"Sit ... down."
Socks danced in place as he short of shuffled his arms toward the door. "I'd really rather ..."
"Sit!"
"But I really need to ..." Socks looked at Maggie, whose eyes were most probably popping out of her head. "Oh ... okay ... sure thing," he said, plopping back down on the edge of the couch.
"Now talk."
Socks cleared his throat. "Okay. But Alex is going to be pis—er, he probably wanted to talk to you himself. The house? That big building? It's mixed zoning, or something like that. He asked that Realtor lady, and she said it would be okay. Even the way the place is built is really terrific—with the squared off first floor, and the rounded ones sort of climbing on top? And four whole floors? Alex says nobody needs to live on all four floors, not even the three of you. You, Sterling—"
Maggie rubbed at her aching forehead. "I know who I'm going to be living with, Socks. Unless I kill Alex, that is. But then there will be even more room, won't there? For what?"
"Well ... on the one side, our S&J Pies and Soul Food shop. It was a dream, you know? Having the place maybe, but not the money. Not until you won the—well, we won't talk about that anymore. Except for one thing. Not a restaurant, a shop. Takeout, you know?"
"Charming. So, as your landlord and your banker, I guess I wouldn't starve, huh?"
Socks spread his arms wide, his smile even wider and said fervently: "All the free food you'd ever want, definitely!"
"Uh-huh," Maggie said, mentally collecting rent, which she knew was prudent of her, but which she knew Alex would call just being herself—cheap. "I hadn't thought of the house as income property. It makes it all seem less an indulgence, doesn't it? But you said one side. What would go on the other side?"
"I can't, Maggie. I really can't. Alex will tell you."
"Oh, Alex is going to be telling me a lot of things when I get back to Jersey, trust me."
"Right, you have to go back there," Socks said, looking at her sympathetically. "How's your dad doing, Maggie? A killer? Somebody's got to be totally off their wheels, thinking that. But Alex is there, hunting for clues, right? He'll take care of this. Doesn't he always?"
Maggie attempted a confident smile. "Yes, that's our Alex. Always riding to the rescue ..."
Chapter Sixteen
Ocean City was a pleasant metropolis, if rather thin of company in the winter months, but it didn't hold a patch on Brighton, where Saint Just had often been a guest of the Prince Regent during the Season.
The prince's pavilion, of course, had been an architectural marvel. Why, his royal majesty's horseflesh had been housed better than most of his majesty's subjects, their stalls lit by the huge crystal chandeliers that hung suspended from the vaulted ceiling.
And the food? Ah, say what you will about the spendthrift heir to the throne, the man most certainly knew how to entertain. Course after course, delicacy after delicacy. Poor Sterling, he ate with his eyes, often allowing much more to be piled on his plate than he could possibly consume comfortably. But, if it was on the fine china plate, it must be eaten, unless he wished to insult his host. Sterling had always persevered, even if he had to take to their rented townhouse for the entirety of the next day, existing on nothing more than watered wine and bits of toast.
Of course, none of it was real, not to Saint Just, because the Viscount Saint Just was not real. The pavilion? Yes, that had been real, was still real. The Prince Regent had been real, or as real as historical research could make him. It had been Maggie, however, who had given poor Sterling his uncomfortable post-banquet bouts of dyspepsia.
Maggie had taken her creations, Sterling and himself, and paged through her research books as she recreated the pavilion and the prince and all the others.
It was still difficult, from time to time, to wrap his brains around all of it—what had been real, what he had only lived, experienced, courtesy of Maggie's imagination. They'd have to travel to Brighton one day, tour the pavilion, and he could then see for himself how correct Maggie's descriptions had been.
Or perhaps not. He had memories of the prince's Carleton House, too, but that had been ripped down not too many years after the Regency had ended. So depressing.
Still, he was here, and not in Regency England, and he should enjoy this seaside resort for what it was.
He'd come up onto the Boardwalk to reconnoiter, as it were, the Eighth Street Music Pier, where Mr. Novack had suggested they meet tomorrow night. The assignation might have ended in being canceled, but it was always best to be prepared for any eventuality.
The pier jutted out toward the shoreline, but didn't quite reach it, unless a higher tide might push water against the large pilings upon which it had been built. A cursory inspection, however, was all Saint Just needed to ascertain that there would be precious little space for Novack or anyone else to hide, as three sides of the Pier were fenced off, unavailable to the public.
There was only an area to the right of the structure, lined with wooden benches, where a person might hide himself in the shadows. It had a clear view of anyone approaching from either side or from the front, via a long ramp leading off the far side of the Boardwalk and down to Eighth Street itself. A convenient access for Mr. Novack's go-cart?
Saint Just raised his cane, let it rest on his shoulder as he looked up the Boardwalk that ran to Twenty-sixth or Twenty-eighth Street—not that it mattered—and then to the north until it reached past First Street. There were a few other people braving the wind off the water and the winter chill, riding on bicycles or in wheeled surreys they propelled with pedals.
A young boy on Rollerblades skated by, calling for Saint Just to get out of his way—how Sterling had failed at that particular mode of transportation brought a smile to Saint Just's face. Perhaps, next time they visited the resort town, Sterling would wish to bring his motorized scooter with him?
Most of the shops had closed for the season, but there seemed to be life going on inside a shop bearing the sign Mack and Manco's, and Saint Just made his way there, now lured by the aroma of freshly made pizza.
The place had the look of a local eating spot, a year-round place for tourists and the citizens of the town. Saint Just was not surprised to see the tables nearly all occupied, and more than a few gentlemen sitting on stools, their elbows on the counter, chatting among themselves.
He joined them, tipping his hat to the red-haired man who turned to look at him curiously before returning to his conversation.
Saint Just ordered a slice, amended that order to two slices, added a request for a glass of ice water, and then pretended an interest in the plastic-coated menu.
He listened to the conversation going on beside him. After all, two things were certain to him: men gossip as much or more than women; and two, the murder was probably the main topic of that gossip in a town as small and quiet as this one.
And his deductions were quickly rewarded.
"I told you—I told him. Saw him yesterday, showing up to buy donuts, just like regular people. I went up to him and I said—I said, 'Evan, you're gone. Out. Tossed. His-tor –ee.' "
"Damn! Just like that?" the man beside him asked, hunching his shoulders as he cradled a mug of coffee between his hands. "After all these years? Man, that's tough. I'd go nuts, Joe, you know?"
"Yeah? Well, we're going nuts, so just screw Evan. We've got the New Year's tournament coming up with Sea Isle, and we've got to go with two alternates. Raw, untested."
"I know who one of them is. Frank Kelso, right? He's first alternate?"