High Heels and Holidays mkm-5

by Kasey Michaels

  Now he was her for-real lover.

  Speaking of lovers ... both her parents had taken lovers.

  And Rat Boy was still out there.

  What a mess.

  "Time to play Snood," Maggie said out loud, heading for her computer and what she knew would be at least two hours of mindless Snood shooting.

  When she woke up the next morning she was on the couch, the almost empty brandy snifter still balanced on her stomach, and she could hear her alarm clock buzzing down the hall in her bedroom.

  "Dr. Bob!" she said out loud, and ran to take her shower, grab an iced cinnamon-and-sugar Pop-Tart, and head for the psychiatrist's office.

  Five minutes into the hour-long session, she was wishing she'd overslept and missed the appointment.

  "Well, now, Margaret, this is an upsetting situation your parents have put you in, isn't it? How do you propose to deal with it, hmm?"

  Maggie reached for her second tissue of the session. "Isn't that what you're supposed to tell me? Isn't that why I pay you the big bucks?"

  "I'm not here to solve your problems for you, Margaret."

  "Yeah, you got that in one," Maggie muttered into the tissue, then blew her nose. "But I don't know what to do. He's on one side, she's on the other—and I'm smack in the middle. I'm taffy, that's what I am, being stretched in two directions at once."

  "Oh, that reminds me," Dr. Bob said, reaching down on the side of his desk and coming up with a small blue box tied with a silver ribbon. "Here you are, Margaret. I'm giving out sugarless fudge this year, except to my bulimics and anorexics, of course. They'll receive autographed first editions of my new book—well, the one that's just come out in paperback, that is. Oh, would you like one, Maggie? Instead of the fudge, you understand. Although I did tell you it's sugarless, correct? I know you're on a diet."

  Maggie just let that one roll over her, one more problem in her life, and one she didn't have time for right now, thank you. Good old cheerful Dr. Bob should just be happy she hadn't as yet reached for a cigarette. Yet being the operative word, because she was teetering on the brink.

  "Can we get back to my mom and dad? I'd call the sibs—my siblings, that is—except I already know how each of them will react, and it won't be good. I want to help Mom and Dad, I really do. I just ... I just don't want to get involved, you know? That's selfish, isn't it?"

  "Self-preservation, Margaret. It's in our nature, and perfectly understandable. But let me help direct you, as you're clearly conflicted. For the moment, your parents are finding their own way, reacting in their own way, and they both deserve the time and space to do just that, without interference. Your job, if you'll think of it that way, is to be supportive but nonjudgmental."

  "Kind of hard to do that with Mom on the phone every three seconds and Dad living here in New York."

  "True," Dr. Bob said, leaning back in his oversize leather chair. "You are on the horns of a dilemma, aren't you, my dear?"

  Maggie held up one finger as she chuckled in what she hoped was a rueful way. "Oh no, that one doesn't work for me anymore. You pity me, I do a knee-jerk stand-up riff for me and say it's not all that bad. I have a great career, lots of friends, a nifty condo, cup more than half full, yadda-yadda. The old self-esteem bit. But it won't work this time, Dr. Bob. And you know why? Because my life is a mess on so many levels, that's why. Someone's out to kill me. Did I mention that?"

  Dr. Bob, who had been scribbling something on a yellow legal pad, slowly turned his head to look at her from beneath his thick eyebrows. "Really," he said in that hugely irritating neutral voice of his. "And how long have you thought someone was out to get you, Margaret?"

  Maggie actually picked up her purse and opened it, began to search inside for a nonexistent pack of cigarettes, before she stopped herself. "Not out to get me. Out to kill me. Oh, cripes, never mind. It's nothing for you to worry about."

  "Because Saint Just will protect you, hmm?"

  Okay, now she really wanted a cigarette. "You know what, Dr. Bob? One of us needs a shrink. What do you mean, Saint Just will protect me?"

  "There's an ethical question here, I believe. But as I never registered him as a patient, and he most certainly didn't pay for my time ... yes, I think I'm safe in telling you this, Margaret. Your Saint Just was here the other day."

  "My Saint Just," Maggie repeated, getting that Alice-down-the-rabbit-hole feeling again. "Here. As in here here? To see you? You've got to be kidding. Why?"

  Dr. Bob shook his head. "No, I'm afraid I can't allow myself to go that far. But he was here, and he does seem to enjoy being referred to as Saint Just. And he is most definitely quite protective of you. And, while he seems rational, I must tell you, Margaret, the man appears to be laboring under an illusion. One of ... well, very nearly omnipotence, I'd say. Very self-assured, extremely confident. Bordering on arrogant, I'd have to say, although totally charming."

  Maggie grinned. She couldn't help herself. "Yup, that sounds like Alex."

  "And you see nothing odd in that, Margaret? That your cousin should have cast himself in the role of your imaginary character, your fictional hero? And, as we both know from recent events that have reached the media as well as been discussed between us in this office, the man seems to have a penchant for embroiling himself in ... adventures."

  "He's not the Lone Ranger on that one, Dr. Bob. I'm in those adventures, too, remember?" Maggie said, beginning to bristle a bit. "And none of them were our fault. Things just ... they just seem to happen to us, that's all. Kirk, for one, was certainly not my fault. Like helping Bernie when she found her first husband had come back from the dead to die in her bed. And don't tell me it was our fault that someone went apeshit at that romance convention. Oh, and England? We just happened to be there, that's all. I mean, come on, like it was my idea to discover that guy swinging from his neck outside my window? And look at Rat Boy, for crying out loud. I sure didn't ask him to send me a dead rat, or that stupid poem threatening to kill me—or at least hinting at it. Who would ask for that sort of—"

  Dr. Bob held up his hand, stopping Maggie in mid-rant. "You're serious, aren't you, Margaret? Saint Just—that is, your cousin Alex—was serious? There's someone possibly out to kill you?"

  "Finally! Yes, someone may be out to kill me. One guy is already dead—Francis Oakes. The police are on it—well, sort of—and I'm being very careful, but yes, I'm feeling like I have a target painted on my back, and it's not a nice feeling to think that someone could actually wish you dead."

  "And how do you feel about that?"

  "How do I feel?" Maggie searched for words. "Angry. Confused. Vulnerable." She took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. "Mortal."

  "Ah, yes, I understand," Dr. Bob said, carefully placing his pen on the yellow pad and giving Maggie his full attention. "We are all mortal, aren't we?"

  "Most of us," Maggie mumbled under her breath, then nodded. "I don't like to think about that. More than anything, that's what's got me going, I think. Thinking about that, that is. I ... I don't think about that. Dying."

  "But when you do?"

  Maggie looked up at the psychiatrist. This wasn't why she'd come here this morning. She'd come for some magic answer about her parents. "I don't know. I think ... when I think about dying I think that's okay, because it would be the end of the world and everyone else would go out with me. That's not too crazy, because when I ... die, my world would end, so that would mean the world is sort of over, right? For me, at least, even if it does go on somewhere else. I mean, think about it. They killed JFK, for one, and the world didn't stop. We'd just like to think it couldn't go on without us."

  "So, in your mind, you're making a fiction of fact, a fiction that makes you comfortable with the idea that, just maybe, you're indispensable to the world?"

  Maggie considered this for a moment. "Yeah, okay. Hey, like they said, whatever floats your boat." Then, growing more and more uncomfortable, she went on, stealing from something Bernie had once said to her,
"Besides, I figure I'm going to go in my sleep at one hundred and three, with a young stud sleeping beside me."

  Then honesty won out. "No, that's not true. I'd be too self-conscious about my wrinkles to let a young stud near me. I think I'd rather have my M&M's and a cigarette, to tell you the truth. The one hundred and three, however, still stands."

  "You're avoiding facing what you feel and fear, Margaret, and in your usual way, with an attempt at humor."

  "I wasn't funny? I thought the M&M's and cigarettes were kind of funny," Maggie said, then gave it all up as a bad job. "Why are we talking about dying? I sure don't want to talk about dying."

  "You know, Margaret, it is often a comfort to know that one will be leaving something behind when he or she dies. Something of themselves. Some mark that proves that, yes, they were here."

  "Well, I do have my books. I'll be leaving my work behind." Maggie had a quick thought about Francis Oakes, the recently deceased Francis Oakes. That had been his legacy, a few books. A few very forgettable, probably out-of-print books. And wasn't that a cheery thought?

  "Yes, of course, your marvelous books. Is that it, Margaret? Perhaps you'd want more. Something more personal? Children, perhaps?"

  Maggie blinked. "Children?" She thought about Alex and his, their, special circumstances. Here's your daddy, sweetheart—he's not really real, I made him up, but we're just going to run with that, okay? Wasn't that just swell. Man, talk about a way to screw up the next generation! "Children ..."

  Dr. Bob pushed back his French cuff and looked at his watch. "Well, that's it for this week. Same time next week, or would you rather go back to our usual Monday morning sessions?"

  "Wait a minute," Maggie said as the good doctor pushed on the arms of his chair as if to stand up. "That's it? I'm to be sympathetic but neutral with my parents, someone might be out to get—kill me, so I should think about what I might leave behind if he does? That's it? Oh, and the sugarless fudge," she said, getting to her feet. "Can't forget the fudge, can I. No, Dr. Bob, I will not see you next week. I think we need a break. Maybe even a clean break. Children? Yeah, just what I wanted to think about. Merry Christmas!"

  Chapter Seventeen

  "Here you go, sport. Merry Christmas."

  Saint Just neatly snagged the gaily wrapped box before it could do serious damage to his solar plexus and fell into step beside Maggie, who seemed hell-bent on going somewhere, somewhere far away from him.

  "Allow me to hazard a guess. Your session with Dr. Bob was not all you'd hoped?"

  Maggie sliced him a look that chilled the air between them below that of the actually rather fine, sunny December morning. "I'm not speaking to you."

  "Actually, my dear, you are. You just did."

  "Don't split hairs with me you, you traitor. And get us a cab."

  "Oh, dear," Saint Just remarked with a sigh. "Obviously your Dr. Bob is not a man of his word."

  "Oh, he's a man of a lot of words," Maggie said, climbing into the backseat of the cab Saint Just had neatly summoned to the curb. Once they were both settled in the backseat and Saint Just had given directions, she asked, "What were you thinking? Why did you go see him? To rat on me?"

  "An interesting choice of words," Saint Just said as he reached across Maggie to take hold of the seat belt strap, as she seemed rather preoccupied at the moment with subjects other than her safety. "In truth, my dear, I had two reasons for dropping in on the good doctor. One, I wished to see this man who has been a part of your life for so many years—"

  "And what did you think of him?"

  "I found him to be an interesting mix of intelligence, avarice, and, perhaps, an inflated sense of self-consequence."

  "That's nice. He thinks you're a nutcase," Maggie told him, not without a hint of satisfaction in her voice. "Possibly certifiable."

  "Indeed."

  "And arrogant."

  Saint Just merely smiled. "My second reason for visiting the gentleman had to do with our ... Rat Boy. I wished Dr. Bob's educated opinion on the potential seriousness of the threat. That, of course, was before we'd been informed of the unfortunate demise of Francis Oakes."

  "Well, there's a first—you, asking for help. And what did he say?"

  "He said I should tell my hypothetical friend that, yes, there could exist reason for real concern."

  "Your hypothetical friend. Hoo-boy. That's how you presented everything? Hey, well, that wasn't transparent, was it? But, if Dr. Bob knew I was your hypothetical friend, why didn't he let me know he knew? I told him someone might be trying to kill me and all he wanted to know was how that made me feel."

  "Perhaps there are limits to the man's unprofessionalism?"

  Maggie nodded. "Yeah, that's probably it. Or he thinks we're both past saving and headed for padded rooms."

  "There is always that," Saint Just agreed as the cab slid to the curb and he handed the man a ten-dollar bill, refusing change. "And here we are, the domicile of one Valentino Gates. Shall we? Oh, and forgive me for not mentioning this sooner, but I was a bit distracted. Left –tenant Wendell phoned this morning to report in. I believe he's feeling somewhat guilty for not taking our theory more seriously last night."

  "That's an understatement. He barely listened to us."

  "He did, however, listen to Bernice this morning. She gave him the list of authors for No Secret Anymore, as well as their whereabouts, as best we know them, and he was kind enough to contact Kimberly Lowell D'Amico in Missouri—who did not, it would seem, receive her own dead rat and poem. Which, I'm afraid, has put the good left –tenant back into the ranks of the unimpressed as regards our theory."

  "Oh, great," Maggie said as Saint Just held open a thick wooden door that probably owed half that thickness to several generations of paint. "Though that doesn't really prove anything. All the rats were sent to authors in and around the city. All that could mean is that Rat Boy didn't trust dry ice to get one of his macabre little presents all the way to Missouri without being discovered along the way. Then again, considering the state of the New York post office, the damn rat could still be there."

  "That's true enough," Saint Just agreed, having located Gates's apartment number on one of a row of mailboxes in the narrow foyer. "Third floor. Shall we climb?"

  "Like we have a choice in this dump? Back to the packages. Those packages had to cost a lot. The dry ice. The postage. Rat Boy could have run out of postage."

  "Or rats," Saint Just supplied helpfully, earning himself a speaking glance from his beloved as they paused at the second-floor landing.

  "Funny. So do you agree with Steve now?"

  "Unfortunately, no. I would rather believe that geography played a part in our unsub's plans."

  "Unsub. Unknown subject. Next you'll say Feebies for F.B.I., and then I'll have to hit you," Maggie said, still leading the way up the stairs. But once at the third-floor landing she turned back to him, her expression troubled. "What are we going to say to this Valentino Gates guy, anyway? Hi, did you send me a dead rat?"

  "A rather direct approach, but I doubt the man will then immediately fall on our necks to confess to murder. To be truthful, I haven't thought much beyond meeting the man, sizing him up as it were, taking his measure."

  "Oh, well, that's fine then, as long as you have a plan, bright eyes," Maggie said, her sarcasm marred only by the fact that she was slightly out of breath from the climb.

  Saint Just raised her hand to his lips. "Being romantically involved with a gentleman supposedly makes women soft and malleable. May I say how delighted I am, sweetings, that you are proving the exception."

  "Hey, take it somewhere else you two, you're blocking the landing."

  Saint Just looked behind him to see a rather large man standing two steps below them on the stairs. A rather large, angry man with forearms like hams and apparently the disposition of a warthog, with the manners to match. It was as if he and Maggie somehow had been transported to the Regency-era dregs of Piccadilly. Fairly certain the answer to h
is question would be in the negative, he nevertheless inquired: "Valentino Gates?"

  "Think you're funny, don't you? Do I look like that pansy?"

  The growled reference rather baffled Saint Just, but he decided to assume the question had been rhetorical and did not require an answer. "Well, then, sir, please don't allow us to detain you any longer from what I am convinced is your very important business." He stepped back slightly, allowing the man to step onto the landing. "Ah, obedient as well. There's a good fellow. Be on your way now."

  "Oh, jeez, how did I know this was going to happen?" he heard Maggie half groan from behind him. "Hold onto your knickers—here we go."

  "Think you're smart, don't you?" the large man said, looking down at Saint Just, who had slightly mistaken the man's height if not his breadth. "How'd you like a quick trip down to the second floor, pansy boy? I can arrange that, you know."

  "Excuse me, but you really don't want to try that," Maggie warned, pushing herself back into the corner, "Trust me in this one, Popeye."

  "Popeye? And aren't you the funny bitch," the man said, distracted by the sight, Saint Just believed, of a woman clad in clean clothes and possessing all her teeth. "Whaddya say you and me get rid of this clown and have us some fun?"

  "Hey, that's original. I never heard that line before. Alexander? Stop playing with the nice gentleman and let him go away."

  He'd brought this on himself, Saint Just knew that the moment he'd first opened his mouth and heard himself spouting those lines from one of his books—words Maggie originally had put in his mouth. Only one more example of his knowledge that he was, thanks to Maggie, invincible. Which did not mean that Maggie was, or that he himself couldn't end up rather creased at the conclusion of this encounter.

  Which did not, as it happened, keep him from neatly inserting his cane between the buffoon's legs as the fellow stupidly attempted to advance on Maggie, and then bringing it up with a considerable amount of force. After all, even a gentleman should be allowed a little fun from time to time.