Kasey Michaels: High Heels and Holidays

"Tough," Maggie said, turning her back on the woman. "Believe me, I don't want you here any more than you want to be here, but we're just going to have to make the best of it, that's all. Now go get some clothes on. Please."

"Well, fine. But I'm ordering a treadmill, Maggie. And a bottled-water dispenser. And some broccoli! You can consider them all a present once I'm gone—oh, and then we're even-Steven for everything."

"Wait—no, you can't—I don't want—oh, God. Anybody—is there a Welcome sign on my back that I can't see? And why do I let her think I'm a doormat?" Maggie said as she made her way to her desk and began hunting through the top drawer for a nicotine cartridge to slip into her holder. "If anyone knew just how bad I want a cigarette right now ..."

"Not my drug of choice, but I know how you feel, hon," Bernie told her sympathetically. "Hey, how are you liking this, anyway?"

"Hmm? How am I liking what?" Maggie asked, ashamed to realize how good it felt to feel the nicotine cylinder pop open inside the inhaler. She lifted it to her mouth, ready to take a long, smokeless drag of air and chemicals.

"Bruce's book, of course," Bernie said, pointing to the computer screen. "He only gave you a draft, I see, not the finished product, but it's wonderful, isn't it? Maggie? Are you choking?"

Maggie's attempt to hold back a startled exclamation after her initial inhale had only made things worse, and now she'd swallowed down the wrong throat, as she used to call it when she was a kid, and her eyes were tearing as she ran into the kitchen for a glass of water. A minute later she was back, wiping at her eyes with a dish towel she'd grabbed from the counter. "Did you say what I thought you said?"

Bernie shrugged. "What did I say? You're reading Bruce's new book. I haven't read all of it yet, but if it holds up, I'd have to say it's the best thing he's ever done. He was a good six months past his deadline, you know, and I was beginning to worry. Especially since his last book didn't exactly burn up the lists. Maggie, are you sure you're all right?"

"No, I'm not all right. I've got to think, okay? Just everybody be real quiet, and let me think. Damn it, where's Alex?"

"The phone's ringing, sunshine," J.P. said as Maggie paced the carpet, sucking on the nicotine inhaler.

Maggie just waved in the machine's general direction and kept walking as Steve Wendell's voice came over the speaker.

"Maggie? I wanted you and Alex to know, I guess. We did a rush on the post, and West's wounds were not self-inflicted. The ME could tell from calluses on his hands or something that he was right-handed, and the cuts were definitely made by a left-handed person. We already knew some of that, considering there was no bloody knife or razor on the scene. Plus, he had a hell of a knot on his head. So it looks like the same MO as Oakes—knock the guy out, then hang him up or slit his wrists, make it look like suicide, but not so much so that we wouldn't be able to figure out it was murder. Really stupid. Anyway, it sure looks like we've got a very specialized serial killer here, so stay home, okay, and don't let anyone up to the condo, even if you know them. There was no forced entry, so we're thinking West and Oakes might have known their killer. West and Oakes? Hey, sounds like a singing group, doesn't it? Okay, gotta go. You'd damn well better be in the shower, and not out running around."

"Ah, he cares—isn't that sweet," Maggie groused, "and it's Hall and Oates that's the singing group. Duo. Whatever."

"Bruce is left-handed ..."

Maggie stopped in her tracks to turn and look at J.P. "What did you say? Why would you say that? You think Bruce killed them?"

"No, of course not," J.P. said, grabbing more blue M&M's. "It was just a comment, that's all. Bruce is left-handed. Big deal. My cousin Chaz is left-handed. It doesn't mean anything."

"But you checked on his cell phone records," Maggie prodded. Her mind was going in several different directions ... but every different thing she thought about kept coming back to Bruce McCrae.

"I told you. A woman can't be too careful these days."

"You went to bed with the man, Jemima!"

"Don't call me Jemima—and I went to bed with that body. Big difference, sunshine."

"I'll agree with that," Bernie said, having left the desk, and dipping a hand into the M&M's container on her way over to the couches. "There was this pool boy in Miami about five years ago who'd oil me every day beside the pool—and in my suite. Hmm. You want to talk about bodies—"

"Bernie," Maggie said flatly, "don't help."

"Okay, here I am—where's Sterling?"

Maggie turned to look at Felicity, who was dressed now, war paint in place, and carrying a garment bag over one arm. "Sterling? He's walking your dumb mutt, who's probably constipated from all the treats you gave him last night. And then he's meeting Alex at ten-thirty. Why? And what are you all dolled-up for?"

"My in-ter-view, Maggie, remember?" she said in a singsong voice, the kind where the you're so stupid is not actually heard but definitely implied. "A new cable show, Noreen At Noon, except we're taping at two for tomorrow's show. Still, I need to be there early, to make sure everything is running smoothly. Well, if Sterling can't take me, how will I be able to go? Everybody says I can't be alone. Maggie, you'll have to go with me."

"And you'll want me to carry your garment bag and open doors for you, right? Maybe run off and get you a sparkling water to ease your parched throat? Sure, like that's going to happen."

Bernie stood up, raising her hand. "Your intrepid publisher to the rescue, Felicity. I've got my driver waiting downstairs. You'll be safe with him."

Felicity pouted. "You won't go with me?"

"We're a little busy here, Felicity," Bernie told her as, behind Felicity's back, Maggie frantically mouthed the word no over and over again as she shook her head. "Just go down there and tell Clyde where you need to go."

"Your chauffeur's name is Clyde?" Maggie said after Felicity wafted out of the condo on a nearly visible flying carpet of expensive scent.

"No, but I can't remember it, so now he's Clyde. Since they come and go so fast, I figure, from now on, they're all going to be Clyde. Hey, I tip well. Oh, and José quit to take a job as a roadie for some rock group, because I know you're going to ask—he said the fringe benefits were better. Now, why couldn't I go with Felicity? Not that I wanted to, you understand."

"I'm not sure. I'm not through thinking yet."

"Well, could you give us a clue about what it is you're not through thinking about yet?"

Maggie narrowed her eyes at J.P., considering the question. "No, I don't think I should. I think I should wait for Alex. Not Steve, not until I talk to Alex because then Steve would know that Alex had—well, I can't think about that part yet." She wheeled about to look at Bernie. "The manuscript, when did Bruce give it to you?"

Bernie frowned. "Why?"

"Bernie, work with me here— please," Maggie said, putting her hands together in a begging gesture.

Bernie looked at J.P. and said, "Oh boy, I haven't heard her sound this desperate since the night she wanted me to include her on my invitation to go backstage at Spamalot. Okay, Maggie, okay, I'm thinking—ten days ago? Two weeks? My assistant had to have logged it in, if you really need to know exactly. I was busy on something else—like getting ready to go to England with you to pick up a little bubonic plague—and let it sit until the other day. But that's probably close to the timeline. I know you authors think we're supposed to read something the moment it comes in—even if it comes in eight months late—but that's not how it works, and you know that, too. But Bruce has been bugging me by e-mail every damn day, so I started it and called him just before we left for England and told him that at least for the first fifty pages it was pretty damn good, and I'd get back to him when I was finished reading. Which I haven't done yet. Now tell me why you need to know this."