"Wesley's quiet up here, near the end of it. There's never any trouble, parking out front, not even in the summer," Tate argued. This time he wasn't being defensive. He was whining. "You're looking for reasons to go low on the price, Sean, but you can't do it. Parking's not an issue."
"All right, then. The Boardwalk. You're a long way from the Boardwalk, Tate. I'm rather surprised you didn't think of that when you bought this place."
"This very green place," Cynthia Spade-Whitaker interjected. "It reminds me of lime Jell-O. I detest lime Jell-O. But it is a nice kitchen, Sean, and well equipped, unless all those pots hanging over the island are your mother's and will leave with her. Still, it isn't all terrible."
Saint Just listened to Tate's nervous laugh, and was glad they couldn't see him, standing just outside the door, keeping it open just a sliver with the toe of his shoe, so that he could hear clearly.
"And it's off-season, so prices are a little lower. You forgot to add that," Tate grumbled. "Anything else? Or are you going to hit me with a price?"
"Don't get all bent out of shape, Tate," Sean said. "Cyndy and I were playing with you. It's a great condo. I know what you paid, I know how long ago you bought the place. We both know the market has cooled off a bit, that interest rates have climbed more than a point. All that said, I think I can promise you a half million-dollar profit, including my commission. Not bad for a four-year investment, right?"
"That much? Okay, that's good, that's good. Hell, Sean, that's great! Let's do it!"
"I'd like to stage it, though, Tate. You know, get all your mother's things out of here, furnish it more like a seashore condo—at your expense, but we'll take that out of the proceeds. Get all the personal things gone. How soon did you say she could be out?"
"I don't know. How soon can you talk her into filing those divorce papers, Cynthia?"
"Soon, Tate. But all work and no play doesn't make Cyndy a happy camper. You did promise us some fun when you invited us, remember? I don't call it fun, being yanked down to the local police station on Christmas Eve."
"You'll get him off, right?"
"I'll get him off before there can be a trial, don't worry about that. But I'm also going to enjoy dipping deeply into your jackpot-winning sister's purse while I'm at it. Do you mind?"
"Me? Hell, no. And the more you drag it out, the more Mom is going to want to sell, maybe even leave town to get away from the scandal. I can get her something fairly cheap in Florida, take another profit—you know ... later on."
Saint Just felt he had heard enough. More than enough. He opened the door and stepped inside, his face (he hoped) a reflection of his pleased surprise at seeing the three people standing there in the foyer. "You're off, then?" he asked, smiling. He held the door open. "Sterling? Are you coming in?"
Sterling strode into the foyer, his own face beet red, and not from the December chill. "I'll be upstairs, perhaps making dear Mrs. Kelly a pot of tea," he said tightly as he brushed past Tate and his friends, an act of rudeness the Maggie-created Sterling would have been incapable of pulling off without faltering, apologizing, and blushing even more deeply. Especially if he realized that the belt as well as the top button of his corduroy slacks were hanging open.
"We're driving up to Atlantic City, yes," Tate said, looking at Saint Just in a way that showed he was afraid he'd been overheard discussing the sale of his mother's house out from under her. "Um ... do you and Maggie want to go with us? I can't promise Maggie another jackpot, but it could be fun."
"Thank you, no. Maggie will wish to get back to her father, I believe. Your father, that is. Your collective father," Saint Just said, apologetically, feigning embarrassment at his verbal faux pas. "Have you ... have any of you spoken with him today?"
"You mean me, don't you, Alex?" Cynthia said in her usually clipped, crisp professional tone. "It's Christmas Day, remember? Nobody's going to be asking me to bring him back in for voluntary questioning until tomorrow, at the earliest. I'll speak with him tomorrow. He's to do what I said—talk to no one. Has he talked to you, Alex?"
Saint Just had never struck a lady and never would. But he realized that, evolving as he was, outraged as he was at all he'd heard in the last few minutes, the idea did hold some appeal. "No, Mrs. Spade-Whitaker, he has not."
"Good. I like an easy client. Alex?"
"Yes, Cyndy," he returned cordially.
"Tate was telling me about your ... your exploits. Yours and Maggie's. In fact, Maureen pulled out a scrapbook Maggie's mother keeps on your press coverage. It made for interesting reading. The two of you seem to have a penchant for getting mixed up in murder investigations."
"We've had our moments, yes."
"Yeah, right," Cynthia said, pointing a finger at Saint Just, coming within inches of his nose with her index finger. "Here's the deal as I see it. Maggie's the daughter. You're the concerned friend. And that's it. Don't go poking around like amateur detectives. Not in this case, not with me on board as attorney of record. Because I don't work with amateurs. Have I made myself clear? Are we clear on this, Alex?"
"As crystal, madam," Saint Just said, bowing to her. "Everyone, enjoy your evening."
Cynthia and Sean swept through the doorway, leaving Tate behind, looking at Saint Just.
"Um ... about what you heard ..."
"Heard? Did I hear anything?"
"I don't know. Did you?"
"I heard Attorney Spade-Whitaker—as I've heard it said on numerous crime programs on the television—warn Maggie and me off the case. Was there anything else?"
"Uh, no, no, not if you—you heard, didn't you? I can see it in your eyes. About selling the condo?"
"Of course I did. You have lovely friends, Tate," Saint Just told him, turning the screw, just a tad. "A lawyer and a Realtor. A redoubtable pair, although you might have added one other profession to the mix."
Tate swallowed down hard, glared at Saint Just. "Oh yeah? Which profession?"
"Why a physician, of course," Saint Just purred, taking his quizzing glass from his pocket and holding it up to his left eye, the black grosgrain ribbon dangling.
He then took a single step forward, looked Tate up and down, as if inspecting the man for flaws—and finding them. "Because, if you somehow manage to force Maggie's mother out of this house before she is ready to go, I will personally find you, corner you, and cane you to within an inch of your selfish, pathetic little life—a caning, Tate, as you are too low and loathsome, for a gentleman such as myself to even think of directly soiling my hands on you. And as I inflict this beating, I will enjoy your every squeal and whimper to the top of my bent. So," he ended, smiling, "as your attorney friend asked me just a moment ago—are we clear on that, Tate?"
Tate opened his mouth to say something—Saint Just was fairly sure it would have been something astoundingly stupid, such as "Oh, yeah?"—but then shut it again and bolted out of the house.
That had gone well. And employing snippets of dialogue Maggie had fed his imaginary self for one of their books into his little monologue had bordered on the delicious, actually.
"Remarkable," Saint Just said to himself as he lightly rubbed the quizzing glass against his sweater, polishing it. "Although an idiot, Tate Evans is tall, young, and exceedingly fit. He could probably give, or at least think he could, as good as he got. Yet, knowing that, I was, and am, more than willing to take him on. Even eager. Once an unremarkable reaction, but not now, having so recently discovered my own vulnerabilities. By God, I'm still a hero."
Satisfied, and not a little elated, Saint Just walked through the living room, eager to find Maggie, steal her away somewhere for a moment, and kiss her quite soundly. She was such an intelligent puss. Not only had she gifted him with looks and brains. She'd gifted him with a strong backbone, one that did not bend, even as he grew more mortal.