Kasey Michaels: High Heels and Holidays

But when Maggie had hit as Cleo Dooley? Hit much larger, higher, and harder than Felicity Boothe Simmons? That's when Faith had turned flat-out mean. As a matter of fact, if Maggie hadn't recently saved Faith's life in what she still considered a moment of insanity, the two women would meet only when it was impossible for them to keep their distance. Like at conferences, and the annual Toland Books Christmas party.

"Oh, I just had a thought. Are you going to continue Kirk's Christmas bashes, Bernie?" she asked, thinking unfondly of Bernie's recently deceased ex-husband. Hell, he'd come within a hair of becoming deceased in her own apartment ... a fact Maggie tried not to dwell on.

"No, no more parties. We're still in negotiations over the sexual harassment suit last year's Santa brought against us," Bernie said, pushing her hands through her wild, flaming mop of expensively cut and colored hair.

"Against you, you mean," Maggie pointed out, grinning.

"Hey, a stripping Santa should be prepared for the occasional grope. We're sending out hams to everybody. Legal suggested it. Damn!"

Bernie reached into her bag yet again, this time coming out with her cell phone, which she held at arm's length so that she could read the caller ID, because she might still look mid-thirties, but the illusion had yet to notify her eyes of that fact. "Felicity. Sure, like I have a death wish," she said, dropping the phone back into the purse. "You know, now that I think of it, she'll probably call here next, if she hasn't already. I had to tell the office where I was going, just in case my battery died. We're in the middle of a three-day auction for some nonfiction about global warming, or maybe it's that shrinking rain forest business? Some hot-button topic. Anyway, Felicity might call here."

"Here? Oh, thanks, Bernie. Remind me that you're getting coal in your stocking this year," Maggie said as, sure enough, her phone began to ring, at just about the same moment Maggie changed her mind, thinking it might be fun to talk to poor de- Times 'd Faith.

"Let the machine pick up."

"Oh, I don't think so. I've been waiting for an opportunity like this for a long time. Besides, she's being nice to me lately. That's gotta stop—she's so fake and sugary she makes my teeth hurt. Ready?" She waggled her eyebrows at Bernie, and then snatched up the phone, smiling as she looked at the caller ID. "Hel-l-l-o-o-o?" She grinned at Bernie. "Oh, hi, Faith, how are you? Really? Oh, my gosh, Faith, homicidal is never good. You want to know if Bernie's here?"

Bernie reached for the table lamp beside her and lifted it threateningly. With most anyone, that would be a threatening gesture, but that's all it would be. Bernie was another matter, and Maggie really did like that lamp.

"No, Bernie's not here. We just got back from England yesterday morning on the red-eye, you know. She's probably at home, catching up on her sleep. Did you try her there? Oh, okay. Gee, Faith, you sound a little ... agitated. Is something wrong? Can I help? I mean, anything I can do, you know that."

"You've got a mean streak, Maggie Kelly," Bernie whispered, replacing the lamp. "I love it—now quit while you're ahead."

Maggie put her finger to her lips, and then held the receiver with both hands as Faith spilled her tale of woe. "Oh, man, Faith, that sucks," she said at last, dancing in place. "Only three weeks? Wow." It was time to plant a seed in the fertile soil of Faith's insecurities. "So, hey—you're afraid Bernie's maybe going to drop you?"

Bernie groaned and buried her head in her hands.

"Know something? Me? No, of course I don't know anything, Faith. Don't be ridiculous. My goodness, you're a major talent. Some people would say you've had a good run, and you should maybe just be happy about that, but that's just silly. I mean, maybe I've heard a rumor or two about some new up-and-comer Bernie's nuts about—but who listens to rumors, right?"

Maggie replaced the receiver and rubbed her hands together as she returned to plop herself down on the couch facing Bernie, resisting the urge to stick a finger in her ear to make sure it wasn't bleeding, that Faith hadn't ruptured an eardrum when she'd slammed down her own phone. "I think that went well. And now I don't have to worry about her showing up here with a Christmas present, as I'm pretty sure she's probably gotten past that saving her life business. Man, I didn't know Faith even knew that word."

"If I had children I'd want them all to be just like you," Bernie said as her cell phone began to ring again and both women ignored it. "Hey, not to put a pin in your Christmas spirit, but did you hear about Francis Oakes?"

Maggie had a vague recollection of a long ago Toland Books Christmas party and a small, rather timid man with suede patches on his worn tweed blazer and a terminal case of menthol breath. "Francis? Sure. What about him?"

"He's dead, that's what's about him," Bernie said, getting to her feet. "You have anything nonalcoholic around here? I'm taking some kind of sinus pill that's dried up all my saliva and my mouth feels like a suburb of the Sahara. You know, if I could treat this cold the way I usually do ..."

"You'd be back in rehab," Maggie said, following Bernie to the kitchen. "So, how did Francis die? He wasn't that old, was he?"

"In his mid-forties, I'd say. Thanks, kiddo," she said, accepting a cold can of soda and popping the top. "Poor guy just never quite got it together, you know? Kirk took an interest for a while, but we all remember how fickle Kirk was—oh, let me count the ways. Anyway, Francis sort of faded away at Toland Books a couple of years ago. According to the obituary, he lived near CUNY, in one of those student-clogged apartment buildings—making ends meet by writing term papers for undergrads, I'll bet. Anyway, it must have all gotten to be too much for him, and he committed suicide last week. My secretary clipped the obit and left it on my desk. Not that I could do anything about it. By the time I saw the clipping this morning Francis was already flying freight on his way back to Minnetonka or somewhere."

"You're such a caring person, Bernie," Maggie said as they sat at the kitchen table, Bernie dying for a drink, Maggie wishing she had a cigarette. "Suicide, huh? I wouldn't have thought Francis Oakes had the guts to remove a splinter, yet alone kill himself. What else was in the obituary?"

"That's it. Mourners pay by the inch now, you know, like they're fucking buying ads—sorry, I can hear my friend Johnnie Walker Red calling me a lot today."

"Tell me about it," Maggie said, reaching into her jeans pocket and pulling out her nicotine inhaler, the plastic tube whose end was beginning to look as chewed as her pencil erasers had when she'd been in the third grade, trying to master long division. "Mr. Butts keeps singing love songs to me, too. Ever notice that nobody ever gets addicted to broccoli? But broccoli could be bad for you, right? We could stop selling it in public places, tax it, write editorials on the dangers of secondhand broccoli breath—"

"Oh no, you don't. No riffs on the antismoking Nazis today, Maggie. I'm walking a fine line here. Now, you asked me a question. No, there wasn't anything in the obit but the basics. Poor, forgettable Francis. But, hey, that's the way it goes. Unhappy people are even more unhappy around holidays. Everyone knows that. Francis just decided he couldn't face one more lonely Christmas, I suppose."

"I guess so," Maggie said, sighing. "I should call Steve, tell him I'm home, and maybe he'll come over tonight. I'll ask him if he can get us some more information."

"To what end, Maggie? Writers sometimes commit suicide. They drink, they smoke, they kill themselves. It comes with the job. I could probably name at least a dozen who pulled the plug on themselves, right off the top of my head." Bernie leaned over the table. "You're feeling happy, right? No problems, nothing worrying you?"