Kasey Michaels: High Heels and Holidays

"Look at this. Look at this. I've got a damn hulking, ugly treadmill in my living room."

Saint Just walked across the room to inspect the machine. "Yes, I see that. Well, my dear, you were just speaking of this corner recently, as I recall it, saying you still had done nothing about finding something to fill it."

"Oh yeah, right. And that's just the perfect thing, too. Much classier than a lighted curio cabinet, or that painted chest we saw a couple of weeks ago. But it's missing something, don't you think? Maybe I should toss a sweaty, smelly towel over it. The perfect accessory." Maggie flopped down on the couch. "I still don't believe it. She says something not two hours ago, and bam, here come these guys with that ... that thing. Unpacked it, set it up, took everything away with them—I ended up tipping them fifty bucks, which shows you how stupid I am. Ten minutes later, here comes this guy with the bottled-water dispenser. It's in the kitchen, if you want to look at it. Actually, that was a pretty good idea. I signed a two-year contract. Not that I'll be here to drink the water—not once Faith comes back and I strangle her."

"You didn't have to accept either delivery, you know," Saint Just pointed out, pouring himself a glass of wine. For a man of his era, water had never been a viable option, most especially in London, but he would have to try this bottled water at some point. Just not right now.

"I know I didn't have to take the stuff, Alex," Maggie said, leaning back against the couch cushions, to run her hands down her belly. "But Faith looks pretty good, you know, and I really probably should exercise, especially now that I'm not smoking anymore. I mean, can you see me at some gym? The only people you see at gyms are those people who don't need gyms, and I'm a good ten—eight pounds from going to a gym. So I guess I'll keep it—but not in here. Oh, and it folds up, so that's good. You and Sterling can help me move it to the guest bedroom once Faith is gone, okay?"

Saint Just nodded, then asked, "Certainly, but why didn't you simply have the deliverymen assemble it there?"

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Are you kidding? Faith has five suitcases open in that room. Clothes everywhere. Stuff, everywhere. She was always like that. We'd go to conferences together and she'd sprawl out all over the room. Her shoes, her clothes, her toiletries. I had about enough space for my toothbrush and a lipstick in the bathroom. Oh, and she used all the towels. And then there was the bath powder. Everywhere. Clouds of bath powder."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but it would seem that you should have been relieved when you two no longer shared your accommodations."

"I know," Maggie said, her head down. "But we had fun, Alex, we really did. There's a lot to be said for being poor together, struggling together. Then she hit the lists and got all weird." She looked up at him. "I'm not all weird, am I? I love being on the lists, but I don't ever want to get all weird."

Saint Just patted her head as he walked behind the couch, then sat down on the facing couch. "Confident. I would be gratified if you could believe more in yourself and your talent, my dear. Other than that, I wouldn't change a hair on your head."

Maggie smiled sheepishly. "Thanks, Alex," she said, sitting up straighter. "So you like me, right?"

"Correct," he said slowly.

"And you respect my opinion."

"Certainly. In all things." He took another sip of wine, wondering when she'd get to the point.

"So if I told you I did something, you'd be all right with that? Even if I didn't run it by you first?"

He thought of his earlier interlude with Mr. Donny Dill. "You are under no obligation to consult with me on every small thing, my dear."

"Right. But this isn't a small thing. I think Bruce McCrae killed Francis and Jonathan."

Saint Just did his best to not react. "Really. And may I ask how you came to hold this opinion?"

"Well, I don't really hold it. I'm thinking it. Except when I'm thinking I'm completely off-base. We need everything to fit, right, and not everything fits. I mean, some does, but some doesn't. Still ... I did something. Had Bernie do something. Not that I told Steve what I did, because you'd just end up in jail, and that can't be a good thing, right? So we have to find another way to prove what I think I know ... if I'm right."

Perhaps he'd like more wine. Yes, probably so. Saint Just got to his feet and made his way across the room to the drinks table. "Would you care to elaborate on what you've just said? Or, even better, start at the beginning and tell me exactly what you've thought ... and what you've done?"

"Okay, sure. Here's how it went down. Bernie was sitting at the computer, touching things the way she does, and she saw Jonathan's manuscript up on the screen. Only she thought it was Bruce's manuscript. Bruce's manuscript, Alex, not Jonathan's. Even though you found it hidden in Jonathan's apartment."

"Yes, my dear, I believe I'm following you," Saint Just said, retaking his seat. "But while I'm still digesting this, do go on."

Maggie stood up, sat down again with one leg tucked up under her, obviously near to bursting with what she had to tell him and unable to sit still. "Here's where it gets really interesting. I didn't tell Bernie what I thought, of course—oh, or J.P., because she was here, too—I'll get to that part. And I forgot to tell you what Steve said when he called, didn't I? Damn, Alex. I've got so much going on. Dad—oh, he called, he's back safe and settling into his friend's apartment. And the phone finally stopped ringing, so that's good. Well, not all good, because I'm hoping Bruce calls—except I wanted you to be here when he did. So I was almost glad to have all those delivery guys coming in and out—so I wasn't alone, you know?—because you weren't around and I really, really needed to talk to you—"

"Maggie, dearest, take a deep breath. I don't think I've ever seen you this agitated."

"Well, I am. If I'm right, I've had a killer right here, in my own home. If I'm not, I could have broken up J.P. and a wonderful guy. If I'm right, we won't have to worry anymore and Faith and Brock the Wonder Kidneys can go home—that's big on the I-hope-I'm-right side, let me tell you! But if I'm wrong, then I may have sullied someone's character, not to mention his career. But if I'm right—"

"Maggie. This is so unlike you."

"No kidding. But it's not every day I try to unmask a murderer who may or may not have considered me for his next victim. Well, maybe not, not lately—but you know what I mean. I know Bruce. This is just so much more personal. You know?"

"I do, indeed. Now, from the beginning?"

It took some time, but he finally understood what she'd done. Without telling Bernice why, she'd asked her to phone Bruce McCrae and tell him his manuscript was not up to his usual standards and would need tremendous amounts of rewriting, reworking, if it could even be salvaged.

"I know how I felt when Bernie said that about that dumb exorcism drivel I wrote about you, so I figured it was the best way to get a rise out of him," Maggie told him.

But her ploy had not elicited the reaction she'd hoped for. McCrae had taken the news rather well, which, Bernice had told her, was completely unexpected, as McCrae was always very vocally defensive of his work.

"Then I had her ask him to come over here tonight, around eight, to talk to him about the book, because Bernie is bunking in with me now, too, as you thought that, as publisher of Toland Books, she, too, could be in danger."

"I said that? Really?"

"I had to think of something," Maggie told him, "and that was all I could come up with. I figured we should confront him, you know?"