High Heels and Homicide Read Online Free PDF

Just then posed rather like a hunter with his first kill. An excited couple, speaking rapid Japanese, kept their mini videocam rolling, so that Saint Just, always polite, bowed to them.
    He was, however, distracted by the sound that seemed to go poof inside the open black plastic bag one of the men had dropped—signaling the explosion of the dye pack an adventurous teller had placed inside it.
    He was definitely distracted by the small, dusty cloud that served to turn one leg of his new slacks a garish purple.
    â€œOh dear, an unexpected punishment for performing a good deed. Ah, and look at you. That’s going to leave a mark, isn’t it, poor fellow?” Saint Just asked the robber closest to the open bag, but the man, his face and hair now purple, only coughed, blinking furiously.
    More excited Japanese, with the woman hitting her companion’s shoulder to get his attention, and Saint Just realized that the tourist was now eager to capture for posterity the arrival of a few of New York’s Finest.
    That was fine with Saint Just. He had been wondering what he was going to do when the robbers recovered their breath and realized they outnumbered him two to one. Brandishing his sword cane on a city street at midday certainly wasn’t the action of a prudent man. He’d happily turn over the miscreants to the police, and be on his way.
    At least, that was his intention. As it turned out, the uniformed policemen had other ideas for his immediate future, which, unfortunately, had a lot to do with slamming him up against the wall, telling him to “spread ’em,” and then slapping him in handcuffs.
    There was often no justice in this world.
    But, Saint Just realized as he heard his name being called by none other than Holly Spivak, she of the traveling Fox News van, in America there is always the media.
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    Maggie opened the door and stood back as Bernice Toland-James swept into the apartment: tall, slim, her mane of inspired bushy long red hair flying like a flag in her self-created breeze. Designer clad, chemically peeled, silicone enhanced, suctioned and tweaked, lifted and toned, Bernie was that most dangerous of females: powerful in business, perimenopausal, and newly sober.
    She was also Maggie’s editor and very best friend.
    â€œHere you go. Liverwurst is yours, salami’s mine,” Bernie said, flinging out her arm, so that the paper bag she held nearly clipped Maggie on the nose. “Got any cigarettes? I forgot mine at the office, damn it.”
    Maggie took the bag and put it down on the coffee table, beside the two glasses of lemonade she’d poured the moment the doorman buzzed Bernie’s arrival. Socks would have just let her come up, but this new guy was by-the-book. Which was good, because Bernie’s arrival could be startling enough, without her showing up unannounced.
    â€œYou know I quit, Bernie, and I’m carrying the extra ten pounds to prove it. What do you think kills more—cigarettes or obesity? Never mind. But I’ve got a spare nicotine inhaler around somewhere, if you want it.”
    â€œYeah, right,” Bernie said, kicking off her shoes before sitting on one of the couches, pulling her long legs up under her. “That’s like a scotch on the rocks minus the scotch. No thanks. Besides, you look stupid with that thing in your mouth, no offense.”
    â€œNone taken,” Maggie said, collapsing onto the facing couch. “I love being told I look stupid. What’s wrong with the manuscript?”
    Bernie dug in the bag, pulled out the sandwiches. “Here you go. Let’s eat.”
    â€œLet’s eat and talk,” Maggie said, taking the foil-wrapped sandwich, then grabbing a snack-size bag of potato chips, leaving the tortilla chips for Bernie. She ripped open the bag, carefully positioned five potato chips directly on her liverwurst, then replaced the top piece of seeded rye bread and squished the