High Heels and Holidays

Chapter Twenty-Two

"I know you. George and I talked about you and your friend—and your lies. You shouldn't be here," Valentino Gates told Maggie as he grabbed her by one shoulder and whirled her around to face him.

"Oh, yeah, right, I'm scared," Maggie said, shrugging out of the man's grip. She'd really had a long week, and she wasn't in the mood for dramatics unless they were her own. "You send dead rats and lousy poetry to people, trying to frighten them. But that doesn't exactly make you and Bryon frightening. It makes you pathetic."

"You ruined Jonathan West's life," Gates shot back at her, although he didn't try to touch her again.

"Wrong, buster. Jonathan ruined Jonathan's life. He wrote a couple of pretty great books, and then he went wacko with his own importance. The plot, the premise, the gang of contributing authors—everything about that stupid book was his idea. The characters were his idea. He wouldn't let anyone else edit anything. He rewrote all of our chapters until we didn't even recognize them anymore. That was Jonathan's book—our names were just on it with him. He dug his own hole, Valentino, with his own inflated ego."

Then she stopped, ran the lines of what she'd said past her mental eyesight one more time. "Wow, that was almost profound, wasn't it?" She shook her head. "Look, Valentino, I'm sorry, but if Jonathan lost his edge—whatever—after the book tanked, it wasn't because of anything the rest of us did. Nobody likes to blame themselves, so Jonathan blamed us. Hey, and don't look now, but none of us exactly got a big career boost from that bomb. I had to change my name and start over from scratch. But that's the thing, Valentino—I started over. Jonathan quit."

"He published more books. But the critics were against him."

"Wrong again, Valentino. He dusted off two old manuscripts that should have stayed in the drawer and made Toland Books publish them. It was the only way they could get him to fulfill his contract and hope to get back any of the advance money they'd poured all over him. They shouldn't have done it, but they did—well, Kirk did, Bernie tried to talk him out of it. But no matter what, Valentino, Jonathan West never wrote another word after No Secret Anymore. Not until he—never mind."

"Having a pleasant coze with Mr. Gates, my dear?"

Maggie turned to smile at Alex, who was urging Bryon ahead of him at the point of his sword cane. "Put that thing away. Remember, Alex, you promised to use your powers only for good. Hey, Lord Bryon, you lost one of your magic slippers."

"I want you people to leave. Coming in here uninvited, accosting me in my place of business," Bryon said, dusting off his costume. "I'm going to go call the police."

"Saving us the trouble, thank you," Alex said, sheathing his sword stick. "Or would you rather simply tell us why you sent dead rats and atrocious rhyme to Miss Dooley here and others?"

"It was his idea."

Unfortunately, both Gates and Bryon uttered the same accusation at the same time, and it was some moments before Alex could physically separate the two men.

"It's never pretty when thieves fall out," Alex said once everyone was seated on four of the folding chairs in the room. "Now, gentlemen, decide between you which of you is going to tell us what we want to know."

It was Bryon who spoke, recounting his and Valentino's admiration for Jonathan West. When West happened into Bryon's Book Nook one fine day, they'd all three of them formed a friendship that had, over the ensuing years, gone all the way to the point where Jonathan was mentoring Valentino, inviting the two of them to his apartment for drinks and conversation—all that good stuff meant to have the two fans all but worshipping at West's shrine.

As Jonathan fell deeper into the bottle, many of his conversations with the men had to do with Toland Books and, most especially, the ungrateful authors who had ruined his career.

"We begged him to forget all of that and write another book," Valentino told Maggie. "He didn't want to do it, but then, about a year ago, he outlined a plot idea to us. Just last month he even read us bits and pieces of what he'd written—didn't he, George? And it was brilliant! We were so honored!"

"He talked about a plot with you? He read you something?" Maggie grinned at Alex in triumph and not a little relief. It would be tricky to maneuver the timeline, but at least now there was a way to prove what she and Alex believed, without landing Alex in the slammer for absconding with evidence—Steve would go along with them; he always did. "So, if you were asked, you'd be able to say that Jonathan West read you a portion of his new novel? You'd recognize those portions if someone read them to you again. Do I have that right?"

Both men nodded furiously.

"But he said he'd never publish it. He'd never open himself up to such vitriolic criticism and humiliation again. We begged, and we begged, but he wouldn't do it. And we knew why," Valentino said. "It was because of you—you and the others who ruined him. A bright light, gone from the literary world because of hacks, no-talents."

"Literary world? Oh, come on. He wrote mystery novels. I write mystery novels. See? That was Jonathan's problem. He wanted to be the critics' darling. I hate when a writer becomes ashamed of what he or she does well, just because it isn't literary."

Bryon's upper lip curled rather effectively. "We decided that Jonathan would never agree to be published again until the greedy vermin that had eaten away at his literary soul were punished, were given a good scare, even." He subsided against the back of his chair. "So we sent you all the rats. We thought that would make Jonathan feel better, maybe even make him want to publish again."

"You forgot Kimberly Lowell D'Amico," Maggie told him.

"No, Valentino couldn't find an address on her," Bryon explained. "He sent half, I sent half, but he couldn't find her address."

"Let me take a wild stab at something here, just for my own satisfaction," Maggie interrupted. "One of you gift-wrapped your share of the dead rats, yes?"

"Valentino did, for some ridiculous reason, yes. But it was all for naught, because when we told Jonathan what we'd done—sure he'd be pleased to have had some revenge—he told us we were incompetents, idiots, and banned us from his apartment. He even threatened to call the police to tell them what we'd done." He then angrily whirled on Valentino Gates. "But that was no reason for you to kill him, you fool!"

"Me?" Valentino looked, as Maggie might write in one of her Saint Just mysteries, suddenly pale to the marrow. "I didn't kill him. You killed him. Didn't you?"

Alex got to his feet, holding out a hand to Maggie. "I think we're done here, sweetings. Neither of them killed Jonathan West or, as would naturally follow, Francis Oakes. To question them further would only muddy the waters for Left –tenant Wendell, who most certainly will be interviewing them shortly."

"Agreed. Just one more question, Alex." Maggie looked at Bryon who, ridiculously, seemed the more intelligent of the two men. "Why did you send Jonathan a dead rat?"

Gates and Bryon exchanged looks, and then answered in unison, "We didn't send Jonathan a rat."

"No, I thought not. Thank you, gentlemen," Alex said as he tucked his cane under his arm. "And remember, gentlemen, when the constable arrives, that the truth shall set you free. Or some such drivel. Maggie? Shall we be on our way?"

Maggie was still feeling pretty darn good when she and Alex got back to her condo. In fact, she was almost giddy—right up until the moment she walked in to see all the suitcases piled in the living room.

At that point, her mood rose to the nearly euphoric.

"Going somewhere, Faith?" she asked as she saw—mercy of mercies—Brock's small traveling cage.

Faith laid her full-length pink faux fur coat over the control panel of the treadmill. "Oh, Maggie, you're back. Good. Yes, I'm going somewhere. Noreen invited me to hide out with her at her lodge up in Stowe until the murderer is caught. I think she said Stowe. Somewhere up there, anyway. Oh, and she wants to interview you for her show. You know, the murder mystery author turned potential victim? You need to do it, Maggie, it would be great PR."

"Not happening, Faith, thanks anyway," Maggie said, grabbing the container of M&M's and frowning at how few of the colorful candies remained, none of them blue. "Is that what you talked about in today's interview, Faith? The fact that you're also a potential victim? You cried, didn't you. You always cry."

"Noreen's hoping for a daytime Emmy," Faith said, ignoring the insult, probably because she thought it was a compliment. "I hope so—for her sake. She's a lovely woman."

"So you two struck up a friendship this afternoon? You and Noreen."

"Oh, yes, definitely. You can't know how overcome I was by her show of friendship—offering to harbor me in my hour of need. She even escorted me back to my apartment. She was absolutely mad about the decor—we'll be taping a video tour for her audience, to air before Christmas, naturally. I picked up a few more things, my boots, my ski togs, and she'll be sending a car for me in—oh, twenty minutes. I just have time to redo my makeup. Excuse me."

Maggie, tongue literally stuck in cheek, watched as Felicity toddled back down the hallway on her four-inch heels. "You're welcome, Faith, I was happy to have you," she muttered, then gave in to impulse and tried on the faux fur. She had to admit it really did feel good, even if she was pretty sure she looked like cotton candy on a stick.

"It's not your color, my dear," Alex said, walking in unannounced, as usual. "And not nearly elegant enough for you."

"Saved by the belated sucking up," Maggie told him as she slipped out of the fur and draped it back over the treadmill. "Faith's flying the coop, she got a better offer."

Alex smiled. "You are having an enjoyable day, aren't you?"

"It's definitely better now than it was when it started out this morning, I'll say that. What time is it?"

"Mr. McCrae should be arriving in approximately ninety minutes, if that's what you mean."

"It is. That gives us time to eat something, and I want to shower and change. There are still leftover lunch meats and salad from last night. Do you think Sterling wants some?"

"Sterling, as a matter of fact, is out celebrating with George and Vernon and two new friends, having spent an enjoyable afternoon of their own performing good deeds."

"Oh. So the Santas for Silver thing is going all right for him? I told you I checked it out on the Internet. And you were worried. Sometimes, Alex, you're like a mother hen with one chick when it comes to Sterling. Not that I don't think it's sweet."

"Well, actually—ah, Felicity. I hear you're leaving us. Maggie and I are, of course, devastated."

"Yeah, right. I may cry myself to sleep tonight," Maggie grumbled.

"You think you're being sarcastic, Maggie, but you really do love me," Felicity said, kissing Maggie's cheek. "I know what you did, honey, opening your home to me out of your concern for me, and I mean it when I say thank you. Friends forever, remember? We made that vow."

Maggie felt her spine melting, as usual. They had been really good friends, once. "Yeah, okay, Faith. Friends forever."

"Good," Felicity said, slipping into her fur. "In that case, let me remind you that you still owe me a house-warming present—a big one, because that's a top-of-the-line treadmill over there. Now, gather up Brock for me and call for the doorman to help with these bags. I don't want to keep Noreen waiting."

"Sucker," Maggie groused under her breath as she went hunting for the mutt. "I never learn. I've got a great big S frigging tattooed on my forehead."

But ninety minutes later Felicity was already well on her way to Stowe, Maggie had had that shower and a huge rare roast beef sandwich on rye, and she was more than ready for Bruce to show up and watch Alex—help Alex—with one of his famous Viscount Saint Just denouement scenes.

"Good cop or bad cop?" Alex asked her as Socks, who'd remained on duty just for this purpose, buzzed twice, then twice again, signaling that both Bruce McCrae and J.P. Boxer were on their way upstairs.

"I'll follow your lead," she told him. "But I do need to get a couple of licks in, if you don't mind. If we're right about all of this, it could have been me, you know, and not poor Francis. All set, Steve?"

"Here they go, Dumb and Dumber ride again. I should have my head examined—except that you guys always seem to make it work. Get him talking, get him to say something incriminating. But make it fast, okay?" Lieutenant Steve Wendell, who really did owe Maggie one, picked up his can of soda and retired to the kitchen, out of sight but not out of earshot while Alex opened the door for their company.

"Where's Bernie?" Bruce asked as he shrugged out of his coat—one of those ridiculous khaki raincoat things with epaulettes on the shoulders, flaps and pockets everywhere, and cinched by a wide belt. Talk about looking like Secret Squirrel. Jeez.

"She was unavoidably detained at the office," Alex said smoothly, then offered their guests drinks.

Okay, Maggie was nervous now. She'd been excited, but now Bruce was here, sitting directly across from her. The killer.

"Um, Bruce? Bernie told me. You know, about your manuscript? Gosh, I'm sorry. She rained all over my last manuscript, too. I don't know what's wrong with her. She used to be more understanding."

Bruce sat forward on the couch, his fingers laced together, as J.P. began rubbing his back. "I know. That call I got this morning? It was like a slam to the solar plexus, you know? I worked so hard on that book. I love that book—sweated blood over it. I just don't understand her problem. That's why I was glad she invited me over here tonight." He accepted a glass of wine from Alex, looking up at him. "Bernie said it was your idea that she move in here with Maggie and Felicity. So you really think this Nevus guy could be after Bernie, too?"

"In point of fact, no," Alex said, and then inclined his head to Maggie, who took it from there. How nice for Bruce to provide their segue for them. And how smart of Alex to have gone back to Valentino and Bryon with just one more question.

"Not Nevus, Bruce. Nexus. You know—to bind, to connect. A connected group—like all of the authors connected to No Secret Anymore. Rat Boy, well, Rat Boys, they said they'd run a spell-checker before printing out all those copies of the poem for everyone, but since nevus is a word, the spell-checker didn't pick up the typo. Neither, obviously, did our Rat Boys. Isn't that something? We were never going to connect anything that way, huh?"

Now J.P. sat up straighter. "You found him—them? You found out who sent the rats?"

Maggie nodded. "Tell them, Alex."

Alex stood at the end of the couch where Maggie sat, looking at Bruce as he spoke. "Certainly, Maggie. Yes, J.P., we unearthed them, and they didn't kill Francis or Jonathan. They're merely fairly harmless idiots who, unfortunately, innocently provided the real killer with a most timely bit of assistance as well as helping to muddy the waters so that the killer could not only kill but perpetrate a fraud."

"That's a lot of big words and bigger accusations you're tossing around, English," J.P. said, figuratively donning her criminal defense attorney hat. "You have a suspect for all this murder and fraud business?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, we do, and thank you, J.P., for so quickly bringing us to the nub of the matter. Mr. McCrae, would you care to confess, or shall we have to deal with a tedious point-by-point breakdown of your motive and opportunity?"

"Me?" Bruce smiled as he looked at each one of them in turn. The kind of smile, Maggie thought, that you could see on football players, basketball players, anyone who knew damn full well they'd committed a foul, but were trying to act as if the referee had just made a big joke at their expense. The kind of smile that was just a little too wide, while the eyes remained a little too nervous, even cagey. "You're accusing me? Are you nuts?"

"Yes, Maggie, are you nuts?" J.P. seconded the question. "Bruce never killed anyone. We had a long talk this afternoon, because I was pretty sure you were thinking that way this morning. Don't ever play poker, Maggie—when I dropped that left-handed bomb, you jumped on it way too fast, then backed off even faster. Jonathan West and Francis Oakes were Bruce's friends. Look—I'd given him this, to protect himself when I wasn't around, and he gave it back to me this afternoon. See?" she concluded, unzipping her large pocketbook and holding up the Glock as evidence.

"Cripes, J.P., put that away before you drop it and it goes off. Besides, I have an idea," Maggie said, now that the idea had surfaced with Bruce's fake smile. "Let's do a play-by-play, J.P., a sort of non-video review, shall we, and then you decide? I'll start."

She got to her feet and began pacing behind the couch. "To begin, let's all remember that Bruce, like me, is a mystery writer. I know something about mystery writers, about the process. We set up a situation, we put in a bunch of what-ifs and suspects, we toss in a couple of red herrings to put the reader off the scent, and then we sit back and look for holes in our plot. Question ourselves, question each point, address that plot from every angle so that there are no more holes except the sneaky ones we want there so the reader can look back later and say, wow, there it was, but I missed it. That's how it works—hopefully. In other words, we think in terms of what can go wrong with our premise, how our killer can screw up."

"Marvelous," Bruce said, sitting back and crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Maggie's giving us a workshop for beginners."

"Shut up, Bruce," J.P. said, moving slightly away from him. "I know her longer than I know you, remember? Let her have her say, then you can try to tear apart her testimony on cross."

"Ouuu, the lawyer speaks. Fine, but I want a drink first—or don't you think I know you're trying to set me up for a fall here," Bruce said sarcastically, getting to his feet. "Go on, Maggie. I can wait to sue you until tomorrow."

Maggie looked at Alex, who nodded his head once more, encouraging her to continue laying out her reasons for believing Bruce guilty.

But she didn't know where to start, which was still the problem.

Okay ... she'd lay it out the way she did a synopsis. She'd tell Bernie a story—except Bernie wasn't here, this wasn't really a synopsis, and she really wished Bruce and his muscles would sit down again.

"Bruce, let's do the crimes first, all right? We'll get into the particulars of how you screwed up later, if you still insist in saying you're not guilty."

"Fine. Maybe I should take notes? I mean, a Cleo Dooley plot? That has to be worth something. Maybe we could collaborate on a book? No, never mind. That didn't work all that well the first time, did it?"

"Gratified as you must be, McCrae, listening to the drone of your own voice," Alex said tightly, "we'd like you to sit down now and allow Maggie to speak. If you can prove her wrong—prove us wrong—it will save you an interview with Left –tenant Wendell, as he will be our next audience."

Maggie swallowed down hard on her nervousness. She knew that Bruce could leave at any time, just walk away, and there'd be no way to stop him, not unless Alex was in the mood to play hero, and she hoped he'd remember that Steve was in the kitchen, listening, and that unsheathing his sword stick probably wouldn't be a good idea.

So it was definitely time to cut to the chase, hit Bruce in a way that would force him to stay, and mentioning Steve seemed to do the trick. In fact, Bruce suddenly looked eager to match wits with them. Yeah, well, she'd soon put an end to that!

"You ripped off Jonathan's new manuscript and passed it off as your own," Maggie said, and then waited, letting out her breath slowly as Bruce looked at her for a long moment, and then sat down.

"A masterstroke, my dear," Alex said, leaning down to speak into her ear. "As good as an anchor strapped to his ankle. Now move quickly."

Maggie nodded, cleared her throat. She had it together now, she knew where to start, where to go with this synopsis.

"You stayed friends with Francis and Jonathan after No Secret Anymore. You said so. You visited them, the whole nine yards. And while Francis sort of faded away, and Jonathan had all but dropped off the map, your career kept growing very nicely. Except, wow, now you were having trouble, too. Like Francis, like Jonathan, something had gone wrong. You'd lost something, some edge, and you couldn't write. You'd hit a wall, you were already past your deadline, and you were desperate. We all get blocked once in a while, we all get desperate. But you were scared, and getting more frightened every day you sat at that computer and looked at that blank screen, that blinking cursor."

Oh, yeah, she was getting into it now. Bruce was her character now, and she was telling his story, laying out his fears, his motivations.

"Maybe you weren't really a writer. Maybe you'd been faking it all these years, and now you just couldn't fake it anymore. The world would realize you couldn't write, not really. We all think that, every time we sit down to start another book. First book, twentieth book, hundredth book. It doesn't matter. The same fears come back. But it was worse for you this time. You saw Francis, his despair, his small apartment, the way he'd hidden himself away, frightened of the world that had disregarded his books. And you saw Jonathan West. Who'd been bigger than Jonathan West? Man, if he could fall, how could you not fall? You could be him, you could be Francis. We all could be them, we're all just one book away from being them, aren't we?"

"You always did have a flair for the melodramatic, Maggie," Bruce told her, lifting a tumbler of scotch to his mouth. "I'm talented. I don't have crises of confidence and I never have. That's for lesser talents. Like you. You even failed at romance, and that's formulaic drivel anyone can write."

The urge to say bite me rose and was quickly batted down again, along with her ready defense of the romance genre, as Maggie pushed on, doing her best to stay on point as Bruce tried to steer her away from it, and into personal attack. Hey, she'd spent five years listening to Dr. Bob's advice on how to argue effectively with her family—she recognized that sort of underhanded tactic now.

"Then, one fine day, you stopped in to visit Jonathan and learned that he was writing again. Not only was he writing, but he was willing to show you, his good friend, what he'd written. And you were blown away. It was good. It was very good. And you couldn't write a coherent grocery list, could you? You went home, and stewed, and then an idea hit you. The sort of idea a good mystery writer jumps on immediately. And you are a good mystery writer, Bruce, you really are. You just didn't want to wait out the dry spell, or work your way through it. You visited Jonathan again, and you somehow made a copy of his manuscript on a blank disk while he was in the bathroom or passed out drunk, and took it home with you, put your name on it, and sent it off to Bernie. After all, Jonathan had said he'd never publish it, and he was a drunk, a recluse. He'd never even know you'd ripped him off."

J.P. raised her hand as if she was in class. "You're saying Bruce thought he could get away with something like that?"

"No, not really. I think he was desperate, and he didn't think the whole thing completely through before he acted," Maggie told her honestly, because this part was still a little murky to her. "What I think was that he needed something to give to Bernie because he was so overdue on his deadline and, even though Bernie is a terrific woman, she's also a tough businesswoman, a lot tougher than Kirk used to be. Now that Kirk's dead and she's in charge, she's going pretty heavy with the hammer, even demanding that some authors hand back their advance money if they're too far over deadline. Bruce just wanted to shut her up, that's all—at least at first. But, once he'd done it, sent in Jonathan's manuscript as his own, he had to know—quickly—if she liked it, if she'd publish it, or if he'd just bought himself a little more time to write his own book. Because, wow, he had a problem, didn't he? He'd acted, and then realized he'd taken a pretty big risk in doing what he did, if the manuscript was as good as he thought it was."

"This is ridiculous. You're saying Bruce was that desperate—desperate enough to steal another writer's work?"

"Oh, J.P., it's not like he'd be the first person to do it. Or the first to get away with it. Plagiarism happens all the time, and always because the thieves—and they are thieves, damn it, raping our brains—think they'll never be caught. Bruce just took it a step further and stole from Jonathan's imagination before the book was in print. Anyway, when Bernie called him, told him she loved the manuscript so far—that's when he realized he'd have to get rid of Jonathan before the book came out. It was too dangerous to just believe that Jonathan would never know. And, hey, who knew if Jonathan might someday decide he did want to see if he could be published again with this new manuscript. Any way you looked at it, Bruce, Jonathan had to go. You had months to plan the how of it before the book came out, work up a foolproof plan, but then Jonathan offered you a gift, didn't he, Bruce?"

"Me? You're asking me? Please, this is your pipe dream. I'm just sitting here, wondering how much I can sue you for. That last contract Bernie handed you, Maggie? Didn't PW report that as a four-book, mid-seven-figure deal? I always forget—one's libel, one's defamation. J.P., honey, you'll have to help me sort that part out, okay?"

Alex sat down beside Maggie and patted her hand reassuringly. "He's only blustering, but I'll take over now, I believe. Where were we? Oh, yes, Jonathan West offered you a gift, McCrae, unwittingly of course. He told you about these two overly zealous fans of his who had just sent out dead rats and threatening poems to the authors who'd worked with him on No Secret Anymore. He was upset, had banished these fans from his sight, but wanted you to be aware—you, his dear friend—of what they'd done. And that day or the next, a dead rat did in fact appear in your mailbox. And, with that rat, an idea. A way to salvation, a plan meant to solve all your problems."

"Exactly," Maggie said, happy to see that Bruce's smile might still be there, but it was still as false as the guy who'd just clotheslined an opposing player and then turned to protest to the ref, "Who? Me? You're blaming me?"

"It was a very good plan," Alex went on, swinging his quizzing glass from its black riband as he spoke. "Jonathan, odd character that he was, would receive this horrendous threat and commit suicide. Of course, these zealous fans would not have sent a rat to Jonathan, but that was no matter. After all, you already had one in your possession, didn't you? All you had to do was remove the outer packaging and replace it, with Jonathan's address on the new envelope. That business of having taken the box to the police and then throwing it in the trash was merely a hum meant to establish you as a potential victim. A clever ruse, actually."

"Right," Maggie broke in eagerly. "But there were still plot holes. One murder tricked out as a suicide? No, that was a little chancy. Because Jonathan was famous once, even if he wasn't now. The police would make a very thorough investigation. Much better to have Jonathan be just one of several murders with pretty much the same MO, right? You called Sylvia Piedmonte and ... oh yeah, and Freddie Brandyce, but they both took off, so you couldn't use them as part of your plan. Oh, and Garth Ransom—Buzz—he was off shooting rhinos or something."

"I don't believe hunters are allowed to shoot rhinos anymore, my dear. Let's just say he was in Africa, for clarity, you understand."

"Picky, picky, Alex. And don't interrupt, I'm really moving now. So, Bruce, who else was out there? Oh, wait, how about good old reclusive Francis Oakes? Little guy, he wouldn't put up much of a struggle. Nobody'd miss him, and he'd have his own dead rat there, you wouldn't even have to go find one of your own. So, first Francis, and then Jonathan—the police said Jonathan had been dead for a while, so you probably made the murders a real one-two punch, huh? Except nobody was looking for Jonathan, nobody knew he was dead, so you came knocking on my door. Maggie Kelly, the woman who's already known for ... well, for stumbling over bodies. And now, wow, we've got a serial killer here, and Jonathan is just one of two victims so far—just tossed into the mix with the other victims. Who was next, Bruce? Me, right? I was here, local, couldn't really put up much of a fight against a great big guy like you. I was going to be number three, wasn't I? I knew you. I'd let you in the door. And you'd kill me. Bastard!"

"Sunshine, calm down," J.P. said, moving over to the other couch, to sit beside her. "I can see where you'd be upset, but you haven't really proved anything, except the stealing the manuscript part. But that's a far cry from murder. You've said nothing that would indicate that the fans who sent the rats in the first place aren't the killers. Bruce was a potential victim here, too."

"Oh, sure, that's what he'd like us all to think. The very helpful potential victim, by the way. Remember how he offered to call Jonathan, even left a message on his machine? And by then, Jonathan had already been dead a while. And you must have been thrilled when J.P. checked your cell calls, because there was the record of your concern for Jonathan, all down in black and white. I'll bet it's the same with Francis—calling his apartment long after he was dead, leaving messages. Talk about sick! But it's so much what a smart mystery writer would do to cover his tracks, setting up the misdirection, the red herrings, the whole bit. Man, Bruce, you left tracks all over the place, once I took a good look at your mistakes. Mostly, you were just too darn helpful. And you just couldn't help showing off, watching everyone stumble with the investigation, leading us all along where you wanted us to go, watching as your perfect crime played out. Ego, it gets them every time. But you tried too hard, Bruce. I always can tell your killer in your books—you use too heavy a hand, just the way you did here."

"That and the fact that we've seen Jonathan West's manuscript," Alex inserted helpfully, just as Maggie was on a roll. "That did assist us somewhat in our conclusions, didn't it? But you're right, my dear, he did wish to puff himself up. Did I mention that I spoke with Miss Holly Spivak earlier and she was kind enough to tell me that, yes, she knew Bruce McCrae personally. Not that the woman would ever betray a source, but I believe we now know how the media became informed of the details of the case."

Maggie pointed a finger at Alex. "And that's another thing. The manuscript. Bruce has a Mac, like me. Bernie checked for me, and Bruce sent his version of the manuscript in on a Mac formatted disk, using AppleWorks. The disk we have is PC, with Microsoft Word. Jonathan's disk. I'm not sure what that means, but I'm pretty sure it means something a computer nerd could prove. You know—dates created, dates modified. Oh, yeah, he's screwed. Really screwed."

"Okay, we're done here. Looks like the serial killer's going to strike again. Three times in one night."

Maggie turned to look back at Bruce, to see that he'd grabbed J.P.'s Glock out of her purse. "Right, just my luck," she said, shrinking back against the cushions. "But it isn't going to work, Bruce. Steve! He's got a gun."

"Steve?" Bruce shook his head. "You try to pull an old stunt like that, and talk about me being heavy-handed? Like, sure, I believe the lieutenant is going to pop out now from behind a potted plant. Give me a break."

"I think you'll be getting more like thirty-five to life," Steve said from the hallway, and Maggie turned to see him in a two-handed stance and looking—well, she wouldn't want to cross him at the moment.

Bruce McCrae, however, didn't seem to hold the same opinion. Then again, Maggie wasn't facing thirty-five to life, was she? As Maggie watched, she heard the explosion of the Glock, saw the flash, and turned just in time to see Alex hit the floor hard after the force of his body had, hopefully, redirected Bruce's aim away from Steve.

"Alex!" Maggie yelled, already on her feet before she realized what she'd done. Stupid, stupid move! That was all she could think as Bruce grabbed her and pulled her in front of his body as a human shield.

"Halt! Hold it right there, McCrae, and let her go," Steve commanded, still with his weapon aimed at Bruce ... okay, it really was sort of aimed at her, Maggie thought, trying hard to swallow as Bruce's forearm threatened to cut off her breathing, as he dug the muzzle of the Glock into her waist. God, how she hated being Penelope Tied to the Railroad Tracks. It was getting so old.

"I don't believe the gentleman is willing to do that, left –tenant," Alex said, getting to his feet, picking up his cane and using it for leverage. "And, although it may mean little to the point, the gentleman is also in extraordinary physical condition. Perhaps we can come to a solution satisfactory to all of us?"

Steve kept his weapon trained on Bruce. "Blakely, not now. Why in hell do I ever listen to either of you? You know the paperwork this is going to cost me—if I don't end up walking a beat on Coney Island."

Bruce tightened his grip, probably so that Maggie would make a sound and redirect everyone's attention to them. It worked. "Aaargh! Hey, guys, I have an idea. How about we just let him go? He's not going to kill a cop—nobody's that stupid. Right, Bruce? How about you just leave, hmmm? You know, we'll walk to the elevator and you can use me as a shield until the doors open, then toss me straight into their arms, ruining Steve's aim until the doors close again with you inside. Come on, Bruce, you've seen it work a hundred times in the movies. It's a good scenario. Isn't it, Alex?"

"Good idea, sunshine," J.P. said, holding a couch pillow in front of her as if it might protect her from a bullet. "And the sooner the better. There's a full clip in that thing. Enough for everybody."

"The idea does sound workable," Alex said with maddening calm. It must be nice to know you can't die. Maggie only hoped he'd remember that she could. "What say you, left –tenant? Are you thoroughly opposed to McCrae here taking his exit?"

"She goes with me, all the way to the street."

"Oh, I don't think so," Alex drawled, the cane now in both hands. "There are limits to my magnanimity, even if you, for the moment, have the upper hand."

Maggie knew he was planning something, something heroic. She just wasn't sure if her heart was up to those heroics. "No, no, it's okay, I don't mind," she said quickly. "Come on, Bruce, let's go. Just back up to the door and I'll reach behind you and open it. Really. Anything I can do to help."

"Maggie—"

"Please, Steve," she said, cutting him off. "I'm almost more afraid of your gun than I am his, because I can see yours. We'll be fine. Won't we, Bruce? You don't want to shoot me, or anybody. You just want to get away. Hop a bus, hail a cab. Get yourself lost in the city until you can think of some nifty way to disappear. You're smart, you can do this. So—let's get you started, okay?"

Maggie closed her eyes in relief as Bruce's grip tightened slightly as he began moving backward, toward the door.

One step. Two. Seven?

Maggie reached back a hand and located the doorknob on the second try.

She pulled it open.

"Oh, thank you, I wondered how I'd do that with a cat in each hand," Sterling said behind her ... just before Napoleon, who was just the sort of animal to carry a grudge after being banished in favor of a dog, leapt free of Sterling's grasp to land, all claws out, on Bruce's back.

This time when Alex grabbed her and pushed her away there was no snow-covered evergreen to break her fall, and she landed with a thud on the hard floor, all the air knocked from her lungs, pretty little silver stars dancing in front of her as she tried to both breathe and admire Alex and Steve subduing Bruce, slapping on the cuffs.

Sterling, still holding Wellington, could only stand there, a puzzled look on his face, poor thing. Once again he'd been the hero, after assuring everyone weeks ago, after the first time, that he would rather not do anything even vaguely heroic ever again.

"Be—beautiful," Maggie managed as J.P. pulled her unceremoniously to her feet. "Not ... not exactly as we'd planned ... but any landing you can walk away from, right?"

"I'm so sorry, sunshine," J.P. said as she led Maggie to one of the couches. "I should have realized he'd go for my gun."

"We all should have realized that," Alex said as he closed the door, Steve and Bruce already headed downstairs. "Truthfully, I didn't think we could make him confess, at least not tonight. I should know that all murderers are, at the heart of it, cowards. You were splendid, Maggie, by the way. All things considered, another rather grand adventure. J.P., did you happen to notice where that shot impacted? I'm afraid I was too busy coming to grips with the notion that I'd attempted to tackle a brick wall."

"No, I didn't. You saved Steve's life, you know. Cops don't fire unless fired upon—not the good ones, like Steve. Maybe in the ceiling?"

Maggie got up and began looking for a bullet hole. Not that she really cared, but it beat a bout of hysterics any day.

"Nope, not the ceiling," she said, wandering closer to the place where Steve had been standing. "Not the wall, not the—oh, cripes," she said, burying her head against Alex's shoulder as he slipped a comforting arm around her. "He killed my treadmill ..."