High Heels and Holidays mkm-5

by Kasey Michaels

  Santas for Silver.

  He didn't like the name, and he'd cared less for the entire idea when, at Sterling's request, he'd called the local headquarters to report Sterling's unfortunate incident. Not a single question was asked about how Sterling had fared in the attack, all the questions having to do with the costume, the chimney, the lost bell and, most definitely, the silver.

  This seeming lack of compassion for one of their unpaid volunteers smacked to Saint Just of ingratitude, at the very least, and coldheartedness at the most. Quite an unusual thing in a charitable organization, one would think.

  Saint Just did not consider himself to be naive. In the course of The Case of the Lingering Lightskirt, he and Maggie had explored a considerable portion of the Regency London underworld, including more than a few unsavory denizens of Piccadilly, many of whom were experts in the way of manufactured infirmities, artfully applied running sores, and other such unpleasant artifices meant to goad the unwary to part with a few coppers.

  Or a few pieces of silver.

  During the course of his literary adventures, he'd learned that appearances very often were not the only criteria by which one should judge others, that much had been made clear as his character had found it necessary to wade through cruel pimps, depraved women selling their own children, clever liars, in order to get to the truth and solve the case.

  In this particular case, it had been Maggie who had looked up Santas for Silver on the Internet and declared the organization to be aboveboard.

  But, then, Maggie was so adorably innocent and trusting at times. Saint Just would much rather follow his own instincts when it came to ferreting out possible miscreants, and in this case, his instincts told him that Sterling's sacrifice of his body in order to protect a few pieces of silver meant for the underprivileged should have been met with more compassion by one Mr. Joshua Goodfellow.

  Joshua Goodfellow? It was as if the man had been named especially so that he could elicit goodwill.

  All of which took Saint Just back to his laptop computer and, within moments, to the Web site of Santas for Silver. Ignoring the heart-tugging photos and glowing testimonials, Saint Just concentrated on names, and was disappointed in the lack of them. Other than Joshua Goodfellow himself, there were only three: Roberta Astley, Maryjane Rucker, and Marjorie McDermont. All women.

  And, at times, women could be naive ... or as bad or worse than men.

  Saint Just closed his laptop and retrieved his topcoat and scarf from the closet, his sword cane from the elephant foot umbrella stand. Lastly, he picked up the bag containing Sterling's ruined costume and told his friend he was on his way to return the thing and obtain another—yes, a size forty-two short, if one was available, and most definitely, a new bell. He had more than an hour before Lieutenant Wendell and the others were slated to convene in Maggie's condo. Just enough time to do a bit of sleuthing.

  "Maggie?" he called out as he used his key to enter her condo.

  She appeared a few moments later, her hair still wet from her shower, her slim body wrapped in a thick white terry cloth robe. She looked delicious, but he was a man on a mission. Truly, the sacrifices one must make for one's friends ...

  "I'm glad you're here," Maggie told him, drawing the lapels of the robe more closely over her breasts—a move Saint Just could have pointed out did nothing but concentrate his mind on those same breasts as he had last seen them. "Let's talk about the rat, shall we? My rat?"

  "Certainly, my dear, although I am on my way to procure a new costume for Sterling," he said, holding up the paper bag. "What is it you wish to know?"

  "I don't know," she said, sitting down on one of the couches and drawing her knees up and under the bathrobe. "Let's start at the beginning. When did I get it? How did you know I got it? Was Socks in on it? I'll bet he was. Oh, and did it ever occur to you—to either of you—that you were tampering with the United States mail?"

  Saint Just set the paper bag on the credenza beside the door and leaned on his sword cane. "Let's see, which question should I answer first?"

  "Take them in any order you want, buster—just tell me what you know I want to know."

  "Very well, and you look quite fetching, I feel it necessary for me to say. Soft and rosy from your bath, and with your skin gleaming, inviting. That scent—I so identify it with you, my dear."

  "It's only baby oil," Maggie muttered, tugging the hem of the robe lower. "And don't change the subject."

  "Yes, I sense that you won't be derailed," Saint Just said, smiling. "Very well, the truth. I received a phone call from Socks on my cell while we were in England, telling me of the package and its accompanying odor that had led him to open the thing, whereupon he discovered the rat. Your rat. Directing him to keep the evidence intact, I then personally inspected it the moment we returned—"

  "In the basement. That's why you were in the basement," Maggie said, pointing an accusing finger at him. "I knew you'd never do physical work if you could find a way out of it. So the rat was there when I came downstairs? I was right there, wasn't I? And you still didn't show it to me?"

  "Alas, the poor mammal wasn't quite fit for polite company by that time," Saint Just told her, "but I was able to rescue the poem that accompanied the thing."

  "You did? Where is it? I want to see it. Steve needs to have it."

  "And he will, I assure you, when he arrives. Now, if there is nothing else?"

  "Oh, there's a lot else, Alex. For starters, you've got to get it through your head that I'm a woman of the twenty-first century, and you are a man of the nineteenth. An arrogant man of the nineteenth. But you're here now, in the twenty-first century, and I'm not one of your innocent debutantes who need protection. I pull my own weight. You don't protect me. I want ... I want to be seen as capable of taking care of myself."

  "Certainly, my dear. By whom?"

  "By whom? By me. I want ... I want to believe in myself, okay?"

  "At which point I will no longer be necessary?"

  "No! Cripes, Alex, I didn't mean it that way. I love it that you ... that you care. But don't hide things from me—not when they concern me. Are we clear now?"

  "We are, most definitely. Please accept my most sincere apologies for not informing you that some demented creature, possibly with homicidal tendencies, sent you an odiferous, decomposing rat that, clearly, I should have presented for your personal inspection the moment we returned from the airport rather than to dispose of the thing and then watch carefully over you to see if the rat was a genuine threat or just a malicious prank, and all in the mistaken notion that a man is placed on this earth to protect his woman."

  "Hoo-boy. You're pissed," Maggie said, making a face. "I knew you'd be pissed. I mean, you can take the boy out of the Regency, but you can't take the Regency out of the boy—or something like that. Okay, Alex, I forgive you. Your heart was in the right place. But Steve may not be so charitable when we tell him what you did, you know? Have you thought about that?"

  "I have. Indeed, J.P. has assured me that I could not have known how potentially serious the rat and poem were and, now that I'm more than willing to cooperate—now that I have more information—there's really nothing the good left –tenant can do about it. In other words, my lawyer does not think you will be forced to post bail for this sorry creature, as I believe is the term."

  "You know, Alex, that was my free lifetime legal advice you were using. But I'm glad to hear it. J.P. is a good lawyer. Or she was, before Bruce McCrae showed up. Was that sickening, or what?"

  "I have no fears for J.P. She was momentarily dazzled. Only time will tell if her emotions are truly involved. And now, as everyone is gathering here in less than an hour, I really should be on my way."

  "So you're really going to let Sterling go back out on the streets?"

  Saint Just opened his mouth to tell Maggie, well, to tell her not very much, actually, but he quickly reconsidered. "For the moment, yes, I am, although not without George and Vernon by his side."


  "I still don't think that's going to work, Alex. Sure, George is gorgeous, but Snake—Vernon—has criminal element written all over him, poor thing. He'll chase away contributors. Especially the moms and kids."

  "Yes, you mentioned that earlier, but I believe I've come up with a workable solution. George and Vernon are to be Santa's elves. Mary Louise has agreed to outfit them appropriately and have them here tomorrow morning, to escort Sterling to his assigned corner, where they will caper and cavort and in general behave as Santa's merry elves—all the while keeping a close eye out for potential trouble."

  Halfway through his explanation, Maggie fell back against the couch, clutching her stomach as she laughed out loud. "Will they have feathers in their caps and ... and pointy shoes with bells on them? Caper and cavort? Oh, God, Alex—that's hysterical!"

  "Yes, well, I'll leave you to your unseemly mirth then, won't I. Oh, and I notified Mario that we'll need a reasonable meat tray, breads, and salads delivered by six o'clock, as well as a cake, preferably a flavor he knows Sterling to favor."

  "Because I should at least offer to feed everybody, right. I would have thought of that," Maggie said, sobering. "Eventually. Thanks, Alex."

  And with that he was gone, hastening his steps, but not so much as to seem to be rushing, like so many unfortunately harried-looking others on the pavement at five o'clock, as he made his way to the headquarters of Santas for Silver.

  Once inside the small storefront, a bell above his head surely alerting anyone inside as to his presence, Saint Just was quickly confronted by a rather blowsy blond woman wearing clothing guaranteed to greatly constrict her breathing and possibly even the blood flow to her feet. "Good afternoon, madam," he said, bowing gracefully. "I am Alexander Blakely, here to exchange my friend's battered costume that has been damaged in a recent assault upon his person."

  "Huh?" The woman shifted a large wad of gum from one cheek to the other. "Oh, right. You called, right? For that guy Sterling, right?"

  "Right," Saint Just said, feeling facetious. "And you'd be—?"

  "Oh, right. Marj McDermont. That is, I'm Ms. Marjorie McDermont. I'm Mr. Goodfellow's, um, personal assistant. I handle all sorts of things for Mr. Goodfellow. So you can just gimme that, okay?"

  Saint Just handed over the bag and the woman opened it, poured out its contents on a remarkably clear desk, if one were to discount the bottle of nail polish, a nail file, and a copy of Soap Opera Digest.

  "Wow, what a mess, right? You weren't kidding, were you?" She spread the bits of costume across the desk. "I don't see it. Where's the money?"

  Straight to the heart of the matter, Saint Just thought, not feeling very in charity with Miss McDermont. "Safely tucked away until Sterling brings it to you tomorrow after his ... shift, is it? Is Mr. Goodfellow available?"

  Miss McDermont was shoving the costume back in the bag. "He's here, sure, but he's not—hey!"

  Saint Just employed the tip of his cane to push back the small wooden gate in the low railing dividing the lobby from the few desks and opened the mottled-glass-topped door to what one could only assume—correctly, as it turned out—to be the office of one Joshua Goodfellow.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Goodfellow," he said loudly, so as to be heard over the noise of a fairly elaborate coin-sorting machine the tall, blond-haired man was operating.

  Saint Just had seen a similar machine in Atlantic City when he'd gone to one of the cashier windows to redeem chips he'd won at blackjack. A half dozen or more full burlap bags were already stacked in the corner, and the bags attached to the machine at the moment were fairly well bulging with newly sorted coins.

  Joshua Goodfellow looked to be a man who enjoyed his work—but not interruptions.

  "Damn pennies, they screw up the machine every time, Marj. Can't these losers remember not to—who are you?" he asked, turning off the machine. "Who let you in here? Marj! You in a coma out there, or what?"

  Saint Just looked the man up and down, and then concentrated his gaze on Joshua Goodfellow's handsome face. "One of your volunteers, Sterling Balder by name, was accosted this afternoon and done bodily injury. Sir."

  "Did he lose the money?"

  Saint Just smiled. "Thank you, sir, for salving my conscience over any assumptions I might have made without first bothering to indulge my curiosity in any actual investigation. And, to answer your question, no, Mr. Balder did not relinquish the money. Indeed, he will be on duty at his assigned corner tomorrow morning, battered but unbowed. Loyal to a fault, Mr. Balder is, sir." He let the space of three seconds count out, and then added, his eyes squarely on the man, "As am I. Good day, sir."

  "Wait!" Goodfellow came around the desk and put his hand on Saint Just's arm, then just as quickly removed it when Saint Just continued to look at him evenly. Coolly, even dispassionately. "I'm so sorry for your friend's trouble, and I'm guilty of giving completely the wrong impression, aren't I? It's just that ... well, we've had so many incidents. Robberies. And we need every penny—well, every nickel, dime, and quarter, as we are Santas for Silver, aren't we, ha-ha. I'm ... I'm devastated that your friend Sterling was injured in the cause. Is there anything I can do? He has our most heartfelt prayers, of course, but if there's anything else we can do, he has but to ask."

  Saint Just allowed himself a smile, a softening of his features. "Why, thank you, sir. Your kind concern is more than enough, Mr. Goodfellow, I assure you, and I'll be certain to convey your best to my good friend for his rapid recovery. Tell me—as I do so worry about Sterling—have there been many robberies?"

  "Well, one other, and we think the volunteer was lying, as we smelled liquor on his breath when he came to report the loss," Goodfellow said sheepishly. "But Sterling makes two, doesn't he? It's just the idea of it, you know? We simply can't afford losses, not with so many mouths to feed."

  "So you feed the poor?"

  "Oh, oh yes, of course. Food, clothing. Anything we can do to help. Your friend Sterling is doing good works, sir, I assure you. Here, let me get you a pamphlet."

  Goodfellow gave Saint Just two pamphlets, as a matter of fact, and within a few minutes he was back on the street, a new costume in the paper bag, leaving behind him the impression, he most sincerely hoped, that he thought Santas for Silver was a jolly good charity, one that had his full support, as well as the twenty-dollar bill he slipped into Goodfellow's hand, apologizing that it wasn't silver.

  Which actually might have been true, were it not for the avaricious gleam in Joshua Goodfellow's unguarded eyes as he'd watched the coins swirl about on the tray of the machine, then drop into the bags. Or the way the man had, once he thought Saint Just was gone, slipped the twenty-dollar bill into his own pocket as he winked at his personal assistant.

  As far as clues went, that twenty-dollar bill traveled straight to Saint Just's already suspicious mind, stopping briefly at his anger, but then coolly moving on.

  Reaching in his pocket for his cell phone, Saint Just then took out his billfold to retrieve a business card with a cell phone number scribbled on the back in thick black ink. Stepping under the awning of an electronics store, he punched in the numbers, hit send, and a few moments later said, "Mr. Campiano? Alexander Blakely here. A question if you please. You did mean it when you said I could apply to you for a favor? Thank you, sir, I knew I recognized a gentleman of honor when we first so happily met. I would much rather not bother you, make my own inquiries, but I'm afraid I'm rather involved with another pressing matter at the moment, and feel certain you will find my needs a simple matter."

  He listened for a few moments, then switched the phone to his other ear and smiled. "Yes, yes indeed. We most certainly are enjoying the fruit ..."

  Chapter Fourteen

  "Glasses, napkins, paper plates. Ice. Condiments. This isn't so hard," Maggie told herself as she inspected the informal buffet she'd assembled on the counter in the kitchen. She'd had parties before. Granted, they'd all been catered, soup to nuts. And this wasn't exactly a party, was
it?

  Definitely not to Steve, at any rate. She could feel him behind her, staring holes into her back.

  "Look, Steve," she said, turning around, holding a Ritz cracker in front of her like a shield, "Alex thought he was doing the right thing."

  "Yeah, I've heard that story a few times before, Maggie. He was withholding evidence."

  "But he didn't know it was evidence when he withheld it. He only thought he was protecting me."

  "And you're all right with that?"

  Maggie hesitated, feeling defensive about Alex, and maybe about herself. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm at least sort of all right with that. He really can't help himself, Steve, it's just the way he's ... the way he was made. Now come on, stop looking like the high executioner or something, the others will be here any minute."

  Steve took the cracker from her, popped it into his own mouth, then followed her into the living room just as the intercom buzzed twice, Socks's signal that someone she knew was on the way up. "You know, Maggie, we probably should find some time to talk sometime soon," he said, looking—gosh, he looked sort of guilty, didn't he?

  "Sure. About what?" Not Alex, Steve, she thought. Please, tell me this talk is not going to be about Alex.

  "Uh ... nothing much, it can wait. Somebody's already on the way up. I, um, I'm officially off duty, so I think I'll go grab a beer. You want anything?"

  "No thanks," Maggie said, frowning as she watched him head for the kitchen once more. Were his ears red? Boy, he was nervous. What was he so nervous about? She was the one who should be nervous. She was the one who had—well, he didn't have to know that, now did he?

  At the sharp knock on the door, Maggie trotted over to open it and admit Bernie, who had two fully stuffed briefcases hanging from leather straps over her shoulders.

  "This had better work, Mags. I haven't lugged this much work out of the office since I was an assistant editor," she said, dropping the briefcases one after the other to the floor just inside the door. "Here," she said, pulling a jar of cherries out of her purse and handing it to Maggie. "Just ginger ale, four ice cubes, a cherry and some cherry juice in a highball glass, okay?"