High Heels and Homicide (21 page)

“Tradesman's entrance would be my guess. It appears to hug the outer edge of the gardens before disappearing into that stand of trees. Why hadn't I thought of that earlier? Certainly drays and farm wagons weren't allowed to approach this grand pile on the front drive. I imagine it's still in existence and used by the household staff for their daily comings and goings. Do you suppose it's under water, too? After all, none of the staff was able to come here today.”

Maggie rubbed the back of her neck. “Only one way to find out.”

“True. Unless we ask Sir Rudy.”

“Unless Sir Rudy forgot about it. He forgot about the roof leaking, remember? I don't think he pays much attention to anything except that he's now the owner. Oh, and Marylou, but let's not think about that. Come on, we've been looking at this mural forever and I'm bored with it. Let's go see. Maybe the two of us can walk out of here, go for help somewhere.”

“Tramp on foot at least a mile to the village, in the dark of night, through the rain and wind, yes.”

“Gee, you make it all sound so appealing.” Maggie stopped on the landing and trained the flashlight back down on Alex. “What? What's the matter? You're afraid the local cops will upstage you before you figure out who killed Sam?”

Holding the oil lantern in front of him, he joined her on the first-floor landing. “That remark, madam, is beneath contempt.”

“And right on target,” Maggie said, grinning at him. “Come on, admit it. We weren't looking at that mural to find a way out of here. We were looking for a—
oooouuu
!—a secret
passage
. A
hidden staircase
.
Oooouuu!
You want to play the hero, Alex, and now maybe you can't.”

“Bite me.”

Maggie's eyes went wide. Then she giggled. “Bite me? That's all you can think of to say back at me?
Bite me?
That's my line, Alex.” Then she slipped her arm through his. “Come on, think positive. Maybe the path is underwater.”

“You can be the
most
annoying female,” he said just as Nikki came down the stairs toward them, dressed once more in a skintight exercise outfit. She actually had a headband with a small miner's light stuck on the front of it, along with a flashlight in her right hand. Her face was sheened with perspiration; even her hair was wet. Leave it to the woman to be the only one who could work up a sweat in this mausoleum.

“Great, little Miss Perky,” Maggie groused. “And I'm not just talking about the boobs.”

“Hi, all,” Nikki said, waving to them before jogging across the landing to the level of stairs Saint Just and Maggie had just climbed, and starting down them. “Gotta keep the leg muscles working. See ya on the way back!”

“She must have run up and down every staircase in this pile, twice, and there's bunches of them. I hate energetic people. Besides, I thought she was shacking up with the nephew,” Maggie said, then looked at her watch. “Wow, we've actually been fooling around with that mural for over an hour, Alex. Still, I guess Byrd is a fast worker. Alex? Now what's your problem?”

“They all could have scattered everywhere, couldn't they?” he asked, frowning. “I hesitate to suggest we count noses yet again. After all, one or more of them is a murderer, not a potential victim, and none of them can actually escape.”

“Unless the path at the back of the house is passable,” Maggie reminded him, giving his arm a tug. “Come on. We can't just keep counting noses. Let's go do what we can do. There's a staircase leading down to the kitchens back past the study. I used it earlier.”

“Yes, you're right,” Saint Just agreed. “Undercuffler is the victim, and there's no reason to believe there might be another one. And yet, as we've not uncovered a motive, merely the manner of death? Yes. It is time to call in the local authorities. I shouldn't have delayed at all.”

“Like any of us had a choice?”

Alex paused outside the closed door to the main saloon, then reached into his pocket and pulled out—a cell phone!

“You've got a—”

He clamped his hand over her mouth and pulled her to the far side of the hallway, away from the closed doors. “Quietly, my dear. I'm going to take my hand off your mouth now, and you're going to be quiet, correct?”

Maggie nodded, her eyes boring into him until he removed his hand, at which time,
whispering
, she said accusingly, “You've got a cell phone. How could you have a cell phone and not—oh, Alex. Alex, Alex, Alex. You just can't resist trying to play the hero. Solve the crime.”

“I
am
the hero, remember?” he pointed out, smiling that infuriating smile of his. The one she'd imagined for her perfect hero. Intelligent. Arrogant. Knee-melting.
That
smile. “In any event, unless this service entrance is passable, we're still effectively cut off from civilization, remember?”

“Yeah? Well maybe the locals have a rowboat. Did you think of that?”

“Actually, no. You're very good at this, Maggie.”

“I made you, remember?” she said, then swore under her breath as the doors to the main saloon opened and Troy walked out to join them.

“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 pissed, 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 butter in the kitchens, Alex, right?”

“Indeed, yes. I've developed quite a passion for peanut butter. 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 massive entities,” 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. Hell, 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 assistance, 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 assuage 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?”