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he couldn’t face one more lonely Christmas, I suppose.”
    â€œI guess so,” Maggie said, sighing. “I should call Steve, tell him I’m home, and maybe he’ll come over tonight. I’ll ask him if he can get us some more information.”
    â€œTo what end, Maggie? Writers sometimes commit suicide. They drink, they smoke, they kill themselves. It comes with the job. I could probably name at least a dozen who pulled the plug on themselves, right off the top of my head.” Bernie leaned over the table. “You’re feeling happy, right? No problems, nothing worrying you?”
    â€œFunny,” Maggie said, immediately thinking about her father and his little chippie. “My mother called yesterday. There was something in the newspaper about our little adventure in England. She was not amused.”
    â€œTough on her,” Bernie said, hefting the soda can as if toasting Maggie. “Sales of your Saint Just novels have been going through the roof ever since you’ve been getting into the tabloids. Another month, another murder. The reading public is eating it up, Mags. Hey, do you suppose we could work good old Francis in there somehow?”
    â€œYou’re a ghoul, Bernie.” Maggie leaned her forearms on the table, the better to look around the corner of the kitchen and down the hall leading to the living room. “I’ve got to start locking my door again. Hello? Who’s there?”
    â€œIt’s only us, Maggie,” Sterling called out moments before appearing in the kitchen, dressed for a noonday stroll in beautiful downtown Siberia. He had a heavy brown corduroy coat buttoned up to his neck and topped by a thick knitted yellow scarf, red mittens, and a red knit cap on his head—complete with a huge yarn pom-pom on top. They’d stopped at a small store after their dinner last night, and Sterling had instantly fallen in love with the hat. “Some of the boys have invited me to go to the park with them. Isn’t that nice?”
    â€œThe boys?”
    Alex leaned one burgundy cashmere–clad shoulder against the doorjamb. “Sterling has become quite the bon vivant, my dears. He’s taken up an association with several lads from the neighborhood during his scooter rides. Haven’t you, Sterling?”
    Sterling blushed beneath his bright red cap. “We’re going to build a snow fort. I think it sounds a jolly idea.”
    â€œAnd it is, Sterling,” Maggie told him. “I think it’s wonderful that you’ve been making friends. I’m only ashamed to say that I didn’t realize it snowed last night.”
    â€œMaggie the hermit. Shame she doesn’t have any windows, isn’t it, boys?” Bernie said, lifting her soda can in yet another toast.
    â€œHey. Snow is sneaky. No lightning, no thunder, no raindrops piddling against the windows. You just wake up, and there it is. Poof!”
    â€œPoof indeed. She has such a way with description, doesn’t she, Bernie,” Alex said as he retrieved a can of soda from the refrigerator, pouring its contents into a glass he’d loaded with ice cubes, of course, as the Viscount Saint Just didn’t drink from cans . “You toddle off, Sterling, but please take care to return before three.”
    â€œWhat happens at three?” Maggie asked, waving good-bye to Sterling. “What am I missing?”
    â€œNothing too terrible. I’ve invited Mary Louise, George, and Vernon to stop by so that I can properly thank them for their help in my last case.”
    â€œYour last case,” Maggie said flatly. “You’re something else, Alex. What happened in England wasn’t your case . And, if memory serves, you weren’t in it alone. I was there, too, remember?”
    â€œNow, now, children. Mommy’s already got a headache,” Bernie said as Alex sat down at the table. “You were both marvelous, even if my cold and