Kasey Michaels: High Heels and Holidays

The urge to say bite me rose and was quickly batted down again, along with her ready defense of the romance genre, as Maggie pushed on, doing her best to stay on point as Bruce tried to steer her away from it, and into personal attack. Hey, she'd spent five years listening to Dr. Bob's advice on how to argue effectively with her family—she recognized that sort of underhanded tactic now.

"Then, one fine day, you stopped in to visit Jonathan and learned that he was writing again. Not only was he writing, but he was willing to show you, his good friend, what he'd written. And you were blown away. It was good. It was very good. And you couldn't write a coherent grocery list, could you? You went home, and stewed, and then an idea hit you. The sort of idea a good mystery writer jumps on immediately. And you are a good mystery writer, Bruce, you really are. You just didn't want to wait out the dry spell, or work your way through it. You visited Jonathan again, and you somehow made a copy of his manuscript on a blank disk while he was in the bathroom or passed out drunk, and took it home with you, put your name on it, and sent it off to Bernie. After all, Jonathan had said he'd never publish it, and he was a drunk, a recluse. He'd never even know you'd ripped him off."

J.P. raised her hand as if she was in class. "You're saying Bruce thought he could get away with something like that?"

"No, not really. I think he was desperate, and he didn't think the whole thing completely through before he acted," Maggie told her honestly, because this part was still a little murky to her. "What I think was that he needed something to give to Bernie because he was so overdue on his deadline and, even though Bernie is a terrific woman, she's also a tough businesswoman, a lot tougher than Kirk used to be. Now that Kirk's dead and she's in charge, she's going pretty heavy with the hammer, even demanding that some authors hand back their advance money if they're too far over deadline. Bruce just wanted to shut her up, that's all—at least at first. But, once he'd done it, sent in Jonathan's manuscript as his own, he had to know—quickly—if she liked it, if she'd publish it, or if he'd just bought himself a little more time to write his own book. Because, wow, he had a problem, didn't he? He'd acted, and then realized he'd taken a pretty big risk in doing what he did, if the manuscript was as good as he thought it was."

"This is ridiculous. You're saying Bruce was that desperate—desperate enough to steal another writer's work?"

"Oh, J.P., it's not like he'd be the first person to do it. Or the first to get away with it. Plagiarism happens all the time, and always because the thieves—and they are thieves, damn it, raping our brains—think they'll never be caught. Bruce just took it a step further and stole from Jonathan's imagination before the book was in print. Anyway, when Bernie called him, told him she loved the manuscript so far—that's when he realized he'd have to get rid of Jonathan before the book came out. It was too dangerous to just believe that Jonathan would never know. And, hey, who knew if Jonathan might someday decide he did want to see if he could be published again with this new manuscript. Any way you looked at it, Bruce, Jonathan had to go. You had months to plan the how of it before the book came out, work up a foolproof plan, but then Jonathan offered you a gift, didn't he, Bruce?"

"Me? You're asking me? Please, this is your pipe dream. I'm just sitting here, wondering how much I can sue you for. That last contract Bernie handed you, Maggie? Didn't PW report that as a four-book, mid-seven-figure deal? I always forget—one's libel, one's defamation. J.P., honey, you'll have to help me sort that part out, okay?"

Alex sat down beside Maggie and patted her hand reassuringly. "He's only blustering, but I'll take over now, I believe. Where were we? Oh, yes, Jonathan West offered you a gift, McCrae, unwittingly of course. He told you about these two overly zealous fans of his who had just sent out dead rats and threatening poems to the authors who'd worked with him on No Secret Anymore. He was upset, had banished these fans from his sight, but wanted you to be aware—you, his dear friend—of what they'd done. And that day or the next, a dead rat did in fact appear in your mailbox. And, with that rat, an idea. A way to salvation, a plan meant to solve all your problems."

"Exactly," Maggie said, happy to see that Bruce's smile might still be there, but it was still as false as the guy who'd just clotheslined an opposing player and then turned to protest to the ref, "Who? Me? You're blaming me?"

"It was a very good plan," Alex went on, swinging his quizzing glass from its black riband as he spoke. "Jonathan, odd character that he was, would receive this horrendous threat and commit suicide. Of course, these zealous fans would not have sent a rat to Jonathan, but that was no matter. After all, you already had one in your possession, didn't you? All you had to do was remove the outer packaging and replace it, with Jonathan's address on the new envelope. That business of having taken the box to the police and then throwing it in the trash was merely a hum meant to establish you as a potential victim. A clever ruse, actually."

"Right," Maggie broke in eagerly. "But there were still plot holes. One murder tricked out as a suicide? No, that was a little chancy. Because Jonathan was famous once, even if he wasn't now. The police would make a very thorough investigation. Much better to have Jonathan be just one of several murders with pretty much the same MO, right? You called Sylvia Piedmonte and ... oh yeah, and Freddie Brandyce, but they both took off, so you couldn't use them as part of your plan. Oh, and Garth Ransom—Buzz—he was off shooting rhinos or something."

"I don't believe hunters are allowed to shoot rhinos anymore, my dear. Let's just say he was in Africa, for clarity, you understand."

"Picky, picky, Alex. And don't interrupt, I'm really moving now. So, Bruce, who else was out there? Oh, wait, how about good old reclusive Francis Oakes? Little guy, he wouldn't put up much of a struggle. Nobody'd miss him, and he'd have his own dead rat there, you wouldn't even have to go find one of your own. So, first Francis, and then Jonathan—the police said Jonathan had been dead for a while, so you probably made the murders a real one-two punch, huh? Except nobody was looking for Jonathan, nobody knew he was dead, so you came knocking on my door. Maggie Kelly, the woman who's already known for ... well, for stumbling over bodies. And now, wow, we've got a serial killer here, and Jonathan is just one of two victims so far—just tossed into the mix with the other victims. Who was next, Bruce? Me, right? I was here, local, couldn't really put up much of a fight against a great big guy like you. I was going to be number three, wasn't I? I knew you. I'd let you in the door. And you'd kill me. Bastard!"

"Sunshine, calm down," J.P. said, moving over to the other couch, to sit beside her. "I can see where you'd be upset, but you haven't really proved anything, except the stealing the manuscript part. But that's a far cry from murder. You've said nothing that would indicate that the fans who sent the rats in the first place aren't the killers. Bruce was a potential victim here, too."

"Oh, sure, that's what he'd like us all to think. The very helpful potential victim, by the way. Remember how he offered to call Jonathan, even left a message on his machine? And by then, Jonathan had already been dead a while. And you must have been thrilled when J.P. checked your cell calls, because there was the record of your concern for Jonathan, all down in black and white. I'll bet it's the same with Francis—calling his apartment long after he was dead, leaving messages. Talk about sick! But it's so much what a smart mystery writer would do to cover his tracks, setting up the misdirection, the red herrings, the whole bit. Man, Bruce, you left tracks all over the place, once I took a good look at your mistakes. Mostly, you were just too darn helpful. And you just couldn't help showing off, watching everyone stumble with the investigation, leading us all along where you wanted us to go, watching as your perfect crime played out. Ego, it gets them every time. But you tried too hard, Bruce. I always can tell your killer in your books—you use too heavy a hand, just the way you did here."