High Heels And Homicide Part 16

"I thought I heard someone out here. We're back inside, most of us," Troy told them, then looked down at the open notebook he carried. "Let's see. Arnaud-we patched things up-Sir Rudy, Marylou, your two friends, Dennis. The Sterlings. Evan says he's staying in his room unless the place catches fire."

"I'm beginning to believe I really misjudged that man," Saint Just said, smiling.

"Uh-huh," Troy said, running his fingertip down the page. "Who else? Nikki's not here. Probably doing sit-ups somewhere, or her nails. She doesn't have any talent, you know, just the body. That goes and she's done, and she knows it. Paris Hilton without daddy's money behind her. She's thirty already, probably more than that, so she's almost gone now. I mean, really? Boffo Transmissions? Tabloid covers? Oh, here she comes."

Maggie turned to see Nikki bounding onto the landing. The actress waved again, jogging in place, as she asked, "Everybody back downstairs?"

"We think so, yes, except for Mr. Pottinger, who has barricaded himself in his bedchamber for the duration, I believe," Alex told her.

"Okay. Good. I'll go change. See ya!" she chirped, then took off toward the second floor.

"Bed aerobics, stair-climbing," Maggie said quietly. "I guess there's ways, and ways, to feel the burn, huh?"

"Troy?" Alex asked, clearly ignoring her remark. "I may have misinformed Miss Campion just now. You didn't mention the nephew or Miss Pertuccelli."

"Oh, right. Byrd's in there, and pretty p.i.s.sed, if you ask me. He doesn't like that his uncle and Marylou are-you know. Hitting it off? I guess I wouldn't, either, if I was the old guy's only heir."

"And Miss Pertuccelli?"

"Hey, I can't keep tabs on everybody," Troy said, checking his list again. "Nope. I haven't checked her off. But I can check you two off now, right? It's good to be organized."

"Hold that thought, Troy," Maggie told him, then looked at Alex. "You wanted to see if there's any peanut b.u.t.ter in the kitchens, Alex, right?"

"Indeed, yes. I've developed quite a pa.s.sion for peanut b.u.t.ter. But good work, Troy. Capital! We'll rejoin you shortly."

"Twit," Maggie said, shaking her head as Troy turned and marched back into the main saloon, still wearing his Regency Era costume.

"Ah, that's an interesting change. I believe, my dear, you have just put one of my words into your mouth. Although I totally agree, poor fellow. But he does try."

Maggie aimed the flashlight beam down the hallway as they made their way to the servant stairs leading down to the kitchens on the ground floor. "You're being awfully nice. I thought you couldn't stand the guy."

"As me, yes, that's true. Evan Pottinger would have done a much better job, much as it pains me to acknowledge that anyone save myself could do me justice. You've said that it's possible Joanne picked the actors for each role, or at least had a hand in the decisions, correct?"

"So why did she pick Troy Toy?" Maggie asked, sure that was Alex's question. "His Q rating, probably, or whatever it's called. And that, before you ask me, is some sort of gauge of how popular a person is with the viewing public. Then again, who can understand Hollywood? I mean, somebody thought Brad Pitt would be a real knockout in Troy."

Saint Just held open the door for her. "I beg your pardon?"

"Troy. The movie, not the Troy Toy. I just thought of that because the names are the same. But there's plenty of movies where the lead character is cast because the actor is a big star-not that our Troy is a big star, but he is a hit on the soaps, according to Sterling. I remember catching part of an old movie on cable one night. John Wayne-big cowboy movie star long ago-as Genghis Khan or something. The studio guys must have figured they could just stick him in any movie at all and have a hit. Hollywood is shameless."

"We all are, at one point or another," Alex said, entering the kitchens behind her. "Now, where would one keep plastic bags, do you think?"

"What? Oh, for the stopwatch? I don't know. Look around over there. I'll check the other room. Big kitchen."

"Kitchen, pantry, knife room, butler's and housekeeper's sitting room and bedchambers, etcetera. Estate kitchens were ma.s.sive ent.i.ties," Saint Just said. "Ah, here we go. Maggie?"

"Hang on a sec," she called to him, still poking around, shining the flashlight into dark rooms. "This is great, you know? I mean, there's books, there's the Internet, but this is actually seeing what I write about. I wish I had my camera. h.e.l.l, I wish we had lights."

"We do have rainwear, if that's any consolation," Alex said as she rejoined him, pointing to a wide, stone-paved hallway and a row of hooks holding several sweaters, coats, and four or five bright yellow slickers. There was a rack holding rubbers and boots below the hooks.

"Hey, this is a bonus," Maggie said, propping her flashlight on a low table as she grabbed one of the slickers. "Look, aren't those Sir Rudy's waders over there? Come on, that's got to be the door to the outside back there. You want boots? I'm putting on boots."

"Rather unlovely," Alex remarked, holding up one of the slickers to examine it. "But serviceable."

"Wait a minute," Maggie said, snapping her slicker shut. "Before we go out into the monsoon, let's talk about the cell phone a little more, all right?"

"I'd rather not," Alex said, looking handsome in his own slicker-which really made her angry because she was pretty sure she looked like Rubber Duckie. "But, in my own defense, I believed at the time that concealing the fact that I still possessed a working cell phone was prudent."

"How so?"

"Think, Maggie. If we could have phoned for a.s.sistance, and received it, our entire party might have scattered to the four winds before the local constabulary discovered that Undercuffler's death was not, after all, a suicide."

"You would have told them."

"Ah, but would they have listened? And I'll admit to harboring a few lingering doubts of my own, until Joanne told us about the missing cell phones. Do you know what those missing cell phones mean, Maggie?"

"You're doing it again," she reminded him, bristling. "What do they mean? They mean we can't contact anybody until the water goes down. And, yeah, I agree, they mean Sam was murdered, even without the second rope mark on his neck, not to mention the lack of a suicide note. The guy was a writer, Alex. He would have left a note. A long note. You know, good-bye cruel and uncaring world-all that stuff?"

"You are the expert there, I'm sure," Alex conceded, smiling. "But what the missing cell phones meant to me, Maggie, is that Undercuffler's murder was impromptu, not planned. Gathering up the cell phones, indeed, opening the service doors down here to allow the water easier entry to the generators? Slapdash efforts to keep us isolated here for a while, for one reason or another. I'm attempting to a.s.suage my conscience now for keeping my cell phone a secret, I know, but we are in agreement thus far?"

"You know we are. And I forgot about that one part. Sir Rudy did say someone left the doors open, didn't he? That wasn't an accident." Maggie clapped her hands together a single time in front of herself, then pointed both index fingers at Saint Just. "So that's it, Alex. It's the old story. Sam heard or saw something he wasn't supposed to hear or see while he was poking around, looking for filming sites, and they killed him. Somebody killed him. We'll say 'they,' because we already know Joanne couldn't have lifted Sam's body by herself and it was her stopwatch we found, right?"

"Joanne may still be innocent, remember? The stopwatch could have been misplaced, then appropriated."

"I'm not buying that one and neither are you, not really. She probably doesn't take that thing off even when she sleeps. We could ask Evan, I guess, since he slept with her. Anyway, they were interrupted in whatever it was they were doing. They weren't done yet, so they needed to stay here a little while longer, to finish whatever it was they'd started, which wouldn't happen if the cops showed up."

"Ah, but what had these nameless they started? Sir Rudy has some lovely artwork, I've noticed, but nothing anyone would consider priceless. And paintings would be missed, commented on. Still, a robbery of some sort is the most logical conclusion."

Alex pulled out his pocket watch, held it up beside the oil lantern. "Later and later. Shall we push on?"

"You're really willing to give this up, turn everything over to the local cops?"

"Lowering as that prospect is, yes. We've been at this for hours, with no real, tangible results. If we were in Manhattan, I confess I would have contacted the good left-tenant by now."

"I miss Steve, too. I mean, the man carries a gun. I don't like guns, but there's a time and place for everything, you know?"

"Are you suggesting that I cannot protect you?"

Maggie sighed. "No, that's not what I said. I know you can protect me. I can protect myself, too. Don't put words in my mouth."

Alex's grin was positively wicked. "Poor dear girl. I believe I can sympathize with that particular plea."

"I'll have a smart comeback for that one, Alex-check with me in the morning, okay?" Maggie turned the large, old-fashioned key that was already inserted in an equally large, old-fashioned lock, and pushed open the door, immediately getting hit in the face by wind-whipped rain. The floodwater was easily seen, deep enough in spots to have its own whitecaps, which meant she was probably looking at the pond. Medwine Manor could have been picked up and dropped down in Venice, there was that much water everywhere. Unfortunately, there were no gondoliers poling past, singing "O Sole Mio" and asking if Maggie and Saint Just wanted a lift.

"Steady on," Alex said, taking her arm. "Perhaps you should stay here while I see if I can locate any visible paths above the water level. Someone must have been farsighted enough to have the paths elevated at the time of construction."

"Sounds like a plan, even while I think I should point out that someone didn't think to do that with the front drive," Maggie agreed, pulling the hood of the slicker closer over her face. "I'll keep the lantern, you take the flashlight."

Backing against the stone wall, out of the wind, Maggie watched as Alex disappeared into the dark, walking with an ease and posture that hinted that he was having himself a lovely stroll on a sunny spring day. The man had panache...

"See anything?" she called out a minute later. "Alex? Can you hear me?"

"Still walking, Maggie, so that's encouraging," he called back to her. "The path is composed of rather slippery cobblestones and is nearly covered with water, as it borders the pond to the left, but I believe it could be pa.s.sable for a single person on foot."

"What? I didn't catch all of that. Oh, h.e.l.l," Maggie said, hoping the oil lantern wouldn't go out as she inched her way beyond the shelter of the stone walls.

Why would anyone build a house-a mansion, for crying out loud-at the bottom of a basin? And surrounded on three sides by a stream and a pond. That was just asking for it every time it drizzled.

"Alex? You still out there? Come on, talk to me, so I know you didn't step in a hole and drown or something."

"Go back, Maggie. There's rather deep water on either side of the path-the pond on the left, the flooding on the right. It's dangerous out here."

"For who? Whom?" she corrected, wincing. "For a woman?"

"Maggie," Alex called out, his voice coming to her through the sound of rumbling thunder. "Not now!"

"Right, bad timing," she said, figuratively slapping herself. Now was definitely not the time. She wished she'd never seen that drawing showing another exit to this swamp. She wished, if she'd had to see it, she hadn't pointed it out to Alex. Not that he hadn't seen the thing on his own.

She wished she was warm. She wished the rain would stop, and this night would be over, and the sun would come up, and...and that Alex could solve Sam's murder before then, because she knew he wanted to make it up to her for what he'd done to that miserable man back in Manhattan-who, yes, had probably deserved anything he got-but even heroes have to obey some rules.

"Alex? Come back! We'll wait until morning! d.a.m.n it, Alex-stop playing the hero!"

I love you anyway. That was the tag end for that sentence, and Maggie knew it. If she were writing this whole stupid story as one of her books, that would be the logical next line of dialogue. But she didn't say the words. She couldn't say those words.

Because she wasn't Rubber Duckie. She was Cowardly Chicken.

Her head down, Maggie plodded back along the slippery stone path toward the door, holding the oil lantern low, the better to guide her steps.

Then she got silly. Maybe she was tired, maybe she was even a little punch-drunk. Something. With a nervous giggle, she cast herself in the role of night watchman, one of the Charlies that once patrolled the streets of Regency England. "Ten o'clock and all's not well-l-l-l-l," she sang, swinging the lantern from side to side.

And that's how she saw it. That flash of bright yellow slicker on the ground just at the foundation and a good ten feet from the path as the light from the oil lantern skimmed over it.

She extended her arm, shining the light more fully in the direction of the splash of color as she carefully-and very reluctantly-picked her way closer. Then, for about the count of six, she just...just sort of stared.

Finally, Maggie found her voice. "Nine little Indians. Oh, s.h.i.t. And I'm not going to faint. This time I am not going to faint. This time, I'm going to scream. Alex! Alllll-ex.x.xxx!"

Chapter Thirteen.

Saint Just stood in front of the mirror in his a.s.signed bedchamber, rubbing his wet hair with a thick white towel.

"Saint Just?"

"Yes, Sterling?" he answered, able to see his friend's reflection in the mirror as Sterling perched on the edge of the high tester bed rather like an apprehensive hovering angel.

"I...um...this is all beginning to be a little much, isn't it? I mean, first Mr. Undercuffler and now Miss Pertuccelli? Poor thing. That was a rather large knife stuck in her, wasn't it?"

"Where it remains-stuck in her, that is, as we wouldn't want to tamper with the evidence. And, yes, Sterling, a quite unfortunate demise. Very much unexpected-most obviously by me."

"It was good of Lord Hervey-that is, Mr. Pottinger-to a.s.sist you in carrying the body into the dining room. I would have performed that particular service with you, Saint Just, had you asked, although I will be eternally grateful that you did not."

"I somehow sensed that, yes," Saint Just said, arranging his hair as he employed the twin pair of small, silver-backed brushes engraved with his family crest. Or, at least, what Maggie had envisioned as his family crest. The brushes had been one of his small indulgences once his finances had taken such a sunny turn with the advent of Fragrances by Pierre into his life.

"Do you think Miss Pertuccelli is the last of them? Bodies, that is."

"We can only live in hope, as we're rapidly running scarce on laying-out tables," Saint Just said, slipping into a black cashmere sports jacket he had chosen to wear over black slacks and a black silk pullover sweater. "How do I look, Sterling? Properly funereal, I trust? I suppose I could hunt up something to serve as a black armband?"

"This is not a joking matter, Saint Just," Sterling said sternly, pushing himself off the bed. "Perry said we could all be dead by morning."

"Did he now? And where is your new friend, Sterling? I've discovered this recent obsession-that of counting noses."

Sterling frowned, then brightened. "Oh, yes, of course. He's with the others, I suppose, in the main saloon. I believe everyone was more than willing to obey your suggestion on that head. I never thought I could become so dreadfully disenchanted with England. Can we please go home, Saint Just?"

"As soon as may be, dear friend," Saint Just a.s.sured him as he located his quizzing gla.s.s and draped it over his head, sliding the gla.s.s into the breast pocket of his jacket. No matter what the ruckus, no matter how upsetting the situation, one must always strive to be well-groomed. "But it's good to know that at least we won't have to worry about everyone scattering w.i.l.l.y-nilly all over the mansion. And, as Sir Rudy has put in a call to the local constabulary now that I've belatedly located my cell phone, we should be very shortly joined by those good gentlemen."

"Oh, I didn't tell you? So sorry. But as you were up here, changing out of your wet clothing, you don't know, do you?"

Indicating with a small sweep of his arm that Sterling should precede him to the door, Saint Just said, "I know many things, Sterling. But you know something I do not know, yes?"

"Oh, yes. Sir Rudy was quite put out about it, as were we all, but it would seem that the local office of the police is rather small. Miniscule enough that everyone toddles off home at six, so that Sir Rudy could only leave a message on an answering machine. No one at the police station will come back on duty until the morning."

"Six, you say? Already too late, even if we had summoned them at once. And that, Sterling, would comfort me more if I wasn't aware that there doubtless are other calls Sir Rudy could make."

Sterling stepped to one side to allow Saint Just to precede him down the staircase to the first floor. "Oh, he did, he did. But there's still the bother of all that water, you understand. We've been told to sit tight until the morning and hope it stops raining. And it is well after midnight now, in any case. We're to stay together in the main saloon, just as you already said, although I don't think we're a very jolly party."

"Is Evan dressed and downstairs again?"

"Mr. Pottinger? Yes. And sitting with his back to the wall while dedicatedly drinking most anything he can find. He said something about Miss Pertuccelli not feeling any more dead than any other time he touched her, but n.o.body but Miss Campion laughed, and he really doesn't look at all in plump currant. Mr. Arnaud Peppin, who accompanied him to his room as a sort of guard, or swimming buddy, as Tabby termed the thing, is with him. Have we spoken earlier of the coincidence of all the P's, Saint Just? Peppin. Pottinger. Pertuccelli. And Perry. Perry Posko. He's got two."

Saint Just paused at the foot of the stairs. "And you think this means something important, Sterling?"

"You mean as a clue? No," Sterling said, slightly abashed. "But it is interesting, isn't it? And somewhat confusing?"

"Life is often confusing, Sterling. That's what makes the thing so endlessly interesting, and what, most of all, prompted me to bring us here."

"And Maggie. You wanted to see Maggie. Be with Maggie."

Saint Just raised one expressive eyebrow. "I am as a pane of gla.s.s to you, aren't I, my dear friend? How extraordinarily humbling. Shall we join the others?"

"I wonder if Maggie's still shivering," Sterling said, pushing open the doors and stepping into the main saloon. "We piled her with blankets because she said she's so cold, but I think it may be more than that. Poor thing, she suffered more than one shock today."

"Discovering rather messily disposed-of bodies is probably never a jolly event, no matter how often one indulges in the exercise," Saint Just agreed, his gaze immediately going to Maggie, who sat curled on one of the couches, rather coc.o.o.ned in blankets.