?"

"Quentin?" Maggie deserted her corner. "You'd think he would have gotten himself a nickname. Butch, Spike—something. No wonder he's so angry. I'll bet he had the snot beaten out of him on the playground every day before he grew that big. By the way, nice job, Alex."

"Thank you, my dear, I do my best."

Valentino Gates looked ready to bolt. "Who are you people? And ... and what do you want from me?"

Saint Just was fairly certain Quentin wouldn't be back for an encore any time soon, but he'd already made up his mind about Valentino Gates. The man had all the spunk as well as native intelligence of a sea sponge, and couldn't possibly have killed anyone. It was best to simply make up some farradiddle out of whole cloth and then take their exit as quickly as possible.

With a wink to Maggie, who he knew could be trusted to follow where he led—not happily, but she would follow, and only afterward verbally tear a strip off his hide—he said brightly, "Mr. Gates, a fair question. Yes, most definitely. Allow me to explain, my good sir. We are members of the Francis Oakes fan club, Manhattan division. Ah, poor Francis. I am Blakely, Alexander Blakely, acting president, and my companion here is our recording secretary, Miss Kelly, Miss Ma—"

"Velma Kelly," Maggie interrupted, sticking out her hand to the astonished-looking man. "We inquired at Toland Books as to who, locally, had written fan letters to Mr. Oakes in the past, and your name was among those given to us. We're taking up a collection to help with the ... um ... the arrangements, and wondered if—"

"Velma Kelly? Isn't that the name of one of the characters from that movie, Chicago?"

"Broadway musical. It was a Broadway musical before it was a movie."

"Who cares? You're no Catherine Zeta-Jones, I know that. What's the other one's name? You know, the blonde with the chubby cheeks? She was really cute."

"Mr. Gates," Saint Just said quickly, because Maggie had opened her mouth again and he was fairly certain Valentino Gates would not be happy with whatever she chose to say. "The donation?"

"Yes, you said that. A donation for arrangements. What arrangements? And, for the record, I never wrote a fan letter to that pitiful hack. He couldn't write his way out of a paper bag. And they turn me down?"

Saint Just and Maggie exchanged looks, Saint Just's one of wry amusement, Maggie's one that very clearly telegraphed her feeling that they'd been wasting their time.

"Mr. Oakes was killed a few days go, Mr. Gates," Saint Just said, then watched for the man's reaction. "Murdered. Murder most vile, one might say."

Valentino Gates staggered backward, but then seemed to collect himself, although he had gone quite pale. "I ... I didn't know. Murdered? Gee, that stinks, doesn't it?"

"Yes, indeed. It's not for public knowledge, you understand, but we've been led to understand that the sad event took place very shortly after Mr. Oakes received a rather disturbing package."

"Package," Gates repeated.

"A rather disturbing package."

"Disturbing," Gates repeated.

"A rather disturbing package containing a dead rat and a threat."

"Threat? You mean ... you mean a threat to kill him?"

"No, a threat to not kill him," Maggie said, her sarcasm level rising once more. "Of course a threat to kill him."

"I ... I don't know anything about that. I ... I've got to go now." Gates dug into his pocket and came out with a ten-dollar bill. "Here—for Oakes."

Once the door had closed, Saint Just held up the bill. "Lunch is on Valentino, if your appetite doesn't extend beyond hot dogs on the street."

"You're impossible," Maggie told him as they headed hack down the stairs. "But did you see the look on the guy's face when you started talking about the package and the threat? I thought he was going to pass out. Oh, no, he knows nothing about any package, does he? Oh, and he didn't even know Francis is dead. You caught that, right? That's the one part I believe. Nobody's that good an actor."

"I agree," Saint Just said, holding open the door to the street, then enjoying his first breath of air in some ten minutes that did not contain the pungent aroma of incontinent cats and, he believed, week-old cabbage. "Mr. Gates is officially removed from our list of suspects in the death of Mr. Oakes. He is not, however, removed from the list of those who might have had something to do with the package and threat. In fact, I believe he has just leapt to the top of the latter list. Or do you disagree?"

"No, I'm right there with you. He knows something about the packages. It's possible we've got two things going on here—my Rat Boy and your unsub, to borrow your description of the killer. After all, Francis is the only one who's dead, not that I'm wishing anyone else dead, you understand. Most especially me. I've got ... I've got unfinished business, and I'm not ready to go yet."

"Ah, a topic for an interesting late-night conversation one day soon, I do believe," Saint Just told her as he guided her along the street, turning at the corner to approach Bryon's bookstore, as he had planned out his route earlier, using a city map. "Are you ready for suspect number two?"

"Not really, no, considering how suspect number one really shot a hole in our theory. But let's get it over with and then go see Faith, God help me. Just in case Valentino back there is the best actor in the world. Oh, and what was all that with Quentin? I should be mad, but it was kind of fun, actually. Were you showing off for me, big boy?" she asked, grinning at him.

"Truthfully, I don't know why I behaved as I did, other than to say that I've noticed that, sometimes, when thrown into certain situations, I open my mouth and your version of me comes spilling out."

"So it's my fault Quentin will be walking funny for a week. Is that what you're saying?"

Saint Just smiled at her. "Yes, let's, as you say, run with that one."

"Bite me. Where's this bookstore?"

Bryon's Book Nook was located in the middle of the next block, a rather narrow store wedged between a Thai restaurant and a print shop. There was a single show window that hadn't seen a cleaning rag in possibly decades, and the interior was musty-smelling, with towering, odd-shaped bookcases jammed in cheek by jowl, leaving little room for Saint Just and Maggie to walk without turning sideways.

"Rather a charming hodgepodge, don't you think?"

"I think I've just discovered that I'm claustrophobic," Maggie told him, whispering, as if perhaps they were in a library, or a church. "I want to check out his mystery section, see if I'm there."

"Naturally," Saint Just said, following where she led. "Ah, there we are."

"Yeah. We," Maggie muttered as she went down on her haunches, as the D's were shelved on the bottom shelf. "One, two—he's got five of the latest hardback, so that's good, considering the size of this place. And one each of my backlist." She got to her feet. "I think I'm going to like this Bryon guy. Be nice to him, okay?"

"Me? I am nothing if not congenial."

"Yeah, tell that to Quentin, now that's he's going to have to sing soprano in the church choir."

"Your attempts at bawdiness are delicious," he told her, which earned him another of her very speaking looks just before a middle-aged gentleman approached dressed in baggy corduroy trousers and a dandruff-dusted black turtle-neck sweater that seemed to serve to keep his chin raised, it was that tight and that high.

"May I be of some assistance? You appreciate a good mystery novel?"

"Actually," Saint Just said, knowing Maggie would never do so, "my friend here is an author, and has learned, to her delight, that you have deigned to shelve her books in this very prestigious establishment. Is the owner in? I'm sure Miss Dooley would like to convey her thanks to the gentleman and then perhaps autograph the copies on the shelves."

"Dooley? Oh, yes, you mean Cleo Dooley. My assistant, Bruce, insists I carry her, and I must say, she sells very well to a ... certain element. I'm George Bryon, the owner. And you'd be Ms. Dooley?"

"Yeah, good guess. What certain element?"

George Bryon lifted his hands in a slightly fluttering movement. "Oh, you know. The popular fiction crowd."

"Ah, yes, I understand what you mean now. The hoi polloi, the great unwashed—that crowd?" Maggie countered, stepping closer to Saint Just. "I take it all back—be as snarky as you want to be."

Saint Just trotted out the same story he'd used to such interesting effect on Valentino Gates, and was not disappointed in Bryon's reaction, for the man's already pale complexion colored hotly at the mention of the dead rats, even before Saint Just had gotten to the part about Oakes's murder.

"I don't know anything about Francis Oakes or any dead animals or threats, and I resent the implication that I should or do. As for a contribution? Don't be ridiculous."

But Maggie, at least, wasn't done, and gave the man another verbal push. "Gee, that's too bad. The last place we stopped? The guy there gave us fifty bucks. Valentino Gates. He seemed real broken up about Francis. Do you know him? Gates, I mean?"

"I most certainly do not." And with that Mr. George Gordon Bryon turned on his heel and made a rather dramatic exit past a heavy green velvet curtain that led—Saint Just peeked—to a small room holding several rows of folding chairs and a small podium.

Maggie pushed him aside and took a look for herself, "Oh, he probably holds readings back there. I hate that. Bernie tried to send me out on a tour where I'd do readings from my books, but I shot her down. Somebody wants to read my books, let them read them. I'm not going read them to them."

"Because you loathe being the center of attention," Saint Just said as once more they found themselves standing on the sidewalks of New York.

"Yes, thank you, you finally figured that out. So you're not going to do what you did back in there ever again, right? Not in bookstores, not in public, not ever. I'm Maggie Kelly. If I wanted to blow my horn, I'm damn well capable of doing it myself. But I don't. I just want to write my books and be left alone. It's easier. And not half so insulting. At least I can pretend I'm famous—until somebody like Steve's Christine, or Bryon in there shoots me down. Which always happens. One time, just one time, I'd like somebody to gush—and I don't mean just about the love scenes, but the book, the writing. Is that too much to ask, huh, is it?"

"This leads back to your family, doesn't it?" Saint Just asked, slipping his arm around her waist. "Your family and their lack of appreciation for your talents. People like that insipid boor back there only serve to reinforce that lack of the parental praise you still crave. Poor Maggie."

"You ever visit Dr. Bob again, Alex, and I'll have to write a wart on the end of your nose," she said and stepped to the curb, hailing a passing cab. "You coming?"

"And how could I turn down such a gracious invitation?" Saint Just purred, holding open the door of the cab for her, then giving the driver an address on the Upper East Side, just out of the fashionable area.

"Faith is just off Park. Where are we going?"

"Ah, I forgot to tell you, didn't I? The good left –tenant has agreed to meet us at Jonathan West's apartment. We'll just be on time, as it works out."

"Steve? No, I don't want to see him." She tapped on the plastic divider and gave the driver her own address, then sat back and folded her arms beneath her breasts. "And don't tell me I'm being chicken."

"I most certainly will not, considering that I haven't the vaguest idea what that means. I do think you're only avoiding the inevitable, however, and can only wonder why."

"I don't know," Maggie said, looking at him with those innocent green eyes. "I'm happy for him. I'm happy for us—for as far as it goes. But I think we all need a little ... space. Or weren't you as uncomfortable last night as I was? No, never mind, you don't have to answer that. You're never uncomfortable, are you? Besides, if Valentino and good old George put their pointy heads together and sent the rats—which may or may not be a viable theory, based on their reactions—then we're wrong and the rats and Francis's murder have nothing to do with each other except a coincidence in timing. Right?"

"Correct. Lowering, but correct. And, if correct, all we've learned is that two dedicated fans of Jonathan West may have taken it upon themselves to send empty threats to several of the authors who collaborated on No Secret Anymore, even as one of our conspirators has just soundly denied knowing the other. Except, as the author in Missouri is, shall we say, sans rat, we may not even be correct in that assumption. It would go a long way toward proving at least that part of our theory if Mr. West and your friend Felicity did receive missives from, as you call him, Rat Boy. Not to Wendell, of course, who puts little stock in things like our feelings about those we believe to be suspects, but it would help satisfy my curiosity, which is why I do not as yet intend to inform the good left –tenant of what we've just discovered about our new friends, Gates and Bryon."

"Yeah, well, then you just keep your secrets while you go along and use poor Steve to help you satisfy your curiosity. As of now, I'm out of it. I've got shopping to do, remember? I guess the idea of getting Mom and Dad a flat-screen TV for their family room is sort of shot, huh?"

"I'd rather you didn't leave the apartment for the nonce," Saint Just told her, putting his hand on her arm as the cab pulled up in front of their condo building. "I wasn't worried this morning, as you traveled in a cab directly from the condo to Dr. Bob, but I don't much care for the idea of you roaming about willy-nilly."

"Look, Alex, it's over. Steve was right to shoot us down, and right to concentrate on the CUNY area. We gave it our best high school try as mystery writer and her hero, and we fell short, our theory doesn't hold water, or at least not enough of it. End of story."

"Maggie?"

"Oh, all right, all right, I'll fool around on the Internet, see if I can get some of my shopping out of the way. Except I hate that. I like to see things, touch them. You can't do that on the Internet."

"Yes, you're a very tactile person, aren't you, in your own delightfully suppressed way? Thank you, my dear," Saint Just told her, not really knowing why he was still concerned, but confident enough in his feelings of disquiet that he was relieved to know that Maggie would behave while he was gone. "However, that still leaves us with Felicity and Mr. West, I'm afraid, before we can put a firm period to the end of this adventure."

"You're going to talk to Jonathan, so that's one down. I'll go upstairs and call Faith, Scout's honor, ask her if she got a rat so that she can lie to me if she did," Maggie said, rolling her eyes. "Now let me out."

"Certainly," he said, lifting the wrapped box. "Your fudge?"

"Give it to the driver. Just don't tell him it's sugarless, or he won't take it. I mean, who would?"

Five minutes later, the ten-dollar bill Valentino Gates had given him now, along with the box of fudge, residing with the cabdriver, Saint Just joined Steve Wendell on yet another sidewalk, this one in a decidedly more upscale neighborhood than were the locations of his first two morning calls.

"Wendell, so good to see you. My apologies for my tardiness," he said as the lieutenant pulled open the door to the vestibule and fairly leaned on the buzzer button above the mailbox marked West.

"Right. Let's cut to the chase here. You and Maggie—you're together now? I always thought there was something there." He depressed the button four more times in quick succession.

"My, that was direct, wasn't it? I will gladly accept your felicitations, left –tenant, should you wish to offer them, but I have no intention of applying to you for permission."

"But you're cousins."

"Very distant cousins, as you already know. And now, for the comfort of both of us, we'll leave the subject. Mr. West is a bit of a recluse, according to Bruce McCrae, and may not answer his buzzer. I suggest we find another way to gain admittance."

"Do you now," Wendell said, looking as rumpled as usual, but more distracted than usual. "We're coming up empty at CUNY, you know. Overtime for a dozen cops, and all we've gotten out of it so far is a minor-league peeper and a pizza delivery guy looking for an address two of the idiots rolled on. Guy was so scared he dropped forty-seven bucks' worth of double cheese the department now has to pay for, hoping we don't get sued. We're back to square one, Alex, unless this hunch of yours and Maggie's plays out, and my captain is not a happy man, which means I'm not a happy man."

"I understand completely. In the main, I am not the sort to do this sort of thing, you understand, but when needs must, and to assist a friend? Yes, I think I can make an exception here," Saint Just said, depressing the button above the name Myers. When a woman's voice came through the speaker, he leaned closer and said crisply, in his best American accent, "Police, ma'am. Patrolman Swidecky, badge number two-four-six-seven-nine-oh. We've got word of a possible intruder in the building. Can you buzz us in? We'd appreciate it, ma'am. And then please remain in your apartment until we give the all clear. You are in no danger, ma'am."

"I could have done that, Officer Swidecky," Wendell groused as another buzzer sounded, followed by the opening click of the inner door lock.

"Yes, left –tenant, but you wouldn't have, at least not without first putting us both to the trouble of a tedious argument about right and wrong and other trifles we really don't have time for, do we? Remind me to stop by and thank Miss Myers when we're finished." Saint Just bowed and gave a graceful sweep of his arm. "After you?"

"You're a real piece of work, Blakely. I don't know what in hell Maggie sees in you. For that matter, I don't know why I'm here with you, watching as you break every rule in the book."

"It's my engaging personality, plus, perhaps of more importance to you, the liberating feeling derived from working outside some of those pesky rules every now and again," Saint Just said, swinging up his cane and resting it jauntily against his shoulder. "All in all, you really can't help yourself. Besides, thus far, we've made a fairly successful pair of crime solvers, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I do. But I'll deny it if you ever repeat that to anybody."

Perhaps because of the way Saint Just had taken charge downstairs, once they'd reached the sixth floor, Wendell was quick to step in front of Jonathan West's door and pound on it three times with the side of his fist. "Jonathan West! Police! Open up, Mr. West!"

"Ah, your usual subtle self. I believe I would have declared myself to be the plumber, warning Mr. West of a broken water pipe in the apartment above his. But, to each his own," Saint Just said as they waited for Jonathan West to open the door.

And waited.

"He's not in there," Wendell said. "It figures. My day's been going just great so far—why would anything change now?"

"Now, now, let's not go into a sad decline, left –tenant. The man is a recluse, and possibly quite shy. You may have frightened him with your so-gentle approach. Then again, all things considered, we could be standing out here while Jonathan West's body molders on the other side of this door."

"Molders? Oh, right. You're thinking I can justify breaking down this door, aren't you? You know, you watch too much television, Blakely, you really do. Especially the Patrolman Swidecky bit. But I'll tell you what—I'll go find the super, flash my shield, and have him let us in. You stay here. And don't do anything."

"Certainly not, and may I say, I do not appreciate the insult," Saint Just said, and then waited until the elevator doors had closed behind Wendell before he reached into the inside pocket of his sports coat and took out the lovely new set of lock picks Mary Louise had gifted him with as thanks for arranging her modeling job with Fragrances By Pierre. The picks were in a velvet-lined case. Very attractive, in a larcenous sort of way.

It was a matter of less than two minutes before Saint Just was rewarded with the sound of the last tumbler turning over, and just in time, as the elevator doors opened once more and Wendell stepped out. Alone.

"The super wasn't there," he said, standing half in and half out of the elevator, holding open the door. "Let's go, come back later for another shot at finding him. Ms. Myers is on three, you can stop there on our way down, Patrolman Swidecky."

"Very well," Saint Just said, "although I'm becoming more and more concerned. This reclusive business, you understand. Jeremy informed me that Francis Oakes hadn't left his apartment in over two years. Can we but wonder if Jonathan West is cut from the same sort of cloth? Both writers, you understand. Perhaps I could just try the door?"

"You think it's open? That never happens."

"Oh, left –tenant, everything happens, sooner or later, if we're only patient. Ah, and it has happened now," he said, pushing open the door. "Mr. West, are you in there? New York City police department, Mr. West. Don't be alarmed."

"Will you freaking cut that out?" Wendell complained, pushing past Saint Just and into the apartment. "Jonathan West! Police! Show yourself!"

"As subtle as a red brick to the brain box," Saint Just said, shaking his head as he followed after the lieutenant, only to be brought up short directly behind him as the air inside the apartment all but slammed into his nostrils. Reaching into his pocket after using his elbow to nudge shut the door behind them, he withdrew his handkerchief and put it to his nose. "Left –tenant?"

"Over there," Wendell said, pointing to what at first glance appeared to be a large gray lump on the carpet. He had already taken out his revolver and held it straight out in front of him with both hands as he visually swept the large room. "And he's pretty ripe. Don't touch anything, I've got to call this in."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Saint Just said as he measured the apartment with his eyes. "He lived rather simply, didn't he? Is this what is called a studio apartment?"

Wendell slipped his cell phone back into his pocket but kept the revolver unholstered. "Yeah, that's what it's called. Everything in one room, except the bathroom, which I have to check out now. Stay here. And don't—"

"Touch anything. Yes, left –tenant, I believe I understand crime-scene protocol. However, we could do with a little light, couldn't we?"

"Better than tripping over evidence, I suppose, and I've got to check that bathroom. All right, a light," Wendell said, pulling on thin latex gloves he'd gotten out of his pocket and reaching past Saint Just to turn on the overhead light. "Damn, another body."

"Four-legged, happily," Saint Just said, also seeing the open shoe box on a low table in front of a rather flamboyantly carved lime green on green satin couch. "I suppose, as you would say, Maggie's and my theory is back in the game?"

"Yeah, it sure looks that way. Where's Maggie?"

"Safely ensconced in her condo with Socks on guard duty downstairs, thankfully," Saint Just told him, keeping his sword cane balanced lightly in his right hand, although he believed there was no one hiding in Jonathan West's bathroom. At least no one with a working sense of smell.

While Wendell went off to do his pull open the door, point the pistol, check out the area routine on the bathroom and closets, Saint Just did his own visual inspection of the apartment from where he stood. It was all rather pathetic, actually. The furnishings were extraordinarily good, if showing signs of wear, as if West had purchased them years earlier with a much larger living space in mind, so that the pieces were out of scale for this smaller room.

What was it called? The polite term? Oh yes, downsizing. Mr. Jonathan West had downsized, most probably because finances had forced such an economy on him. A sad man, living in a sad little apartment, living a sad little life. It was Francis Oakes's life all over again—merely with a better address and more comfortable furniture.

Saint Just was happy that Maggie had chosen not to come with him. Not only did he not wish her to see yet another dead body, but a room such as this would only reinforce her belief that wealth and fame could be fleeting, affirm her lack of confidence in herself and her abilities—not to mention how much tighter she would begin to squeeze every penny.

With Wendell once more back in the main living area, his weapon now holstered, Saint Just approached the body with him. "That's quite a copious amount of blood around the body, isn't it? And arterial spray, I believe is the term," he added, pointing his cane in the direction of the bizarre stripes of dried blood on the nearest wall.

"That's what happens when somebody slices open his wrists. Hey, stay back over next to the—oh, never mind. I don't know if it's the blood smell or the decomp, but I've got to open a window."

Saint Just was more than happy to shift his gaze from Jonathan West's bloated, eyes-open body and move away from that body—and the flies that appeared to be feasting on it and the blood that had soaked into the carpet. The sound of those flies, the buzzing, was most unnerving, not that Saint Just would allow himself to react in any way.

He stepped carefully to the coffee table, where the rat, similarly decomposing, could be seen inside the shoe box, although he could not see any evidence of the poem that had been included in with Maggie's rat, and the others.

"I don't see a poem," he told Wendell, who had opened not one, but two windows, allowing some much needed cool, fresh air into the apartment.

"And I suppose you want me to look for it?"

"The thought had occurred, yes," Saint Just said, refolding his handkerchief and replacing it in his pocket. "Ah, wait, I think that could be it—I see a corner of rather stained paper sticking out from beneath the animal's body. Strange. West never read the note? It's as if he merely opened the box, then abandoned it here on the table. One would think if one were to commit suicide out of fright after receiving a threat, one would first have had to read that threat. Although," he continued, thinking out loud, "West could have lifted the rat out of the box, read the poem, and then replaced the—no, nobody would do anything like that. I know I most certainly wouldn't."

"You enjoy talking to yourself, Blakely? And we both know this wasn't a suicide. The rats are just a prop the killer understands and we don't. Not when we've already got one body that looked like a suicide," Wendell said as he stepped carefully around the room. He opened the cabinet under the sink with his gloved hand. "Wow, look at this. Good old Jonathan liked his Jim Beam, didn't he?"

Not understanding the reference, Saint Just approached the small kitchen area that at least boasted a breakfast bar to somewhat separate it from the living area, and looked into the plastic trash bin. "Oh," he said, seeing the empty bottles. "Mr. West enjoyed his liquor. Open that cabinet, if you will, left –tenant."

"More bottles, about ten of them," Wendell said, closing the cabinet door once more and opening another. "More bottles. That's some serious drinking he had going on. All right, no more of this, okay? The crime-scene guys will be here any minute now, and I want to make some notes."

"Certainly, left –tenant," Saint Just said, his attention now on the length of counter that was crowded with several small kitchen appliances. Saint Just had quite an appreciation for small kitchen appliances, an interest he would rather not dissect as to exactly why he liked them so much.

The appliances put him in mind of something that appeared to be missing from the room. A computer. Surely a writer, even one who had, as Bernie had told them, not written in years, would have a computer. A writer would sell his couch, his television machine, his soul, before he would sell his computer. There was a rather lovely kidney-shaped cherrywood desk in the room, positioned in front of the bank of three tall windows. But no computer. In fact, the desktop was completely clear save for a photograph of—well, goodness. Bernice Toland-James certainly was a popular lady, with a romantic past probably best left unexamined.

Still, no computer? Odd. Very odd.

As was one of those small kitchen appliances behind him, now that he thought about the thing. Careful to keep his hands locked behind his back, Saint Just turned back to the long counter to lean over and peer at the out-of-place appliance, noting the cobwebs that had been woven just inside its openings, which were odd in themselves, for Jonathan West may have been reduced to the Manhattan idea of genteel poverty—and most anyone's idea of devoted tipster—but he seemed to have taken great care in keeping his surroundings neat and clean.

But this appliance wasn't even plugged into the outlet. It was just there, complete with cobwebs, one appliance out of many—while all the others were plugged into a plainly visible six-outlet power cord.

And then he saw it—something where it should not be. He then glanced over his shoulder at Wendell, who was busily writing in his spiral notepad—most probably detailing how he had found the door to West's apartment slightly ajar and had entered only because he'd believed he'd had reason to suspect imminent danger to the occupant.

With the man fairly well occupied with his inventive fiction, Saint Just began speaking out loud, because he needed a bit of noise, didn't he? The sort of noise the lieutenant would dismiss as inane background chatter as he continued to scribble on his notepad. It wasn't the best of plans, but he was laboring under the knowledge that they would soon not be alone in the apartment, and really didn't have time to formulate a better one.

"Quite a devotee of small kitchen appliances, wasn't he, Wendell? Perhaps the late Mr. West was an Internet shopper? This Foreman grill is very much like mine, only a smaller size—the two-hamburger, chicken breast, or chop size, I'd say. An interesting can opener—I believe it also might serve as a knife sharpener, which is quite handy. Microwave, toaster oven—ah, and that's a rotisserie turkey cooker, unless I miss my guess. Food processor, a very simple toaster. Now, I cannot help but wonder, why would a man with limited space feel the need for both a toaster oven and a toaster? The toast from toaster ovens is far superior to that of simple toasters, don't you think? I do. Do you suppose one of them is broken? Maybe this one?"

As he said the last words, holding his handkerchief to cover his fingers, Saint Just nudged the control lever on the toaster, at which time the mechanical workings inside were released to spring upward with a short, metal-on-metal grating sound.

"Hey, what was that? Damn it, Blakely, I told you not to touch anything!"

"My most profound apologies, left –tenant. I have such an insatiable curiosity about kitchen appliances. It's a failing, I know," Saint Just said, the computer disk that had been inside one of the toaster slots already neatly secured in his sports coat pocket. He left the kitchen area and then suggested that it might be best for the good lieutenant if he was not on the premises with him when the crime-scene investigators arrived.

"You're right. I'm getting a little tired of explaining you, to tell you the truth—especially if any of the network news-hounds picked up anything on a scanner and show up. The department doesn't need another exclusive Holly Spivak-Alexander Blakely television circus," Wendell said, flipping his notebook closed. "Besides, I don't want Maggie to be alone, even if it's you I'm sending to her. Who else should we be watching? I left Bernie's list back at the homicide table."

Saint Just mentally ran down the list, picking and choosing. "There's Bruce McCrae. J.P. is babysitting him, I believe is the term. Maggie, of course. And Felicity Boothe Simmons. The rest have all either fled the metropolitan area or are, alas, recently deceased."

"Felicity Boothe Simmons? Oh, God, not that space cadet. She'll demand protection. Loudly. Count on it."

"A problem easily solved," Saint Just said helpfully. "I'm sure Maggie would be more than willing to open her home to Miss Simmons for the duration. You do plan on solving these murders sooner rather than later, don't you, left –tenant, I would most sincerely hope? I said Maggie would be willing to house Miss Simmons. I am not saying that she will be particularly overjoyed to do so. Therefore, it goes without saying that we will look forward to frequent updates from you."

"I'll be sure to keep you in the loop," Wendell said with what actually looked to be a bit of a sneer. He moved to stab his hand through his shaggy hair, but then stopped as he noticed he was still wearing the latex gloves. "Go away now, Blakely. Just go away. You've got to have something else to do besides driving me nuts."

Saint Just thought of the computer disk in his pocket. "As a matter of fact, I do. I most certainly do. But may I first say how very gratifying it is to be working with you again, left –tenant."

"Yeah. It's freaking terrific. We're a hell of a team. Go!"