High Heels and Homicide (20 page)

Marylou, who had been wandering about the room carrying a tray she was loading up with dirty glasses and plates, stopped in front of Saint Just. “Dang, I couldn't hear that. I missed something, didn't I? What did I miss? Who are you? Are you somebody?”

Saint Just smiled at the young woman, who really should have been kept under her parents' wing a lot longer, perhaps decades longer. “My dear, we are
all
somebody.”

Marylou wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, but not so as it counts, you know? But I'm getting there. Sir Rudy has a title, you know.”

Maggie laughed shortly as Marylou moved on, picking up another glass. “Lucky Marylou,” she said. “I guess Sir Rudy gives her another entry in her
‘Celebrities I Have Banged' Diary—Overseas Division
. And you like her, even feel a little sorry for her, so you're going to pretend I didn't say that, right?”

“Exactly,” Saint Just said as Troy, who had been looking at the advertisement, called himself back to attention.

“This isn't getting us anywhere, so I'll start, okay?” Troy suggested, tucking the sword cane beneath his arm. “I got up around seven, dressed, came down here, and ate breakfast. I saw you, Evan, and you, Nikki—and Sam.”

“Then Arnaud, you came in, right? I left everybody to go run the stairs a couple of times, then do my ab crunches. But I remember that Sam was really getting hot about the writer, how she was driving him nuts,” Nikki added. “I remember that.”

“Hey,” Maggie cut in when everyone turned to look at her. “I don't kill people.”

“You write about killing people,” Troy said, except his tone made the words an accusation, one that faltered badly as he added, “It's almost the same thing.”

“Right. You run up and down the stairs with that one a few times. Jerk,” Maggie said in disgust, so that Saint Just knew he had to step in, yet again. No wonder he'd decided to
pop
into Maggie's world. Somebody had to protect the dear girl from herself.

“Maggie, if you'd tell us, please, about your last encounter with Sam Undercuffler?” he asked smoothly.

She was still glaring at Troy, her lower jaw thrust out, her green eyes sparkling. “The last time I saw him was this morning, out there, on the landing.
Alive
.” She turned to Saint Just. “Then I was with you for a while, on the stairs, remember? Then I fell asleep in Sir Rudy's study. Then I heard some—”

“Yes?” Saint Just prompted when Maggie suddenly closed her mouth with the sort of quick finality that told him she didn't plan on opening it again any time soon. Perhaps never.

“Nothing. I didn't hear—that is, nothing happened. I heard the storm, that's all. Thunder. I fell asleep, I woke up, I grabbed some sandwiches in the kitchens, and I visited with Bernie for a long time. I went back to my room, you came in, Alex, we talked, I pulled back the drapery—well, we all know that part.”

“And yet there remains a
part,
some sequence of events, we clearly don't know,” Saint Just whispered as Troy turned to Evan Pottinger to query him about his whereabouts during the time in question.

“I was going to tell you,” Maggie whispered back while Troy and Evan argued, which wasn't really a fair fight. “I woke up in the study and heard two people arguing, but I couldn't understand what they said, or even what sex they were. Just a couple of words, and I've forgotten most of those, damn it. Maybe the same argument Evan heard parts of too. Something about having something, looking for something. Friendship, maybe? Anyway, it's probably nothing.”

“Saint Just?”

Both Troy and Saint Just turned around to look at Sterling. “Yes?” they said in unison.

Sterling's eyes went wide behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. “I…I mean this one,” he said, pointing at Saint Just.

“Him?” Troy exclaimed, then threw back his head and laughed. “Har. Har. Har.” A really
bad
attempt at an amused, sarcastic laugh. “Look at me, you knavish, dizzy-eyed varlot. What do you think this costume is all about? Does
he
look like Saint Just?”

“Well, um…
yes
. He does,” Sterling said. “He's always looked like Saint Just. Haven't you, Saint Just?”

“My turn,” Maggie said, stepping in front of her creation. “I modeled the fictional Saint Just after my distant cousin here, remember, folks? And Sterling Balder after Alex's friend, Sterling Balder. Alex Blakely became Alexandre Blake, then I tacked on the Viscount part. I didn't even change Sterling's name, and now Sterling calls Alex Saint Just as a sort of joke. See? Simple explanation.”

Arnaud Peppin pushed himself out of the chair he'd been sitting in, his legs drawn up on the seat in rather a fetal position. “Good casting, sweetheart. Now, if your cousin could only act, I might be talked into giving this movie another shot. Troy, you're pathetic.”

“Oh, yeah? And…and you're Arnie Peeps,” Troy shot back.

“Why, you—”

And they were off, the two men standing a good fifteen paces apart, screaming at each other, Arnaud's high-pitched voice particularly grating on the ears.

“Alex? Aren't you going to stop this? Alex?”

Saint Just snapped himself back to attention. “Pardon me? I'm afraid I was once again considering myself in the role of…well, of myself. Still a tantalizing prospect, wouldn't you agree?”

“Only you could think that. The fictional-hero-turned-real Saint Just would play the fictional Saint Just. Talk about not being able to tell the players without a scorecard. Hey, where's everybody going? Alex? Everybody's leaving the room. Stop them.”

But it was already too late. Arnaud's screaming obviously had chased them away. As if Noah had just announced last call, off everyone went, two by two.

Tabby with Dennis/Clarence.

Bernie with the hot-water bottle Marylou had filled from the kettle on the gas stove in the kitchens.

Marylou herself with a widely grinning, all-but-preening Sir Rudy.

Sterling and Sterling…Sterling and Perry, Saint Just corrected mentally.

Joanne, dragging along a suddenly panicky-looking Evan Pottinger.

Byrd Stockwell with Nikki Campion, who was already opening the buttons on her blouse.

And, belatedly bringing up the rear, Arnaud Peppin with his beret (rather damp on one side) and both a glass and the decanter of Scotch.

Which left, oh joy of joys, Maggie, the Troy Toy, and himself.

“No, no,” Saint Just said, taking Maggie's arm. “I vote we leave our master sleuth here by the fire. You?”

“Nobody really should be alone, Alex,” Maggie said, looking at Troy, who had dropped into one of the chairs, his expression—well, blank. He may have meant it to be something else, but
blank
was about all he seemed to manage. “And we haven't even asked Joanne why she isn't wearing her stopwatch, remember?”

“In good time, in good time,” Saint Just said, then gave in to his lamentable soft heart and said, “Troy? If you don't want to be alone, may I suggest you toddle off after Arnaud? I believe he's heading toward the study.”

“Alone? No, I don't want to be left alone. But where are you two going?”

“Bathroom,” Maggie said quickly, then winced. “I mean,
I'm
going to the bathroom. Alex is going to stand guard outside.”

“Oh, well, I don't want to do that,” Troy said. “Guess I'll go kiss up to Arnaud. Never burn a bridge, right?”

“Absolutely,” Saint Just agreed, then took Maggie's hand and headed for the landing, where he turned to the right and led her down to the ground floor of the large mansion.

“W
hy are we going down here?” Maggie asked, glad she'd exchanged the oil lantern for one of the larger flashlights, which she kept trained at her feet, not exactly a big fan of falling down the stairs. “What's down on this floor, anyway?”

“Other than the kitchens, various storage rooms? Only the entrance foyer and a small public receiving room for lesser humans, I believe. Solicitors and such. I'm of the opinion the plan for this building was to keep as much of it above ground as possible. The owners would have done better to dredge the stream and pond every year, although that's only my opinion. Careful, watch your step.”

“I would if I could
see
the steps. Slow down.”

He did. “Forgive me, my dear, but I am beginning to feel some slight urgency in my need to solve this case.”

“And that's your first problem. This
isn't
your case. If anything, it's
our
case. I'm in this, too, remember?”

“Correction noted.” Alex stopped at last, on about the third step from the bottom, turned about, and lifted his oil lantern, holding it close to the wall. “All right, here we go. Undercuffler had changed the final scene, if you'll recall, planning a duel between the Viscount and Lord Hervey on these very stairs.”

“Well, whoop-de-do. So what?”

“So, I spent some minutes here earlier, considering the logistics of the thing, how the scene might be played out, and also amused myself admiring this rather unusual mural.”

“Again, whoop-de-do. And another big
so what
?”

“Even knowing I, as you have just done, could possibly be redundant in saying this, all in good time, my dear. Now, precisely where did I see that?”

“I'll ignore the ‘redundant' crack and just say see
what
? Alex, that mural is about forty feet high and just as wide. We've got that old guy in the chariot. We've got horses pulling the chariot. We've got angels and nymphs and various woodland creatures, who are actually supposed to be the original owner and all his descendants. We've got—hell, the only thing missing is Waldo.”

“Who's Waldo?” Alex asked, taking her flashlight from her and training it higher on the mural.

“He was a little nerdy guy in a striped shirt and a cap, and some artist would draw him somewhere in crowded scenes, and then everybody would look at the drawings and try to figure out where—nobody important, never mind,” Maggie said, holding onto the back of his belt as, slowly, they retraced their steps on the grand staircase. “This isn't going to work. There's not enough light. Whatever you're looking for, it will have to wait until morning. If the sun ever comes out again or the electricity comes back on, that is.”

“No, no. You gave me only until the morning to solve our little murder, remember?”

“Sure. Let me believe I'm in charge of you. That would be different. Novel, even.
Novel
—get it? Oh, man, I'm losing it.”

“No, no, you're doing just fine, all things considered. And, I don't have to inspect the entire mural. What I believe I saw was in the bottom third, at the most. I really should have paid stricter attention, but then, who knew the thing would become important?”

“Well, while you're looking for something you don't exactly remember, something that could or couldn't be important, let's talk about the stopwatch some more, all right? Why didn't you hold it up in front of Joanne and tell her you found it? You know, the big
ah-ha, got you
moment. You live for those moments. Besides, I would have liked to have seen her reaction.”

Alex turned about on the stair and motioned for Maggie to sit down, then joined her. “Maggie,” he said in that maddening tone that told her he knew something—entire worlds of somethings—she didn't know. “If Joanne is involved in Undercuffler's untimely demise, and we cannot be sure that she is or isn't, we have to acknowledge that the woman could not have hoisted the body out of that attic window by herself. Agreed?”

Reluctantly, Maggie nodded, then shifted herself on the stair so that the bottom of her oversized sweatshirt covered her butt. “Agreed. She couldn't have done it alone. So?”

“So, my dear, if we confront her, she could react in one of several ways. She could exhibit delight that we have found her beloved stopwatch, which had somehow become misplaced. She could have very honestly lost the thing, and the murderer used it as a weapon of opportunity, without her knowledge. In other words, she could be innocent. An unlovely person, but innocent. Or, she could act nonchalant, take the thing, secretly delighted to have it back, and then dispose of it before the constabulary can be brought here.”

“Wait. We're back to TV's version of crime scene investigating, right? You're sure jumping into the twenty-first century with a bang, aren't you? But I get it. The stopwatch is full of evidence. Epithelials—skin cells from Sam's neck, for one. From Joanne, too, and maybe even from someone else. DNA. God, you're right. We can't just give it back to her. But we could tell her we noticed she isn't wearing it. That could jump-start something. And you really should get that thing out of your pocket and into a plastic bag.”

“I agree. But let's first consider Joanne Pertuccelli a while longer, if we might? Exactly what is her position, her relationship to this project? I'm afraid I don't really understand all the subtleties of the filmmaking industry.”

“Neither do I,” Maggie admitted. “Directors direct the actual filming. Where the actors should stand, how they should say their lines, what camera angles to use, I think. Anyway, in our case, that's Arnaud. Producers? I think they put up money, get investors to put up the money, then try to tell everyone what to do and how to do it, even if they make their real money selling soup or something, and they don't know squat about making movies. Sort of like a lot of book publishers these days. These conglomerates—”

“Yes, yes. However, alas, we have no time to climb upon one of your many hobbyhorses at the moment. But Joanne isn't a producer?”

Maggie was getting into it now; anything to help herself stay warm. “No, not exactly. At least, I don't think so. Actors, well, actors act. Marylou explained what she does. Screenwriters either write directly for the movies or adapt books—like mine—so they're more visual. Or so Sam told me. Mostly, I think they're like really bad editors who just want their
stamp
on everything they touch, even if the changes don't make the book better, but only different. My friend Virginia—you remember Virginia?”

Alex sighed. “Yes, I remember Virginia. She sent us another photograph of the baby last week, as I recall. Lovely child. But—”

“Virginia had one of those—one of those hands-on editors. Hands-on? Right. Hands, feet, teeth, you name it. God, he was a pain! Virginia finally told him to go write his own book. But, then again, everybody's writing their own book these days. Sam's was a screenplay, but you get my meaning, right?”

“Maggie, you're losing the focus of my question. While all of this has been extremely edifying, what does Joanne do?”

“Sorry. She works
for
the producer? The big money man? Maybe that makes her an assistant producer. I really don't know. She's over Arnaud, that much is for sure. And she hired Evan; he told us that. Maybe she oversees everything for the production company? Budget? Scheduling? Casting? Location? That sort of thing. Movies for television have smaller budgets, so they may be doing all of this on a shoestring, and Joanne's the one tying the bows.”

“I see, thank you. All right, you sit here and relax, while I think about this,” Alex said, getting to his feet once more, training Maggie's flashlight on the mural.

“Why not? I always relax by sitting on ice-cold marble steps. It's my favorite thing.” Maggie tilted back her head and watched as Saint Just moved the beam of light slowly over the mural, almost inch by inch, working up the stairs to the top, then slowly making his way back down, the beam of light slightly higher on the wall.

After about ten minutes of this, Maggie was colder than ever and really, really bored. She stood up, wondering if her backside had frozen solid and might just crack and fall off, and asked, “You still don't remember what you're looking for?”

“Oh, I've always known what I'm looking for,” Alex told her, stopping on the fourth step from the top. “I've been looking for this.”

“What? Where? Let me see.”

“Calmly, calmly. Look just up there slightly, to where I'm aiming the light. Do you see it? The adorable little cherub?”

“One of the dozens of adorable little cherubs, you mean. Oh…oh, okay. I see it. What's he holding?”

“That, my dear, is a diagram of this house.”

“No. That can't be. You're pulling my leg.”

“Another time, perhaps, if you ask nicely,” Saint Just said, smiling down at her. “In any case, it would appear that the fellow who commissioned this mural was not only quite impressed with his family tree, but that he was also mightily taken with his architectual accomplishments and wished to share his brilliance with everyone. Over and above displaying his many ancestors and even the children he himself fathered, whose images are preserved for posterity in this mural.”

“Yeah, well, he didn't have a digital camera, did he? Hold the flashlight steady. I can't really make out much of anything,” Maggie said, squinting up at the unrolled scroll the cherub held in front of him. “I can see the outline of the building—both wings, huh?—but I can't make out the separate rooms. I've seen blueprints like this in some of my research books and can never really figure them out—them or the guide map to the Metropolitan Museum, for that matter. But this is only one floor of the mansion, right?”

Saint Just stood on tiptoe, examining the plan. “Well, that's disappointing, isn't it? You're right, Maggie. This plan is of the first floor. Here's the main saloon. The morning room. I see the study—I wonder.”

“You wonder what?” Maggie asked, hanging onto him as he lowered the flashlight and the staircase was plunged into near-total darkness. “And warn me before you do that again, I nearly lost my balance.”

“My apologies. Feel free to hold onto my belt again as we descend the staircase.”

“Looking for?”

“Another cherub, of course, one holding the plan for the second floor. Sadly, while I believe cherubs balanced at either end of the mural to be highly likely, I doubt there is a third showing off the plans for the attics.”

“Unless there's four? Four cherubs, four floor plans. One in each corner. Ground floor, first floor, second floor, attics. That's four.”

“True enough,” Alex agreed. “But let's concentrate on first finding another cherub, shall we? Although, thanks to the pitch of the staircase, this one will be considerably higher on the wall.”

“Find it, and we can ask Sir Rudy where we can get a ladder,” Maggie said, more excited than cold all of a sudden. “You're thinking the plan of the house will show another staircase somewhere? Maybe one that used to lead straight up to Uncle Willis's room before some descendant did some renovating? You English were always renovating. Is that what you're looking for? Or maybe a secret passageway? A priest's hole, maybe? I think I'm thinking the wrong century, but it's a possiblity?”

“Anything is possible, yes, and might serve to explain the lack of footprints in the dust. Ah, what have we here?”

“You found the second plan?”

“No, not yet. But look at this, Maggie,” Alex said, taking hold of her hand so she could join him on the same stair. “Now, this is interesting.”

“A drawing of the house and grounds. Boy, how'd they do that? Go up in a hot air balloon and sketch it that way? This is really pretty good.”

“Ingenuity and talent did not begin with Americans, remember, or with the twentieth century. Why, consider the pyramids.”

“You consider them. I'm looking at the grounds. Alex? There's the stream—see it? Goes almost all the way around the house. It's darn near a moat. And there's the drive we came down, the one that leads to the front door down there. See how it continues around to the back of the house, then splits to go to the stables? Probably the stables, anyway, although they're probably the garages now. Isn't that where the chauffeur said he was going—around to the back, to drop off our luggage? This is neat, I mean, this is really
neat
. Hold the light steady.”

“Your wish is my command, as always. What do you see? Because I believe I also see it.”

“Wait, I think I've got it. A marking that seems to indicate that there's a back road leading somewhere, right from the area of the kitchens? You think that's the area of the kitchens?”

“I do, yes.”

Maggie, who'd been standing on her tiptoes, eased back down, moved her head from side to side, trying to release the cramp in her neck, the one she'd gotten peering up at the mural. “So what is it, Alex? Why is it there?”