Kasey Michaels - High Heels and Holidays

Maggie looked at her friend in some confusion. "Why? You don't care about that."

"No, of course not," Bernie said in her usual honesty. "But I do want to talk about Francis, now that you put the idea in my head, and who better to talk to than Alex, our resident supersleuth?"

Alex looked to each woman in turn. "I'm missing something here, aren't I? Who is Frances? Do I know her?"

"Francis Oakes, Alex, and he's a he. Well, was a he, used to be a he."

Alex waved a hand in front of himself. "Would this be anything like Socks's friend Jay-Jayne?"

"I think I've got your headache now, Bernie," Maggie said, getting to her feet and tossing the empty soda can in the recycling bin. "No, Alex. Jay is a cross-dresser. Francis Oakes is just dead."

"Really. How unfortunate for the man," Alex said, following after Maggie and Bernie as they returned to the living room, where Bernie's Fendi bag could be heard playing the first few bars of the William Tell Overture. "Bernice, isn't that your phone?"

"I'm ignoring it," Bernie said, stuffing a cushion over her purse as she sat down, drawing her long legs up on the couch. "Oh, and you could get your business partners subscriptions to the Wall Street Journal. If they can read?"

"Et tu, Brute?" Alex said, seating himself in Maggie's swivel desk chair.

"Yeah, Bernie, insulting remarks are my job," Maggie complained as Wellington jumped up on the couch beside her, a gilded miniature pinecone in his mouth. "Give," she commanded, holding out her hand, which Wellington ignored, so that within moments a tug-of-war ensued, with Wellington growling and Maggie pleading.

"Oh, for God's sake, Mags, let him have it," Bernie said, piling another pillow on top of her purse, because the ringer must have been on Excruciatingly Loud. "If that's the office, by the way, they'll ring you next, so I'm not missing anything."

"Let him have it? Sure, so he can barf it up on my bedspread at midnight. Damn cat thinks he's a dog. Wellington give!"

"You could turn off the ringer, you know," Alex suggested as he walked behind the couch, snapped his fingers, and then held out his upturned palm to the cat, which promptly gifted him with the pinecone.

"I hate you," Maggie said without heat as Alex then dropped the pinecone in her lap, complete with cat drool. "But he's right, Bernie. Please turn off that damn ringer. Every time I hear that ring my mind starts repeating the cereal that's popped from guns over and over in my head. My dad used to sing it every morning as he poured his puffed rice into the bowl."

"Oh, all right," Bernie said, flinging the pillows to the floor and then reaching into her bag and pulling out her cell phone. "Wow, nine missed calls, and all from our tragedy queen. Persistent, isn't she? I may have to go to the Hamptons for the weekend and leave my cell phone at home."

"Again, I'm missing something, aren't I? But, being a gentleman, I won't pry," Alex said, returning to the desk chair. He hit the return button on Maggie's computer keyboard so that the computer woke up, and then opened her search engine, typing in Francis Oaks. "Oaks as in grand old oak tree, or with an E?"

"With an E. And he's off! You had to tell him, didn't you?" Maggie complained to Bernie through clenched teeth.

Bernie shrugged. "Really, Mags. How long do you think a sophisticated New Yorker like myself could be fascinated with choosing gifts for snakes and killers? Especially sober. Besides, knowing Alex, he'll get us more information on Francis than Steve will give us."

"True. I hate to admit it, but true. Alex? Find anything?"

"I'm looking at Amazon.com at the moment, Maggie, which is where Google led me. You didn't tell me Oakes was a writer," Alex said, his back to the women as he punched keys. "Four books, all of them out of print. And all of them published by Toland Books, the most recent one six years ago. This is an intriguing title, The Axeman Cometh. Ah, here's one of those reader reviews you abhor, Maggie. Couldn't finish it. Well, that's pithy. The mind boggles at the audacity, however, that Bookluver—that's l-u-v-e-r—from Phoenix believes his or her opinion to be definitive."

"Why shouldn't Bookluver think that? Everybody's reviewing books these days," Maggie said, wrapping the soggy pinecone in the tissue Bernie had handed her. "And the supposed pros aren't much better. Bernie? Remember that one review on my last book? Dooley writes with a sort of accidental panache? Now I ask you, what the hell is accidental panache? I can't do panache unless it's by accident? How does the guy know it was an accident? Maybe I planned that accident. Maybe it was on purpose panache. Does the guy even know what he's saying, or is he just pulling words out of his—head," she said after a slight hesitation during which she remembered Alex was still in the room, "thinking he's impressing people? You know, in my next book, I think I'm going to have to do a riff on critics. Maybe something lousy one of them said about Jane Austen, or something. I'll say the critic believes she employed accidental panache."

"Careful, Maggie," Bernie warned. "You know what they say—never piss off a critic."

"Wrong, Bernie. Never piss off a writer. More people read us. I mean, come on, Bernie. Accidental panache?"

"There's a second definition of panache, you know, Maggie," Bernie said, winking at Alex. "The first is, of course, dash, verve. But the second is a bunch of feathers or a plume, especially on a helmet. So maybe the reviewer believes you got a bunch of feathers in your hair without intending to do it?"

"You're such a help," Maggie grumbled, and then looked at Alex. "Anything else? Or am I going to spend the next hour wondering if I can stick some accidental plumes into my next book?"

"Ummm," Alex said, heading back to Google. "I took a moment to read that accidental panache quote on Amazon, and discovered a new reader review. It would appear that Barb-Four-Books believes, and I quote, 'Saint Just can park his high-topped Hessian boots under my bed any time.' " He swiveled around on the chair and grinned at her. "Imagine that."

"Thanks," she said, deadpan. "You're always such a big help." She tried to look past him. "A new page just came up on the screen. What are you after now?"

"I've discovered the obituary," Alex told them, turning back to the computer, then scrolling down the page he'd found. "Author ... forty-eight years old ... discovered by a student ... suspected suicide." He swiveled the chair to look at Maggie and Bernie. "You didn't mention that. Only suspected? It's not definite?"

"I guess the coroner hadn't ruled on it yet when that was published," Maggie said, wishing she could keep her mouth shut. But what was the point? Once Alex knew anything, he needed to know everything. "I'm kind of shocked, to tell you the truth. Francis was such a milquetoast." Just like your father, Maggie's inner self reminded her, yet look at the old boy now! "But I really didn't know him very well."

"Perhaps not, but you're having difficulty accepting his death as a suicide, is that correct?"

"Oh, here we go," Maggie said, rolling her eyes. "No, I am not second-guessing anything. It was suicide, Alex. That's what's in the papers, that's what it was."

"Suspected suicide," Alex pointed out, much too seriously for Maggie's peace of mind. "I'm sure the good left –tenant will be able to supply us with more information. Details of the cause of death, manner of death."

"And now he's dazzling us with technical terms. Secret Squirrel is on the case, Bernie. Are you happy now?"

Bernie shrugged. "I don't mind, Mags. If he discovers anything interesting, maybe Toland Books can reissue Francis's old books. Suicide is good, if he was inventive about it, but murder would be even better. Or did you forget that Francis wrote murder mysteries?"