Kasey Michaels: High Heels and Holidays

"Funny," Maggie said, immediately thinking about her father and his little chippie. "My mother called yesterday. There was something in the newspaper about our little adventure in England. She was not amused."

"Tough on her," Bernie said, hefting the soda can as if toasting Maggie. "Sales of your Saint Just novels have been going through the roof ever since you've been getting into the tabloids. Another month, another murder. The reading public is eating it up, Mags. Hey, do you suppose we could work good old Francis in there somehow?"

"You're a ghoul, Bernie." Maggie leaned her forearms on the table, the better to look around the corner of the kitchen and down the hall leading to the living room. "I've got to start locking my door again. Hello? Who's there?"

"It's only us, Maggie," Sterling called out moments before appearing in the kitchen, dressed for a noonday stroll in beautiful downtown Siberia. He had a heavy brown corduroy coat buttoned up to his neck and topped by a thick knitted yellow scarf, red mittens, and a red knit cap on his head—complete with a huge yarn pom-pom on top. They'd stopped at a small store after their dinner last night, and Sterling had instantly fallen in love with the hat. "Some of the boys have invited me to go to the park with them. Isn't that nice?"

"The boys?"

Alex leaned one burgundy cashmere-clad shoulder against the doorjamb. "Sterling has become quite the bon vivant, my dears. He's taken up an association with several lads from the neighborhood during his scooter rides. Haven't you, Sterling?"

Sterling blushed beneath his bright red cap. "We're going to build a snow fort. I think it sounds a jolly idea."

"And it is, Sterling," Maggie told him. "I think it's wonderful that you've been making friends. I'm only ashamed to say that I didn't realize it snowed last night."

"Maggie the hermit. Shame she doesn't have any windows, isn't it, boys?" Bernie said, lifting her soda can in yet another toast.

"Hey. Snow is sneaky. No lightning, no thunder, no raindrops piddling against the windows. You just wake up, and there it is. Poof!"

"Poof indeed. She has such a way with description, doesn't she, Bernie," Alex said as he retrieved a can of soda from the refrigerator, pouring its contents into a glass he'd loaded with ice cubes, of course, as the Viscount Saint Just didn't drink from cans. "You toddle off, Sterling, but please take care to return before three."

"What happens at three?" Maggie asked, waving goodbye to Sterling. "What am I missing?"

"Nothing too terrible. I've invited Mary Louise, George, and Vernon to stop by so that I can properly thank them for their help in my last case."

"Your last case," Maggie said flatly. "You're something else, Alex. What happened in England wasn't your case. And, if memory serves, you weren't in it alone. I was there, too, remember?"

"Now, now, children. Mommy's already got a headache," Bernie said as Alex sat down at the table. "You were both marvelous, even if my cold and I slept through most of it. But what did your motley crew do, Alex?"

"In point of fact, Bernice, they were the source of some important information."

"Yeah, Bernie, remember? Mary Louise and company are the ones who filled us in on Nikki Campion's connections here in New York. Okay, so they helped. What are you planning for them, Alex? I should contribute, too."

He had the devil in his eyes as he said, "I had thought new automobiles would be welcome."

Maggie knew Alex was trying to get a rise out of her, just so he could point out how frugal she was, and she decided to play along. "Cars? Are you nuts? Do you have any idea what that would cost?"

Alex smiled at Bernie. "I thought that would rattle her cage, as you Americans say. But relax, Maggie, I only wanted to see how committed you are to the project."

"I'd have to be committed before I'd agree to three new cars. But, now that I've made you happy by playing your straight man, what you're really saying is that you haven't a single idea what to get them and you need my help, right? Without coming right out and asking for it, of course."

"I am as a pane of glass to you, my dear, aren't I? But I've already stepped out and purchased a rather lovely necklace for Mary Louise—a single small diamond teardrop on a silver chain. As befits a young woman. Understated elegance, which is what I've been attempting to impress on Mary Louise, and I'm happy to say that she only wears two earrings in each ear these days, which I see as a major accomplishment on her part. But suitable gifts for George and Vernon? I fear I must admit defeat there. I'm much more used to buying baubles for the ladies."

Maggie took a sip of soda, and then reluctantly nodded her agreement. The Viscount Saint Just was always dropping diamonds or rubies in the laps of the women he then replaced with other women, the cad. And yet the readers loved him. If her fictional creation ever fell in love and got married, the series would tank in a heartbeat. "Okay, I see the problem. What do you buy for a Snake and a Killer?"

"They've left those unfortunate appellations behind them, Maggie, as well you know, just as they have abandoned their, shall we say, innocently nefarious ways. They answer strictly to Vernon and George now, and strive daily to raise themselves above their more unfortunate beginnings."

Mary Louise and Snake and Killer had been the very first people Alex had encountered in New York, and Mary Louise had, for a price, supplied Alex and Sterling with counterfeited identification—just one of the many things Maggie knew but kept trying to erase from her memory. Now Mary Louise was posing with Alex for Fragrances By Pierre while attending college, and Snake and Killer had gone straight, or maybe just weren't as crooked as they used to be. Only in America ...

"And now they're your business partners in the Street Corner Orators and Players, doling out sage advice and heartfelt sermons on the sad state of the world. Right. Like I could forget. I know—why not put both of them up for the Nobel Peace Prize?"

Bernie sat with her chin in her hand. "You two fascinate me. I've never met two people more suited to either becoming lovers or killing each other," she said, and then sniffed. "I passed one of your street corner orators on the way over here, Alex. He had quite a crowd around him, too. I only caught a few words. What's today's message? Crass commercialism in Christmas?"

Alex smiled. "Why go with the obvious, Bernice? No, today's message is a rather lovely description of Manhattan in June. The park, the flowers, the street performers, the children frolicking, trips to the ballparks to see the Mets or the Yankees, etc. Nostalgia on a cold, snowy day. I'm confident our revenues will reflect the correctness of my choice."

Bernie shrugged. "Looked to me like a few pockets were opening. You know, I still want to publish a collection of your speeches one of these days."

"Oh, please, Bernie, don't encourage him. He's already got about fifty employees and thinks he's the Donald Trump of street corners." Maggie had thought Alex's idea to create a flow of income without actually having to work—as Regency gentlemen collect income from their estates, or invest in the exchange, they do not work —would be a bust, a failure. She should have known better. Between his orators and his modeling contract with Fragrances By Pierre, the man's income had skyrocketed in the few short months he'd been in New York. Hell, the man had an accountant. He wasn't real, but he had an accountant. Sometimes she got a little dizzy, just thinking about that one.

"I'm not encouraging him, Maggie. I think the book would be a hit, in a weird sort of way. You know, how an Englishman looks at America, that sort of thing? Now, back to gifts for the boys."