Maggie By The Book

Cleaning up the odd bits can, however, be tedious. Unlocking the broom closet later that so-distressing last night at WAR, and untying Damien, for one. I must say the man was far from grateful, until Saint Just told him he was passing his crown as Cover Model of the Year to the man. Saint Just is like that, magnanimous to a fault, especially now that he and Mare will be posing and primping for Fragrances By Pierre.

Maggie is still slightly flummoxed from her second encounter at gunpoint, but she is bearing up bravely. If only she could dissuade Felicity Boothe Simmons from sending her flowers, candy, and even, just today, a potted plant, all to show her gratitude. Maggie doesn’t do well with such attention. She also is still waging her fearful battle with Dame Nicotine, so that we often tread quite lightly when she is in one of her moods, poor dear.

My career as a songster is, happily, over now, as I truly do not believe I was cut out to trod the boards, putting myself on display. I’d much rather ride my motorized scooter in the park. I’ve attached a small shelf to the handlebars, to hold Henry’s cage, and I report happily that the dear creature quite enjoys taking the air with me.

What else? Mrs. Goldblum will be departing for Boca shortly, and Saint Just and I are shopping for a large flat screen television machine injected with plasma—which I find rather unnerving—along with something called “surround sound.” It’s all quite technical.

Saint Just remains a happy man, although I see the occasional shadow, and I believe our own dear Maggie to be the cause. He says, quite confidently, that she loves him, and when I point out that she ain’t quite tumbling over herself to show that love, at least as far as I can see, Saint Just only smiles. An odd fish at times, Saint Just, but we’re toddling along, the three of us—the four of us now, as Wendell continues to be underfoot quite often.

Even with recent events, I retain high hopes for an unexceptional future here in Manhattan. But to be honest and forthright and all of that, with Saint Just, and his nose for trouble, I admit to a few qualms in that quarter. . . .

I’ve got a successful writing career, a great apartment, two hot guys . . . and all I want to do is curl up on the sofa with my cats, a DVD, and a bag of Funyuns. What’s wrong with this picture? I should be reveling in my freedom—and/or in the company of Alexander Blake, Viscount St. Just, the all-too-real hero of my historical mystery novels. Problem is, ever since Alex and his sidekick, Sterling, materialized in my living room, I’ve been dodging dead bodies. Of course, the random acts of violence have had the less dubious benefit of introducing me to thoroughly modern (and cute!) NYPD detective Steve Wendell, but still. Playing amateur sleuth and roomie to two Regency gents can get pretty exhausting. So how ecstatic was I when Alex and Sterling got a deal on a rent-controlled place across the hall? Ah, sweet solitude. Naturally, it couldn’t last. My first morning alone, I get a hysterical call from my recently widowed friend and publisher, Bernie Toland-James. Recently widowed, as in, she just woke up next to the bloody corpse of her estranged husband. . .

See? This is what I’m talking about. I used to count my life adventures in successfully avoiding my mother’s phone calls. Now I keep on my toes by getting my friends off murder raps. Things definitely don’t look good for Bernie. She’d made no secret of the fact that she wasn’t too broken up when Buddy “disappeared” seven years ago—but she’s no killer, and I intend to help prove it. Meanwhile, Sterling’s been on the receiving end of some weird threats. Threats none of us were taking particularly seriously until some thugs vandalized his and Alex’s apartment, slashing up their beloved “plasma-flat-screened-television machine.” As if that weren’t enough to prompt some serious gauntletthrowing, now someone’s actually kidnapped dear, sweet Sterling, leaving a ransom note that’s at best cryptic, and at worst, badly misspelled. Talk about rubbing a writer the wrong way. . .

OK, this case just got seriously personal. Messing with my friends? Bad move. Messing with my friends while I’m going through nicotine withdrawal? Watch out, mister. What with trying to help Bernie and Sterling, trying to quit smoking, trying to evade my therapist’s more pointed questions, and trying to meet the deadline for my latest St. Just novel, I’m edgier than J-Lo’s wedding planner. Then there’s the new habit I’ve developed of kissing Alex. And kissing Steve. Repeatedly. Yeah. With the clock ticking on Bernie’s freedom, Sterling’s safety, and, very possibly, my own sanity, I’d better get down to business with both my detectives (no, not that kind of business . . . well, maybe a little) and get a clue—before my mother finds out what I’ve really been up to. . .