Part 17 (2/2)

Saint Just trotted out the same story he'd used to such interesting effect on Valentino Gates, and was not disappointed in Bryon's reaction, for the man's already pale complexion colored hotly at the mention of the dead rats, even before Saint Just had gotten to the part about Oakes's murder.

”I don't know anything about Francis Oakes or any dead animals or threats, and I resent the implication that I should or do. As for a contribution? Don't be ridiculous.”

But Maggie, at least, wasn't done, and gave the man another verbal push. ”Gee, that's too bad. The last place we stopped? The guy there gave us fifty bucks. Valentino Gates. He seemed real broken up about Francis. Do you know him? Gates, I mean?”

”I most certainly do not.” And with that Mr. George Gordon Bryon turned on his heel and made a rather dramatic exit past a heavy green velvet curtain that led-Saint Just peeked-to a small room holding several rows of folding chairs and a small podium.

Maggie pushed him aside and took a look for herself, ”Oh, he probably holds readings back there. I hate that. Bernie tried to send me out on a tour where I'd do readings from my books, but I shot her down. Somebody wants to read my books, let them read them. I'm not going read them to them.”

”Because you loathe being the center of attention,” Saint Just said as once more they found themselves standing on the sidewalks of New York.

”Yes, thank you, you finally figured that out. So you're not going to do what you did back in there ever again, right? Not in bookstores, not in public, not ever. I'm Maggie Kelly. If I wanted to blow my horn, I'm d.a.m.n well capable of doing it myself. But I don't. I just want to write my books and be left alone. It's easier. And not half so insulting. At least I can pretend I'm famous-until somebody like Steve's Christine, or Bryon in there shoots me down. Which always happens. One time, just one time, I'd like somebody to gush-and I don't mean just about the love scenes, but the book, the writing. Is that too much to ask, huh, is it?”

”This leads back to your family, doesn't it?” Saint Just asked, slipping his arm around her waist. ”Your family and their lack of appreciation for your talents. People like that insipid boor back there only serve to reinforce that lack of the parental praise you still crave. Poor Maggie.”

”You ever visit Dr. Bob again, Alex, and I'll have to write a wart on the end of your nose,” she said and stepped to the curb, hailing a pa.s.sing cab. ”You coming?”

”And how could I turn down such a gracious invitation?” Saint Just purred, holding open the door of the cab for her, then giving the driver an address on the Upper East Side, just out of the fas.h.i.+onable area.

”Faith is just off Park. Where are we going?”

”Ah, I forgot to tell you, didn't I? The good left-tenant has agreed to meet us at Jonathan West's apartment. We'll just be on time, as it works out.”

”Steve? No, I don't want to see him.” She tapped on the plastic divider and gave the driver her own address, then sat back and folded her arms beneath her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. ”And don't tell me I'm being chicken.”

”I most certainly will not, considering that I haven't the vaguest idea what that means. I do think you're only avoiding the inevitable, however, and can only wonder why.”

”I don't know,” Maggie said, looking at him with those innocent green eyes. ”I'm happy for him. I'm happy for us-for as far as it goes. But I think we all need a little ... s.p.a.ce. Or weren't you as uncomfortable last night as I was? No, never mind, you don't have to answer that. You're never uncomfortable, are you? Besides, if Valentino and good old George put their pointy heads together and sent the rats-which may or may not be a viable theory, based on their reactions-then we're wrong and the rats and Francis's murder have nothing to do with each other except a coincidence in timing. Right?”

”Correct. Lowering, but correct. And, if correct, all we've learned is that two dedicated fans of Jonathan West may have taken it upon themselves to send empty threats to several of the authors who collaborated on No Secret Anymore, even as one of our conspirators has just soundly denied knowing the other. Except, as the author in Missouri is, shall we say, sans rat, we may not even be correct in that a.s.sumption. It would go a long way toward proving at least that part of our theory if Mr. West and your friend Felicity did receive missives from, as you call him, Rat Boy. Not to Wendell, of course, who puts little stock in things like our feelings about those we believe to be suspects, but it would help satisfy my curiosity, which is why I do not as yet intend to inform the good left-tenant of what we've just discovered about our new friends, Gates and Bryon.”

”Yeah, well, then you just keep your secrets while you go along and use poor Steve to help you satisfy your curiosity. As of now, I'm out of it. I've got shopping to do, remember? I guess the idea of getting Mom and Dad a flat-screen TV for their family room is sort of shot, huh?”

”I'd rather you didn't leave the apartment for the nonce,” Saint Just told her, putting his hand on her arm as the cab pulled up in front of their condo building. ”I wasn't worried this morning, as you traveled in a cab directly from the condo to Dr. Bob, but I don't much care for the idea of you roaming about w.i.l.l.y-nilly.”

”Look, Alex, it's over. Steve was right to shoot us down, and right to concentrate on the CUNY area. We gave it our best high school try as mystery writer and her hero, and we fell short, our theory doesn't hold water, or at least not enough of it. End of story.”

”Maggie?”

”Oh, all right, all right, I'll fool around on the Internet, see if I can get some of my shopping out of the way. Except I hate that. I like to see things, touch them. You can't do that on the Internet.”

”Yes, you're a very tactile person, aren't you, in your own delightfully suppressed way? Thank you, my dear,” Saint Just told her, not really knowing why he was still concerned, but confident enough in his feelings of disquiet that he was relieved to know that Maggie would behave while he was gone. ”However, that still leaves us with Felicity and Mr. West, I'm afraid, before we can put a firm period to the end of this adventure.”

”You're going to talk to Jonathan, so that's one down. I'll go upstairs and call Faith, Scout's honor, ask her if she got a rat so that she can lie to me if she did,” Maggie said, rolling her eyes. ”Now let me out.”

”Certainly,” he said, lifting the wrapped box. ”Your fudge?”

”Give it to the driver. Just don't tell him it's sugarless, or he won't take it. I mean, who would?”

Five minutes later, the ten-dollar bill Valentino Gates had given him now, along with the box of fudge, residing with the cabdriver, Saint Just joined Steve Wendell on yet another sidewalk, this one in a decidedly more upscale neighborhood than were the locations of his first two morning calls.

”Wendell, so good to see you. My apologies for my tardiness,” he said as the lieutenant pulled open the door to the vestibule and fairly leaned on the buzzer b.u.t.ton above the mailbox marked West.

”Right. Let's cut to the chase here. You and Maggie-you're together now? I always thought there was something there.” He depressed the b.u.t.ton four more times in quick succession.

”My, that was direct, wasn't it? I will gladly accept your felicitations, left-tenant, should you wish to offer them, but I have no intention of applying to you for permission.”

”But you're cousins.”

”Very distant cousins, as you already know. And now, for the comfort of both of us, we'll leave the subject. Mr. West is a bit of a recluse, according to Bruce McCrae, and may not answer his buzzer. I suggest we find another way to gain admittance.”

”Do you now,” Wendell said, looking as rumpled as usual, but more distracted than usual. ”We're coming up empty at CUNY, you know. Overtime for a dozen cops, and all we've gotten out of it so far is a minor-league peeper and a pizza delivery guy looking for an address two of the idiots rolled on. Guy was so scared he dropped forty-seven bucks' worth of double cheese the department now has to pay for, hoping we don't get sued. We're back to square one, Alex, unless this hunch of yours and Maggie's plays out, and my captain is not a happy man, which means I'm not a happy man.”

”I understand completely. In the main, I am not the sort to do this sort of thing, you understand, but when needs must, and to a.s.sist a friend? Yes, I think I can make an exception here,” Saint Just said, depressing the b.u.t.ton above the name Myers. When a woman's voice came through the speaker, he leaned closer and said crisply, in his best American accent, ”Police, ma'am. Patrolman Swidecky, badge number two-four-six-seven-nine-oh. We've got word of a possible intruder in the building. Can you buzz us in? We'd appreciate it, ma'am. And then please remain in your apartment until we give the all clear. You are in no danger, ma'am.”

”I could have done that, Officer Swidecky,” Wendell groused as another buzzer sounded, followed by the opening click of the inner door lock.

”Yes, left-tenant, but you wouldn't have, at least not without first putting us both to the trouble of a tedious argument about right and wrong and other trifles we really don't have time for, do we? Remind me to stop by and thank Miss Myers when we're finished.” Saint Just bowed and gave a graceful sweep of his arm. ”After you?”

”You're a real piece of work, Blakely. I don't know what in h.e.l.l Maggie sees in you. For that matter, I don't know why I'm here with you, watching as you break every rule in the book.”

”It's my engaging personality, plus, perhaps of more importance to you, the liberating feeling derived from working outside some of those pesky rules every now and again,” Saint Just said, swinging up his cane and resting it jauntily against his shoulder. ”All in all, you really can't help yourself. Besides, thus far, we've made a fairly successful pair of crime solvers, don't you think?”

”Yeah, I do. But I'll deny it if you ever repeat that to anybody.”

Perhaps because of the way Saint Just had taken charge downstairs, once they'd reached the sixth floor, Wendell was quick to step in front of Jonathan West's door and pound on it three times with the side of his fist. ”Jonathan West! Police! Open up, Mr. West!”

”Ah, your usual subtle self. I believe I would have declared myself to be the plumber, warning Mr. West of a broken water pipe in the apartment above his. But, to each his own,” Saint Just said as they waited for Jonathan West to open the door.

And waited.

”He's not in there,” Wendell said. ”It figures. My day's been going just great so far-why would anything change now?”

”Now, now, let's not go into a sad decline, left-tenant. The man is a recluse, and possibly quite shy. You may have frightened him with your so-gentle approach. Then again, all things considered, we could be standing out here while Jonathan West's body molders on the other side of this door.”

”Molders? Oh, right. You're thinking I can justify breaking down this door, aren't you? You know, you watch too much television, Blakely, you really do. Especially the Patrolman Swidecky bit. But I'll tell you what-I'll go find the super, flash my s.h.i.+eld, and have him let us in. You stay here. And don't do anything.”

”Certainly not, and may I say, I do not appreciate the insult,” Saint Just said, and then waited until the elevator doors had closed behind Wendell before he reached into the inside pocket of his sports coat and took out the lovely new set of lock picks Mary Louise had gifted him with as thanks for arranging her modeling job with Fragrances By Pierre. The picks were in a velvet-lined case. Very attractive, in a larcenous sort of way.

It was a matter of less than two minutes before Saint Just was rewarded with the sound of the last tumbler turning over, and just in time, as the elevator doors opened once more and Wendell stepped out. Alone.

”The super wasn't there,” he said, standing half in and half out of the elevator, holding open the door. ”Let's go, come back later for another shot at finding him. Ms. Myers is on three, you can stop there on our way down, Patrolman Swidecky.”

”Very well,” Saint Just said, ”although I'm becoming more and more concerned. This reclusive business, you understand. Jeremy informed me that Francis Oakes hadn't left his apartment in over two years. Can we but wonder if Jonathan West is cut from the same sort of cloth? Both writers, you understand. Perhaps I could just try the door?”

”You think it's open? That never happens.”

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