High Heels And Holidays Part 8

"Good. I'll just go attend to my morning ablutions and the three of us will adjourn to Styles Cafe for a hearty breakfast, all right? You look wonderful, by the way," he ended, dropping a kiss on her cheek as he breezed by her, on his way to his own condo.

That was it? Hi, let's have breakfast? A kiss on the cheek? No postmortem? No ... G.o.d help her, no encore?

She held up a hand in a "wait a minute, we have to talk" gesture, and then gave it up because they might have to talk, but she'd be d.a.m.ned as to what either of them would say, so she just poured herself a gla.s.s of orange juice and retreated to her computer. She knew what she was doing at her computer, or at least she used to, before Alex showed up.

So what was he up to now? She'd made him, she ought to know.

Maggie opened her bottom desk drawer and pulled out the character description sheets she'd written before writing her first Saint Just mystery. She'd added to the description over the years as she'd learned more about her character, but could there be anything in those notes to tell her what to expect from him now?

Age: 35 Physical description ... well, she already knew that one. One could say she now knew that intimately.

She knew about his youth, his relationship with his parents. She knew his hobbies, his likes and dislikes-from the color of his waistcoat to the flavor of jam he liked best on his morning toast-but there was really nothing to tell her how he'd react in a situation like this.

Had there ever been a situation like this?

Giving her investigation up as a dead-end pursuit, Maggie woke her computer and started her search engine, and then typed in santasforsilver.org, just hoping for an easy hit ... and she found one.

The site certainly looked professional, or as professional as a site could look with a line of animated high-kicking Santas doing their Rockettes thing along the top of the page. The site was composed of several pages. One for locations of Santas for Silver both in Manhattan and on Long Island and Staten Island. Another page contained an application to become a Santa for Silver. Another page was loaded with hearty endors.e.m.e.nts from people a.s.sociated with soup kitchens, homeless shelters, youth clubs, all those good things, stating how Santas for Silver was always so generous, etc., etc.

"Nothing here to hurt anybody," she said and closed the page, deciding that a few games of Snood wouldn't turn her back into a Snood addict. She'd kicked nicotine, right? She certainly could play Snood without becoming hooked again. Besides, it was pretty hard to think of anything else when the Snoods were dropping, and she really didn't want to think about anything else. Anyone else ...

"Good morning, Maggie."

Maggie looked up from the screen to see Sterling standing just inside the door, dressed in his Santas for Silver suit, a large bra.s.s bell in his gloved hand. He even had a small silver badge pinned to his chest. On it was a carved Santa head and S-4-S-Santas for Silver. Cute. "Oh, don't you look sweet," she said, getting to her feet and giving him a big hug. "Are you going to have time to go to breakfast with us?"

"No, I'm sorry to say, but I must be on duty in an hour, and I still must return to Santa headquarters to retrieve my chimney. Saint Just said you weren't feeling well last night, so he sat up with you until the wee hours, then fell asleep on the couch. He's a true friend, Saint Just is, isn't he? Are you feeling more the thing this morning, Maggie?"

"Sure, Sterling, thank you, it was ... it was just a headache," Maggie said, one question answered. Alex wasn't going to borrow Sterling's bell and go around town ringing it and yelling, "I got some, I got some!" Thank heaven for small favors ...

"All set, Maggie?" Alex asked from behind Sterling who, although he had no hat to tip, graciously shook his huge red stocking cap, the one with the bell on the end, and then headed for the elevator. "Lord bless him, I'd hate to burst his happy bubble."

"You don't have to," Maggie said, grabbing her coat from the hook beside the door. "I looked up Santas for Silver, and they sure look legit. Legal, that is, if you don't know that term. Come on, I'm starving."

And she wasn't kidding. Until she took her first bite of scrambled eggs, she hadn't realized just how hungry she was, but once those eggs. .h.i.t it was as if her body moaned "And it's about d.a.m.n time, lady!" and it wasn't until she was munching on her second slice of bacon that it occurred to her that neither she nor Alex had said anything after giving their orders to the waitress.

"Um ... thanks for covering for me," she told him, then quickly took another bite of bacon. "I mean, with Sterling. He ... he might have gotten ideas, and we don't want to hurt him, get his hopes up or anything."

Alex merely nodded. "Have you spoken to your mother, Maggie?"

"Huh?" Talk about changing the subject, jeez. "No, and you know I haven't. I've been ducking her calls, just like the loyal, loving child I am. Why? Oh," she added a moment and one brain synapse later. "Oh, no. You're not going to-no, you wouldn't do that. Would you?"

"Travel to Ocean City with you for Christmas and apply to your father for your hand in marriage because I compromised you last night, you mean?"

Maggie could feel her cheeks going crimson. "Yeah. That. That honorable Regency gentleman happy horse hockey. You wouldn't do that, would you?"

Alex lifted his coffee cup and smiled at her over the rim. "No, I don't think so."

She collapsed against the red leather booth in relief and then just as quickly sat up very straight again. "Hey, wait a minute, buster. What do you mean, I don't think so? What? I'm not good enough for you?"

Alex took a sip of coffee, then returned the cup to the tabletop. "Very well, if you insist."

"No!" Maggie clapped a hand over her mouth and looked around the small cafe, hoping no one had overheard her. "No," she repeated quietly, "I don't want you to do that." Then she told the truth. "But you could have at least pretended, you know."

"I'm sorry. Should we go back and begin again?"

Maggie shook her head and then dropped her paper napkin on her half-eaten breakfast. "Nope. I'm done. We're done. What do you say we go check up on Santa Sterling."

"Father Christmas Sterling," Alex corrected. He smiled at the waitress who had been leaning on the counter, looking at him, and she flew to the table to ask if there was "anything else the gentleman needed."

"Boy, that torks me," Maggie told him after they'd paid the check-she'd paid the check, actually, just to let the waitress know she'd been sucking up to the wrong tipper-and they were out on the street once more. "I could have been a department store dummy you'd propped up across from you, for all the attention I get when I'm with you. But you eat it up, don't you? When you even notice. Not only that, you encourage them."

"I beg your pardon?" Alex asked as he tipped his hat at the female cop at the corner who waved back to him, called him by name. "I encourage what?"

"You know what. Women, fawning over you. You called that waitress by name-"

"Loretta, yes."

"Right. Loretta. She's been waiting on me for years. Years, Alex. I don't know her name."

"You're not a people person, Maggie," he explained. "You live in your work, your books. And, as a beneficiary of that myopia when it comes to the rest of the world, you have my grat.i.tude. Ah, and there's our boy now. He looks so happy."

Maggie shifted her attention from glowering at Alex to grinning at Sterling, who was industriously ringing his bell and ho-ho-hoing each time someone stopped to give some silver to Santa.

"You know, that's kind of cute, in a cheesy, commercial sort of way," she said as she watched a child place a quarter inside what looked to be a large funnel inside the clear fibergla.s.s chimney. The quarter began at the top, going round and round, descending by mere inches with each revolution, until it finally disappeared into the hole at the bottom of the funnel, at which time the chimney flashed red and green for a few moments and the child wailed to his mother, "More! I want to do it again!"

"And four quarters equal one dollar," Alex pointed out as the child dropped another coin and clapped as it did its descending rotations around the funnel. "American ingenuity at work. Quite impressive."

They watched Sterling for some minutes, then crossed the street to hear Vernon, aka Snake, his Byronic good looks and deep voice as enticing as the Hamlet soliloquy he was performing.

" '... a consummation devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep-To sleep' -hiya, Alex- 'perchance to dream.' "

"Handsome, even talented, but, unfortunately, dumb as a red brick," Alex said, sighing.

"Yup. Snort-snort and all that," Maggie said, grinning. "And, handsome and great voice and all to one side, he also has the bladder control of a poodle when he's upset, as I remember it, anyway. Do you remember the day we found that out? Oh, Alex, we've had us some fun, haven't-"

"Hey, shut up, lady. Can't you hear he's talking?"

"Hey, sorr-eee." Maggie rolled her eyes as the man who'd shushed her turned to listen to Vernon once more. "And you want me to get out more, Alex, interact and all that good stuff. Sure."

"If you can go out without causing a riot, yes. And speaking of riots," he said, taking her arm and steering her back the way they'd come, "I suggest we keep our faces averted and step lively."

"Why?" Maggie asked, trying to pull her arm free as she looked back over her shoulder. "What's the-oh, cripes. It's true-stand on a street corner in Manhattan long enough, and eventually you'll see everyone you know pa.s.sing by. Man, I hate knowing that's true. Move it, Alex."

But it was too late.

"You!" Nikki Campion screeched in her unpleasantly high voice. "I thought it was you. Oh, this is terrific. You just wait right there while I get my Uncle Salvatore. Don't move, if you know what's good for you!"

Alex stopped at the curb, even though Maggie was pulling on his arm now. "Are you nuts? Don't listen to her. You want Salvatore Campiano to see us? After what we did to Nikki? Or are you anxious to see if you can tread water in the East River-with an anchor tied to your ankle? Alex? What are you doing? Don't just stand there."

"I'm remembering a quote about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer," Alex told her as a large man in a camel colored wool topcoat with a real fur collar and wearing a fedora approached, two smaller men following behind him, in the way pilot fish follow a whale. "Ah, sir, a pleasure," he then said, extending his right hand to the man.

Salvatore Campiano looked at Alex's hand for a long moment, and then clasped it between both his huge paws. "I understand you put in a few good words with the coppers over in England. For my loopy niece here. Stupido. My arms are long, capisca, but not so long they reach all the way across the sea. What you want for your help, huh? I give you something. Fruit, yes. Much fruit I send you, fresh." He kissed the tips of his fingers. "Molto buon, grapefruit the size of the cantaloupe, I swear it. And," he ended in a near whisper, stepping closer to Alex, as he took his hand once more, "if you ever were to find a need for my services-you take my meaning here?-you call this number, capisca, and I take care of everything for you. Anything you need."

"Hardly necessary, Mr. Campiano, but I accept with grat.i.tude," Alex said as Maggie half cowered and half peeked at the powerful mob boss, fascinated.

"Yes, yes, now thank the man, Nikki, and we'll be about our business."

Maggie's upper lip curled as Nikki Campion grinned at her, then sashayed-she really did; she sashayed-up to Alex and planted a big wet one square on his mouth. "Anything you need," she purred, repeating her uncle's words.

"I don't believe it. I don't freaking believe it-and I'm not talking about that kiss, because I know you didn't have any real choice there," Maggie grumbled a few minutes later as she and Alex made their way back to the condo building. "One, I don't believe you put in a good word for Nikki with the locals and got her off. And two, I can't believe you gave your address to that wiseguy. With a guy like that, that was as good as giving him a key. Oh, and three? Three is, why the heck didn't you ask for a lifetime of free transmission service, huh? Boffo Transmissions, remember? But you didn't think of me, huh, did you? Oh, G.o.d, listen to me! I'm angry because you didn't ask some scary mobster-type to check my transmission. What's happening to me? I need to seriously rethink my life, Alex. I really do."

"Maggie, you're overreacting," Alex said, slipping the mobster's business card into his pocket. "Mr. Campiano seems a very nice man, a gentleman."

"Uh-huh, sure. A gentleman. Right up until you wake up to a horse head in your bed, you betcha he's a gentleman. Socks," she called out as they neared the condo building just as the doorman was closing the door on a taxicab, "guess who Alex's new best friend is. Oh, come on, guess. No, never mind that, because you'd never guess. Salvatore Campiano. Can you believe it?"

Socks gave a low whistle as he held open the door to the building. "Way to go, Alex!" he said, following them into the building. "That's better than knowing the mayor. Oh, hey, Maggie, someone came by to see you a while ago, but I knew you were out. He didn't leave his name."

Maggie paused in the act of pushing the elevator b.u.t.ton. "For me? I don't know any men. Well, I know some men," she added, rolling her eyes. "What did he look like?"

"Yes, Socks, what did he look like?" Alex asked.

"Down boy, you're not in charge, remember?" Maggie told him quietly. "We figured that out at breakfast."

Socks took off his billed cap and scratched his head. "What did he look like? Okay. Tall, black-blacker than me. I mean, the brother was dark. Seriously buffed. And good-looking, in a young James Earl Jones way, you know?"

Maggie shook her head. "Nope. I don't know him. Oh, wait, maybe it's ... no, he wouldn't come here. Why would he come here?"

"Fascinating as it is, listening to you converse with yourself, who wouldn't visit you here?" Alex asked silkily.

"A writer I know. He lives about two blocks from here, actually. Bruce McCrae. He works with Bernie, too. Gee, I haven't seen him since last year's Toland Books Christmas party. Maybe he wants to know why there isn't a party this year? Oh, wait. Maybe it has something to do with Francis Oakes. You know, like maybe he wants to know about the funeral or something-he knows Bernie and I are friends." She shrugged. "Yeah well, he'll come back, if that was him. You coming, Alex?"

They were silent in the elevator, all the way to the ninth floor, Maggie suddenly feeling very alone with him again, so that she stepped out into the hall even as the doors were still opening.

"I'd like to speak to you, Maggie," Alex said as they walked down the hallway. "There's something we need to discuss."

Maggie stopped in front of her door, her keys already in her hand. He looked serious, and she wasn't ready for him to be serious. "No, Alex, we don't. Let's just play it by ear, okay? J.P. is coming at one, and I want to think a little more about what I'm going to say to her. That gives me what, two hours?"

"Shall I casually drop by a little after one, or are you able to handle her disappointment on your own?"

"She's a lawyer. A professional. She won't go ballistic on me, or anything. I mean-okay, stop over. Casually. Give me a half hour or so first."

"Until then," he said, stepping closer even as he put his hand under her chin, lifted her face for his kiss. "Ah, delightful," he then breathed against her lips before kissing her again.

By the time she'd recovered enough to ask him just what the h.e.l.l he thought he was doing, he was gone, and she was standing alone in the hallway.

Chapter Eleven.

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

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

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

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

Didn't she?

Well, perhaps he'd think about something else.

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

"Alex, you in there?"

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

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

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

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

"Jeremy and I haven't-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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