High Heels and Homicide (12 page)

“You heard? Oh, that's lousy, Alex. And why didn't you come rescue me? I thought Sam was going to take a swing at me. I really did.”

“Cowards never hit first, my dear,” Alex said, stepping ahead of her to open the double doors to the main saloon. “But I assure you, I'll deal with the man directly.”

“No!” Maggie stopped, figuratively dug in her heels. Covered her sudden fear with bravado. “That's the
last
damn thing I want—you protecting me. We've been there, done that, remember? And it didn't work out all that well. I'll fight my own battles, and I would fight this one except Sam Undercuffler's not really that important, okay? I got spooked for a minute, I'll admit that, but I'm also over it. I'll handle him. Besides, the rain stops and we're out of here, end of story. In the meantime, I'm going to go scope out this study everybody's talking about and find a good book. Even a bad book. And then I'm locking myself in my room.”

“Very well,” Saint Just said, shooting the cuffs on his Regency costume; today he was wearing a bottle-green morning jacket and tan pantaloons. “I suppose Tabby and Bernie can amuse themselves without their friend, whom they've come to England to support in this possibly trying time spent watching her magnificent book reduced to ninety minutes of film minus commercial breaks.”

“Bite me.”

“Ah, there she is, the Maggie I adore. Now, come along. Evan has a question for you. He asked me, actually, but I knew you'd rather answer him.”

Maggie looked around the main saloon, wondering when she'd before seen such a motley-looking crew of unhappy people. “Oh, this is going to be another fun day. Where's Tabby?”

“With the also-absent Clarence, one could suppose. More than that, I don't believe either of us wants to know.”

“I'll drink to that,” Maggie said, pouring herself a glass of orange juice from the pitcher on the coffee table, then snatching up a piece of rather cold, hard toast. “Some breakfast.”

“There were eggs and ham earlier, but I'm afraid you missed them, as did Bernie, who is still in her room, in case you were about to inquire as to her whereabouts. Ah, but here's our Lord Hervey now. One meets the most insufferable people in Society.”

“You want to punch him, don't you?” Maggie asked, feeling a little better, especially since Sam Undercuffler was nowhere to be seen. “A wisty castor, then watching when his nose begins leaking claret.”

“Not really, sorry to disappoint. He, like Undercuffler, really isn't worth the effort of more than a brilliant, cutting, verbal set-down, which both will receive soon enough if I'm pushed beyond my endurance. A gentleman must have his standards. Now, sending a few of my servants round to administer a well-deserved beating? That does hold some appeal.”

“Shhh, he'll hear you,” Maggie said, trying not to giggle. “Ah, Mr. Pottinger, hello. You wanted to ask me something?”

“Lord Hervey, if you please, madam,” Evan Pottinger said, his bow barely a cursory nod in her direction. “But, in point of fact, I have been reading over the scene in the gazebo, and I can't seem to find my motivation. Why am I so set on killing this servant girl?”

Maggie rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on, you don't know why? Didn't you understand when you read the book?”

Evan blinked. “Read the book? Why would I do that?”

“Because you're a method actor?” Maggie suggested. “Don't you guys
immerse
yourselves in a role? Or do you just like to dress up and act like you know what's going on?”

Evan produced his snuff box and did a pretty darn good job of taking imaginary snuff. “Ah. I see now why Sam entertained us all during breakfast with his rather colorful comments about you, Miss Dooley.”

“Kelly. Dooley's my pen name. And what did he say?”

“Now, Maggie, you wouldn't want his lordship here to stoop to repeating gossip, now would you?” Alex asked, stepping into the breech. “Come, Lord Hervey, ask Miss Kelly exactly what you want, then be a good fellow and go away.”

Evan glared at Saint Just, who glared back. “Not worth your effort, remember?” Maggie said quietly, then addressed Evan once more. “You want to know your motivation for being an unmitigated bastard? Is that it? But you don't have time to read the book?”

“No. I don't have the
inclination
. Just synopsize it for me, please?”

Maggie wanted to scream. “Okay. Sure. Lord Hervey is your typical jackass sociopath. Let's see, what sort of background did I give him in my mind when I was creating him? Oh, yeah. Pulled wings off butterflies, likes to set fires, screwed his half-sister, beats his valet—you know, the usual stuff. You kill,
Lord Hervey
, because you bloody well
like
it. Good enough?”

Evan lifted his chin, his eyes bright, dancing. “Oh. Oh, yes. I can see it now. Pent-up rage at an unfeeling mother. Years of abuse at the hands of the father. Jack the Ripper, but in better clothes and operating in a better neighborhood. Oh, this is perfect. This is wonderful. Meaty.”

He held his balled fists up in front of himself. “The hatred and loathing for his fellow man that lies beneath the urbane, witty surface. I can
feel
the rage now, the incredible anger beneath the fashionable facade. Now all I have to do is
channel
it as my hands slowly close around the servant girl's neck and I squeeze…
squeeze
.”

Maggie watched, bug-eyed, as Evan turned and walked away, his hands still in fists. “Yeah, right. So glad I could help. The guys in the white coats will meet you at the front door in an hour, okay?” She turned to Alex. “Jeez Louise, that is one scary guy.”

“Not half as frightening as our Saint Just. Look at him. God's teeth, I believe I'm experiencing my first failure.”

Maggie looked across the room to where Troy Barlow and Nikki Campion stood close together, each holding a copy of the script as they read lines to each other. “He looks all right to me, and his coattails aren't wrinkled, either. What's your problem?”

“Let me count the ways. His accent. His posture. His expression, which reminds me most of a stunned sheep. I worked with him for an hour, earlier, in the breakfast room, trying to explain the proper use of cutlery. Ah, but here comes our host. Sir Rudy? Any news on the state of the cellars?”

“Not good, not good,” Sir Rudy said, shaking his head as he clomped into the room in thigh-high black rubber waders held up by bright red suspenders. “I used to watch this place all but float away when I was a lad from the village. Thought it was funny then. Not so bloody funny now.”

“I know I'm not laughing.” Maggie smelled the expelled cigarette smoke before she saw Joanne Pertuccelli. “I just called Stateside to warn everyone off until next week. But that doesn't mean we're going to waste time, people. I've already got Arnaud blocking out interior scenes for some of the stuff that was supposed to take place outside. Sam's helping with that, scoping out possible locations. We can do this, people. We're Americans. We've got ingenuity. We've got innovation on our side. We've got a budget, damn it. We can do this!”

“Yay, team,” Maggie grumbled in disgust.

“We'd damn well better,” Evan called out imperiously from his place in front of the mantel. “I talked to my agent this morning, and I'm up for a voice-over part in
The Simpsons
Christmas special.”

“Oh, now there's a huge career move, Evan,” Troy Barlow said, his sneer pretty good for a guy Saint Just seemed to consider a total write-off. “
I
may start filming December fifteenth on
Celebrity Jeopardy
.”

“Oh, he is not,” Maggie said, probably louder than she should have, but she was laughing too hard to be subtle. “What's the first category—
Spelling of Three-Letter Words
?”

But nobody was listening because everyone was talking—yelling, actually—the actors all playing out a scene in what was probably a long-running show of one-upmanship.

“I don't think I like Americans all that much anymore,” Sir Rudy told Maggie. “Present company excepted, of course. I think.”

“Thank you, Sir Rudy. I think,” Maggie told him. “Is it true we could lose power?”

The man shrugged. “It's definitely getting wet down there. But it's not all horrible. Dearest little Marylou has the kitchens well in hand. Very amenable girl. I think she likes me. The redhead—not the one over there, screaming, but the other one, the tall one? She said I was sweet, so I know that's not going anywhere. But Marylou. Well, she's a dear.”

Maggie smiled as gently as she could. “That's nice, Sir Rudy. But do be careful, won't you? You wouldn't want some fast American girl to turn your head, now would you?”

“I'm not completely against it, no,” he said, then excused himself, telling Maggie he wanted to return to the kitchens, as Marylou had promised him a peach pie. He passed behind Maggie, and she gave a small yelp when she felt him pinch her bottom.

“He pinched me,” she told Alex, who was watching as Troy Barlow attempted to perform an elegant leg—a particularly deep, sweeping bow. Luckily, the well-muscled Nikki caught him before he fell. “Sir Rudy
pinched
me.”

“Callous as this sounds, Maggie, my dear, we all have our problems,” Alex said, then left her where she stood. Before she could make good her own escape, Joanne stomped in her direction.

“I want to make it clear, Ms. Kelly, that while you may have somehow managed free air flight for yourself and your companions, there
will
be a ten-ninety-nine sent to you at the end of the year, and you
will
have to report the fares as income.”

“Really,” Maggie said, wondering if the water outside was deep enough for her to just go drown herself in it and put herself out of her misery. “There's no such thing as a free ride, is there, Joanne?”

“Not in this business there's not.” Then Joanne lost her eagle-eyed look and asked, “Have you seen Mr. Stockwell?”

“Who? Oh, Sir Rudy's nephew. No. I can't say as I have. But you could ask Nikki, I suppose. Last night they seemed…pretty chummy.”

“Looks can be deceiving, Ms. Kelly,” Joanne said, and once more Maggie was alone. She was being talked at, talked to, and then left alone much too much for one morning, so she decided to hunt down Sir Rudy's study.

Once there, and after admiring the dark paneling and the walls crammed with books, she found a small stack of
People
magazines she hadn't read yet. And, wow, there was a small fire in the grate. She could make herself comfortable here for a while. Dragging a cashmere afghan over her legs as she curled up in one of the chairs flanking the fireplace, she was enjoying a review of Harlan Coben's latest book in two minutes, sound asleep in ten.

She awoke some time later with a stiff neck and in the dark, for the fire had burned down to a few embers and the velvet draperies were shut tight over the windows.

It took her a few moments to get her bearings, remember where she was, but the sound of hushed voices kept her in her chair.

She didn't know who was in the room with her, and because they were whispering, she couldn't figure it out. She was able to understand only every second or third word.

“You said
mumble-mumble
knew.”

“I
mumble
I know. But that's
mumble-mumble-mumble
same as having
mumble
in my hands.”

“I
mumble-mumble
everything to—”

“There's no risk
mumble-mumble
person who only happened to
mumble; squared
.”

“Oh, shut up. And I don't like that now he's
mumble-mumble
on it. When do we
mumble
for the
mumble-mumble
? Today?”

“No power
mumble
nobody
mumble
us.
Enough mumbles to make Maggie want to scream
…our friend.”

“I'm your
mumble
friend. Don't
mumble
that or
really nasty-sounding run of mumbles
. And I mean it.”

“
Mumble-mumble
avoid suspicion
mumble
be silly.”

And then nothing.

Maggie heard the study door open and close. She quickly threw off the afghan and raced to open the door, look out into the hallway. But it was nearly pitch black in the hallway.

One of them had said something about the power, right? Yeah, something about the power.