Part 22 (2/2)
”Maggie, dearest, take a deep breath. I don't think I've ever seen you this agitated.”
”Well, I am. If I'm right, I've had a killer right here, in my own home. If I'm not, I could have broken up J.P. and a wonderful guy. If I'm right, we won't have to worry anymore and Faith and Brock the Wonder Kidneys can go home-that's big on the I-hope-I'm-right side, let me tell you! But if I'm wrong, then I may have sullied someone's character, not to mention his career. But if I'm right-”
”Maggie. This is so unlike you.”
”No kidding. But it's not every day I try to unmask a murderer who may or may not have considered me for his next victim. Well, maybe not, not lately-but you know what I mean. I know Bruce. This is just so much more personal. You know?”
”I do, indeed. Now, from the beginning?”
It took some time, but he finally understood what she'd done. Without telling Bernice why, she'd asked her to phone Bruce McCrae and tell him his ma.n.u.script was not up to his usual standards and would need tremendous amounts of rewriting, reworking, if it could even be salvaged.
”I know how I felt when Bernie said that about that dumb exorcism drivel I wrote about you, so I figured it was the best way to get a rise out of him,” Maggie told him.
But her ploy had not elicited the reaction she'd hoped for. McCrae had taken the news rather well, which, Bernice had told her, was completely unexpected, as McCrae was always very vocally defensive of his work.
”Then I had her ask him to come over here tonight, around eight, to talk to him about the book, because Bernie is bunking in with me now, too, as you thought that, as publisher of Toland Books, she, too, could be in danger.”
”I said that? Really?”
”I had to think of something,” Maggie told him, ”and that was all I could come up with. I figured we should confront him, you know?”
”We. How gratifying. I can remember a time-most probably because it was only days ago-when you wouldn't have been as willing to consider us, well, a team.”
”Yeah, yeah, yeah- 'ray, team,” Maggie said, actually blus.h.i.+ng. ”Back to confronting Bruce. After we figure out what he did, how he did it. I've been making notes-they're on the table in front of you. But then I realized that, unless he confesses-and he won't unless he's an idiot, which he isn't-we have no way of proving anything. No way to prove he was Rat Boy-nothing.”
”I don't think he is-Rat Boy, that is,” Saint Just told her, scanning Maggie's scribbled list of questions and thoughts concerning Bruce McCrae. He looked up at her, for she was on her feet now, pacing. So much was going on in her life right now, changing in her life right now. Was it any wonder she was nervous, poor thing? ”Do you?”
”No, unfortunately. Something as gross as dead rats just isn't his style-Bruce's that is-except that, of course, would be the beauty of the thing, wouldn't it? Remember, he writes mysteries, makes up plots for a living. He isn't going to think like your usual murderer. He'd plan a murder like someone else would plan chess moves, always working three moves ahead. It's like-it's like we have to try to outplot him, or something, and I don't know who's better at plotting, him, or us-who's got the better endgame.”
”We do, my dear, without question.” Saint Just deposited his winegla.s.s on the table and got to his feet. ”Go fetch your coat.”
”What? Why?” Maggie asked, although, to his delight, she was already on the way to collect her coat, gloves, and scarf. ”Where are we going?”
”First, to luncheon, as I haven't broken my fast all day and it's already well past one o'clock. After that, I would suggest the shop of your choice and the purchase of a new winter coat.”
Maggie slid her arms into the coat and looked down at the front of it. ”Oh, come on, it's not that-okay. Then what? Because you'd better have more than that.”
”Oh, I do. Then, my dear, we will travel again to Greenwich Village, where we will visit once more with both Mr. Gates and Mr. Bryon, and this time we will not be quite as conciliatory as we were on our initial visits.”
Maggie exited the condo ahead of Saint Just as he held the door open for her. ”Oh, goodie. Do I get to be the one who's snarky to Lord Bryon?”
After a leisurely lunch at Bellini's where they discussed strategy, and a delightful interlude at a small, exclusive boutique Saint Just had chosen weeks earlier as the perfect establishment for Maggie, they were in another cab and on their way to Greenwich Village. Maggie looked splendid in a new, thigh-length camel wool coat and soft rust and loden green cashmere scarf that flattered her coloring. Her old coat, along with a long black cashmere dress coat even Maggie had to agree was worth the hefty price, would be delivered to her condo.
Saint Just adored it when the world worked to his order.
”So, who do we tackle first?” Maggie asked, rubbing her gloved hands together in the sort of gleeful antic.i.p.ation best suited to young tots confronted with their first amus.e.m.e.nt fair-or perhaps an evil inventor admiring his first successful monster.
Saint Just looked out the window of the cab as it slowed in traffic. ”I had thought we would confront Valentino Gates at his apartment, but it would appear he's on the move.” He leaned forward and knocked on the part.i.tion. ”You can let us out here, thank you.”
”He looks like he's going to a funeral in that black suit,” Maggie said as they followed after Gates, staying on the other side of the narrow street. ”And doesn't he own a coat? It's freezing today.”
”It would be my opinion that Mr. Gates is on his way to something both important and local, something for which he felt he needed to dress appropriately, if not warmly. Ah, and there he goes, around the corner. You remember what's located halfway down that street, don't you, Maggie?”
”Bryon's Book Nook, check,” she said, nodding. ”Maybe we'll be lucky, and get ourselves a twofer. You be good cop-I want to be bad cop.”
Saint Just looked at her curiously. ”It's gratifying to see you so enthusiastically into the game, my dear.”
”Yeah, well, people have been playing with my head long enough. I've got a checklist. Mom, Dad, Rat Boy, b.o.o.bs, Bruce, Dr. Bob, Christmas. And, lest we forget-Brock, the incontinent canine. I need to check something off, and we may as well start here. I mean, maybe it's selfish, but I want my life back-and my condo. I had no idea it was so small until Faith moved in. You and Sterling together didn't crowd me as much as she does. Unless I just started thinking bigger, now that I've seen Faith's place. An office suite? I've got a desk in the corner of my living room. And everybody eats my M&M's. I want a separate office, Alex, I really do.”
”And no one could blame you,” Saint Just a.s.sured her as they cut across the street and watched Valentino Gates disappear into Bryon's Book Nook. ”We'll give them a moment, and then join them.”
”Right. Hey, look at this,” she said, pointing to a black-edged notice taped to the dirty window of the bookstore. ” 'To commemorate the life and career of Jonathan West. A gathering of his friends and admirers, with remarks, readings, and refreshments.' Oh, wow, the regulation bookstore three R's. And it's today, Alex. In an hour. Bryon really was a fan.”
”As was Mr. Gates, who is perhaps even our chief mourner? Shall we join them now, my dear, and avoid the crowds?”
Maggie grinned at him. ”I love it when you're snarky.”
They entered the store, Saint Just performing a quick inventory of patrons that did not take long, as there were only two, and then they headed for the curtain and the room they'd seen previously. ”As I recall, there is this entry, and a marked and lighted exit to the right and rear, most probably leading to the street. We'll need to position ourselves so that those portals are at least partially blocked, agreed?”
”Agreed. So, do we say we're here for the three R's, fans of Jonathan's?”
Saint Just considered this. ”No, I believe we ran out that string announcing ourselves as Mr. Oakes's fan club-and by introducing you to Mr. Bryon. Let's just join them, then simply see what develops.”
He held back the curtain to allow Maggie to precede him into the small, poorly lit room, where they quickly moved into the shadows and visually inspected George Gordon Bryon as he stood behind the podium, unaware that he had company, fussing with various papers. Gates, Saint Just noticed, was nowhere in sight. Perhaps they'd overlooked him among the towering shelves in the bookstore proper? He repositioned Maggie so that their backs were against the wall.
”Holy cow,” Maggie whispered, staring wide-eyed at George Gordon Bryon. ”Would you look at that? The balloon pants and slippers. The red and gold silk robe. The pin at his throat. The turban. I know that outfit-I've got a copy of the portrait in one of my research books. The sixth Baron Byron himself, painted as a corsair. All that's missing is the mustache.” She c.o.c.ked her head and looked again. ”The mustache ... and the soulful eyes, the rounded chin, the intense expression, the proud carriage. Okay, let's face it-Bryon looks like he's decked out for Halloween.”
”A sad man, one who lives, soars, only in his dreams. Byron wrote his dream, lived his fantasies and, as I've now been able to read a biography detailing what happened to him after he was drummed out of England by his enemies, most unfortunately died in Missolonghi, fighting the good fight. But this man? Ah, Maggie, this man only dreams of the daring, the adventure, the righteous crusade.”
”But maybe he found a crusade,” Maggie whispered as Bryon sorted through a small stack of file cards he'd picked up from the podium. ”Maybe he found Jonathan West, and took up his cause? Maybe he even knew Jonathan personally-should we go see if his books on the shelves here are autographed? No, scratch that, let's just run with this before he sees us. Let's say he did know Jonathan, and got to hear Jonathan curse us all out for having ruined his career. And let's suppose Bryon finally decided to do something about it.”
”Bryon and Gates. But where, I wonder, did they find the rats?”
”Are you kidding? In this dump? All he'd have to do would be set some traps at night. But now we have to ask ourselves the biggie, Alex. Two biggies. Did they send the rats? And, if they did, why in h.e.l.l did they send one to Jonathan? I have a theory about that second part, but only if the answer is yes to the first part.”
”Shh, sweetings, I believe the man is about to rehea.r.s.e his prepared speech.”
George Gordon Bryon, a pair of horn-rimmed reading gla.s.ses now perched on his nose, cleared his throat as he held up one of the file cards. ”And so, in closing, allow me to most humbly and heartfeltedly proclaim-old Jonathan West was the very, very best. And the very, very best was he. Lesser talents betrayed him, they mocked and dismayed him, but never a better will we ever know.”
Maggie spoke before Saint Just could warn her to silence. ”Ever know? Alex, did you hear that? That should be ever see. See rhymes with he. Bryon wrote those poems. He is Rat Boy. And heartfeltedly isn't even a word, for crying out loud. Oops. Alex, stop him!”
Saint Just was already on the move, however, as Maggie's voice had risen in tandem with her joy of discovery and Bryon had heard her, seen them, and taken off at a full run for the door below the Exit sign.
Chapter Twenty-Two.
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