High Heels and Homicide (17 page)

“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 hell 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, God.” 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 bumpy—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 nobody 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. Hell, 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 passion 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 butterfly 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?”

“Going to count noses are you? Sounds like a plan,” Maggie said, following him.

As they neared the main staircase, Evan Pottinger stepped out from the main saloon. “Going somewhere? If it's anywhere but in there,” he said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the large chamber behind him, “I think I'd like to tag along.”

Saint Just considered this. Perhaps the man was truly bored with the company in the main saloon, or perhaps he was interested in what was happening outside the main saloon. After all, what did anyone know about Evan Pottinger, save that he was an annoying person who thought very highly of his acting skills. “We're going to investigate the attics at the spot where Undercuffler was lowered from the window.”

“Oh. Someone said there's bats up there.” Evan shrugged. “There's bats down here, come to think of it. Okay, I'm game, I'll go.”

Maggie led the way up the stairs, holding one oil lantern, while Saint Just brought up the rear with the other.

“Is Troy still trying to get everyone to tell him where they've been all day?” Maggie asked as they paused on the landing.

“He was, but everyone ignored him. Just the way everyone's ignoring Joanne and her insane idea that we should forget there's a murderer among us and get in some rehearsing. Somebody has to remind me why I slept with the bitch to get this part. I could play rings around Troy as Saint Just.”

“I believe you could, yes,” Saint Just said as they made their way along the landing and into the unrenovated wing of the building. “You actually made love with the woman?”

“Made love? Buddy, nobody makes love where I come from. Sex is a commodity, and we buy it and sell it and lend it and borrow on it. Joanne was offering a part, I needed the work—there's the couch, try not to take longer than ten minutes, and don't mess my hair. I figured I'd be doing stud duty for the whole shoot, but she cut me off the minute we got here. She's banging somebody, though. She always is.”

Saint Just stopped at the door that opened onto the servant stairs. “And who do you suppose that someone might be, Evan?”

“I dunno. Could be anybody. Well, not anybody. I overheard her yesterday arguing with somebody—unless she was talking to herself. Didn't see either one of them, though, as I was on my way upstairs and I'm not sure where the voices were coming from—the way sounds bounce off the high ceilings and all this marble, you know? Joanne should have thought of that. The soundman's going to have fits with the echos in here. Anyway, Joanne was having a cow about bringing her diaphragm through customs for no reason, and he'd damn well better keep his pants zipped unless he was unzipping them for her.”

“Thank you,” Saint Just said, very much aware that Maggie had heard every word. “I think we now have a general understanding of Miss Pertuccelli.”

“Your ears are red, Mr. Urbane,” Maggie teased, slipping past him up the stairs. Once at the top, she bent down, picked up the butterfly net. “Sterling and Perry must have left the attics in a hurry.”