High Heels and Holidays

Chapter Twenty-One

"I'm so sorry, Saint Just," Sterling said, breathlessly skidding to a halt on the sidewalk near the headquarters of Santas for Silver. "Brock was proving most uncooperative and all of that, and I barely had time to leave him with Socks before I donned my Father Christmas suit and met George and Vernon at the corner. I believe Socks requires a bit of remuneration, by the way. At least he was holding his hand out to me, palm up, as I raced by him."

"Not a problem, Sterling," Saint Just told him, nodding greetings to the Merry Men. "George, how nice of you to carry Sterling's chimney for him."

"Uh-huh. You said you wouldn't need us for very long today, Alex. Is that true? These costumes rent by the day, you know, so if we can get them back before one o'clock that would be solid."

"Right," Vernon echoed, looking past Saint Just to the two very large gentlemen standing about ten feet behind him. "Hey, I think I know one of those guys. Wow, that's Tony Three Cases. Geo, you know who I mean. Tony Three Cases. Right over there—look. No, don't look! Oh, okay, look, but don't make it obvious. He walked away with three whole big cases of cigarette cartons from that trailer a bunch of guys boosted in Queens a few years back. Wouldn't drop the cases and run, even when he heard the sirens. Just kept his cool, kept on moving down the sidewalk carrying these three big cases, and the dumb cops figured he had to be legit and just drove right past him." Vernon reverently lowered his voice. "Tony Three Cases. He's a legend, Georgie-boy. We're in the presence of a freaking legend."

Saint Just smiled in genuine amusement. "You are such an endless fountain of delightful information, Vernon," he said. "However, for today, I'm afraid you must also reconcile yourself to forgetting that you've seen the gentleman and his friend."

Vernon looked ready to weep. "But ... but I was going to ask for his autograph."

"Saint Just? You look quite serious. Is something amiss? Why did you want to meet with us here? And who are those two men?"

"No one for you to concern yourself about, Sterling. You do trust me, don't you?"

Sterling drew himself up very straight. "I'm insulted that you would even broach such a question to me, Saint Just. Of course I trust you."

"Ah, splendid. In that case, what I need you to do is to come inside Santas for Silver headquarters with me—you, too, boys—and stand flanking Sterling a few feet inside the front door while I conduct some business with Mr. Goodfellow."

"Business? I don't—"

"Shhh, Sterling, I'm not quite finished. While you three are standing there, looking just as splendidly festive as you do now, my other friends will stand behind you looking, er, looking as festive as they know how to look, I suppose. Mr. Goodfellow and I will adjourn to his office for a few minutes, no longer than a few minutes, I'm sure, and then we will be on our way again, everyone back to their own individual pursuits. Is that clear?"

"No, Saint Just, it most certainly is not. But I've learned not to question you. There's something unpleasant afoot, though, isn't there? Something with Mr. Goodfellow ... something with Santas for Silver. Oh, Saint Just, please don't tell me he's decided to terminate my association with Santas for Silver because of that ruined costume! I've offered to pay for it, I really did, and—"

"This has nothing to do with your costume, Sterling," Saint Just told him, and then shook his head. He was so new at this—this thinking more of others than he did of himself, the investigation of the moment, the pleasures of the moment. All this evolving, this business of becoming more real, more attuned to the emotions of others? Being mortal wasn't easy. Worth every problem, absolutely—but never easy. "Must I tell you the truth, my friend? I will, if you insist."

"No, of course not, Saint Just. I've never questioned you before, have I?"

"We're both expanding our horizons, the parameters Maggie set for us, aren't we? Yes, well, another discussion for another time. Are you ready?"

"At all times, Saint Just," Sterling said, adjusting his beard, which had begun to sag slightly. "Lead on, MacDuff!"

Saint Just longed to grab his friend's head, remove the red velvet cap and wig, and plant a kiss on the fellow's balding pate. "The entire quote, Sterling, is 'Lay on, MacDuff, and damn'd be him that first cries, Hold, enough!' and has to do with Macbeth's last words, shouted out as he challenged MacDuff to a fight to the death. I hardly think the quote fits the occasion, but I know the sentiment is there."

Sterling frowned. "It's not lead on, MacDuff? Well, now, why did I think it was, I wonder."

"I believe, Sterling, that is because Maggie says lead. It is my conclusion that it's an American corruption of the immortal bard's words. This is, after all, a country that spells light 'l-i-t-e.' " Saint Just halted just at the edge of the large window that made up the front of Santas for Silver, and peeked inside. "Ah, and here we are, and there is Mr. Goodfellow, not in his office, but being extremely friendly with Miss McDermont. How convenient. Come along now please, gentlemen—you all know what you are to do."

"Not really, Saint Just," Sterling pointed out as Tony held open the door for them and Gino remained on the sidewalk, glaring at passersby until everyone was safely inside the building, before joining them. They were, as Saint Just felt sure Maggie would term them, goons, but they were very well-trained goons.

He and Tony did have a small conversation before Sterling had arrived, one that had to do with the way Saint Just had "made us look bad to Mr. Campiano," and Saint Just had offered his profound apologies before inviting both men to "take another turn at him" if they so desired—get some of their own back, as it were. "I had the element of surprise riding with me, gentlemen, but I am convinced I could not be so successful again."

Tony had declined Saint Just's invitation, if Saint Just would only tell him where he had procured the sword cane, because he was fairly certain he'd look good carrying one himself, to which Saint Just had agreed that the bodyguard would look fine as ninepence ... to which Tony had said, looking at Gino, "Hear that? Ninepence? Didn't I tell you he's one of them aliens?"

Smiling at the recent memory, and still faintly puzzled as to why he'd offered to teach Tony how to use the sword stick to its best advantage, Saint Just assured himself that his cast of characters was in place behind him before he lightly tapped his cane on the floor and politely cleared his throat.

Marjorie McDermont reacted first, pushing away from Goodfellow with some alacrity and pulling down her tight black sweater. "Thank ... um ... thank you, sir. I believe the eyelash is out of my eye now," she said, and then, her eyes wide as she looked at Tony and Gino, she bent down to pick up her purse. "I think I'll go down to the corner to get some coffee."

She brushed past Saint Just, turning only in time for him to see that her mascaraed eyes were not only wide with fright but also wise in the ways of the denizens of the street. "I didn't see nothin'," she whispered to him as she went. Ah, yes, Tony and Gino had been a masterstroke of inspiration, at least now that Maggie had impressed upon him the need for him to avoid violence whenever possible. Violence nosed out most everything else in many cases, but a bit of carefully constructed deviousness ran a close second.

"What's going on here?" Goodfellow asked, his gaze also concentrated on the inestimable Tony and Gino as he slowly backed toward the door to his office. "I don't want any trouble here."

"Trouble? Indeed, no, who would, Mr. Goodfellow? Although I will say that you are in a bit of a pickle," Saint Just said blandly as he advanced on the man, watching Goodfellow's hands that, happily, remained at his sides. "A word or two, that is all I require. Shall we retire to your inner sanctum?"

"Huh? I remember you now. I'm not going anywhere with you. Nowhere I can't see them, anyway. What do you want?"

"Saint Just?"

"Not now, Sterling, if you please," Saint Just said, stepping closer to Goodfellow and keeping his voice low. He would have enjoyed playing with the fellow, but Sterling appeared to be getting restless. "Let's endeavor to do this as quickly and as painlessly as possible, Mr. Goodfellow. It has come to my attention, sadly, that you are not a nice man, sir. Nor are you honest, or concerned about the plight of widows, orphans, and the like. My friend Sterling Balder, however, is concerned. A good heart, that's what Mr. Sterling Balder possesses. A good and a pure heart."

Goodfellow sneered, at least until he remembered who else was in the room. "Yeah? So?"

Saint Just smiled. "Ah, you're listening. Good. But do lower your voice, we're having an intimate conversation here, remember? As to your question, I will say—so, my good man, in order not to disillusion my friend, rob him of his enjoyment of the generous, giving spirit of the season, I have decided two things. Would you like to know what those two things might be, Mr. Goodfellow? Or should I say Mr. Dill?"

"Yeah, yeah, I figured that one out. You know who I am. You're here to rob me, aren't you? You don't just want protection money—you want it all."

"Protection money? I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with the term. I was just saying something on this head to my companions, as a matter of fact. You Americans certainly do put your own delightful spins on the King's English, don't you? None of which really matters, my good sir, as you were correct with your second assumption. Yes, Mr. Dill, I want all of your money. After some consideration, I've decided that felons of your ilk would disdain banks, wishing to keep your ill-gotten gains close to you. I want you to go into your office now, gather it all up, every last bent penny you've accumulated in your nefarious and dishonorable scheme, and I want you to hand it all over to Mr. Balder and his four friends here, who will then donate it all to the charity of Mr. Balder's choice. I believe he holds a particular affection to something called Toys for Tots. And then, Mr. Dill, I want one more thing. I would appreciate it very much if both you and Santas for Silver were to disappear."

"Or?" Dill asked, looking very much as if he might soon become quite sick to his stomach. "Those are Campiano's guys standing over there, aren't they?"

"In point of fact, at the moment, sir, they are mine, on loan from their employer, you might say, so I suggest you give a valiant attempt to tear your pitifully terrified gaze away from them and lend me all of your attention."

"I heard you. You want me to believe that you want the money for that nimrod over there."

"Another word with which I am not familiar, but I do believe you've just insulted my good friend. You do this, I imagine, Mr. Dill, as you believe I possess no limits to my patience. I feel it only fair to inform you that you'd be incorrect in that assumption."

"Okay, okay, I've got it. I know when I'm screwed. A ... a lot of it is still in coin ... everything comes here every night, and I've just been sorting it and keeping it all piled up back there. But there's a lot, and it's pretty heavy."

"Really? Never fear, Mr. Dill, although your concern is gratifying. I have it on good authority that one of my associates, Anthony by name, is quite capable of carrying bulky, ungainly weights."

Donny Dill took one last peek over Saint Just's shoulder, then seemed to attempt to hide himself behind Saint Just. "I was right. Tony Three Cases. Christ. Look, how about I cut you guys in. Fifty-fifty. No—sixty-forty. I'm not a greedy man. Come on, what do you say? Seventy-thirty?"

"I suggest you sit down, Mr. Dill. Use Miss McDermont's chair, why don't you. I don't believe that astute lady will be returning any time soon."

"Sit ... sit down?"

Saint Just sighed. "You are a rather tedious fellow, aren't you? Yes, sit down. Smile. And then inform Mr. Balder that you have been called to the national headquarters of Santas for Silver—shall we say in Seattle?—and therefore you sadly must of necessity immediately cease operations here in New York."

"That's where you're sending me? Seattle?"

"No, Mr. Dill. Where you go when you leave here is of extreme unimportance to me. I simply desire you gone, although I do dare to suggest that a warmer climate may put some color back in your cheeks. Now, to continue if I might? As you must by necessity depart in an hour, you are turning all responsibility for the collected funds over to the eminently trustworthy Mr. Balder, with the impassioned hope that he deliver those funds to his favorite charity, as Santas for Silver may be disbanding. Are we clear, Mr. Dill?"

Dill, who was now sitting behind the desk—Saint Just could not help but smile as he heard the man's shaking knees making repeated contact with the wood—merely nodded before saying out of the corner of his mouth, "You really won't kill me?"

"And ruin such a lovely day? Certainly not. It is, after all, the Christmas season. Now, are we agreed?"

Donny Dill, at last seeming to believe that he had made a lucky escape, nodded furiously.

"I had so hoped you'd understand. And I also hope you will take some time, Mr. Dill, to consider what has transpired here and perhaps mend your ways, redirect your feet onto the straight and narrow."

"Uh-huh, yeah. Sure. Can we hurry this up? I ... I gotta go to the bathroom ..."

It was with a smile on his face and a spring to his step that Saint Just returned to the condo an hour later, lightly tipping his hat to Socks as he approached the door the man held open for him. "Ah, Socks, what a splendid day. Maggie's upstairs?"

"Yup, and all by herself, too, now that the delivery guys left."

"You're going to explain that statement, correct?"

"Sure. Ms. Simmons had a treadmill sent over, and one of those bottled-water dispensers. Maggie tried to tell the guys no, but the stuff's up there now. Money sure gets you service faster than no money does, huh? Maggie's not too happy, so I wouldn't go up there now, if I were you. Oh, and Ms. Simmons is still out, Ms. Toland-James has taken a cab to her offices because Ms. Simmons has the limo, and the damn dog is right inside here, tied to my stool. Sterling told me not to take him back to Maggie until he'd done his business, which he did about ten minutes ago, on my shoe. You'll take him back upstairs for me?"

Saint Just considered this for the space of two seconds. "No." He then handed Socks a twenty-dollar bill, promised him another if Brock was still in one piece when Miss Simmons returned to collect him, and headed upstairs to Maggie's condo ... to come face-to-face with an agitated Maggie.

"Look at this. Look at this. I've got a damn hulking, ugly treadmill in my living room."

Saint Just walked across the room to inspect the machine. "Yes, I see that. Well, my dear, you were just speaking of this corner recently, as I recall it, saying you still had done nothing about finding something to fill it."

"Oh yeah, right. And that's just the perfect thing, too. Much classier than a lighted curio cabinet, or that painted chest we saw a couple of weeks ago. But it's missing something, don't you think? Maybe I should toss a sweaty, smelly towel over it. The perfect accessory." Maggie flopped down on the couch. "I still don't believe it. She says something not two hours ago, and bam, here come these guys with that ... that thing. Unpacked it, set it up, took everything away with them—I ended up tipping them fifty bucks, which shows you how stupid I am. Ten minutes later, here comes this guy with the bottled-water dispenser. It's in the kitchen, if you want to look at it. Actually, that was a pretty good idea. I signed a two-year contract. Not that I'll be here to drink the water—not once Faith comes back and I strangle her."

"You didn't have to accept either delivery, you know," Saint Just pointed out, pouring himself a glass of wine. For a man of his era, water had never been a viable option, most especially in London, but he would have to try this bottled water at some point. Just not right now.

"I know I didn't have to take the stuff, Alex," Maggie said, leaning back against the couch cushions, to run her hands down her belly. "But Faith looks pretty good, you know, and I really probably should exercise, especially now that I'm not smoking anymore. I mean, can you see me at some gym? The only people you see at gyms are those people who don't need gyms, and I'm a good ten—eight pounds from going to a gym. So I guess I'll keep it—but not in here. Oh, and it folds up, so that's good. You and Sterling can help me move it to the guest bedroom once Faith is gone, okay?"

Saint Just nodded, then asked, "Certainly, but why didn't you simply have the deliverymen assemble it there?"

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Are you kidding? Faith has five suitcases open in that room. Clothes everywhere. Stuff, everywhere. She was always like that. We'd go to conferences together and she'd sprawl out all over the room. Her shoes, her clothes, her toiletries. I had about enough space for my toothbrush and a lipstick in the bathroom. Oh, and she used all the towels. And then there was the bath powder. Everywhere. Clouds of bath powder."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but it would seem that you should have been relieved when you two no longer shared your accommodations."

"I know," Maggie said, her head down. "But we had fun, Alex, we really did. There's a lot to be said for being poor together, struggling together. Then she hit the lists and got all weird." She looked up at him. "I'm not all weird, am I? I love being on the lists, but I don't ever want to get all weird."

Saint Just patted her head as he walked behind the couch, then sat down on the facing couch. "Confident. I would be gratified if you could believe more in yourself and your talent, my dear. Other than that, I wouldn't change a hair on your head."

Maggie smiled sheepishly. "Thanks, Alex," she said, sitting up straighter. "So you like me, right?"

"Correct," he said slowly.

"And you respect my opinion."

"Certainly. In all things." He took another sip of wine, wondering when she'd get to the point.

"So if I told you I did something, you'd be all right with that? Even if I didn't run it by you first?"

He thought of his earlier interlude with Mr. Donny Dill. "You are under no obligation to consult with me on every small thing, my dear."

"Right. But this isn't a small thing. I think Bruce McCrae killed Francis and Jonathan."

Saint Just did his best to not react. "Really. And may I ask how you came to hold this opinion?"

"Well, I don't really hold it. I'm thinking it. Except when I'm thinking I'm completely off-base. We need everything to fit, right, and not everything fits. I mean, some does, but some doesn't. Still ... I did something. Had Bernie do something. Not that I told Steve what I did, because you'd just end up in jail, and that can't be a good thing, right? So we have to find another way to prove what I think I know ... if I'm right."

Perhaps he'd like more wine. Yes, probably so. Saint Just got to his feet and made his way across the room to the drinks table. "Would you care to elaborate on what you've just said? Or, even better, start at the beginning and tell me exactly what you've thought ... and what you've done?"

"Okay, sure. Here's how it went down. Bernie was sitting at the computer, touching things the way she does, and she saw Jonathan's manuscript up on the screen. Only she thought it was Bruce's manuscript. Bruce's manuscript, Alex, not Jonathan's. Even though you found it hidden in Jonathan's apartment."

"Yes, my dear, I believe I'm following you," Saint Just said, retaking his seat. "But while I'm still digesting this, do go on."

Maggie stood up, sat down again with one leg tucked up under her, obviously near to bursting with what she had to tell him and unable to sit still. "Here's where it gets really interesting. I didn't tell Bernie what I thought, of course—oh, or J.P., because she was here, too—I'll get to that part. And I forgot to tell you what Steve said when he called, didn't I? Damn, Alex. I've got so much going on. Dad—oh, he called, he's back safe and settling into his friend's apartment. And the phone finally stopped ringing, so that's good. Well, not all good, because I'm hoping Bruce calls—except I wanted you to be here when he did. So I was almost glad to have all those delivery guys coming in and out—so I wasn't alone, you know?—because you weren't around and I really, really needed to talk to you—"

"Maggie, dearest, take a deep breath. I don't think I've ever seen you this agitated."

"Well, I am. If I'm right, I've had a killer right here, in my own home. If I'm not, I could have broken up J.P. and a wonderful guy. If I'm right, we won't have to worry anymore and Faith and Brock the Wonder Kidneys can go home—that's big on the I-hope-I'm-right side, let me tell you! But if I'm wrong, then I may have sullied someone's character, not to mention his career. But if I'm right—"

"Maggie. This is so unlike you."

"No kidding. But it's not every day I try to unmask a murderer who may or may not have considered me for his next victim. Well, maybe not, not lately—but you know what I mean. I know Bruce. This is just so much more personal. You know?"

"I do, indeed. Now, from the beginning?"

It took some time, but he finally understood what she'd done. Without telling Bernice why, she'd asked her to phone Bruce McCrae and tell him his manuscript was not up to his usual standards and would need tremendous amounts of rewriting, reworking, if it could even be salvaged.

"I know how I felt when Bernie said that about that dumb exorcism drivel I wrote about you, so I figured it was the best way to get a rise out of him," Maggie told him.

But her ploy had not elicited the reaction she'd hoped for. McCrae had taken the news rather well, which, Bernice had told her, was completely unexpected, as McCrae was always very vocally defensive of his work.

"Then I had her ask him to come over here tonight, around eight, to talk to him about the book, because Bernie is bunking in with me now, too, as you thought that, as publisher of Toland Books, she, too, could be in danger."

"I said that? Really?"

"I had to think of something," Maggie told him, "and that was all I could come up with. I figured we should confront him, you know?"

"We. How gratifying. I can remember a time—most probably because it was only days ago—when you wouldn't have been as willing to consider us, well, a team."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah— 'ray, team," Maggie said, actually blushing. "Back to confronting Bruce. After we figure out what he did, how he did it. I've been making notes—they're on the table in front of you. But then I realized that, unless he confesses—and he won't unless he's an idiot, which he isn't—we have no way of proving anything. No way to prove he was Rat Boy—nothing."

"I don't think he is—Rat Boy, that is," Saint Just told her, scanning Maggie's scribbled list of questions and thoughts concerning Bruce McCrae. He looked up at her, for she was on her feet now, pacing. So much was going on in her life right now, changing in her life right now. Was it any wonder she was nervous, poor thing? "Do you?"

"No, unfortunately. Something as gross as dead rats just isn't his style—Bruce's that is—except that, of course, would be the beauty of the thing, wouldn't it? Remember, he writes mysteries, makes up plots for a living. He isn't going to think like your usual murderer. He'd plan a murder like someone else would plan chess moves, always working three moves ahead. It's like—it's like we have to try to outplot him, or something, and I don't know who's better at plotting, him, or us—who's got the better endgame."

"We do, my dear, without question." Saint Just deposited his wineglass on the table and got to his feet. "Go fetch your coat."

"What? Why?" Maggie asked, although, to his delight, she was already on the way to collect her coat, gloves, and scarf. "Where are we going?"

"First, to luncheon, as I haven't broken my fast all day and it's already well past one o'clock. After that, I would suggest the shop of your choice and the purchase of a new winter coat."

Maggie slid her arms into the coat and looked down at the front of it. "Oh, come on, it's not that—okay. Then what? Because you'd better have more than that."

"Oh, I do. Then, my dear, we will travel again to Greenwich Village, where we will visit once more with both Mr. Gates and Mr. Bryon, and this time we will not be quite as conciliatory as we were on our initial visits."

Maggie exited the condo ahead of Saint Just as he held the door open for her. "Oh, goodie. Do I get to be the one who's snarky to Lord Bryon?"

After a leisurely lunch at Bellini's where they discussed strategy, and a delightful interlude at a small, exclusive boutique Saint Just had chosen weeks earlier as the perfect establishment for Maggie, they were in another cab and on their way to Greenwich Village. Maggie looked splendid in a new, thigh-length camel wool coat and soft rust and loden green cashmere scarf that flattered her coloring. Her old coat, along with a long black cashmere dress coat even Maggie had to agree was worth the hefty price, would be delivered to her condo.

Saint Just adored it when the world worked to his order.

"So, who do we tackle first?" Maggie asked, rubbing her gloved hands together in the sort of gleeful anticipation best suited to young tots confronted with their first amusement fair—or perhaps an evil inventor admiring his first successful monster.

Saint Just looked out the window of the cab as it slowed in traffic. "I had thought we would confront Valentino Gates at his apartment, but it would appear he's on the move." He leaned forward and knocked on the partition. "You can let us out here, thank you."

"He looks like he's going to a funeral in that black suit," Maggie said as they followed after Gates, staying on the other side of the narrow street. "And doesn't he own a coat? It's freezing today."

"It would be my opinion that Mr. Gates is on his way to something both important and local, something for which he felt he needed to dress appropriately, if not warmly. Ah, and there he goes, around the corner. You remember what's located halfway down that street, don't you, Maggie?"

"Bryon's Book Nook, check," she said, nodding. "Maybe we'll be lucky, and get ourselves a twofer. You be good cop—I want to be bad cop."

Saint Just looked at her curiously. "It's gratifying to see you so enthusiastically into the game, my dear."

"Yeah, well, people have been playing with my head long enough. I've got a checklist. Mom, Dad, Rat Boy, Boobs, Bruce, Dr. Bob, Christmas. And, lest we forget—Brock, the incontinent canine. I need to check something off, and we may as well start here. I mean, maybe it's selfish, but I want my life back—and my condo. I had no idea it was so small until Faith moved in. You and Sterling together didn't crowd me as much as she does. Unless I just started thinking bigger, now that I've seen Faith's place. An office suite? I've got a desk in the corner of my living room. And everybody eats my M&M's. I want a separate office, Alex, I really do."

"And no one could blame you," Saint Just assured her as they cut across the street and watched Valentino Gates disappear into Bryon's Book Nook. "We'll give them a moment, and then join them."

"Right. Hey, look at this," she said, pointing to a black-edged notice taped to the dirty window of the bookstore. " 'To commemorate the life and career of Jonathan West. A gathering of his friends and admirers, with remarks, readings, and refreshments.' Oh, wow, the regulation bookstore three R's. And it's today, Alex. In an hour. Bryon really was a fan."

"As was Mr. Gates, who is perhaps even our chief mourner? Shall we join them now, my dear, and avoid the crowds?"

Maggie grinned at him. "I love it when you're snarky."

They entered the store, Saint Just performing a quick inventory of patrons that did not take long, as there were only two, and then they headed for the curtain and the room they'd seen previously. "As I recall, there is this entry, and a marked and lighted exit to the right and rear, most probably leading to the street. We'll need to position ourselves so that those portals are at least partially blocked, agreed?"

"Agreed. So, do we say we're here for the three R's, fans of Jonathan's?"

Saint Just considered this. "No, I believe we ran out that string announcing ourselves as Mr. Oakes's fan club—and by introducing you to Mr. Bryon. Let's just join them, then simply see what develops."

He held back the curtain to allow Maggie to precede him into the small, poorly lit room, where they quickly moved into the shadows and visually inspected George Gordon Bryon as he stood behind the podium, unaware that he had company, fussing with various papers. Gates, Saint Just noticed, was nowhere in sight. Perhaps they'd overlooked him among the towering shelves in the bookstore proper? He repositioned Maggie so that their backs were against the wall.

"Holy cow," Maggie whispered, staring wide-eyed at George Gordon Bryon. "Would you look at that? The balloon pants and slippers. The red and gold silk robe. The pin at his throat. The turban. I know that outfit—I've got a copy of the portrait in one of my research books. The sixth Baron Byron himself, painted as a corsair. All that's missing is the mustache." She cocked her head and looked again. "The mustache ... and the soulful eyes, the rounded chin, the intense expression, the proud carriage. Okay, let's face it—Bryon looks like he's decked out for Halloween."

"A sad man, one who lives, soars, only in his dreams. Byron wrote his dream, lived his fantasies and, as I've now been able to read a biography detailing what happened to him after he was drummed out of England by his enemies, most unfortunately died in Missolonghi, fighting the good fight. But this man? Ah, Maggie, this man only dreams of the daring, the adventure, the righteous crusade."

"But maybe he found a crusade," Maggie whispered as Bryon sorted through a small stack of file cards he'd picked up from the podium. "Maybe he found Jonathan West, and took up his cause? Maybe he even knew Jonathan personally—should we go see if his books on the shelves here are autographed? No, scratch that, let's just run with this before he sees us. Let's say he did know Jonathan, and got to hear Jonathan curse us all out for having ruined his career. And let's suppose Bryon finally decided to do something about it."

"Bryon and Gates. But where, I wonder, did they find the rats?"

"Are you kidding? In this dump? All he'd have to do would be set some traps at night. But now we have to ask ourselves the biggie, Alex. Two biggies. Did they send the rats? And, if they did, why in hell did they send one to Jonathan? I have a theory about that second part, but only if the answer is yes to the first part."

"Shh, sweetings, I believe the man is about to rehearse his prepared speech."

George Gordon Bryon, a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses now perched on his nose, cleared his throat as he held up one of the file cards. "And so, in closing, allow me to most humbly and heartfeltedly proclaim—old Jonathan West was the very, very best. And the very, very best was he. Lesser talents betrayed him, they mocked and dismayed him, but never a better will we ever know."

Maggie spoke before Saint Just could warn her to silence. "Ever know? Alex, did you hear that? That should be ever see. See rhymes with he. Bryon wrote those poems. He is Rat Boy. And heartfeltedly isn't even a word, for crying out loud. Oops. Alex, stop him!"

Saint Just was already on the move, however, as Maggie's voice had risen in tandem with her joy of discovery and Bryon had heard her, seen them, and taken off at a full run for the door below the Exit sign.