Kasey Michaels: High Heels and Homicide

He was, however, distracted by the sound that seemed to go poof inside the open black plastic bag one of the men had dropped—signaling the explosion of the dye pack an adventurous teller had placed inside it.

He was definitely distracted by the small, dusty cloud that served to turn one leg of his new slacks a garish pur-pie.

«Oh dear, an unexpected punishment for performing a good deed. Ah, and look at you. That's going to leave a mark, isn't it, poor fellow?» Saint Just asked the robber closest to the open bag, but the man, his face and hair now purple, only coughed, blinking furiously.

More excited Japanese, with the woman hitting her companion's shoulder to get his attention, and Saint Just realized that the tourist was now eager to capture for posterity the arrival of a few of New York's Finest.

That was fine with Saint Just. He had been wondering what he was going to do when the robbers recovered their breath and realized they outnumbered him two to one. Brandishing his sword cane on a city street at midday certainly wasn't the action of a prudent man. He'd happily turn over the miscreants to the police, and be on his way.

At least, that was his intention. As it turned out, the uniformed policemen had other ideas for his immediate future, which, unfortunately, had a lot to do with slamming him up against the wall, telling him to «spread 'em,» and then slapping him in handcuffs.

There was often no justice in this world.

But, Saint Just realized as he heard his name being called by none other than Holly Spivak, she of the traveling Fox News van, in America there is always the media.

Maggie opened the door and stood back as Bernice Toland-James swept into the apartment: tall, slim, her mane of inspired bushy long red hair flying like a flag in her self-created breeze. Designer clad, chemically peeled, silicone enhanced, suctioned and tweaked, lifted and toned, Bernie was that most dangerous of females: powerful in business, perimenopausal, and newly sober.

She was also Maggie's editor and very best friend.

«Here you go. Liverwurst is yours, salami's mine,» Bernie said, flinging out her arm, so that the paper bag she held nearly clipped Maggie on the nose. «Got any cigarettes? I forgot mine at the office, damn it.»

Maggie took the bag and put it down on the coffee table, beside the two glasses of lemonade she'd poured the moment the doorman buzzed Bernie's arrival. Socks would have just let her come up, but this new guy was by-the-book. Which was good, because Bernie's arrival could be startling enough, without her showing up unannounced.

«You know I quit, Bernie, and I'm carrying the extra ten pounds to prove it. What do you think kills more—cigarettes or obesity? Never mind. But I've got a spare nicotine inhaler around somewhere, if you want it.»

«Yeah, right,» Bernie said, kicking off her shoes before sitting on one of the couches, pulling her long legs up under her. «That's like a scotch on the rocks minus the scotch. No thanks. Besides, you look stupid with that thing in your mouth, no offense.»

«None taken,» Maggie said, collapsing onto the facing couch. «I love being told I look stupid. What's wrong with the manuscript?»

Bernie dug in the bag, pulled out the sandwiches. «Here you go. Let's eat.»

«Let's eat and talk,» Maggie said, taking the foil-wrapped sandwich, then grabbing a snack-size bag of potato chips, leaving the tortilla chips for Bernie. She ripped open the bag, carefully positioned five potato chips directly on her liverwurst, then replaced the top piece of seeded rye bread and squished the sandwich between her hands. Gourmet all the way. «What's wrong with the manuscript?»

Bernie held up a sienna-tipped finger as she nodded her head and chewed, finally swallowed. «You're a great writer, Maggie. The best. The Saint Just Mysteries are top drawer. I always knew you could write. Never a problem there. Really. Sales? Sales are terrific. You're carrying us on your back, Mags, so I can say as both your editor and your publisher, Toland Books is damn grateful.»

«But? Come on, Bernie. We both know there's a big but coming.»

Bernie took a sip of lemonade, winced. «But… how do I say this nicely? Okay, I've got it. But this book stinks on ice. One hundred thousand words that demonstrate why editors drink. Sorry, honey.»

«It… it… oh, it does not!»

«Not the writing. The writing's great. Really. But who wants to read The Case of the Lamenting Lordship?»

» The Case of the Lonely Lordship ,» Maggie corrected. She'd never really been nuts over the title, which probably should have told her something. She hated working without a title. «It's a little dark, I admit it.»

Bernie pushed her hair back, used its length to tie it in a knot. «Saint Just spends two thirds of the book contemplating his navel and the last third going around making amends for being a bad, bad man, like he's doing some kind of wacko Regency twelve-step program. I had to prop my eyelids up with toothpicks to read it for more than ten minutes at a time. Where's the joy? Where's the humor? Where's the murder in this murder mystery, for crying out loud? And we're not even going to talk about the sex, because there wasn't any.»

Maggie looked down at her sandwich, her appetite gone. «He killed a man, Bernie. He had to come to terms with what he'd done.»

«Oh, yeah, right. He killed a man. Big deal. The guy was no good anyway. Saint Just's a hero— our hero. If I wanted someone wringing his hands and beating his breast for four hundred pages, I'd buy—hell, I wouldn't buy that cheap, lazy, manipulative pap. I hate that drivel. Everybody cry? Spare me.»

«Saint Just can't have a crisis of conscience?»

Bernie ripped open the bag of tortilla chips, spilling them out on her lap. «Again, spare me. It's the Saint Just mysteries, Mags, not the confessions of a tarnished hero. Heroes don't have crises of conscience. They bed the ladies and solve murders, both brilliantly, then go for drinks at Boodles or White's or somewhere. End of story, watch for the next Saint Just Mystery, available soon.»

«I… I think his character needs to… to grow a little.» Maggie winced, then said the hated word. «Evolve.»

«Oh, no. Not that. Please, not that. Are you planning on writing for the critics now, Maggie, instead of your loyal readers? You want a list of all the good popular fiction writers who bought into that crap about not writing real books? I know where I can't look to find that list—the New York Times , that's where. Your readers want Saint Just. Edgy, confident, brilliant, a bit of a bastard, but with heart. They don't want Hugh Grant.»

Maggie tried to swallow, choked, and reached for her glass. «So… so you want a rewrite?»

«Honey, I want a bonfire, a big one. Except for Sterling's subplot. Poor guy, that's the first time in a half-dozen books he finally got laid. I wouldn't want to lose that—but giving Sterling that nice, tame little love scene instead of Saint Just, not in addition to Saint Just's rolls in the hay? Nope, that's a cop-out. It doesn't work. It's cheat-ing.»

Maggie wasn't going to cry. She refused to cry. She was a professional, damn it, and she was not going to—"I put everything I had into that book, Bernie. It all just poured out of me. I know it sounds dumb, but that was… that was a book of the heart for me, something I just had to do.»

The editor put down her sandwich. «Aw, honey, I know that. What I want to know now is why? Are you going through some blue period or something? What did I miss while I was drying out at the happy farm?»

Maggie was on thin ice now, and she knew it. «Well… you know. Buddy's murder and everything. You being accused. And then Sterling? I was so worried about Sterling… and then Saint Just—I mean Alex …»