High Heels and Homicide (11 page)

Saint Just was appalled. Truly appalled. The sword fight with Lord Hervey had been an inspiration, quite the highlight of the book. “He escapes? He doesn't die?”

“Oh, yeah, he sure does escape. But first Saint Just makes a stab at getting him, by reaching down and pulling on the sheet that's dragging on the floor and—”

“Why on earth would I do any such thing?”

“Not you, the Viscount—and keep your voice down. I'm explaining here. You—he—pulls on the sheet, which only serves to bare Nikki's naked body—we don't see that, but we do hear her shriek—while the camera zooms in on Saint Just, who says something like, ‘Ah, well, I'll get him next time,' before he tosses the sheet and his weapon aside, and begins unbuttoning his shirt. Fade to black, the end. So? Ready to vomit yet?”

Saint Just searched his mind for words, something to say that would express what he felt, and came up with, “They can't do that.”

“Oh, yes, they can—or maybe you haven't noticed the steam that's been coming out of my ears for the past hour. Sam's going to write the sequel, a completely new story with the same cast, and if that works, then they'll use the rest of our books to launch a series with interchangeable villains.”

“Lord Hervey is finally apprehended?”

“In the sequel, yes. Sam says so. Villains are a dime a dozen. It's Troy and Nikki they want to hold on to.”

“Good God, why?”

“Who cares? And it's all in my contract, so once I'm done killing Sam—just on general principles because he refuses to believe facts have anything at all to do with good fiction—I'm going to kill Tabby. And then I
am
going home, whether you go with me or not. I mean, if I want abuse, I can visit my mother. At least then I can go up on the boardwalk and get more chocolate fudge.”

M
aggie sat at the ancient dressing table and giggled as she remembered the end of last night's more-than-a-little-bit-weird evening.

After the fiasco with Evan Pottinger, Alex had suggested that those remaining in the room indulge in a game of forfeits, a Regency Era amusement.

He'd described forfeits as a game in which a player needs to give up some small personal possession after breaking one of the silly rules—and the rules definitely were silly—and then had to perform some stupid stunt in order to retrieve the item.

“Oh, kind of like strip poker,” Nikki had said. “I like that game, except I always lose.” Then she'd looked at Byrd Stockwell and winked. “
Always
.”

“And on that note, I'm out of here,” Bernie had declared, lifting Sir Rudy's hand off her knee, kissing him on the cheek, and then leaving the room while the man was still blushing.

Joanne had come back for a while, but stomped out again after Sir Rudy told her that Nikki and Byrd had left the room together a half hour earlier, and Tabby and Clarence the valet had never shown up again, come to think of it.

Sir Rudy's Little House of Pickups, that's what Medwine Manor was, except that Maggie had, as usual, spent the night alone.

Not that she cared. She didn't care. Really. Not at all. So what if she had to write love scenes from memory. No biggie. Life did not revolve around sex.

She made a face at her reflection. “It doesn't spin too darn fast around abstinence, either,” she told herself, putting down her hairbrush and getting to her feet.

She walked over to the window to pull back the heavy drapes and look out at…rain. Is that all it did in England? Rain?

Remembering Sterling's interest in the scaffolding, she pressed her forehead against the cold glass and tried to see what he had seen. She saw wet metal scaffolding and wet boards. Nothing to write home about, that was for sure. And beyond the scaffolding, all she saw was water. Lots of water.

“The driveway's gone,” she said out loud. “For crying out loud, the driveway's gone! How are we supposed to get out of here?”

She was gearing herself up for a major meltdown—which was
so
unlike her—when someone knocked at her door.

“Maggie? You in there?”

“
Undercuffler
,” she gritted out from between clenched teeth in her best Jerry Seinfeld imitation of “Hello-o-o, Newman.” “Good. Now I can kill him.”

She opened the door, and the writer just stood there, waiting for her to invite him in. Which she might have done, if it weren't for the thick manila envelope he was clutching to his chest. “I said, no.”

“Ah, come on, Maggie. It's a script. Dialogue, stage directions, and some of my best work, really. I've been working on it for two years now. I know it can sell, but I just want you to read it. Won't take you an hour, honest. All I want is your honest opinion.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Maggie shot back, wondering if she'd slipped a gear somewhere between dealing with the lumpy bed and the lousy plumbing. “You want me to say I love it. You don't want the truth.”

She slipped into Jack Nicholson mode: “You can't
handle
the truth. I know writers, remember? You just say you want honest criticism, then get all bent out of shape if I don't tell you your stuff is the greatest thing since sliced bread.”

Sam held out the envelope with both hands. “I rewrote the final scene of
Disappearing Earl
last night after everyone went to bed. Got rid of that business with the sheet. I got rid of the whole bedroom thing, and now they're going to duel on the main staircase. Perfect for filming, you have to admit that. Arnaud already gave me the okay. It's all in here along with my script, if you want to see it.”

“That's blackmail,” Maggie said, but she took the envelope, then tried to close the door.

“Wait—I've got news.”

“You still can't come in. If you come in, you'll sit down, and you'll stare at me the whole time I'm reading your script.”

“That's okay. I just wanted to tell you that we're…well, we're sort of cut off from civilization until the rain stops and the creek goes down. The stream, the whatever they call it in England. Sir Rudy says the place always gets soggy, but this time it's really flooded. None of the village people—ha! Village People! Get it?”

“Yeah, I got it. Har. Har. Go on.” Maggie lowered her chin and looked at Sam from beneath her eyebrows.

“Oh, sorry. Anyway, none of the people from the village who work here made it to work this morning. We're on our own. Oh, and the lights went out last night sometime, so we're on the generators now. Sir Rudy has five of them, but they're all in the same place in the basement, and the basement's starting to flood. You should see Arnaud. He's having a cow, and Joanne's screaming so loud I'm surprised you didn't hear her up here.”

Maggie was upset by all this bad news, but didn't want to let Sam know that. After all, it was only rain. Only a monsoon. And the possibility of no electricity. No food. No escape. “Anything else?”

“No. Just the ghost.”

Maggie chewed on the inside of her cheeks for a few moments. “Oh. Only the ghost. Okay.
What ghost
?”

“Um…Uncle Willis? At least, that's what Sir Rudy calls him. Nobody knows his name. But he's here. Some old guy who didn't want to leave. Supposedly there's a small book about him in Sir Rudy's study.” Sam scratched his head. “Do you know Sir Rudy bought this place just the way it is? Furniture, books, even the household staff. They all came together. Those aren't even his ancestors on the walls in the portrait gallery. They came with the place. I love that. It's
so
Hollywood.”

“I think I'll go back to bed now, if you don't mind,” Maggie said. “Unless you've got more good news?”

Sam frowned. “Nope. That's about it. Oh! The Sterlings? They've mounted a ghost hunt. Your friend Alex told them that if they find Uncle Willis they're not to touch him, just leave him where he is, and most definitely not to invite him down to luncheon. That's what he called it—luncheon. I really want to follow that guy around with a notebook. He has some great lines.”

“Thank you,” Maggie said, then mentally slapped herself upside the head. “I mean, thanks for all the news. Maybe I'll go downstairs after all, see what's in the kitchen. Or did somebody make breakfast?”

“Marylou did. Arnaud put her on kitchen duty until the housekeeper and everyone can make it through. She's a pretty good cook.”

“Wonderful. I'll read this later, I promise.” Maggie put down the script, refusing to acknowledge Sam's small moan of protest, and stepped into the hallway, just in time to see Sterling and Perry come down the hall.

Sterling was carrying a large, moth-eaten butterfly net.

“Hello there, Maggie. Wonderful day, isn't it?”

Perry held up a small camera. “We're off to find Uncle Willis, since there's nothing else to do.”

Maggie smiled weakly, waggled her fingers at them, and watched them as they headed for what she supposed must be the servant staircase to the third floor.

“What's up there, anyway?” she asked Sam as they both made their way to the grand staircase.

“Attics, I guess, but I'll bet there's some really good stuff up there. Maybe even valuable stuff. We're not filming up there. Just in the main rooms and on the grounds, although with the rain, maybe Arnaud could do something with the attics. Are you sure you don't want to go back and get my—I mean, the changes to the final scene? You're the reason I changed it, you know. You should be grateful.”

Maggie stopped on the bottom step and turned to glare at the man. “Grateful? You've all totally screwed up what was a damn good story, and I'm supposed to be grateful? How do you figure that, Sam?”

And then something unexpected happened. Sam of the plain, round face and the affable if cloying demeanor turned into a not very nice man. Standing two steps above her, so he was a good foot taller all of a sudden, his face going red, his hands balling into fists, he said, tight-lipped, “You're such an ungrateful New York bitch. I kiss your ass, and what do I get? Do you know how hard it was to take your mess and whip it into something worth anything? So don't you condescend to me. You're just a hack who got lucky, that's all you are. Read my stuff, don't read it. I don't give a damn, because
my
script is going to be produced if I have to do it myself. I'm better than you'll ever be on your best day!”

Maggie stepped back, nearly fell down the last two steps. What had just happened? It was like Barney the Dinosaur had suddenly morphed into a T. Rex, and Maggie's body couldn't make up its mind whether it wanted to go into fight or flight mode. “I…uh…that is…”

“Yeah, right. That's what I thought. East Coast women. All balls, no brains. Give me a break. You want to know competition, you come to Hollywood. It's dog-eat-dog out there, and I'm on the brink, even if I have to do shlock like your pathetic little mystery movie. Well, you know what? This is the last time. I don't need you. Nobody wants you here anyway. I mean, come on, sister, buy a clue.”

He was being loud. He was hovering over her from his place on the stairs, menacing as a vulture.

All Maggie's usual defense mechanisms shifted into overdrive. Experience had long ago taught her that you can't win with someone who thinks arguments are won with the loudest voice, that the field goes to the physically intimidating.

She went into full retreat, heading across the landing and for the stairs to the ground floor. Where she'd go after that she didn't know. Out into the rain? Maybe that was a good idea. Anyplace. Anyplace but here.

Keeping her gaze on Sam Undercuffler, who really looked as if he might follow her, Maggie reached for and grabbed the wide stone railing and raced down the steps…cannoning into Alex, who caught her easily.

“Well, hello there,” he said, neatly holding her at the shoulders. “Is there some sort of emergency?”

If she told him about Sam, he'd go into Hero Mode. That, she definitely didn't need. “Is there…I just…no.” She took a deep breath, let it out in a rush. “No, no emergency. I just…I was just going to go outside and see how flooded the drive is—it looks flooded from my room.”

He didn't believe her. She'd created him, she knew his skeptical look, and he didn't believe her.

“I've just come back from indulging in much the same exercise,” he said, turning her about and offering his arm so that they climbed the stairs together. “A rather abbreviated exercise, as one look was more than sufficient to tell me that we are rather cut off from civilization at the moment. As a matter of fact, when you, um, stumbled into me, I was amusing myself by inspecting the artistry on this wall.”

“Big, isn't it?” Maggie said, stopping to look up at the romping figures, as stalling appealed to her more than going upstairs to see Sam waiting for her. “Who's the guy in the center?”

“Ah, that I do know, although I have yet to discover the name of the artist. The gentleman riding so triumphantly through the posies in his chariot is none other than Sir Willard Gainsley, the fellow who originally ordered construction of this pile. His great-grandson commissioned the painting shortly after the wing additions were completed.”

“And everybody else?” Maggie asked, sneaking a look up the stairs, relieved that Sam Undercuffler wasn't still there, maybe dressed in the suit of armor that stood on the landing, ready to split her head with the battle-ax held in one metal gauntlet.

“Sir Willard's family. Four generations strong at that point.”

“Sir Willard,” Maggie said, remembering Sterling's pursuit of the estate's ghost. “Uncle Willis?”

“No, not at all. Uncle Willis was the oldest son of a second son, somewhere along the line, and quite put out to find that a poor relation is just that, never to inherit more than his own father's debt. He came to a rather bad end, I understand, and then decided to haunt the place. Supposedly, there's a complete history in Sir Rudy's study, if you're interested. Marvelous research for you, since you seem to be in need of an alternate plot for our next adventure.”

“There's an actual history of this place? You know, I think Sam already told me that. I'll think about it—and ignore the sarcasm about needing a new plot because I know that's just you being you. Besides, ghosts are so overdone in mysteries. I'd rather look at the whole history, not just at Uncle Willis. Except I'm really not in the mood.”

“As you wish,” Saint Just said once they were in the upstairs foyer. “And, now that we've had our idle chatter, exactly what sent you racing down the stairs that way?”

“I told you. I wanted to look at the driveway.”

“So being called a no-talent hack by that insufferable brown pup had nothing to do with your haste?”