Part 3 (1/2)
”Will Wendell be stopping by any time soon, or should I call him?”
”Steve? About what?” Her mind was fully occupied with her own personal pity party, and she'd lost the trail of the conversation.
”About your friend Francis Oakes? You are interested, aren't you?”
”I couldn't really say he was my friend because I barely remember him, and I'm not going to lose any sleep over his death, no. He committed suicide. It's sad, but that's all it is. But okay. Yeah, sure, if you and Bernie want to play detective, go ahead, you can ask Steve. Why ask me? I'm not in charge of him, you know. Why would you think I'm in charge of him? I'm not in charge of anybody. And I am, too, sensitive!”
”Jet lag,” Bernie said around the tissue she held to her nose as Maggie ran out of the room. ”Oh, d.a.m.n, there goes my phone again ...”
Chapter Four.
”How kind of you to meet with me on such short notice, Wendell,” Saint Just said as he slipped into the opposite side of the booth at an establishment known for its greasy food and its disinterested clientele. Saint Just had ordered a cup of coffee on his way back to the booth, and managed to hide his distaste when he saw the half-eaten hamburger on the lieutenant's plate. ”Cra.s.s of me to point it out, left-tenant, I know, but there's a small dribble of mustard on your chin.”
”Oops, sorry,” Steve said, grabbing a fistful of thin paper napkins from a chrome-sided container and rubbing at his mouth. ”You want one? Best hamburgers on the island, no question.”
Saint Just adjusted the long, thin knitted scarf at his neck, all the extra protection from the weather he'd needed other than his navy cashmere sports jacket. He'd walked to the restaurant, occasionally swinging his gold-topped ebony sword stick, happy to enjoy the sunny, bl.u.s.tery day if not the sadly abused gray slush on the sidewalks. ”Yes, I'm convinced you're correct. And how wonderfully convenient that we're so close to Lenox Hospital. I've often wondered. Can you actually feel your arteries clogging, left-tenant?”
Steve grinned around another bite of hamburger. ”Maggie says you're always watching that health channel, whatever it is. You know, Alex, one hamburger isn't going to kill you.”
”Ah, true, and I have reason not to worry about my own health, as I swear, I don't believe I've aged a day since I arrived here,” Saint Just said, enjoying his private joke. ”But still so much better to employ my George Foreman grill, you know. A truly mind-boggling invention. America is crammed rather full with amazing inventions, you know. I'm fond of my computer, of course, and my plasma television machine but, by and large, I'd have to say I am most fond of my George Foreman grill. I've penned a letter to Mr. Foreman, as a matter of fact, apprising him of my admiration, as I am a firm believer that excellence should be rewarded.”
”You are so freaking weird,” Steve said, popping the last huge bite of hamburger into his mouth. ”How's Maggie? You guys sure had a crazy time of it in jolly old England from what I've heard.”
”We're seldom bored, Maggie and I,” Saint Just agreed, smiling up at the waitress who carefully placed his coffee cup on the tabletop, then asked if there was anything else she could get him. Like her phone number.
”You're too kind, dear lady,” Saint Just told her, and she walked away, backfield in motion, to yell to another customer to keep his freaking pants on, she'd been serving the gentleman.
”I've always wondered. How do you do that?” Steve asked, leaning his elbows on the table, the left one squarely into a blob of ketchup. ”I mean, seriously, Alex. Women fall all over you everywhere you go. Except Maggie, of course. I mean, being your distant cousin and all.” He narrowed his eyelids. ”Exactly how distant is that, again?”
”So distant the connection is very nearly nonexistent,” Saint Just said, pulling three napkins from the dispenser and holding them out to Steve. ”You've had a slight accident with your sleeve.”
Steve lifted his elbow and took a look. ”Oh, would you look at that. This is my best s.h.i.+rt, and I have a-yeah, thanks, Alex.”
Saint Just took a sip of his coffee and then carefully replaced the cup in the saucer. Steve had a rather crude earthenware mug of coffee in front of him, but the waitress had discovered a cup and saucer somewhere for Saint Just. He must remember to be more than his usual generous self when leaving the dear woman a gratuity for her services. One never knew when one would have occasion to revisit such a place as this.
”You were about to say something, Steve? An admission you would rather keep to yourself? But, please, allow me to hazard a guess. You have what you Americans call a date? Why, you do, don't you? You cad.”
”No! I'm not-that is, it's not exactly a-ah, h.e.l.l. How do you do that?”
”I'm merely observant,” Saint Just told him. ”Your hair is combed, which is a departure. It's seven o'clock in the evening and you're still wearing your tie-I would suggest you remove it, but, then, I've never been partial to claret and yellow stripes. You look freshly shaved and I can smell your cologne. You applied mustard and ketchup with your usual gusto, but refrained from adding a slice of raw onion. And, of course, the dead giveaway, as I believe you'd term it-you blushed quite thoroughly when you realized you were about to say something you'd rather I, of all people, did not know.”
He did not add the d.a.m.ning information that Socks had already given the game away, because there was no need for such unnecessary honesty. He would much prefer Wendell be awed by his impressive powers of observation.
”No, I don't want you to know. Because you're Maggie's cousin,” Steve said, pus.h.i.+ng his fingers through his s.h.a.ggy sandy hair. ”And a royal pain in my a.s.s. Yeah. I have a date. But you can't tell Maggie.”
”Believe me, my friend, as I say in all honesty, nothing could be further from my mind. But you will tell her, won't you?”
Steve waved his hands in a wonderfully dis...o...b..bulated gesture. ”I don't know. It's not like Maggie and I are really ... you know, getting anywhere? I like her, I really do, but things always seem to get sort of weird around her, you know?”
”No, not at all,” Saint Just said with a carefully straight face. ”Oh, wait. You're referring to the murders, aren't you? Surely you can't blame Maggie for a few unfortunate incidences? Even if you did suspect her of murdering her publisher, didn't you? That was unfortunate.”
Steve gave his stained s.h.i.+rtsleeve one more swipe, and then glared at Saint Just. ”I didn't think that for more than a couple of minutes, not once I got to know her.”
”Of course. You might even say that's why you're still aboveground. Now, tell me about your new friend.”
Steve grabbed the last potato chip and then pushed his empty plate away from him. ”There's not a lot to tell. I met her in the subway when some jerk tried to grab her purse. The thing is, Alex, Christine's normal. I mean, she works as a secretary to an orthopedic surgeon over on Park Avenue. She likes to cook, she loves going to the movies, she still lives with her mom ...”
”And she doesn't land in the briars on a fairly regular basis,” Saint Just finished for him. ”In other words, she's boring.”
”No! Not boring. Normal. I like Maggie, Alex. I mean, she's beautiful, she's smart, she's a lot of fun. But she's ... all of you, actually ... you're just a little, I don't know. Out there?”
”Out there,” Saint Just repeated, calling on every bit of control he had in order to keep from laughing out loud at this poor, confused specimen.
”Yeah. Out there. I spend my days with wack jobs, Alex-and that's just the guys I work with at the Homicide table, even before I get to the perps. I want to be ... I want to be able to relax when I'm off duty and with a woman, you know? Maggie's life is just too full of ... craziness. Are you getting this?”
”Some of it, yes, although I think I lost you for a few moments at wack job. I'm not certain, but I believe you mean she's slightly crazy?”
”No, that's not it. Wacky, you know? Her life is wacky. Offbeat-and that's being kind, Alex. She's just always in the middle of something, and it's never normal somethings, like she lost her wallet or forgot to pay her electric bill. When Maggie says she has a problem, it usually means something fairly bizarro is going on and I'm either going to have to bail her out or rescue her from some lowlife.”
”Maggie is fairly good at rescuing herself, and she always has me, you understand. So, if she isn't crazy, are you saying Maggie is still a ... wack job?”
”Yeah, all right. A wack job. A cute wack job, but a wack job.”
”I see. And the rest of us? Sterling, for one.”
Wendell considered this for a moment. ”He calls you Saint Just because Maggie made up her Saint Just guy by describing you. And it's not like he's trying to be funny-he seems to mean it. You're calling that normal?”
”For Sterling, yes. But this is interesting, really. Do you include Tabitha, Maggie's agent, in this mix?”
”Scarf lady? Nah, she's just blond.”
One corner of Saint Just's mouth began to twitch in amus.e.m.e.nt. ”Oh, dear. I can see you've given this all some considerable thought, left-tenant. Who else? Ah, I know. Socks. And Bernice, of course. Your opinion, please?”
Wendell shrugged. ”Socks is okay. As for Bernie? You're kidding, right? You really need an answer to that one?”
”No, I suppose not. And that leaves me. Am I a ... wack job?”
Wendell shook his head. ”No. You're freaking scary, that's what you are. And I think Maggie likes you, even if she won't admit it to herself. I've never come in first, you know?”
”Indeed,” Saint Just said, taking another sip of coffee. ”So you're bowing out of the compet.i.tion? I'd like us to be clear on that, my friend.”
Pulling a fat brown wallet from his back pocket, Wendell said, ”h.e.l.l, Alex, I was never in it. Not really. I think I knew that from the beginning. The only thing is, how's Maggie going to feel about ... well, about Christine?”
Saint Just pondered this for a moment, but only for effect. ”She'll be surprised, certainly. I should let her down slowly, were I you.”