High Heels and Homicide (19 page)

Maggie turned on her heels and led the way back to the stairs, grumbling under her breath as she went.

 
 

Saint Just had just finished rapping on the wall around the fireplace when Maggie came back into her bedchamber dressed in yet another pair of blue jeans, another rather lovely sweater, red this time. She slammed the door behind her.

“Do you know what's worse than trying to wash with cold water? I'll tell you.
Nothing
. I don't know how permanent-press clothes stand it.”

“I'm sure that means something,” he said, striking a casual pose as she tossed a damp towel onto the bed, then appeared to think better of that particular resting place and picked up the towel again, threw it on the carpet instead. “But don't you look…bright and shiny, my dear.”

“Funny. Real funny,” Maggie said, rubbing at her cheeks. “But if you think I'm going to put on makeup because of that crack, you are
so
wrong.” She rummaged in her suitcase and came out with a gray hooded sweatshirt with “New York Mets” emblazoned on the front in large, fuzzy letters (he'd bought the thing for her, as a gift, from the nicest street vendor, who swore to its authenticity), and struggled into it as she mumbled something.

“I beg your pardon?”

With one last tug on the bottom of the sweatshirt, Maggie popped her head out of the neck and said, as she ruffled her hair with her fingers, “Never mind. I shouldn't have said that word anyway. You ready to go downstairs?”

Saint Just walked over to her and dropped a kiss on the tip of her shiny nose. “You're a quite adorable hoyden at times, you know.”

“Yeah. That's me. Adorable tomboy. And just when I was feeling so frail and feminine. Thanks. Now come on, it's cold as a tomb in here. I can't believe anyone lived in this pile and didn't die of hypothermia.”

“Ah, but the architecture is beautiful, you must admit,” Saint Just said as they returned to the main saloon.

“I've seen some pretty good-looking mausoleums, too,” Maggie told him as she trailed one hand down the stone banister, then hesitated once they were looking at the closed doors to the main saloon. “Okay, once more into the breech, my friends, once more—and all that crap.”

Chuckling at her determined belligerence, Saint Just opened the doors, then bowed as he indicated that Maggie should precede him into the large chamber.

“Oh, dear,” he said as everyone ignored their entrance. “There may be candles in their holders and a roaring fire in the grate, but I believe it may be colder in here than in the attics. Not precisely a
cheery
group, wouldn't you say?”

“What did you expect? They'd all be playing charades and laughing their heads off? Come on, let's get some wine. I'm freezing. Maybe it will warm me up.”

Saint Just followed her to the drinks table, where Bernie quickly joined them.

Bernie pressed her hands together in front of herself, as if in prayer. “One. Just one short Scotch. Please? Just to take the chill off. Come on, quick. Tabby's not looking.”

“Bernie, you know you can't,” Maggie told her as Saint Just poured two glasses of wine, then filled a third glass from the carafe of water.

“I can too,” Bernie said, taking the glass Saint Just offered her, and throwing back a look that told him that he was not, at this moment, her favorite person in the universe. “I had a Scotch last week while I was out to dinner with Sid. My accountant. Sid. You remember him? I had a Scotch with him, and nothing happened. One Scotch, Maggie. I'm not an alcoholic. Now that I'm over the hump, understand I can't drink to excess, I can go back to enjoying an occasional drink. I'm a…I'm a—well, there's a name for what was wrong with me, but I don't remember it.”

“Try
liar
,” Maggie said, and for a moment it looked as if the two women might square off.

“Now, ladies,” Saint Just said, stepping between them. “Bernie? You really had a drink last week?”

Bernie nodded furiously. “I did. One. And it was nice. I
enjoyed
it. But I didn't have another one. And it
wasn't
a double, Maggie Kelly, before you open that mouth of yours again.”

“Maggie?” Saint Just asked, looking at her, as he was quite out of his depth here. Drinking during the Regency Era had been more or less the accepted thing, no matter that one might stagger home blindly every night or be able to brag of not being sober in thirty years.

Maggie frowned, shrugged, then sighed, all in short order. “Okay.” She spread her arms, shrugged again. “Okay, okay. You want a Scotch, have a Scotch. Maybe you can drink occasionally instead of constantly. Who am I to judge? Besides, I'm not your keeper.”

“Exactly! Quick, Alex, get a pen and paper, and write down the date. We've got a major breakthrough here. Maggie is
not
my keeper.”

Saint Just sighed as Maggie, her lips pressed together firmly, turned and walked across the room, to sit down between Sterling and Perry, who probably felt a new, distinct chill as she did so. “Bernie? I know you're not happy. None of us is happy at the moment. And I know you're feeling poorly, under the weather as it were. But that was rather cruel of you, as you know Maggie well enough to be sure exactly where to place your darts.”

Bernie put down her glass and stabbed the fingers of both hands through her stylishly messed mop of red hair. “I know. Maggie's my best friend, and I'm a bitch. But I feel like hell, Alex. My nose burns, my throat burns, my eyes burn. Tabby's having a good time, damn it.
Tabby!
If anybody should have been in bed with Dennis, it should have been me. It's
always
me. Not Tabby, with her rotten husband and her ungrateful kids and her
scarves
.”

Saint Just gave her a sympathetic hug. “So? Did you really have a Scotch last week?”

Bernie shook her head as she leaned against his chest. “Shirley Temple. Four cherries. That's ginger ale and no booze, for you English. It was pathetic. I'm pathetic. I don't know what to do with myself, you know? I can't even smoke right now, my throat's so sore.”

“Perhaps I can be of some assistance. Would you like to help solve a murder?”

Bernie looked up at him for some moments before a small smile played around her wide, currently unpainted mouth. Poor thing, she did feel bad, didn't she? He couldn't remember ever seeing her without full paint. “You think you know who did it?”

“No, unfortunately. But I know you didn't. So? Would you like to help?”

“Hey, good thought. For once, I'm not a suspect.” Bernie's smile turned into a grin. “Yeah. Yeah, I would like to help. What've you got so far? You got anything?”

“How about I call Maggie over here, and she can fill you in?”

Bernie's smile evaporated. “Right after I apologize for being an ass, right? Oh, you're sneaky, Alex. But effective. Okay. Call her back over here.”

Once Bernie and Maggie had hugged, and sniffled a time or two, and gone off into a corner to talk, Saint Just, feeling rather proud of himself, dared attempt to extend his winning streak by having another converstion with the Troy Toy.

The actor was sitting near the fireplace, sucking on the knob of the sword cane, and looking depressingly like a spoiled child about to explode into a tantrum.

“Hello there, Troy. Any luck with narrowing down the list of suspects?”

Troy looked up at Saint Just, then got to his feet, nearly coming to grief over the sword cane until Saint Just relieved him of it, careful not to touch the gold knob on top. He hefted the thing a time or two, not so much that anyone would notice, then offered it to the man once more. “Here you go. Be careful not to injure yourself.”

Troy grabbed the cane at the middle. “I know how to handle props. And, no, I haven't been lucky. I can't be, not when nobody will even talk to me. It would have been so great if I could have solved Sam's murder, you know? Now it's like he died for nothing, you know?”

He narrowed his eyelids, an action that, for some, made a person appear more intense. For Troy, alas, the resultant expression made him seem only like a confused cocker spaniel. “Do you think it could be Arnie?”

“I beg your pardon? Who?”

“Arnie. Arnaud Peppin,” Troy whispered as he took hold of Saint Just's arm, pulling him closer. “Only he used to be Arnie Peeps. Porno flicks. Not many people know that, but I do. Second-rate porn, too, in Toledo, of all places. Sam might have known. Arnie would want that kept quiet, don't you think?”

“Very possibly,” Saint Just agreed. “Although, if we are considering Arnaud's sadly checkered past as motive—wouldn't
you
be the person we found hanging outside on the scaffolding?”

“Oh. Right.” Troy waved a hand in front of him, as if erasing Arnaud's name from some blackboard visible only to him. “Scratch Arnie, huh?”

“That isn't something I'd wish to do, but please feel free to indulge yourself if you must,” Saint Just said, as enjoying this idiot definitely held less stress than attempting to reason with him.

Troy blinked vacantly, and Saint Just could have sworn he'd seen his small sarcastic indulgence actually wing—
pfffpft!
—straight over the actor's head and disappear.

“Well, anyway,” Troy went on, “nobody's rehearsing. Joanne's nuts if she thinks we'll rehearse with a stiff in the house.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A stiff. A body.
Sam
,” Troy explained. “Sorry. I keep forgetting you English don't know the language all that well.”

“Indeed,” Saint Just said, gifting the man with a small inclination of his head, as if acknowledging the fellow's superior grasp of the language. “But if we can push on? I do think we should inquire once more as to everyone's whereabouts earlier today. Say, from breakfast on?”

Troy grinned. “So you think that's a good idea? Terrific! I knew it was a good idea. I got it from the script. First, we ask where they all were, then we tell them they all had motives—and then the killer makes some sort of mistake, and
bam
, we've got him. Let's do it.”

“I can hardly wait,” Saint Just said as Troy once more took up what he obviously believed to be center stage in the large room and clapped his hands, asking for everyone's attention.

“It's show time? Oh, goodie, I missed the first show,” Maggie said from behind him.

“He's harmless enough, Maggie. I think we should help him out, volunteer our whereabouts for the day.”

“You just want me to have to say you and I—you and me—that we were together in my bedroom. And you'd just love to volunteer that I had my portable CD player turned full blast, and the two of us were dancing while Sam hung around outside my window, and we didn't hear anything anyway because we were
otherwise occupied
. I'd rather be a suspect again.”

As there was no real answer for Maggie's accusation other than the truth, which would damn him, or a lie, which would similarly damn him, Saint Just lightly pressed a finger to her lips to shush her as Troy began to speak.

“Time for alibis. Oh, yes, we're going to do this again, people,” Troy was saying. “Again and again and again, until we get it right.”

“Oh, you mean the way you always have to do it, Troy, if you need to say more than three words during a scene?” Evan asked, showing that, no, it wasn't that much of a stretch for the man to “method act” Lord Hervey, in or out of costume.

Nikki giggled, then turned another page in the magazine she'd been reading. “That's why he's always in bed with some bimbo on his soap—no dialogue, just pecs and abs. One of these days, Troy, they're going to want to see your ass, and it's good-bye career time. Hey! Hey, look at this.”

Saint Just, who was standing behind the couch Nikki seemed to have established as her own, leaned forward slightly on the balls of his feet, looking at the magazine as she held it up for the company.

“That's you, isn't it?” she asked, pivoting sideways in her seat as she looked at Saint Just through the lenses of the small glasses she hadn't been wearing at any other time. “You're the
Pierre
guy. I didn't notice that before. Oh, that's it. I've got to get new contacts.”

“She's resting her eyes, wearing glasses instead of contacts,” Maggie told Saint Just quietly. “Colored contacts. I should have noticed. Her eyes aren't half as blue now, are they? Fake boobs, fake eye color. Do you think those are all her own teeth? I don't. She's probably bald, too.”

“Thank you for that explanation, along with the unnecessary editorial comments. I had wondered,” Saint Just said, then bowed to Nikki. “Guilty as charged, Miss Campion. For my sins, I am the public face of Fragrances by Pierre, yes.”