Kasey Michaels - High Heels and Holidays

Steve waved his hands in a wonderfully discombobulated gesture. "I don't know. It's not like Maggie and I are really ... you know, getting anywhere? I like her, I really do, but things always seem to get sort of weird around her, you know?"

"No, not at all," Saint Just said with a carefully straight face. "Oh, wait. You're referring to the murders, aren't you? Surely you can't blame Maggie for a few unfortunate incidences? Even if you did suspect her of murdering her publisher, didn't you? That was unfortunate."

Steve gave his stained shirtsleeve one more swipe, and then glared at Saint Just. "I didn't think that for more than a couple of minutes, not once I got to know her."

"Of course. You might even say that's why you're still aboveground. Now, tell me about your new friend."

Steve grabbed the last potato chip and then pushed his empty plate away from him. "There's not a lot to tell. I met her in the subway when some jerk tried to grab her purse. The thing is, Alex, Christine's normal. I mean, she works as a secretary to an orthopedic surgeon over on Park Avenue. She likes to cook, she loves going to the movies, she still lives with her mom ..."

"And she doesn't land in the briars on a fairly regular basis," Saint Just finished for him. "In other words, she's boring."

"No! Not boring. Normal. I like Maggie, Alex. I mean, she's beautiful, she's smart, she's a lot of fun. But she's ... all of you, actually ... you're just a little, I don't know. Out there?"

"Out there," Saint Just repeated, calling on every bit of control he had in order to keep from laughing out loud at this poor, confused specimen.

"Yeah. Out there. I spend my days with wack jobs, Alex—and that's just the guys I work with at the Homicide table, even before I get to the perps. I want to be ... I want to be able to relax when I'm off duty and with a woman, you know? Maggie's life is just too full of ... craziness. Are you getting this?"

"Some of it, yes, although I think I lost you for a few moments at wack job. I'm not certain, but I believe you mean she's slightly crazy?"

"No, that's not it. Wacky, you know? Her life is wacky. Offbeat—and that's being kind, Alex. She's just always in the middle of something, and it's never normal somethings, like she lost her wallet or forgot to pay her electric bill. When Maggie says she has a problem, it usually means something fairly bizarro is going on and I'm either going to have to bail her out or rescue her from some lowlife."

"Maggie is fairly good at rescuing herself, and she always has me, you understand. So, if she isn't crazy, are you saying Maggie is still a ... wack job?"

"Yeah, all right. A wack job. A cute wack job, but a wack job."

"I see. And the rest of us? Sterling, for one."

Wendell considered this for a moment. "He calls you Saint Just because Maggie made up her Saint Just guy by describing you. And it's not like he's trying to be funny—he seems to mean it. You're calling that normal?"

"For Sterling, yes. But this is interesting, really. Do you include Tabitha, Maggie's agent, in this mix?"

"Scarf lady? Nah, she's just blond."

One corner of Saint Just's mouth began to twitch in amusement. "Oh, dear. I can see you've given this all some considerable thought, left –tenant. Who else? Ah, I know. Socks. And Bernice, of course. Your opinion, please?"

Wendell shrugged. "Socks is okay. As for Bernie? You're kidding, right? You really need an answer to that one?"

"No, I suppose not. And that leaves me. Am I a ... wack job?"

Wendell shook his head. "No. You're freaking scary, that's what you are. And I think Maggie likes you, even if she won't admit it to herself. I've never come in first, you know?"

"Indeed," Saint Just said, taking another sip of coffee. "So you're bowing out of the competition? I'd like us to be clear on that, my friend."

Pulling a fat brown wallet from his back pocket, Wendell said, "Hell, Alex, I was never in it. Not really. I think I knew that from the beginning. The only thing is, how's Maggie going to feel about ... well, about Christine?"

Saint Just pondered this for a moment, but only for effect. "She'll be surprised, certainly. I should let her down slowly, were I you."

"How would I do that?"

"Be her friend, left –tenant, as you've always been. Just nothing more. For instance, Maggie is concerned at the moment about a recently deceased gentleman. A fellow author, who purportedly put a period to his own existence five days ago, I believe it was. Now, if you were to assist her in gaining any additional information about this man, about his death, you understand, that would be the act of a friend. You do wish to continue the friendship, do you not?"

"Well, yeah, of course. I like Maggie. So I keep it friendly. I just don't ask her out to dinner anymore, or to the movies, right? Just platonic. I can do that."

"Splendid, Steve," Saint Just drawled, reaching into his sports coat pocket and extracting a neatly folded computer printout of Francis Oakes's obituary. "We are told it was a suspected suicide, as I said—"

"You did? When?"

"I said he put a period to his own existence, left –tenant. As one would put a period at the end of a sentence—to end it? Consider it a euphemism, one meant to spare the listener's sensibilities, instead of coming right out and baldly saying he'd killed himself."

Wendell grinned. "You were worried about my sensibilities?"

"Not particularly, no," Saint Just told him, returning the smile. "But to continue? We are told it is most probable the gentleman offed himself—"

"Better."

"Thank you. I am nothing if not amenable. But I could find nothing more definitive on my own about the unfortunate Mr. Oakes. However, with your connections ... ?"

"Sure, sure, give it over and I'll check it out. It's the least I can do for Maggie," Wendell said, the hook neatly slipping into his mouth. "Suicide. No problem. How bad could she screw this up, right?"

"How badly indeed," Saint Just said, reaching for the check the waitress had just deposited on the table. "Please, allow me. And do enjoy yourself this evening, left –tenant. Oh, wait, I've just had a thought. Perhaps you should give the information about poor Mr. Oakes directly to me, say, tomorrow at two, at Mario's? Not as much contact with Maggie, you understand ... thinking platonically."

Wendell shrugged. "Sure, okay. Hey, thanks for picking up the check. I gotta go, I'm meeting Christine in a half hour."

"May you both have a wonderful evening," Saint Just said as Wendell walked away, and then added under his breath as he brought the coffee cup back up to his lips, "Sometimes it's almost too easy ..."

A few drops of cooling coffee splashed onto Saint Just's shirtfront as the good lieutenant leaned down to whisper in his ear. "You're up to something again, aren't you? Be ready to tell me all about it, or my information on Oakes stays in my pocket."

"How remiss of me to forget that you delight in playing the fool, left –tenant. Shame on me. But I agree. Tomorrow we will share information."

"Because there's something going on? What? Cripes, Alex, you guys are only home for a couple of days. What the hell could have gone wrong that fast?"

"Possibly nothing. Hopefully nothing. Then again, if the information you bring me turns out to be what I sincerely hope it is not, possibly quite a lot."

"Why? Because your Spidey sense is tingling?" Wendell said in a fairly good attempt at sarcasm.

"Yes, I suppose that's it, although I was thinking more of a mammal than an arachnid. Until tomorrow at two, Steve?"

"Gin," Maggie said, discarding a six as she laid down the rest of her cards with a flourish. "That's twelve million dollars you owe me, Sterling. You don't want to play anymore, do you?"