High Heels and Homicide (16 page)

“I'll bet you did. And look at you now. A real star,” Maggie said, squeezing her folded hands until her knuckles turned white as she forced herself to look serious. Interested. “But that was a movie, Troy, remember? I don't think ghosts actually kill people. Actually, I don't believe in ghosts. So, a ghost killed you in that movie?”

Troy frowned. “Gosh, now I'm not so sure. Maybe it was a mummy?” He spread his hands, shrugged. “Well, that's one more down. This isn't as easy as I thought. No script, you know? I'm great with scripts. My phonographic memory.”

“Photographic,” Maggie corrected, but quietly, because the guy's train of thought was already half off the rails and she didn't want to lose him completely. Just as quietly, she made another mental note for his character in her next book: blond, dandy, brick-stupid, speaks like Mrs. Malaprop. Oh, she was going to have fun with this character—and how great was it that, even with Sam dead in the morning room, she was feeling the urge to write.

“So that's two down, huh? But, hey, you're the writer. Help me out here. Who else have we got?”

“Just look around, Troy,” Maggie told him, also looking around the room, counting heads. One little, two little, three little Indians. “Why don't we two try to narrow down the numbers? Let's deduct you, me, Alex, both Sterlings. Tabby and Bernie, of course.”

Troy narrowed his eyelids as he looked at her. “That was quick. All your friends. And you included me, just to trick me into agreeing with you.” Picking up his sword cane, which had been propped against a chair, he looked down his nose at Maggie, once more playing Saint Just. “Oh, I don't think so, madam. Everyone is a suspect. Every last damn gleeking, dizzy-eyed scallion!”

“Scullion,” Maggie corrected numbly. “You mean scullion. A scallion is a kind of onion.”

“Whatever.” Troy tucked the cane under his arm, turned away from her, then clapped his hands to call the occupants of the room to attention. “Now hear this! Sam Undercuffler is dead, murdered. He did
not
kill himself. Murdered, ladies and gentlemen, and everyone in this room is a suspect.
Everyone
! So…so…
so nobody leaves town
!”

Everyone began talking at once, denying their own guilt, then the sudden noise subsided as everyone began looking at everyone else with suspicion. Great. Now they had a room full of people who were suddenly afraid of each other.

“Wine?” Alex said, handing Maggie a glass.

“What, no hemlock, to put us both out of our misery?” She took the glass, downed half its contents in one gulp. “Did you hear that idiot?” she asked. “Nobody leaves town? But, hey, don't worry, be happy, at least Uncle Willis and yours truly are off the hook as suspects.”

“You said ‘yours truly' because you don't know if the proper pronoun is ‘I' or ‘me,' didn't you, my dear?”

“Sometimes I really hate how well you know me,” Maggie said, allowing him to distract her because she knew him well enough to know that's what he was doing. Unfortunately, in this case, his attempt didn't work for more than five seconds. “Oh, God, Alex, you'd better keep to your promise about solving Sam's murder before dawn because, to paraphrase Will Shakespeare, this is going to be one flap-eared, boil-brained,
long
night.”

“S
aint 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 space, 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
left
–tenant 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 multitude 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 assuming 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 multitude 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 embarrassed 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 nobody 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 cocks. 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 prick. 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 nobody gave Troy a listing of their activities?” Maggie asked. “Bummer. 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 hell 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 damn 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 glass. Talisman. Good luck charm. Worry stone. Whatever. But it's not there.”

Saint Just fingered the grosgrain ribbon on his quizzing glass. “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.”