High Heels and Homicide (9 page)

“Fascinating, I'm sure, only I would ask that you don't embark on that particular experiment in the dark and wet,” Alex said, then bowed to the ladies. “I'm told that dinner will be served within the hour, so I'll leave you all to your toilettes while Sterling and I confer once more with Arnaud. We begin coaching exercises first thing tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Right. Go away,” Maggie said, collapsing into the chair again, to be closer to the fire. She looked at her friends. “Don't ask. Trust me, just don't ask. Now, tell me about your trip. I didn't know you were traveling together.”

The three women talked of New York for a while, of taking off their shoes to get through Security. Tabby had brought slippers in her carry-on bag, and had held up the line while she put them on, as she had no plan of walking barefoot on those dirty floors with all their germs.

Then Maggie asked, “Did you meet anybody from the production before Sterling brought you up here?”

“Just the regulation corporate bitch,” Bernie said, sitting down in the facing chair while Tabby stood in front of the cheval glass, fussing with her scarf and hair. “Joanne Something-or-other. What a horrible dye job. I wouldn't be caught dead in that shade of red. We had to slit our wrists and make a blood oath we wouldn't charge the production company for anything. Oh, and Sir Rudy. What a charmer. He pinched me. Tabby? He pinch you?”

Tabby continued to finger-comb her hair. “Who? Oh, Sir Rudy. No, he didn't. But I did have a few words with Dennis Lloyd. I recognized him immediately from something I saw on PBS a few years ago. What a handsome man. Very dignified and yet…approachable.”

“Revenge sex,” Bernie told Maggie, winking. “Our little blondie is planning revenge sex. This should be fun to watch.”

“Bernie, it's no such thing! You can be so crude.”

“And so right,” Bernie said, getting to her feet. “Well, it's been fun, but I'm going to go unpack before dinner. We're in the completely other wing. You coming, Tabby?”

Maggie followed them into the hallway. “Marylou, the gofer, told me this wing is still pretty much the way it's been for the last sixty years or so. What are your rooms like, and why didn't I get one in the other wing? I got here first.”

“Life's a bitch, isn't it, Mags,” Bernie said, and Maggie really couldn't do much more than nod her agreement.

“I'm only the writer,” she said as they stopped at the head of the curving staircase that was only a little less elaborate than the one that led to the first floor. “It slipped my mind for a minute. Sorry. Now excuse me. I've got to go find Alex and kill him.”

“New York, England. Some things never change.” Bernie kissed Maggie's cheek. “One of these days, sweetheart, you're going to open your eyes and see what everyone else sees.”

“There's nothing to see.”

“It's like that television show. You know.
Will and Grace
. Except that Alex isn't gay.” Tabby frowned. “Well, I thought he was in the beginning. But he's not. You two were made for each other. And you said so yourself, he's a
very
distant cousin.”

“Done now?” Maggie asked, willing her cheeks not to go red.

“Am I done now?” Tabby asked Bernie, who was busily inspecting the large tapestry hanging on the wall behind them. “What else did we talk about on the plane?”

“Oh, I don't know, Tabby. About being
discreet
about the thing, maybe?” Bernie grabbed the agent's arm at the elbow and pulled her toward the East Wing. “Sorry, Maggie. It's a new act. I usually work alone. But we'll get better at it.”

“Please don't. I don't know which was worse over Thanksgiving: listening to my mother tell me I'm getting fat or listening to her tell me that I'm not getting any younger and need to tackle some guy when he isn't looking and get married. I don't need you two playing matchmaker.”

“We'd never tell you you're getting fat,” Tabby said, then bit her lips between her teeth as she looked at Maggie's figure.

“It's eight pounds. Eight lousy pounds. It was ten, now it's eight. I'll get rid of them.”

“I've lost ten pounds since I gave up the booze,” Bernie said, putting her hands on her hips and turning in a full circle. “Of course, I've taken up smoking again. But we won't mention smoking as a diet aid, will we?”

“Not when I'm within earshot, no,” Maggie said, then she sucked in her gut and headed downstairs, just in time to see Alex entering the main saloon.

He was wearing a dark blue frock coat, skintight tan pantaloons, high-topped black Hessians (his own, she knew), and pristine white linen, complete with white waistcoat and a perfectly tied neck cloth. She saw his quizzing glass hanging around his neck, the glass itself tucked into a pocket, and he carried his new cane. He moved with grace, his posture perfect, his black hair brushed into the Windswept style she knew so well from illustrations in her research books. Beau Brummell would have wept, the man was so perfect.

“Oh, God,” she groaned, leaning on the stone banister for support as her knees went weak. “There goes the libido. And he knows it, too. Everybody knows it. Damn the man…”

 
 

Three hours later, after suffering through Alex's total command of the dinner-table conversation, complete with feminine fawning over him, male sparring with him, and Joanne Pertuccelli's complete indifference—Maggie could like the woman if Joanne wasn't such a boring, one-track-mind person—Maggie was wondering how she could kill Sam Undercuffler without anybody noticing he was gone.

Except that nobody noticed the writers, so maybe she could get away with it.

“One more time, Sam,” she said as they sat in the main saloon, “zippers weren't invented during the Regency Era.”

“But there are zippers on the costumes. I checked.”

“We're not talking about costumes here, Sam. We're talking about zippers. And there weren't any in the Regency. Saint Just does
not
turn his back to the lady in the bed, making it obvious he's zipping his zipper. He buttons his buttons.”

“Yes, but if he turns his back and buttons his buttons, anyone looking at him from the back won't know what he's doing. It'll look like he's maybe playing with himself or something. He's got to turn, zip up, turn back. It's as close to sex as we can get with this movie, since it's network, not cable.”

“Okay, okay, I understand. I can be reasonable. We just rewrite it a little, have him standing beside the bed, looking down at Marianne, smiling wickedly as he buttons his shirt. The viewer gets the same idea, right?”

Sam started scribbling on his copy of the script. “That's good. That'll work. Gives Troy more face time, too, so he'll like that. But then Nikki's back is to the camera. She won't like that.”

“Oh, for God's sake. What do you do, keep score on who gets the most face time?”

Sam looked at her. “Oh, yeah. Sure. You didn't know that? No, I guess you didn't. That's why you need a screenwriter to adapt your stuff from the book. It's a whole other ball game when it's on the screen.”

But Maggie wasn't listening. She was much too busy looking at the guy who was standing just at the entrance to the main saloon.

Tall. Slim. Blond. Green eyes she could see from twenty feet away. Knife-creased camel slacks, a camel cashmere pullover sweater, a second black cashmere sweater draped over his shoulders and loosely tied. A young Peter O'Toole in Ralph Lauren; as gorgeous as any of Lauren's models. Slightly aloof, faintly bored, enticingly detached.

As she stared, Bernie came up behind her, bent down to whisper in her ear. “Can I keep him, Mommy? Huh, huh, can I, please?”

“We'll see, sweetheart. We don't know who he is, let alone where he's been,” Maggie whispered, her gaze glued to the man as he spied Sir Rudy, waved, and walked over to him. She lifted the script and began fanning herself with it. “Oh, God. I'm too young to get hot flashes. Who
is
he?”

“Not your problem. I've got dibs.”

Sam Undercuffler sighed as if he knew he'd become invisible, gathered the pages of the script, and wandered off to talk to Marylou.

Sir Rudy and the new arrival shook hands, and then the older man called out, “Everyone? My nephew, Byrd. Byrd Stockwell. He's a model for the magazines. But he's not queer. He can't be queer. He's m'heir. Not that he's supposed to be here.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Byrd said with a slight shake of his head. “I'm sure everyone will remember me now, won't they? Unless someone would want me to strip and maul that lovely lady over there to prove my masculinity?”

Nikki Campion, the lovely lady in question, hopped to her feet and broke all land speed records in getting herself to Byrd's side, almost coming to grief over the hem of her Regency Era gown, which barely contained her boobs. “Hi. I'm Nikki.”

“And the rest of us are dog meat,” Bernie said, sighing. “Oh, well, I'm too old for him anyway. Even if I wasn't off men, which I am, considering my track record. We're getting to be quite a crowd, aren't we?”

“
Shhh
,” Maggie said, leaning forward to listen to the introductions, and to watch Alex as he watched Byrd Stockwell.

Nothing. No reaction. Obviously Alex didn't look at the man and think
competition
. How did men
do
that? She looked at Nikki Campion and saw competition. Women
knew
competition when they saw it. Alex couldn't care less.

Man, she'd made him secure. And, sometimes, that really pissed her off.

“I almost didn't make it, Uncle,” Byrd was saying after the introductions were completed. “I told you to dredge that stream. Much more rain, and we'll be cut off here.” Then he looked down at Nikki. “Not that that's entirely a bad thing…Nikki.”

Maggie groaned. “Oh, never mind. He's a jerk. The handsome ones always are.”

“Except for Alex. But you already knew that, or you wouldn't have modeled Saint Just after him. The perfect hero.”

Oh, if Bernie only knew the truth! Maggie closed her eyes, thought for a moment, then said, “Bernie? Can you keep a secret?”

Her friend laughed. “
Me?
How long have you known me, Mags?”

“Yeah, right. Never mind, stupid question.” Maggie reached for her nicotine inhaler even as she wondered why Sir Rudy kept looking at his nephew as if he wished the handsome man was on the moon.

S
aint Just stood at the mantel, observing the room and his companions.

He felt good, extraordinarily good. In his element. Relaxed, in charge.

Perhaps even a tad smug.

“Don't look so damn happy.”

Definitely a tad smug. He smiled at Maggie. “I admit to being very nearly giddy. But am I being that obvious?”

“You're wearing Regency clothes, standing in a room that could be a Regency Era drawing room. You're surrounded by adoring fans who have spent the night hanging on your every word. Yeah, it's obvious. It's also sickening. I feel so out of place with all you
Regency folk.
”

“Tabby and Bernie and Arnaud and Sir Rudy aren't in costume,” Saint Just pointed out reasonably. “Nor is Joanne, our resident harridan, nor our resident scribe, present company excepted, nor our little gofer. Oh, and the robin.”

“The who? Oh, wait a minute. You mean Byrd. Ha! And I thought you hadn't noticed. Jealous, Alex?”

“Of precisely what, my dear? The man is a hopeless poseur.”

Maggie pushed slightly against him. Once, twice. “You're jealous. Jealous, jealous. Because he's gorgeous. In an asexual sort of way. I imagine, though, that he's the kind that would appeal to both sexes. Bernie's already asked me if I had an idea as to which way he swings.”

“I beg your pardon?” Saint Just asked, cocking one eyebrow. “And I say that with the fervent hope that you and I can both pretend that neither of us knows to precisely what Bernice referred.”

“Don't worry. She only said that because he isn't paying her any attention. Not that he's shying away from Boffo girl. Want to bet where she spends the night?”

“I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that one at all. Why this fascination, though, may I ask?”

Maggie shrugged. “I don't know. Sir Rudy said there's no television because Arnaud made the workmen take down the antennas or dishes or whatever because of the outside shots, and I don't feel like reading. I can't work because somebody talked me into leaving my laptop in New York. So, this is by way of entertainment.”

“You're easily amused. No television machines? Ah, now we really are being thrown back in time, aren't we? I know, let's have a real Regency evening, shall we? Tabby can play the piano, and Sterling can sing for us.”

“Let me see, how can I say this? Okay—
no
. We are
not
having a sing-along. How about cards? We could play cards.”

“Or another game,” Saint Just said, watching as Joanne shot visual daggers at Byrd Stockwell's back. Odd, that. Was she afraid he'd ask to be put on this thing called an expense account? “Let's the two of us figure out why our keeper of the expenses is so put out with the nephew, shall we? The looks she's been sending in his direction all evening are enough to curl the man's toes in his tasseled shoes. Have they met before tonight, do you suppose?”

Maggie watched as Joanne, with one last searing look at Byrd, who was busily romancing a very willing Nikki, grabbed up her notebook and all but flounced out of the room. “Maybe. I don't know. How long has everyone else been here? No, wait, that doesn't matter. Sir Rudy introduced Byrd to everyone. He wouldn't have done that if Byrd had been here before tonight. And Sir Rudy doesn't seem to be very happy he's here now, if you ask me. Anyway, Joanne's boring. What else have you got?”

“Not a whacking great deal, I'm afraid. I rather enjoy Sir Rudy. Now, he has previously met Joanne, in London, I believe, which is how we all got to be here rather than in California. He offered his estate at no charge, and Joanne jumped at it. The woman does seem to enjoy pinching pennies for her employer.”

“So that's how they got to be shooting the film here? I didn't know that. And Sir Rudy offered this place for free? Why?”

“That one, my dear, I can answer. He wishes to rub elbows with American actresses. Daresay, more than his elbows. He's quite put out that Nikki isn't living up to expectations. I believe the man was expecting, indeed, looking quite forward to, nightly orgies.”

“Disgusting,” Maggie said, sucking on her inhaler.

“I quite agree. Put it away. That contraption is no more than a bad habit now, you know.”

“And this bothers you how?”

“I'm not quite sure,” Saint Just admitted. “Perhaps I am perplexed over how a woman of such strong will in other matters could be so weak when it comes to this nicotine addiction of yours.”

“Ha. A lot you know. I don't even have a cartridge in this thing.”

Saint Just struck a questioning pose, one hand to his mouth. “And yet you're holding it, using it? Why?”

“I don't know, okay. You've got your cane, you've got your quizzing glass. I've got my unloaded nicotine inhaler. We've all got crutches, Alex. You saw Joanne with her stopwatch. Keeps it around her neck, is always touching it, fingering it. Bernie's always got a glass, even now that she's not hitting the hard stuff anymore. Tabby fusses with her scarves—she'd feel naked without her scarves.”

“Hmmm. We are a pitiful bunch, aren't we? In fact, Sterling seems the most normal of us all, which you will admit is rather mind-blowing.”

“Sterling is pure of heart,” Maggie told him. “He's real. He doesn't need anything artificial, doesn't need to hide behind anything or use it to deflect others. He has no personal agenda. Sterling's—what
is
he doing over there?”

Saint Just looked across the room to where Sterling stood with Perry Posko, the two of them sitting down in unison, then standing up, then sitting down again.

“I think that's self-explanatory. Sterling's teaching the man how to sit. As we are all aware, you can tell a gentleman by the way he splits his coattails as he takes his seat. Look over there, Maggie, at our lamentable Viscount as he poses with our villain. Evan, for all his other sins, still appears pristine. But our Viscount? His coattails are sadly crushed and pleated, the result of the man's propensity to both slouch and to simply
drop
himself into his seat. The man has a lot in common with the good
left
-tenant, except that Wendell, bless him, also has a brain.”

“But you're going to work with Troy, right? Because I agree with you. That guy is no more the Viscount Saint Just than Sir Rudy of the fishing reel is Prince Charles.”

“I've made a beginning, yes, while you and the scribe had your heads together. And I've discovered something. The man is a monkey, but one with what he calls a photographic memory. Which, alas, explains how he's come to learn a string of rather unfortunate cant he found listed somewhere on the Internet. And which he repeats at the drop of a hat.”

“I don't understand.”

“I know, neither did I. His lordship—I'm to address him as his lordship whenever he's in costume, you understand—took it into his head to do his own research for the character, and that research began and ended with this list. So far, I've been called a knotty-pated flapdragon, a rough-hewn moldwarp, and—oh, yes, my personal favorite—an unmuzzled, guts-griping rampallion. He reported happily that he's memorized three entire pages of this sort of drivel, and he's quite proud of himself.”

“But…but those are Shakespearean insults, aren't they? I'm pretty sure I've seen that list online. Sort of mix-and-match insults, Will Shakespeare style. He's in the wrong freaking era.”

“Yes, but reciting the words, according to his lordship, has helped to refine his accent. Although I have already prevailed upon him to refrain from dropping his
H
s like some Cockney.”

“Really?”

“No. Not really. Not even close. For the most part, our dear Viscount sounds like a chimney sweep. We begin our lessons in earnest tomorrow, at which time I fear I may just have to choke the man, although not with one of these wretched neck cloths. They're ready-fashioned, you understand, and fasten with Velcro. I'm nearly too ashamed to wear mine. Oh, dear,” he added, lifting his quizzing glass to his eye as he noticed another bit of intrigue taking place near the drinks table. “Excuse me, my dear. I believe I'm needed.”

Maggie followed after him as he approached Dennis Lloyd and Evan Pottinger, who were at that moment glaring at each other. Dennis, clad as Clarence, the Saint Just valet, in rather badly fitted burgundy-and-gold livery, stood in a most belligerent posture, one definitely unbecoming to a valet.

Evan, looking dangerous in unremitting black, his expression equally dark, seemed faintly amused even while poised to strike. Very much the villainous Lord Hervey.

There were moments when Saint Just could almost believe the magic of moviemaking had opened the pages of Maggie's book and let everyone out for their moment upon the stage. Then again, there was Troy Barlow. The fellow certainly helped Saint Just remember that reality and fiction were miles and miles apart.

“Gentlemen?” Saint Just said, stepping between the two men. “Clarence? Lord Hervey? Is something amiss?”

“Step aside, fool,” Evan bit out imperiously—really rather good, clearly a man immersed in his role, which is what being a method actor, Saint Just had learned from Arnaud, was all about. “I demand this man be sacked. I ordered him to pour me a drink, and he refused. I'll not suffer insubordination from a mere servant.”

“Why, you miserable excuse for a thespian,” Dennis countered, and Saint Just put his palm against the older man's chest, holding him back from the fray. “Who do you think you are?
Servant
? I'm not your bloody servant. That's it! I'm getting out of this ridiculous costume, and you can all just go hang if you think I'm going to play this stupid game. Americans! You're all insane!”

Saint Just watched the Englishman storm off, then cocked an eyebrow as Tabby quickly excused herself from Bernie and trotted after him into the hall. Then he turned his attention back to Evan. “Taking this playacting business just a step too far, perhaps, my lord Hervey? I do believe you've insulted the man.”

“And I do believe you and I have nothing to say to each other. I'm not your
student
,” Evan said, looking down his nose at Saint Just…which meant he had to raise his chin a good three inches. Still, what the man didn't possess in height, he most certainly made up for in his show of villainous arrogance. “Now, out of my way. I'm through with you.”

Saint Just stepped back two paces and bowed. “I look forward to your untimely end, your lordship,” he said cheerfully. “Something to do with a fall from the rooftop and landing on the spines of an iron gate, I believe? Messy business.”

“A lot you know. That's being rewritten,” Evan said, and now it was time for Saint Just to put out his hand and hold Maggie in place.

“Whatdoyoumeanrewritten?” Maggie asked, all in one breath. “That's the big ending. Saint Just and Hervey dueling on the ramparts, Hervey lunging, Saint Just neatly sidestepping, Hervey going down. Do you know how long it took to choreograph that scene in my head? Sam?
Sam
! Where is he? I'll
kill
him!” And she was off, in search of the screenwriter.

“Writers,” Evan said, taking out his snuff box. “A curse and an abomination.” He tapped the lid of the box twice, then frowned when it didn't open, dropping out of character to say, “Cheap junk.”

“Not necessarily. Sir Rudy was kind enough to supply snuff boxes from a not-at-all-shabby collection I discovered displayed in his study,” Saint Just said, taking the box from the man. “Observe, if you will, and learn.”

He then balanced the box on the back of his bent left wrist and tapped the box twice, upon which the lid opened. He withdrew a lace-edged white linen square from his waistcoat (his own fine Irish linen, in point of fact), then neatly pantomimed, complete with flourish, taking a small pinch, lifting it to his nostril, and sniffing delicately. “I'd now sneeze, but I am not a playactor, so I'll refrain. Here you go, old fellow—catch.”

Evan swiped the box out of midair, said something decidedly nasty, and retreated to the mantelpiece, where he stood and scowled in fine villain fashion.

Well, that was fun, Saint Just decided. For the most part. What else could he do?

Pouring himself a glass of wine, he debated about approaching Byrd Stockwell and Nikki, but decided against it as the young woman pulled a small pink barbell from beneath the couch and began doing curls while begging Byrd to feel her biceps.

There was something about a woman in ankle-length sprigged muslin lifting weights that destroyed whatever remained of Saint Just's illusion that he was immersed in a true Regency Era evening At Home.

As for Byrd Stockwell? That gentleman didn't interest Saint Just at all, although he might have wished to confer with the man's tailor, had he the time.

Left alone, Saint Just lifted his quizzing glass to his eye and surveyed the room and the remainder of its occupants, his gaze alighting on Maggie.