High Heels And Homicide Part 12

"Saint Just? A word, if you don't mind?"

"Certainly, Sterling," Saint Just said, patting the empty seat beside him in the study, where he had retired for a s.p.a.ce, to cerebrate. "You know I am always interested in whatever you might have to say to me."

Sterling bowed his head and studied his folded hands. "Perhaps not this time. But I promised Perry. Saint Just? Do you think Uncle Willis might have taken all of the cell phones?"

Saint Just eyed his friend carefully. "What do you think, Sterling?"

Appearing to be caught between nervous disbelief and equally nervous apprehension, Sterling shook his head. "I don't know. I don't think I really believe in ghosts. Specters. All of that. But Perry was adamant, telling me all about his childhood home in a place called South Dakota. His family had a ghost, in their barn."

"Really? Did Perry see this ghost?"

"No, he never did. But he heard him, more than once, as a child. Several times. Moaning, groaning, and then some hay would sort of sift down from the loft above his head and he'd run off."

"Perhaps someone was in the loft, Sterling. Someone real, that is. Did Perry consider that possibility?"

"Oh, yes, he did. In point of fact, one time he saw his sister and her friend leaving the barn some minutes after he'd heard the ghost, but they told him they hadn't heard anything."

Saint Just smiled, happy for the diversion from all his heavy thinking about the method of Sam Undercuffler's messy demise and what, if anything, to do with the quite workable cell phone in his pocket. "His older sister, I imagine. And her male friend?"

"He didn't say," Sterling said, frowning. "Shall I go ask him?"

"No. No need. But I shouldn't worry overmuch about your friend Perry's experiences with ghosts if I were you. Mr. Undercuffler's murderer is very much a living, breathing person. I'm quite convinced of that."

"Working in league with Uncle Willis?"

"No, I don't think so. I doubt ghosts, if they exist, take on worldly partners in crime. But since you're here, why don't you tell me more about your experience in the attics. Did you hear any other noises, other than the bats, that is?"

Saint Just realized at that moment, or possibly at the moment Joanne had asked him about his cell phone, precisely why he hadn't offered the thing to her. He dearly wished to solve this crime himself, without interference from the local constabulary. Selfish, perhaps, but very much in his nature. Back in Manhattan, the good lefttenant was always so dreadfully in the way. Helpful, occasionally, but still-Saint Just, not Steve Wendell, was the hero.

"Sterling? Was the question difficult? Shall I rephrase it?"

Sterling scratched his head. "No, I don't think so. I'm just attempting to be thorough. What did we hear? Not much, if anything, in the first wing we searched. Nothing much there but small empty rooms, probably once the servant quarters. Sir Rudy has only daily help, from the village. I asked him. The attics over our wing? Above our bedchambers? Those are more open, Saint Just, with only a few divisions. There is a mult.i.tude of old furniture, much of it under dust sheets. I admit to being quite nervous in those attics. And then the bats, of course. That's where we heard the squeaking."

Saint Just considered all of this information for several moments. "The bats. Yes. About the bats, Sterling. So you didn't hear or see any in the other wing of attics?"

"No, I don't think so. And we were there a long time, poking about. Not so long in the attics above our chambers. Not more than a minute, to be truthful about the thing. Are the bats important, Saint Just?"

"I'm not sure, Sterling. I'm merely collecting information." He got to his feet. "I'm a.s.suming everyone is now congregated once more in the main saloon?"

"I think so, yes. We all went upstairs in pairs, to gather more clothing and some blankets. I'm sure we'll be cozy enough, all of us together, although I'm fearful we won't be quite that jolly a gathering. Shall I go upstairs with you, Saint Just? You really shouldn't be alone, not with a murderer in the house."

"I think I might manage, thank you anyway, Sterling," Saint Just said, picking up one of the oil lanterns Sir Rudy had brought from the pantry. Thanks to the many flashlights-torches, according to Sir Rudy-the oil lanterns, and a mult.i.tude of candles, Medwine Manor was fairly well lit; a consequence of frequent loss of both power and the cellar generators.

"Very well, Saint Just," Sterling said, picking up his own lantern. "But I'll walk with you as far as the stairs outside the main saloon, if you don't mind. I know ghosts don't exist. A part of me knows that. But the other part of me wouldn't mind some company."

Maggie met them in the hallway, having just descended the stairs, dressed in slacks and a heavy sweater, and dragging two pillows and a satin comforter along with her.

"You went upstairs alone?" Saint Just asked her, taking the comforter from her.

"You sent me upstairs alone earlier, remember? What I could do once I could do twice." She looked at the closed doors to the main saloon. "Do we really have to go back in there? Joanne's cracking the whip, and it isn't pretty."

"Cracking the-oh," Sterling said, his cheeks flushing an embarra.s.sed pink. "You meant that figuratively, didn't you, Maggie? Although, with Miss Pertuccelli, anything seems possible. So sorry."

"You don't like her, Sterling?" Maggie asked. "You like everybody."

Sterling looked behind him, as if to be sure no one would overhear, then said, "Perry has told me a few not-very-nice stories about the woman. She's, um, she's quite the taskmaster. And she hangs things over people's heads, and demands favors, and would be unkind to her own mother to save a penny. That is, so Perry told me. Although he didn't say 'unkind.' I can't repeat what he said, not in front of you, Maggie."

Saint Just and Maggie exchanged smiles before he asked her exactly how Joanne was cracking the whip.

"She's making them all run lines," Maggie told him. "Rehearsing. She said that as long as everyone's staying awake all night, there's no reason not to work. And you know, in a way, she's probably got a good idea. If they're working, they can't be speculating about the murderer, getting themselves all bent out of shape."

"Bent out of-I'm doing it again, aren't I?" Sterling asked. "Sorry. But for a moment, all I could think was how uncomfortable that might be and-do go on."

Saint Just took pity on the man. "Sterling? Why don't we go inside, all together, to protect each other, and warm our hands at the fire? It's getting quite chilly here in the hallway."

"Oh, yes, good idea, Saint Just. Capital. Warmer inside. Safer, too, as n.o.body would think to murder anyone with all of us watching."

"He's really scared, isn't he?" Maggie asked Saint Just quietly as Sterling opened the doors and walked inside. "Poor guy. I don't think he's gotten over being kidnapped, not that I blame him. He's much more used to being on the sidelines than in the action."

"I agree. He told me after the incident that he was going to make a valiant attempt to never be a hero again, and I believe we should grant him that wish." Saint Just extended an arm toward the main saloon. "Shall we?"

"Only if you stick close and tell me if you've come up with any great ideas in the past half hour. Because I haven't."

"So sorry to disappoint, but no, I've yet to be brilliant, I'm afraid. Oh dear, look at this sad clutch of hens and c.o.c.ks. I thought they were rehearsing."

"If they're rehearsing a staring match, they are," Maggie said, heading for the refreshment table, which was the only area of the large room that wasn't occupied with unhappy-looking people. Besides, their friends were there, munching on peach pie. "Tabby, Bernie. What's up?"

"My temperature, I think," Bernie said around a mouthful of pie. "But Tabby made me some tea. I'm trying to convince her it'd be better if she'd let me pour some brandy in it."

"She's only saying that to upset everyone," Tabby said, sighing theatrically. "She won't really do it. She's come too far to falter now, haven't you, Bernie?"

"Only if you shut up, Twinkletoes," Bernie said, looking past Saint Just. "Oh, brother, here we go again. I don't know who our murderer is, but he killed the wrong guy. Can't somebody put a muzzle on the dumb blond joke over there?"

Saint Just turned around to see Troy, still in his Regency costume-the only one who was, which made him look dashed silly, actually-standing in the center of the room, the sword cane clutched in his hands.

Saint Just blinked, looked again. Hmmm. Interesting. And perhaps helpful at some point? One never knew when serendipity could be twisted about, worked to one's own advantage.

"Has the Troy Toy been a bad boy in my absence, Bernie?" he asked.

"You mean a stupid boy, Alex. I'm an editor. I know which is the right word, the more descriptive word. 'Bad' is too vague. 'Stupid'? Perfect choice. Simple, yet effective. He went from person to person a few minutes ago, demanding each tell him where they were all day. Gave us all sheets of paper to write down the details. Evan ripped the paper in half right in front of him. I could like that guy if he wasn't such a p.r.i.c.k. Sorry, pardon my French, Sterling."

Sterling, who had joined them, blushed and nodded, then took himself off to sit beside Perry on one of the couches.

"So n.o.body gave Troy a listing of their activities?" Maggie asked. "b.u.mmer. That actually could have helped. Except that I was pretty much alone for a good part of the morning, so I don't have much of an alibi."

"True, but you weren't alone for the entire day," Saint Just reminded her, earning himself a quick, sharp nudge in the ribs from her talented elbow. "But what is he up to now?"

As if to answer Saint Just, Troy tucked the sword cane under his arm and clapped his hands three times. "Once more, people. If you won't write down what I've asked you to write down, which was what you were doing all day, if you'll remember, then we'll just go around the room and, when I point to you with this cane, you'll tell me what you were doing. Understand?"

Joanne Pertuccelli stood up and grabbed the sword cane, which Troy had begun to wave about his head. "I told you before, Troy, knock it the h.e.l.l off. You aren't Charlie Chan. Nikki! Get over here, and bring those scripts." She glared at Troy, then let go of the sword cane when it appeared that if she didn't, Troy was willing to play tug-of-war with it. "Page forty-seven, Troy. And remember, the word is 'perambulate,' not 'percolate.' Armand! Time the scene."

"Time your own d.a.m.n scene," Arnaud said in his strangely thin, high voice. "I quit. This project is cursed, anybody knows that. Jinxed. First the flood, then Sam goes and gets himself killed. It can only get worse, not better, and I'm bailing as soon as I can phone my agent. I'm not working on a jinxed project."

Sterling turned around on the couch to look, wide-eyed, at Saint Just, who simply shook his head and smiled, hoping to allay his friend's fears.

"That's it," Maggie said suddenly, turning her back to the room as she spoke quietly out of the side of her mouth. "Alex, that's it. That's what was wrong about her. Joanne's missing her stopwatch. She's always got it around her neck. Always touching it, the way you touch your quizzing gla.s.s. Talisman. Good luck charm. Worry stone. Whatever. But it's not there."

Saint Just fingered the grosgrain ribbon on his quizzing gla.s.s. "Very observant of you, Maggie. I hadn't noticed. However, now that I have, and when I consider what the missing stopwatch might mean, I believe you and I need to view the body."

Maggie stiffened next to him. "You want to run that one by me again?" she asked as Joanne and Arnaud descended into a screaming match that lent nothing to the atmosphere save a covering noise so that he and Maggie could speak without being overheard. "No, never mind, I got it. You expect me to go with you to look at Sam's body? Thanks, but no thanks. I'm going to be way too busy twiddling my thumbs or something. Nope. Not me. Not going there. I gave you the clue; you run with it."

"Ah, but there's something I neglected to tell you earlier, my dear," Saint Just said smoothly. "You being a woman. Squeamish and all."

"Squeamish?" Maggie turned around, grabbed him by the elbow. "I'll show you squeamish. And don't think I don't know you're manipulating me, because I do. But come on, let's get on with it. We both know I was going to go."

How he adored this woman. "If you insist," he said, then bowed to the ladies and begged their leave before he and Maggie headed out into the hallway once more and off to the morning room.

Maggie matched him pace for pace, until they got to the closed door to the morning room, at which time she put on the brakes with a vengance. "Tell me what I'm going to see. You did dress him again, didn't you? I mean, I see bodies on autopsy tables all the time on CSI, but I know they're plastic. The actor reaches into the body and pulls out the heart, no big deal. Plastic and rubber and fake blood. I can handle that. This is the real thing."

"Maggie, I didn't scour the kitchens for a sharp knife and make a Y-cut in the man's chest," Saint Just said, amused. "And Undercuffler is covered most modestly, above and below, with quite lovely tablecloths Sir Rudy sacrificed to the cause. Although I doubt Undercuffler is too worried about his modesty."

Maggie took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "Okay. Okay, okay. Let's do this."

"That's my girl. Pluck to the backbone," Saint Just said, extracting a key from his pocket and inserting it in the lock. "We wouldn't want Undercuffler to get up and wander away, would we?" he asked, pushing open the door.

"Very funny. You're a real barrel of laughs," Maggie said, holding up her oil lantern as Saint Just did the same.

They entered slowly, just as lightning flashed outside the windows, lighting up the room-and the body-for a few seconds before thunder crashed overhead. "Oh, great, that's just what I needed-special effects. And yup, there he is. How about I stay over here, and you just tell me what you think I should see?"

"Two reasons, my dear, the first being that I wasn't quite sure I saw what I saw the first time I looked. But by now, postmortem bruising may have helped define what I saw."

"So now it's postmortem bruising. Who the h.e.l.l do you think you are, Alex? A forensic scientist or something? You watch television, that's all."

"And I read books, as a true devotee should always seek to increase his knowledge," he said, putting a hand on her elbow and guiding her closer to the table, which was easily accessible now that all of the chairs had been lined up against the walls. "Some marks on a body become more intense after death. Please don't ask me to explain why, but I do believe I could incorporate some of the more elementary conclusions in our future stories, as a body is a body, no matter in which century death occurred, yes? I should like us to be more technical in future. Expand my horizons, as it were."

"Captialize on the current forensics rage to increase readership, you mean, don't you?"

"Yes. That, too. Am I so transparent?"

"I'm not even going to answer that. But it's a good idea, actually. Okay, we're here. Sam's here. Show me what you want to show me so we can make like shepherds and get the flock outta here."

"Charming." Saint Just retrieved a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves from the tabletop and put them on. "Marylou offered them to both Arnaud and myself, having found them in the kitchens. Good girl, Marylou. Always eager to help."

"You look ridiculous," Maggie said, shaking her head. "Like you don't want dishpan hands. I wouldn't be caught dead in those things."

"Really? In that case, would you be so kind as to put your bare hands under each side of Undercuffler's jaws and help me lift back his head?"

"Yeah. That's going to happen. And you've made your point. Go ahead. Show off. And then let's get out of here. This is really creepy, as if you don't already know that."

Saint Just walked to the short end of the table and grabbed hold of Undercuffler's jaw, lifting the head up and back only with considerable effort. The body was very cold, cold enough for Saint Just to feel that cold through the gloves. "He moves even less easily now. Hmmm. Now, if you'll hold up the oil lantern, please, and take a close look at our friend's throat?"

"Oh, G.o.d." Maggie stepped closer, lifted the lantern just as another round of lightning and thunder added their bit to the scene. "What am I supposed to be looking at? I can see the bruising where the rope bit into his neck. Even ripped the skin. And some-are those scratches?-that are vertical, not horizontal. Wow. That had to hurt."

"I'm convinced it did, yes. Now look higher, to the very top of his throat, at the back of the chin. Do you see more bruising?"

Maggie glared at Saint Just for a moment, then stepped closer, looked. "Yes. Wow, Alex, there's a second bruise. Not as bad, but it's there. Wider, a little b.u.mpy-like it hit harder in places. How did that get there?"

Saint Just lowered Undercuffler's head and stepped away from the body. "The drapery cord-braided silk-was softer. And the second bruise was much higher on the throat, much in the way it would be if someone were hanging from a makeshift noose. I have the length of drapery cord that was around his neck here somewhere, and I believe if I were to now compare it to the two different lines of bruising, it would fit the second one. The postmortem one, as it were."

"I'll take your word for that," Maggie said. "So what caused the first one? And, yes, I think I already know where this is going. But I still want to hear you say it."

"Very well. The other line of bruising, the thinner line, the cut skin, is much lower, actually a fairly straight line across the Adam's apple, indeed, around the entire neck. Not at all the sort of line you'd expect from a noose. Now, as you say you already know, what does that tell us?"

Maggie walked over to the line of chairs, sat down. "Okay, I'll play. We'll start slow, since you seem to want to build the suspense, although I have to tell you, being your straight man isn't all it's cracked up to be. I'm going to be nicer to Sterling in your next book."

"Maggie? Please stay on point, if you will."

"Bite me. All right, all right. It tells us, oh, great and learned Saint Just, how Sam died. He was strangled. Choked with something. Something thinner than the drapery cord. Gee," she said, rolling her eyes theatrically, "I wonder what it was. Oh, and wrapped around his neck with a lot of force, too, right? No woman did that."

"Thank you. I concur. Undercuffler was most likely surprised from behind, as someone looped the murder weapon over his head and pulled. Twisted. Undercuffler had to have put up a struggle, but to no avail. It's difficult to struggle for long when one's airway is being impeded. Still, the exercise had to have taken considerable time, at least three to five minutes, as this was not your typical garrote, where a knot is placed in the weapon and pressed against the Adam's apple-or two knots are placed along the length to correspond with the carotids-either ploy considerably shortening the exercise. No, not a quick or pleasant death, Maggie, but definitely a determined murderer."

"I don't know if I'm glad or disgusted that we both know so much about this stuff." Maggie sat back, folded her arms, rather hugged herself. "I don't like doing this, but okay, let's imagine it. The killer sneaks up behind Sam, throwing the rope, string, whatever-since you're still holding onto the punchline-over his head, twists, pulls back hard. Sam is surprised. Shocked. Scared. He reaches up with both hands, scratches at his skin trying to get the rope off. But the other guy is stronger. Sam kicks, flails, is maybe even lifted off his feet-that's a deep cut in his neck."

"Yes. Undercuffler can't cry out, but he can make noise. We've a rather full house here, so somebody could have heard him. Unless, of course, he was in the attics at the time of death."

"Right up above my head," Maggie said. "Except I wasn't there until after four o'clock or so because I stayed with Bernie all afternoon, and then I was playing music pretty loudly, and then you came in and-okay, okay, so n.o.body heard him. I'll buy that theory. Keep going."

"Sterling and Perry heard bats," Saint Just said. "But I don't think that means anything, unless what they actually heard was the squeaking of hinges as the murderer returned to the scene of the crime and opened a window in preparation of hanging Undercuffler outside on the scaffold. That's all you would have heard, Maggie, as the murder itself had to have taken place much earlier, perhaps shortly after you two argued. Other than the murderer, you may have been the last person to see the fellow alive, in point of fact. In any event, I believe we may consider Sterling's fear of bats a lucky escape, if the murderer was busy with Undercuffler's body at the time."

"Oh, man, don't tell Sterling. But that would explain the bats, too, wouldn't it? It was already dark. A couple could have flown in the open window. If the killer left it open, that is. Do bats fly in the rain? Birds don't, I don't think. So I don't think we can be sure about the bats." She slapped her hands on her thighs and stood up. "Okay, upstairs, right? We have to check out the attics."

"And discover, as we search, Joanne's stopwatch?"

Maggie sat down again. "And there it is, the punchline. I almost forgot that part. You're saying the cord on her stopwatch was the murder weapon? But Joanne isn't strong enough to keep the cord tight around Sam's throat long enough to kill him. Is she?"

"I doubt that highly," Saint Just agreed, stripping off the yellow gloves and placing them back on the tabletop. "Which does not, however, explain why she is no longer wearing said stopwatch, does it?"

Maggie stood up once more. "She probably has a reasonable explanation. h.e.l.l, I would. Maybe the same person who took our cell phones also took her stopwatch. Although I wouldn't know why he would. Besides, I don't think the cell phones were taken until after Sam was dead. That screams crime of pa.s.sion and a clumsy cleanup and follow-up, neither of which can hold up for long, and the killer-killers-have to know that. This isn't getting any clearer, Alex, and if that flood out there starts receding, we're also running out of time."

Saint Just felt a pang of guilt over keeping secret the fact that he still possessed his cell phone. But that pang both came and left quickly. "Yes, I know. But perhaps a visit to the attics will make everything clearer. Shall we?"

"Since I don't see any way out of it, sure," Maggie said, leading the way back out of the morning room, then turning left.

"Where are you going?"

"The servant stairs are at the end of the hall on our floor, so it has to be the same on this one. I saw Sterling and Perry heading that way earlier. Sterling was carrying a b.u.t.terfly net. Somehow that's not so funny now as it was then."

"I agree. But I believe we might check on the others before continuing our investigation. Just to know that everyone is where they should be?"