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  High Heels and Holidays

  ( Maggie Kelly Mystery - 5 )

  Kasey Michaels

  For great wrongdoing there are great punishments

  from the gods.

  —Herodotus

  It's not that I'm afraid of death, I just don't want to be

  there when it happens.

  —Woody Allen

  Prologue

  Dear Fred,

  First off, Fred, you're probably wondering why I'm calling you Fred. It's a valid question, especially since I don't know anybody named Fred.

  You see, I found Sterling's journal about our lives the other day and, although it's delightful and pretty close to the truth—Sterling is delightful, as well as dedicatedly honest, unfortunately—I began worrying what people might think if in four hundred years somebody found his journal still in one piece in some old box or something and read it, read about me, and figured I probably should set the record straight. Straighter. Something like that.

  Okay, truth time, huh? Here's the deal, Fred. For some strange reason, I'm worried about future generations thinking I'm a few bricks shy of a full load. So just bear with me because you, Fred, have just been named the star witness for the defense (of me and my mind, that is).

  Not that Sterling's sweetly naive account of what's happening in our lives wouldn't take the archeologist's mind off wondering about the societal implications of stuff like the concept of speed dating or the sex life of SpongeBob SquarePants.

  But back to you, Fred, if just for a moment. Sterling addresses his musings to Dear Journal, and I didn't want to copy him. That confusion thing again, you know? And Dear Diary? I don't think so! I outgrew Dear Diary a lot of years ago. Right after my mother found mine and read my poem at the dinner table ("Alone, I am alone. We live and die alone." Something like that anyway—it would seem I've finally successfully blocked most of it). You want to see a grown woman rotate her head like Linda Blair in Exorcist? Write something like that when you're twelve and then lose the key to your Barbie diary.

  Anyway. I know a lot of other writers keep journals, or diaries, or Internet blogs, but I'm not one of them. I don't write unless there's a reasonably good chance I'm going to get paid for it, which I think makes me practical and Alex says proves I'm cheap—but he's only kidding. I'm simply frugal. So this is a departure for me, but I think a necessary one, Fred, or I wouldn't be doing it, especially since Bernie told me my last manuscript was pretty much crap (she was right, but I had a good reason, and his name is Alex), and I've got a deadline coming at me pretty soon.

  Okay, enough stalling, Fred, here we go. And anybody reading this—if anyone still reads anything written on paper in four hundred years—please just skip over that first part. I was just easing my way in, you know? I'll get better at this as I go.

  My name is Margaret Kelly and I am a writer (stop laughing, I said I'd get better as I go along!). I always was a writer, even at twelve, although I'm glad I gave up poetry, because who wants to get paid in copies? Also, I don't look good in berets.

  Writer. Right. One with a marvelously organized brain, obviously (that's a joke, Fred).

  I was born and raised in New Jersey and then got out of there as fast as I could. Not that I don't like Jersey. Jersey's great—sand, surf, casinos, what's not to love? In fact, there's only one problem with the place—my family lives there. They wouldn't have minded if I wrote poetry and starved in a garret. But popular fiction? With S-E-X in it? Enough said.

  So I came to New York City, naturally, and damn near starved in a fifth-floor walk-up while I wrote historical romance novels under the name Alicia Tate Evans. If I was lucky, my publisher printed three copies (none bought by my family). I mean, I bombed! The market was glutted with romance novels, and if you didn't hit the Times by your fourth or fifth time out of the gate, you were history. Within a few years, I was history. But I had Bernie, bless her. Bernice Toland-James, my editor, who snuck me back in the door at Toland Books once her ex-husband had cut me.

  Now I'm Cleo Dooley (What can I say? I think O's look impressive on a book cover), and I write a historical mystery series set in Regency England (that's between 1811 and 1820, Fred), starring Alexandre Blake, the Viscount Saint Just, and his comic-relief sidekick, Sterling Balder. Yes, that Sterling. Fictional Sterling—who's currently writing a journal in New York City. I've got your interest now, Fred, don't I? Thought so.

  A little background on Saint Just is probably a good idea, Fred, just to get you in the picture. Saint Just is, you see, perfect. I created him to be perfect. The perfect Regency hero, that is. Drop-dead gorgeous, as I made him up out of the best parts of some of my favorite movie stars (can we say Val "I'm your huckleberry" Kilmer's mouth, just for starters? That reminds me, I need a new DVD of Tombstone, having worn the other one out).

  Saint Just, my creation, is also rich. Intelligent. Witty. Sophisticated. Deliciously arrogant. The world's greatest lover. He can dance, fence, box, swim, shoot, etc., etc., etc. You getting this, Fred? I pulled out all the stops, created this perfect, to-die-for hero, and plopped him down in the perfect romantic era. Throw in a crime he solves while expertly bedding various gorgeous and extremely grateful young things, and, wow, I had a winner. Every woman's fantasy. Definitely mine.

  I hit the NYT with the second Saint Just mystery, and now I not only hit the list, I stay in the top five for a good six weeks. In other words, I'm not starving anymore. Mom is so not proud.

  Life was good. Dull. Boring. But good, you know? And then one day a couple of months ago I turned around in my condo and there stood Alexandre Blake, dressed in all his well-tailored Regency finery. Next to him was cute, pudgy, friendly Sterling, munching on the KFC chicken leg I was saving for my lunch.

  I recognized them both immediately. Hell, I'd made them, remember? It was a shock. But I reacted well. I fainted.

  Alex explained what happened—I call him Alex Blakely now and pass him off as a distant cousin from England I'd patterned Saint Just after, although Sterling is still Sterling because he'd get too confused with an alias, and he still calls Alex Saint Just. According to Alex, I'd made him very real. Sterling, too. Made them so real that they came to life inside my head, kicked around there for a couple of years getting to know the place, then decided I was a mess who needed their help, and poofed themselves into my apartment, into my life.

  I know this is tough to swallow, but I mean it, Fred. That's exactly what happened. Poof! And it's still happening!

  Do you know what it's like to have the perfect hero making himself at home in your condo apartment? Huh? The gorgeous, yummy, to-die-for man you created out of all your personal hopes, dreams? Okay, and desires and even fantasies. I admit it. There's that stuff, too.

  Well, Fred, I'll tell you what it's like. It's not all good. I mean, you cannot know the depth of my sympathy for Dr. Frankenstein! I read that Mary Shelley was high on opium when she wrote that book, but I don't even have that excuse.

  So what's my problem, you ask, Fred? For one thing, arrogant Regency heroes can be a pain in the rump. I am not a helpless female, but try telling that to Alex, who thinks his purpose in life is to protect me. Granted, I've needed a bit of protection now and then these past months, as I seem to have developed this way of ... well, of tripping over murders. I think it's Alex's fault, frankly, because I never even saw a dead body until My Hero showed up.

  He's really complicated my life. You try writing a love scene with the object of that love scene living in the condo across the hall and waltzing in and out of your condo all the time without warning, looking luscious in person just as you have him ... well, have just written him into the middle of an insert tab A into slot B situation. C
reepy, I tell you. Especially since I'm writing those love scenes from memory, considering the nonexistence of my own personal love life these days.

  Now for the part I want to clear up for posterity, okay, Fred? You see, Sterling seems to think that Alex and I are meant for each other. You know ... that way? Hey, I'm here to tell you and anyone who finds this, not that way, not no way! Think about it. Alex is here, no getting around that. But for how long, Fred, huh? He poofed in—he could poof out again. And where does that leave me?

  Okay, so we know where that leaves me. Lusting after my perfect hero, that's where, and knowing I'd have to be a total idiot to start something we might not be able to finish.

  Steve Wendell—he's a cop, Fred—now this is a guy I should be going nuts over, you know? Cute, rumpled, fallible, and incredibly sweet. But every time I look at him, I think about Perfect Alex. The man has ruined me for other men. I always thought that was a dumb saying, and way too melodramatic, but that about says it.

  So, Fred, if you've been keeping score here, everything is Alex's fault. Everything. I'm the innocent party here, and none of this imaginary hero come to life stuff was my idea.

  I just wanted to make that clear, Fred, okay—for you, and for posterity.

  Maggie Kelly

  P.S. You know, I feel a lot better now, Fred. Maybe I should keep writing to you once in a while, huh? You're sure cheaper than my weekly sessions with Dr. Bob. That's a joke, too, Fred. Sort of.

  Chapter One

  Saint Just stood just inside the small wire cage at the very back of the basement of the Manhattan condo building, a scented handkerchief to his nostrils as he looked at the tightly tied green plastic garbage bag lying on the cement floor.

  "Grateful as I am, Socks, that you are cognizant of the strictures as laid down by all of the many crime-scene investigation programs on television, I do believe you might have safely disposed of the body. Unless, of course," he added facetiously, turning to his friend Argyle Jackson, doorman of said condo building, "it was your thought that I might wish to perform an autopsy?"

  Socks held his hands cupped over his nose and mouth as he shuffled in place, clearly wishing himself anywhere but where he was at the moment. "Hey, Alex, when I called you in England you told me to not touch anything. I'd already opened the box, so I just tossed everything in that bag and brought it down here until you got home. You never said to throw away the body."

  "Were there identifying marks with which we could trace the thing, Socks? Scars? Distinctive tattoos? A wooden leg, perhaps?"

  Socks shook his head. "Okay, okay, I get the point, Alex. It was a rat. Just like every other rat in Manhattan, except that this one was dead."

  "Then you could have safely disposed of the thing, and I apologize most profusely for not being more explicit. Now, before we open it, could you tell me what else is in the bag? And remind me, please, of the particulars of the delivery of the package. I was rather involved with other matters when last we spoke."

  "You really want to do this now?" Socks asked, taking another step backward. "You just got home from the airport a couple of minutes ago. Some trip, too, from what Sterling told me before he headed upstairs to see Henry. Isn't that something, Alex? Give one of them a white fur coat and he's a pet, like Henry. Make another one ugly and he's just another damn rat. Would that be discrimination, you think? Sterling said you solved more murders while you were in England, huh? You sure have all the luck."

  "We will discuss all of that later, Socks, if you don't mind, as I'm anxious to begin my investigation. According to you, there has been a threat on Maggie's life. I don't believe there is anything to be gained by delay, do you? Besides, Maggie is busy upstairs, undoubtedly cudgeling her brain for reasons to put off unpacking for at least a week, and won't notice that I'm gone."

  "Okay, but do I have to be here?"

  "To tell me what I've just asked you to tell me, yes, you do," Saint Just said, manfully lowering the handkerchief, because he'd just remembered reading that allowing your olfactory senses to be inundated by the sickening smell of decomposing flesh was the best way to shut down those senses, render himself at least temporarily immune to the stench. Of course, the shutting down part took several minutes, and he only hoped the rather pitiful chicken salad sandwich he'd had on the plane had already been fully digested.

  "All right," Socks said, still speaking through his cupped hands, "but I'm going to have to take my uniform to the cleaners again, and I just paid twenty bucks for the first time, when I opened the package. Mrs. Loomis said I smelled like a three-week-old gefilte fish, and threatened to report me to management."

  "Remind me to give you forty dollars when we get back upstairs," Saint Just said, breathing as slowly as possible through his nose. Socks might be happy with a newly cleaned uniform, but Saint Just had already mentally consigned every stitch he wore to the dustbin. Which was a pity, for the black cashmere sweater was one of his favorites. Ah, the sacrifices he made for his Maggie.

  Socks appeared slightly mollified by the offer to pay for cleaning his uniform. "Okay, Alex, thanks. So the mail came, and there was this package for Maggie, see? Came right through the mail, an overnight delivery package, so you tell me how careful Homeland Security is, huh? Run that sucker through an X-ray machine and, bam, little rat skeleton. Little rat head, little rat teeth. I'm asking you, who could miss that?"

  Saint Just continued to eye the garbage bag. "Another topic for some other time, fascinating though it is, Socks. Continue, please."

  "I put the package under my desk, like I always do with packages, but when I got to work the next day I noticed the smell. I wasn't sure where it was coming from at first—I always have five or six packages under there—but then Maggie's package started to leak, you know? That's when I opened it, and then I called you."

  "So it was a standard overnight packaging?"

  "Oh, yeah. Damn. Either one– or two-day delivery—I forget which. Sorry, Alex. But you'll see it—one of those red, white, and blue boxes with an eagle on it, you know? I do remember that it was postmarked here, in Manhattan. Anyway, I opened it and out came two more things—a clear plastic bag and another package. I think the bag had been filled with dry ice—to keep the rat cold, you know?—but that was pretty much gone. And the other bag was really leaking. And really reeking. I brought everything down here before I opened it, and out came the rat." He moved his hands from his mouth and nose, to hold them on either side of his face and make up-and-down motions with his fingers. "Whiskers. Those long, pointy front teeth. Definitely a rat. And then the note."

  "Ah, yes, and now it becomes interesting. But you didn't keep the note separate, did you?" Saint Just asked, pulling on a pair of thin latex gloves he'd purchased at a drugstore some weeks earlier, when his own interest in television shows showcasing crime-scene investigation had been piqued. Preparedness was half the battle in crime solving, he believed. Brilliance was the other half, exemplary powers of deduction. His forte.

  "It was already all wet, Alex," Socks protested, his hands over his nose and mouth once again. "You're just lucky I didn't just call the cops, or at least Steve Wendell. But then I figured you'd kill me if I did that, so I used my master key to get into Mr. O'Hara's storage locker and used his grabber to pick up everything—you ever see one of those, Alex? They're really cool. Old people use them to reach things on high shelves. When Mr. O'Hara broke his hip and couldn't reach stuff he had me go buy one for him, so I knew where it was, since Mr. O'Hara's been just fine this past year or more. Married again and everything, and by the looks of Mrs. O'Hara, if he didn't know how to use his hips she'd find someone else who could, you know what I mean?"

  While Socks was giving his informational talk on grabbers and ... well, grabbers, Saint Just had been undoing the twist tie on the bag. Once opened, the smell, which had been unpleasant, became nearly unbearable. Still, Saint Just persevered, using a small flashlight to peer inside at the contents.

  If there had been a ret
urn address on the box, the decomposing rat had made reading it impossible, and any address would most probably be bogus at any rate. Saint Just was luckier, however, with the note, as it had landed on top of the box and was relatively undamaged. Calling upon what he believed had to be awesome untouched powers he hadn't known he possessed, Saint Just reached into the bag and snared the note, then quickly replaced the twist tie and retreated with more haste than decorum from the storage cage.

  "You're not going to throw that away?" Socks asked, or perhaps pleaded. "What am I supposed to do with it?"

  "As having the rat bronzed or stuffed and mounted is probably out of the question, I suggest the Dumpster in the alley," Saint Just said, holding onto the note by the edges as he stood beneath one of the bare lightbulbs that hung from the ceiling. "Computer generated, I would say, which narrows down the suspects to all but about three people in the entire country. I imagine that, even in its present sorry state, there exists some way to extract fingerprints if there are any, but we'll leave that for now, shall we? More important, and more ominous, is the note itself."

  Socks had commandeered Mr. O'Hara's grabber yet again and was busy inserting the foul-smelling green garbage bag inside a second, larger green garbage bag. "So you can still read it?"

  "Yes, indeed. Roses are red, violets are blue. This rat is dead, and you could be yourself. How very charming. I believe we can rule out Will Shakespeare, Socks."

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Are we done here? We can turn over all this stuff to Lieutenant Wendell now that you've seen it, right?"

  "I think not, Socks," Saint Just said, slipping the note into a clear food storage bag he'd brought down to the cellar for just that purpose. Detecting had become more sophisticated since the Regency, but Saint Just considered himself nothing if not adaptable. "I'd rather Maggie not know about this, at least for the moment."