High Heels and Homicide (26 page)

“Do you know what you're doing now?” Maggie asked Saint Just quietly as they made their way into the unrenovated wing and toward Dennis Lloyd's bedchamber.

“I do, up to a point. I would ask that you not look at me as I reveal the existence of the secret staircase, but rather concentrate your attention on our fellow guests.”

“You expect one of them to make a break for it?”

“No, my dear, that would be too obvious. But I would be most appreciative of any sign of discomfort or apprehension in someone's expression or posture that you might detect.”

“And if nobody blinks?”

“Ah, the well-known Maggie Kelly pessimism. Always so welcome at a moment like this.”

Maggie grinned as she held up the large flashlight she was carrying. “Hey, anything I can do to help, Sherlock.”

Saint Just ushered Maggie into the bedchamber and indicated that both he and she should take up their positions in front of the cold fireplace as everyone else moved into the thankfully large room—Tabby more quickly than the others so that she could pick up some lacy item of clothing from the rumpled bed and stuff it underneath her sweater.

But not without being noticed.

“What have you got there, Tabitha?” Bernie asked, winking in Maggie's and Saint Just's direction. “I wonder. Is it a good thing or a bad thing to be able to go braless at forty-two and nobody can tell the difference?”

“Forty. You're five years older, remember? And everybody can tell the difference with you,” Tabby said quietly. “Especially when you lay on your back.”

“Silicone can be your friend, Tabby, I promise,” Bernie said, pulling a tissue from her slacks pocket as she gave a jerk of her head toward Nikki Campion. “Unless it's overdone, of course. Those things are just plain dangerous.”

Maggie tugged Bernie by the elbow, pulling her beside her. “Could you can it for a minute, Bernie? We're sort of trying to solve a couple of murders here.”

“I'm sorry, Mags. I feel like hell, and I'll apologize for teasing Tabby, I really will. But she said I snore. I do
not
snore. Besides,
I
get the men, not her. Not that I want old Dennis over there, but I'm talking the principle of the thing here.”

Saint Just, for the most part, ignored this feminine exchange, as he was once more counting noses.

Their own small party of five, Maggie, Bernice, Tabby, Sterling, and himself, all present and accounted for.

Sam Undercuffler and Joanne Pertuccelli, definitely still where he'd last put them.

Leaving Arnaud Peppin, the director; Troy Barlow, the idiot; Nikki Campion, the—well, he was still undecided about her; Evan Pottinger, the not-so-courageous villain; Dennis Lloyd, the lover; Marylou Keppel, the ambitious gofer; Sir Rudy, their host; Sterling's double-
P
friend, Perry Posko; and, lastly, Sir Rudy's nephew, the robin.

“Mr. Stockwell?” Saint Just said, visually scanning the assembled parties and not seeing the man who should by all rights be standing next to Nikki. “Has anyone seen Byrd Stockwell?”

“Coming!”

“You were unavoidably detained between here and the main saloon, sir?”

Byrd Stockwell pushed past Arnaud Peppin to stand beside his uncle. “Took a moment for a trip to the loo, if you must know, since nothing was going on in here, unless I missed a catfight. Not that I think this whole thing is more than nonsense. What are we doing here?”

Before everyone else could echo that particular question—which, by the way all their mouths opened in unison like those of baby birds whose mama was approaching with a juicy worm, Saint Just believed very possible—he announced, “I have, through diligent search and considerable luck—”

“And
my
help,” Maggie added.

“Yes, and with Miss Kelly's kind assistance, I have—that is,
we
have—discovered a heretofore hidden passageway in Medwine Manor.”

Saint Just then waited patiently for the all-too-expected hubbub to calm down even as he and Maggie watched the faces of the others. He wondered if Maggie had seen what he'd seen, then felt sure she had. He did so because he knew Maggie to be both intelligent and observant…and because she had just now pinched him two inches above the elbow with some force. His Maggie, always so subtle.

“If you could all refrain from shouting out your questions,” Saint Just went on, “I will explain.”

“Everybody stubble it!” Sterling called out when nobody obeyed Saint Just, then he stepped back a pace, looking slightly startled at his own outburst. “Sorry, and all of that, but we really do need to listen. Saint Just is going to be brilliant. Aren't you, Saint Just?”

“Stop calling him Saint Just,” Troy objected, brandishing the sword cane. “I'm—oh, hell, no I'm not. I don't want to be, either. I'll never get the accent right. I don't know why my agent said this stupid movie would be such a great career move.”

“That makes about an even dozen of us,” Evan Pottinger offered, still nursing the glass he'd brought with him from the main saloon, a glass he seemed personally attached to now.

“Me, too,” Maggie said. “I mean, why you're in it, Troy, not why everyone else is. Did your agent call Joanne, Troy, or did she call you? I'm just curious.”

“I can answer that one. His agent is Joanne's most recent ex,” Evan said, hefting the decanter he'd brought with him and refilling his wineglass. “My bet is they swapped something under the table for Troy. A marital asset in exchange for a leading role. Probably the family pooch, right, Troy? You've got to be worth at least a schnauzer.”

“You're drunk, and that's a lie,” Troy said with more feeling than Saint Just had heard from the man to this point.

“People, people,” Arnaud piped up, clapping his hands. “Fight later. Let's get this done.”

Saint Just favored the director with a slight bow. “Thank you, Arnaud. As I was saying—”

“Before you were so rudely interrupted,” Maggie said, grinning. “Sorry. Couldn't resist. It's just that that's right up there with ‘I'm innocent, innocent, I tell you.'”

Saint Just reminded himself of how he adored this woman. “Yes, I know, my dear,” he said quietly, “and may I say how prodigiously pleased I am that you're pleased. When we have a moment, however, you might want to consider a restorative lie-down. I believe you're becoming a tad giddy with quite natural fatigue.”

“Bite me.”

“And snarky as well, as you say.”

“I'm getting cold up here, Alex. Start talking before we lose them again. They've all got the attention spans of fleas.”

He nodded his agreement and turned once more to the semicircle of interested faces. “Now, as I was saying, ladies and gentlemen, we've discovered a secret passage in Medwine Manor. A passage, as it happens, that runs from this chamber to the attics. To the very room in the attics in which, as you may or may not know, Sam Undercuffler was attached to the scaffolding that surrounds this wing.”

“Tell them about the dust. Don't forget the dust.” Maggie was fair to dancing in place, whether from the chill or excitement, he didn't know.

Saint Just sighed, knowing, however, when he'd lost a battle. “Oh, why don't you just do that, my dear. I'm convinced you'll tell it all so much better than I.”

“I'll pretend you didn't mean that as an insult,” Maggie said, then rubbed her hands together in front of herself. “Okay, here's how it goes. When we went up to the attics—gosh, it seems like days ago—we noticed that there were no footprints in the dust in the area that leads from the stairs to the room in question. Uncle Willis's room, which is the same room used to hang Sam out the window. You with me so far?”

“They're
hanging
on your every word, if you'll excuse my descent into questionable sensitivity where the late Mr. Undercuffler is concerned,” Saint Just assured her.

Maggie grinned at him, then continued her explanation. “Well, this got us thinking—I mean, it would have to get you thinking, right? How did Sam get to the room without disturbing the dust? How did the killer—or killers—get to the room? They didn't
fly
there. So we—Alex and I—we went looking for plans to the house, figuring there had to be some other way, some secret way of getting to the attics. Alex? You want to tell them about the mural? Because that one was your idea.”

“I think we can safely dispense with that small side trip in our investigation,” Saint Just said, mentally attempting to recall what Maggie would term the time line of the past now-nearly four-and-twenty hours.

“Right. Okay. We'll skip that part, since it didn't work anyway,” Maggie agreed, the bit firmly between her teeth now, bless her. “So what we did was some simple investigating—simple, but pretty brilliant, really—and we found the secret passage.”

“‘Row, row, row your boat' is brilliant?”

“Try to forget that part, Alex, okay?”

Sir Rudy was all but drooling now. “Where? Where is it? It's in this room, you said, didn't you? I've been waiting forty years to get some of my own back on that old lady. Chase me with a broom, will she? Laugh at me at my pub, will they? Show me!”

“Over here, Sir Rudy,” Saint Just said, stepping over to the wall beside the fireplace. “Just behind this wall is a set of very narrow, very steep stone stairs that lead up to the attic room once occupied by the man you all now know as the ghostly Uncle Willis. Maggie?”

“I'm thinking, I'm thinking. I want to get this right. I wish I could write it all out on file cards, then shuffle everything until I get it all in order.”

“Let me help you there,” Saint Just offered. “We begin very early yesterday morning, with Mr. Undercuffler dining with a few members of our party.”

“Right,” Troy said, as he had been a part of that small party. “That's when Sam told us about Maggie here, how she was being such a bitch about his screenplay.”

“Gee, thanks for remembering that,” Maggie said with a near-sneer. “I saw Sam after you all ate breakfast, when he showed up in my room, and we came downstairs together, but I didn't see him after that—until I saw him hanging outside my window at—when was that, Alex?”

“Much later,” was all Saint Just said, as he was concentrating on something else entirely. “The electricity became disabled sometime during the night, correct?”

“Yes, but the generators kicked right in like clockwork,” Sir Rudy pointed out. “Until they got flooded. I sure want to know what idiot left those doors unlatched.”

“Our killer, I would say,” Saint Just said, knowing he now had everyone's attention once again. “Tabby? I promise to forget everything you say once you answer my questions, and please forgive me, but where were you and Mr. Lloyd, from the time you left the main saloon until you were asked to join everyone there once more?”

“Alex,” Tabby pleaded through clenched teeth. “Do we have to?”

“Ah, Tabby, honey, I think we do,” Maggie said, stepping in front of Saint Just. “Because I think I can see where Alex is going with this. I…well, I went to your room around noon and you weren't there, but it looked like maybe you had been there?”

“I'll pay you back for this some day,” Tabby said, stepping close to Maggie. “Yes, we were in my room all night. But then we went to Dennis's room around eleven or so in the morning because we'd run out of—well, just you never mind. He had some granola bars, too, because we were hungry. And we stayed there until someone told us to come downstairs, that the generators were out. There. Satisfied?”

“I don't know, I usually do all of this on paper before I write.” Maggie looked at Saint Just. “Are we satisfied?”

“Yes, I think we are.”

“Well, good for you,” Byrd Stockwell said. “Now tell us.”

Saint Just obliged. “Happily. I can verify that Sam Undercuffler was alive at nine o'clock yesterday morning. I understand that Miss Pertuccelli had requested that he investigate the premises, looking for possible locations to film outdoor scenes that, because of the flooding, would most probably be relocated inside the building.”

“You only use dialogue in movies, not all my scene setting,” Maggie offered. “Although there'd be some reworking needed to change the rooftop duel to one on the stairs. Then again, this was supposed to be made-for-TV, so you guys will probably just fake it all. Not that Sam and Joanne probably weren't faking it, giving Sam a reason to disappear for a while.”

“You know, Hollywood does make some quality films, Maggie,” Arnaud said, obviously smarting. “Although I will agree that sometimes we cut a few corners. I know you writers think you are more important, but, as Lloyd Kaufman said so well, ‘It's up to us to produce better-quality movies.'”

Maggie shook her head. “Kaufman? I don't know who that is.”

And yet again, Evan came to the rescue. “Lloyd Kaufman produced that classic American movie
Stuff Stephanie in the Incinerator
. No lie.”