High Heels And Homicide Part 3

"Alicia Tate Evans, your very first nom de plume, Tate being your mother's maiden name, as I recall. Attempting to curry favor, were you?"

Maggie wanted to be angry, but she was too truthful to keep from smiling. "You got it, ace. And you'll be happy to know that grand gesture went over like a lead balloon. How dare I put their names on the covers of unforgiveable s.m.u.t? To tell you the truth, I was kind of relieved when my historical-romance career went belly-up and I could pick another name."

"One with lots of Os, because Os look good on a book cover. Yes, I remember. And you have my sympathy, Maggie, truly you do, but it's for only three days. Surely you can manage three days. And your parents will be just as happy to see our backs, I'm sure. As the esteemed Guido Cavalcanti wrote, and as you had me repeat in one of our books, 'A guest, like a fish, has an unpleasant odor after three days.'"

"Oh, good, now I'm a flounder. Thanks, Alex." She pulled the SUV toward the curb in front of a large, three-storied, apricot-colored stucco beach house on the land side of the beach-front street. "Here we are. Home sweet home, at least for the last five years. Tate bought it for them."

"How generous of him."

"Oh, don't worry, the deed's in his name. But, yeah, it was a nice thing to do. I shouldn't always look for ulterior motives." Maggie, with some reluctance, turned off the ignition. "One more time-you're friends of mine from England. You don't live in my same building, you never lived in my condo, and we are not romantically involved. Clear?"

"How will you explain the coincidence of our names?"

"I won't have to. n.o.body in my family reads my books. Last time I sent Mom one, she sent it back, said the family is still waiting for me to write a real book." She grinned at Saint Just. "So they won't know you from spit. How's that for a shot in your consequence, my lord?"

Maggie had been both right and wrong about her family. Maureen was most certainly a sycophant, embarra.s.singly eager to please, but Erin and her neurosurgeon husband had opted at the last minute for Thanksgiving in the Bahamas, a happy event that allowed Saint Just and Sterling to each have his own bedroom for the duration.

Tate, Saint Just had decided, was that most objectionable of creatures: stupefyingly boring. He spent most of his time with his cell-phone earpiece attached to his head and the rest of his time making snide remarks about effete, East Coast, left-wing liberals.

Which meant that Maggie spent a lot of her time on the front porch, with her father, as the woman seemed to have morphed into a timid mouse the moment they'd crossed the threshold Wednesday afternoon.

Saint Just, his hands thrust deep in his slacks pockets, walked the beach, his head down, reliving the high spots-actually the low points-of the past three days.

Maggie's opening comment, very badly timed, inquiring whether there was a wake going on in the house, led to Maureen dragging her from table to table, explaining that the mult.i.tude of flowers had all come from Tate: "He told Mom he has so much to be thankful for. Isn't that sweet? Look, this one's an actual magnolia tree. Isn't that something?"

Maggie's floral offering, ordered via the Internet, had been at last tracked down, located in the second-floor guest bathroom.

That had been the beginning, but there seemed still to be enough room left to go downhill from there. Saint Just shook his head, remembering...

They were giants, the Kellys were, or at least Tate and Maureen were. Upon meeting them, Saint Just had for a moment thought he might be able to comfort Maggie with the idea she may have been a changling. But that thought had evaporated when the patriarch of the clan, Evan Kelly, entered the room; not very tall, rather thin, and with a rather haunted look about him, he appeared much like a puppy grown used to daily beatings.

And then there was Mrs. Kelly, mother to these giants and to Maggie.

Saint Just heard her. One was always hearing Mrs. Kelly. One simply didn't see her, which had been made clear by the bellow from the first-floor master bedroom just as Maureen was reciting the affecting contents of Tate's card from the potted magnolia tree in the dining room.

"Margaret? Is that you, Margaret? About time you showed up! And look what you're responsible for this time. Come here, look! Last-minute guests. How could you just spring them on me like that? I told your father you always find a way to make a shambles of everything, and you've done it again. I had to put the extra leaf in the table, for your friends, and now my back's gone out, and I'm stuck in this bed like some invalid. Come in here! Be some use for a change. Help me to the bathroom."

It had been amazing, and quite the eye-opener, to watch as both Maggie and her father reacted to the woman's voice. They seemed to shrink in place, the pair of them.

Maggie had headed down the hallway, and Saint Just had barely been able to hear her mumbled greeting. He did, however, have very little difficulty hearing Mrs. Kelly say, "My G.o.d, Margaret, you're fat. How could you let yourself go like that?"

Nearly every hour on the hour, sometimes again on the half hour, Alicia Kelly would bellow, and someone would pay the price. Maureen seemed to do so gladly, with a smile that possibly owed something to the vial of small pink pills she kept in her pocket, and Tate was somehow excused.

But Maggie and her father were very definitely the woman's main whipping boys.

And it explained so much. Why Maggie backed away from loud voices, angry confrontations, and people who presented themselves as so very sure of themselves. Why she was so sure she was always in the wrong. Why physically imposing or large people seemed to turn her in on herself, leach all the spirit out of her. Why she'd been visiting Doctor Bob once a week for nearly five years, with no end in sight.

Obviously, the famous Doctor Bob hadn't been able to rid Maggie of her childhood memories, or trauma, or whatever people like Doctor Bob called such things, leaving it up to Saint Just to put some starch into the poor girl's backbone.

He had no idea how to accomplish that feat, however.

"Alex! Wait up!"

Saint Just halted, turned to see Maggie running across the sand, her hair and skirt blowing in the wind, her sea-green cashmere sweater hugging her lithe curves, her feet bare on the cold sand. Yes, she had become slightly more rounded in the past six weeks, but he liked her with fewer sharp edges. Her dark copper, chin-length hair, with its exquisite highlights, begged to be touched.

And happiness, lately so lacking in her Irish green eyes, shone from her now.

He could pen an ode to her beauty. She was fresh and sparkling, totally unaffected, and unaware of her impact on the male of the species. Not that terribly small, but in this land of Kelly Giants, a veritable Pocket Venus.

"Maggie," he said as she fell into step beside him. "Is your presence here in the way of a companionable stroll with a friend, or am I serving as a bolt-hole?"

"Both, I guess. Dad and I had another nice talk earlier-I actually feel like I'm starting to know him a little bit. He's afraid of Mom. He didn't say it, but he is. And yet, he loves her very much. Strange," she said, pushing her hair out of her face as she smiled up at him. "Oh, and I just told Tate to shove it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I told him off, Alex," she said, dancing ahead of him into the last little wavelet to roll up onto the beach. "Oh, cold! And I'm so hot." A shoe in each hand, she spun around in a circle, her head back, spinning round and round, until she lost her balance, and Saint Just caught her.

"I'd say you were a tad in your alt.i.tudes, except that it hasn't quite gone noon and you rarely drink."

"I'm drunk on life, Alex! I told him off!"

"Really. And what, pray tell, prompted this confrontation?"

She sobered and stepped away from him. "You did, Alex. I couldn't stand the look in your eyes every time Mom yelled and I went running like some Pavlov dog. And I could see that muscle working in your jaw whenever Tate started on one of his d.a.m.n lectures. I'd had enough. I mean, not coming home? Avoiding them? That's not the answer. I had something to say, and I finally said it. I'm a big girl now, all grown up, and I've got to stop reacting like some intimidated child."

"Remarkable," Saint Just said, longing to take her in his arms. She looked so free, so very liberated. He'd been very worried she'd suffer a backward slide, reach for the solace of Dame Nicotine while upset, but she hadn't. She'd gone on the offensive. "Would that I could have been there, my dear."

"No, no. This one I had to do on my own." She narrowed her eyes. "And I was brilliant. Oh, yes. B-r-i-double-l-brilliant! I tell you, I sliced him into a million pieces, and he's so thick he didn't even realize it until he tried to walk and came apart like a string of paper dolls. I think I want to go back, take on Maureen, tell her it's time she stopped being a mouse and got a life. You know, while I'm on a roll."

"Oh, I really don't think so," Saint Just said, pulling her arm through his and heading them both off down the beach. "One victory a day should be sufficient. And my congratulations. Your brother is a bit of a twit. Not enough to expend my energy on, but certainly no one who should be able to cow my own dear Maggie."

"And I was good," Maggie said, leaning her head against his shoulder. Then, suddenly, she sobered, this being-high-on-life business obviously a tad transitory. "Oh, boy, now I've got to go back, and Maureen will have run tattling to Mom, and all h.e.l.l's going to break loose. Quick, drown me."

"I have a better suggestion, if you don't mind. You and Sterling and I could drive up the coast, to Atlantic City. I understand the trip is no more than eight miles and there are baccarat tables in every casino. Much akin to faro, I believe, or at least close enough as makes no matter."

And that's how it came to pa.s.s that after turning in the rental SUV at Philadelphia International Airport, Saint Just embarked upon his first airplane ride with a six-figure cashier's check tucked in his pocket.

He left behind a small thank-you gift for his hostess, a five-carat diamond tennis braclet hidden inside a long velvet box tied with a silver ribbon.

It was silly, a petty revenge, but he doubted that Tate's floral excess looked quite so good to Mrs. Kelly anymore. Of course, if Maggie ever found out he'd put her name on the card, the entire world would not be large enough for him to hide in-but as duels were frowned upon, and punching the arrogant fool's lights out would only upset everyone needlessly, thoroughly trumping the man's magnolia would have to suffice.

We're on a hook, we're on a hook. The plane goes up, the hook comes out, it attaches to the line, and we're on the hook until we land. It's just a big bus, no, an old trolley car. And we're on a hook...

"Maggie? Do you intend to release that death grip you have on the arms of your seat and open your eyes? We've been in the air for at least five hours. I don't think anything untoward is going to happen."

"Don't bother me, Alex, I'm meditating," she said, opening her eyes only slightly, not moving her head as she shifted her gaze toward him. "And don't look out there. I never look out there. If I look out, and down, then the plane will drop. I'm holding this thing up with sheer willpower, and you should be d.a.m.n grateful. Stop it! How can you keep looking out there?"

"It's elementary, actually. I turn my head toward the window, and I look. But you're correct. There's nothing much in the way of a view, save the clouds below us. I once partook in a balloon ascension in Hyde Park, as you know, but that was tame indeed when compared to modern jet flight."

He leaned across her and spoke to Sterling, whose seat was on the other side of the aisle. "Enjoying yourself, Sterling?"

Sterling's grin was heartwarmingly naive, in Maggie's opinion, clearly that of a man who didn't understand the dangers of flight. "Oh, yes, Saint Just. Have you made use of the facilities? You really should. Completely fascinating...although one does wonder where everything, um, goes."

"Some of us wonder, Sterling. Others of us do not," Alex said as Maggie giggled. "I'm so gratified that you're amused, my dear. While you've been meditating, as you call it, Sterling here has been running amok in the aisles. I think we, in the role of parents, will soon be considering putting him in leading strings."

"Oh, let him alone," Maggie said, reaching over to pat Sterling's hand. "You're enjoying yourself?"

Sterling nodded. "I've located all of the emergency exits, and I know that my seat cushion serves as a flotation device, and that I should put on my air mask when it drops down, then place one on my child."

"You don't have a child, Sterling," Maggie pointed out.

"True. I'll concede that. But I am prepared." He held out a small bag. "Pretzel?"

"Thanks, but no. I think we land soon, if I adjusted my watch correctly. Now, Bernie told me Heathrow Airport is a real zoo..."

"With-"

"Figuratively speaking," Maggie added quickly, before Sterling, always so literal, would ask if they had monkeys and elephants. "So we stick together, find our way to the luggage carousel, look for the limo the production company arranged for us, and get the heck out of there as fast as we can. Then it's a straight shot south to Surrey and Medwine Manor, or so I'm told. Any questions?"

Sterling raised his hand. "Won't we have time to see London at all?"

"Yes, Maggie, it's unseemly to just rush about and not at least take a drive through London. I very much want to see Carleton House again. Such a magnificent grand staircase, and the Prince Regent entertained lavishly."

"Um, Alex? They tore down Carleton House sometime in the eighteen-twenties. They tore down a lot of places. We're not landing in Regency London. I'm sorry, but except for palaces and Parliament and all that stuff, you won't know this London a whole lot more than you knew Manhattan when you first got there. They've got McDonald's here now."

Alex was quiet for some moments, then said, "I think we should like to see it, in any case. And, much as you may naysay me, I most especially wish to visit a particular establishment a few steps off Threadneedle Street. As your research is always so very much on the mark and the family has been serving at the pleasure of his majesty since the sixteen hundreds, I am going to a.s.sume the shop is still there in one form or another."

"What kind of shop?"

"One devoted to the best in umbrellas and walking sticks. Very specialized sticks, if you take my meaning. You know I was forced to leave my cane in New York, what with the metal detectors at the airport."

Maggie sat back in her seat, blew out her breath, recited mentally: Saint Just is Saint Just. "A sword cane. You want another sword cane. Is that really necessary?"

"You'd have me go naked in my homeland?"

"Oh, cut me a break. Whoa!" she said, grabbing the seat arms in a death grip as her stomach lurched. "d.a.m.n it, I hate when they do that."

"Do what, my dear? And may I say, your usually healthy complexion has gone rather white."

"Do what? You mean you didn't feel that? The pilot's putting on the air brakes-I think that's what they're called-because we're making our descent. I know, in my head, that he's probably dropping us down from a billion miles per hour to a million miles per hour, but it feels like we're stopping. Thirty-five thousand feet up, and the guy's slamming on the brakes like he's trying to avoid a deer in the road. I hate that."

"Ah, the often too-fertile imagination of the writer. You're your own worst enemy, my dear." Alex patted her hand. "Close your eyes, Maggie. Meditate. Think good thoughts. We'll be on the ground soon, and shortly after that we'll be at Medwine Manor, where you'll be feted and fawned over as the great talent you are."

Maggie opened one eye, and glared at him. "Don't patronize me, Alex. I'm not going to get hysterical and start screaming or something."

"Really? I cannot tell you how gratified I am to hear that. In that case, my dear-lean across me and see the great metropolis of London spread out at our feet. Glorious, isn't it? Like something out of a picture book."

"s.a.d.i.s.t." Maggie groaned, and slapped her hands over her eyes.

Chapter Four.

One hand on the golden k.n.o.b of a sword cane that in style and quality of workmanship greatly resembled the one his fictional self had purchased at the same small shop, Saint Just was a very happy, extremely content man as the limousine rolled out of London and, eventually, into Surrey.

It was raining, nothing out of the ordinary for England, and was rather gray and damp, also not unusual, but nothing could put a damper on Saint Just's enthusiasm. Or on Sterling's.

"Oh, look, Saint Just," Sterling said now, his head half out of the window he insisted on keeping lowered, the better to take in the scenery. "That marvelous mansion, up there, at the top of the hill. The very picture of your family's estate in Suss.e.x, isn't it?"

Saint Just leaned past Maggie. "Seventeenth century. The pediment is familiar, indeed. The same symmetrical flanking wings, most likely added in the eighteenth century. The unique bell tower. Good G.o.d, Sterling, I think you're right. That's Blake House. But here, in Surrey?"

In between them, Maggie slid down on her spine on the leather seat. "Is there a sign anywhere, Sterling? Something with the name of the place on it?"

"I don't-oh, there's an old fingerpost." Sterling leaned even farther out the window. "It's...I can barely make it out...it's-got it! Peakely Manor. Why?"

Maggie sort of sucked in her cheeks. "Oh, okay. Thanks, Sterling."

"Maggie?" Saint Just asked quietly. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

"Absolutely not. Nope. Nothing I want to say." Then she sighed audibly and sat up straight once more. "Okay. I've never been to England until now, right? But you had to have a house, a bunch of houses. Other characters had to have houses. So...so I bought a few books. I think, I'm pretty sure, your Blake House is based on Peakely Manor. I just moved it to Suss.e.x."

Saint Just was actually finding it difficult to breathe. On one level, he understood what Maggie was telling him. Yet, on another, a more visceral level, he'd just been orphaned, disenfranchised. Erased. Eliminated. "But...but it's my home. My family home."

Maggie shook her head. "Oh, cripes. Alex," she said, putting a hand on his arm as she spoke to him, quietly. "You're fake, remember? Fictional. You've never really been here. You're more real in New York than you've ever been here. I mean, you exist in New York. People see you, talk to you. You're evolving, just as you keep saying, and growing, and becoming more Alex Blakely, less Alexandre Blake, less the Viscount Saint Just. But I agree, this has to be a shock, seeing my imagination up against the real thing. I...I'm sorry."

She was wrong. Maggie was wrong. He was Saint Just. He would always be Saint Just. His address had changed, that was all. This wasn't his England. His England had long ago disappeared, along with Brummell; and Byron, Sh.e.l.ley, and Keats; Prinney himself...even Carleton House.

The past was the past, and he was very much of the moment. To go back would be to disappear into the pages of Maggie's books. He and Sterling both, living again in the Regency Era, but never again living now. He could not, would not, allow that to happen.

There was no Blake House to return to, no mansion in Grosvenor Square, no hunting box in Scotland.

In a way, this was probably a good thing. He was becoming less fictional by the day. After all, he couldn't go back...not if there was nowhere to return to.

Saint Just took a breath, let it out slowly. "My goodness, Maggie, how you're looking at me. As if I might have an attack of the vapors or fall into a sad decline. I a.s.sure you, that is far from the truth. As you say, as I've said, Sterling and I are evolving. Blake House was drafty in the winter, in any case."

Maggie was quiet for some moments before she spoke again. "You're p.i.s.sed, right?"

"I am not-upset. I fully understand what you did, why you did it. However, even without home or fortune, I remain Saint Just. That, my dear, will never change."

She saluted. "Yes, sir. Jeez, what a grouch. Sterling? Why aren't you being a grouch?"

Sterling smiled sheepishly. "I don't want to go back," he said, then blushed. "Sorry, Saint Just, I hate to be disloyal, and all of that, but I really don't. I like Henry, and my motorized scooter, and Socks, and the television machine, and-"