High Heels and Homicide (13 page)

She felt her way across the room and pushed open the drapery on one of the huge windows. It was brighter outside than it was inside, not that there was a measurable difference.

Using that faint light, Maggie located a table lamp and quickly switched it on. Off. On. Off. On–off–on–off.

“Oh, great, the generators are floating. This is just perfect,” she said, possibly whimpered. “I'm in a haunted house, with no power, no household staff. I'm surrounded by wackos, and at least two of them are up to something. Alex is going to love this, damn him.”

If she told him.

That thought hit her about the same time her shin collided with the leg of a chair as she fumbled her way toward the hall once more.

“I don't
have
to tell him,” she said out loud. “He can't go sticking his nose into anything and playing the hero again if he doesn't
know
there's anything to stick his nose into, after all. And there's not. There's not! I just heard two people talking, that's all. So I'm going to forget the whole thing ever happened. I'm going to forget it, and I'm going to ignore Sam Undercuffler, and I'm going to look the other way while Tabby screws around with an actor, and I'm going to find Bernie and stick close to her because she's the most sane person here. And just saying that shows how desperate I am.”

Maggie stopped, leaned against the wall. “And I'm going to stop talking to myself. That's first on the list. I'm going to be calm, cool, collected. Right after somebody feeds me.”

Following her nose to the kitchens, she turned down a piece of freshly baked pie and instead made two ham sandwiches, one for herself, the second for Bernie. Grabbing two cans of soda from one of the huge, stainless-fronted refrigerators, she thanked Marylou—who'd been telling her how “cute” Sir Rudy is—begged a flashlight, then headed up the servant's staircase to find Bernie's room.

“Knock, knock,” she said, opening the door to each room and cautiously sticking her head inside. Three rooms were empty, including the one she knew was Tabby's because of the red-paisley silk scarf carefully draped over a lampshade, probably to give the room a sexy ambiance. The only good thing was that Tabby and Dennis weren't in the room at the moment.

Figuring she was getting closer, with only two rooms to go, Maggie repeated her “Knock, knock” routine and opened the door to see…“Oh, God. Sorry!”

The image of Nikki Campion “riding” bareback on Byrd Stockwell would probably burn holes in her retinas before it disappeared.

“There are just some things people shouldn't know,” she said, rubbing her face in hopes of dispelling the image, and immensely grateful that Nikki and Byrd were so involved that they had neither heard her enter nor apologize. “Okay. Last door. What do I get, the lady or the tiger?”

Maggie knocked, entered, then stood for a moment until her eyes became accustomed to the near darkness. “Bernie? You here?”

“
Mmmmmpff
.”

“I'll take that as a yes,” Maggie said, closing the door, then crossing to the window to push open the drapes. “It's cold in here. Why didn't you light a fire? And why are you still in bed? It took me forever to find you, and you won't believe what I saw when I opened the—Bernie? Honey, you don't look so good.”

Bernie pushed herself up against the pillows, then quickly dragged the covers over her shoulders. “It's cold as a morgue in here,” she said, then glared at Maggie. “And thanks for the compliment. I'm sick. My head hurts, my nose is all stuffed up, I've got a scratchy throat, I'm achy, I'm sneezing, I—”

“Sound like a NyQuil commercial,” Maggie said, hopping up to sit on the side of the high bed. “You probably picked up some cold germ on the flight over. Dirty air. What have you taken?”

Bernie sneezed, then blew her nose in a crumpled handkerchief. “Taken? Why should I take anything? Nothing helps, except booze, and you won't let me have that. We can put a man on the moon, Mags,” she said, sniffling, “so why can't we cure the common cold? Huh?”

“I don't know. Because everyone's too busy inventing new and improved erectile dysfunction drugs?”

“Yes!” Bernie sat up straight, her red hair a tangled mess, her nose a nearly matching red. “That's it! And tell me why the world needs three or so different drugs for erectile dysfunction. Are that many guys having trouble getting it up? Bull! They just all want to feel nineteen again, when all it took was waking up in the morning to get themselves in the mood.”

Maggie nodded furiously, willing to tackle any subject, as long as it had nothing to do with Medwine Manor or the movie. “I know, I know. And then they show these commercials where the guy comes up behind his wife—we know it's his wife because she's washing dishes, and girlfriends don't wash dishes. That keeps it G-rated or something. Anyway, the guy comes up to his wife, who's washing dishes, or digging in the garden, or making supper. He's
ready
. So, of course,
she's
just overjoyed to drop everything she's doing and be a freaking
receptacle
. Those commercials make me
so
mad.”

Bernie sneezed again, laid back against the pillow. “You do know that if they came up with a guaranteed-orgasm pill for women, no ads would be allowed on the air. We'd never see a bunch of housewives and young mothers bursting out of their suburban homes, dancing, and singing ‘It's Raining Men.' Or that song from
Jekyll and Hyde
. ‘Bring On the Men.' Yeah. That's a good one.”

“Or ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun,'” Maggie agreed. “Okay, so now that we've settled that one, and before you start on world peace or the price of Jimmy Choo boots, I've got some bad news for you.”

“Nothing could be worse than this cold. And, speaking of cold, why is it so cold in here? And why are you holding a flashlight?”

“That's part of the bad news. The power cut out, and the generators are under water in the cellars—Marylou told me some fool left the service doors open and water was pouring down the stairs into the basement. We're completely surrounded by water from the rain, the ornamental pond, the stream, wherever it's coming from, so nobody goes in, nobody gets out. No household staff, no cook, nobody but us'uns. Oh. And it's still raining.”

Bernie was quiet for some moments, then said, “A helicopter. We can call for a helicopter rescue. I've seen those on TV.”

“I don't think so, no. According to Sir Rudy, this happens all the time. Nobody's coming to the rescue. We just wait until the rain stops and the water goes down. Besides, I can't really see you in a harness, being pulled up over the rooftops, can you?”

“Not sober, no. I'm starving. Feed a cold, right?”

“Oh, I forgot. I brought us lunch, but I left everything on a table in the hall. Hang on, I'll go get it.”

“No big hurry. I'm just dying here.”

“Right,” Maggie said, heading for the hall, only to quickly close the door when she saw Byrd Stock-well and Nikki Campion standing in the open doorway across the way, lost in a lip-lock.

“What's wrong? Is the flood up here now? Are we going to drown? Tell me, Maggie. I can take it.”

“Shhh,” Maggie said, heading back to the bed. “I'll get the sandwiches in a minute. First…you're never going to believe this one…”

I
t was amazing to Saint Just how, in such a very short space of time, he could become so bored with his Regency costume (tailoring was an art, one that obviously had not extended to whatever cow-handed buffoon had fashioned this coat).

He was equally disenchanted with the company (most of whom would cheerfuly murder each other for an extra moment on film), Medwine Manor (cold, drafty, soon to be dark), and England in November (for no particular reason save that there was no television machine and he was certain to miss the New York Giants on
Monday Night Football
).

Already unclasping the crudely fashioned, prefabricated neck cloth with one hand while unbuttoning his waistcoat with the other, Saint Just stopped dead just inside Sterling's bedchamber and stared at his friend and compatriot.

“
What
are you doing?”

Sterling, who had pulled up his shirt, exposing his bare belly, quickly pulled down his shirt and smiled at Saint Just. “I'm not sure. Remember yesterday? When you were all talking about Maggie's latest manuscript?”

“And you were admiring the scaffolding? Yes, I recall the moment. What of it?”

“Well, everyone kept talking about what was wrong with Maggie's book, and somebody—I forget who—said the story had you contemplating your navel for several hundred pages. And I've been wondering exactly what that meant, and why anyone would want to, because I've been looking at mine for ten minutes now and—and now you're laughing at me, aren't you?”

“Never, Sterling,” Saint Just said, keeping a straight face only with difficulty. “I believe what was meant was that Maggie wrote me as examining my life—who I am, what I am, where I'm going, where I've been.”

“Why would anybody want to do that?” Sterling asked. “A person could discover things about himself best left alone, and all of that.”

“Very true, my friend. You look nearly incomplete, Sterling. Where's the other Sterling?”

“Perry. He's really Perry. He's only pretending to be me. And he's having a small lie-down in his room, if you must know. He thought he saw Uncle Willis, but it turned out to be nothing more than another suit of armor we found in the attics. The lightning flashed and lit it up, and Sterling—that is, Perry—screamed like a young girl, then backed up and fell over a small chest. Landed square on his rump. He's taking a restorative rest, but then we'll be off again. We have an entire other wing of the attics to search.”

“Are you quite convinced there is a ghost, Sterling? In any case, it will be coming on to dark soon, so I'd rather you and your friend weren't stumbling about in the attics.”

Sterling nodded sagely. “In case Uncle Willis shows up.”

Saint Just smiled. “Exactly. And now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I'd like to retire to my own room, to bathe with what may be left of the hot water and attend to my toilette, then return these costumes to Marylou. Yours, too, Sterling. I think we've had enough of playacting.”

“You're returning the costumes? But why? I thought these clothes suited you down to the ground.”

“If the tailoring were better, perhaps. But possibly even not then. I wouldn't wish for Maggie to hear me, but modern clothing is immeasurably more comfortable. And, of course, everyone else will look the fool once I'm in my own impeccable wardrobe again.”

“Except Byrd Stockwell. He cuts a rather dashing figure, don't you think?”

“The robin? I can't say as I'd really noticed,” Saint Just said, avoiding Sterling's gaze. Because in truth, Byrd Stockwell annoyed him most thoroughly, even if he didn't want to believe the man's wardrobe and bearing had anything to do with that dislike. There was just something vaguely
false
about the man, and Saint Just knew he would feel more comfortable if the man wasn't in Armani while he was stuck in pantaloons and neck cloths, as if numbered with the actors.

Once refreshed and clad in black slacks and matching shirt, Saint Just went on the hunt for Maggie, who had been conspicuous only by her absence after telling him that Bernie was feeling poorly and that Tabby was still among the missing. As Dennis Lloyd also had not been seen since breakfast, this had come as no great surprise.

The cast had dispersed after a cold luncheon of meat and cheese, as Sir Rudy had suggested they all consider bringing blankets and pillows to the main saloon and prepare to spend the night sharing body heat—a suggestion that had been met with considerable derision and a snort or two from Evan Pottinger, who had said he'd much rather suffer hypothermia in his own room, thank you very much.

What a jolly gathering, one to which Saint Just would be more than happy to wave his farewells the moment the rain stopped, which it showed no signs of doing.

In the meantime, however, he would have liked a word or three with Sam Undercuffler, to take the fellow to task about his appalling lack of manners, and to point out to him that such boorish behavior toward Maggie would not be countenanced in the future. In other words, Saint Just planned to scare the clod spitless, which would serve to help him pass an enjoyable quarter hour.

But Sam Undercuffler hadn't been seen in the past several hours, not even appearing for supper, which had consisted of unhappy people…and more cold meat and cheese.

Indeed, most everyone seemed to have decided to give supper a skip, as most of the guests of Medwine Manor had bolted themselves in their rooms for the duration…doing Lord only knew what with Lord only knew whom.

Saint Just was only interested in Maggie.

So, after checking the empty study, the equally empty morning room, the likewise deserted main saloon, Saint Just climbed the stairs again, carrying a lovely silver candelabra that suited his mood as well as the architecture, and prepared to knock on Maggie's bedchamber door.

He heard music coming from under the door, which stilled his hand as he was about to knock. Music? But there was no electricity. Ah! Of course! Maggie's battery-powered CD player. Maggie could no more exist without music than she could breathe without air. And, when she wanted the world gone, she just turned the music louder.

Today, the music was blaring. Oh, dear.

Opening the door slowly, Saint Just smiled as, with the aid of several branches of candles lit around the room, he saw Maggie dancing to one of her favorite songs, Linda Eder's “Never Dance.”

She moved gracefully to the story within the song, of that night in Rio and the man she would never forget. Arms high above her head, Maggie's body told its own story as the pulsing beat throbbed through the room. Somehow happy, somehow sad. Never dance…never kiss…never love. And yet…feel the passion…the heat of desire. Just to dance again.

Saint Just couldn't resist. Who could possibly resist?

He put down the candelabra and moved to stand in front of her. Watched for a few mind-blowing moments as she swayed in front of him, her eyes closed, an expression of bliss on her beautiful face.

And then he slipped his arm around her waist, took her hand in his and brought it down.

And guided her into the dance.

She opened her eyes, goggled at him, even as she moved with him. “What…what do you think you're—”

“Shhh. This is the best part.”

“Yes, but—oh, hell.”

Hip to hip. Thigh to thigh. Moving to the rhythm.

He was a marvelous dancer. Maggie had written him so. He was so very good at so very many things.

He watched her as they danced, watched her watching him. Spun her out. Brought her back. Laughed as she finally grinned, as the devil peeked out from behind her eyes, as she gave herself up to the sensuous beat, the
heat
, the
passion
.

The
desire.

One last whirl, one last dip, and the song was over. But not the dance.

Saint Just knew what came next on the CD. “Vienna.” Love remembered. Love lost. Slow, sad…yet soaring. He drew Maggie close, tucking her right hand in his left, then folding them together against his chest as he held her, as they moved to the poetry that had been love in Vienna.

And Maggie allowed all of it.

Of course, being Maggie, she was not content for them to drift together silently.

“You never knock,” she said as he pressed a kiss against her hair.

“I'm a bad man.”

“Yes, you are. And it's embarrassing, being caught like this.”

“Dancing? I vow I wouldn't know why.”

“No, you wouldn't. You're never embarrassed. I was just trying to, I don't know, blow off some steam?”

“I see.” Saint Just lightly traced his fingertips down the back of her neck. “I could help with that.”

“Yes, I'm sure you think you could. This…this isn't going anywhere, you know.”

“I know.” He stroked her back, shoulder to hip. “Dear Lord, how I know…”

The song began to soar, and he moved with it. They moved with it.

“You could disappear as quickly as you showed up, you know. I couldn't…it's not possible for me to…oh, hell.”

“There is such a thing as the
moment
.”

“Like ‘Vienna'? Love followed by regret? No, I couldn't do that. I just couldn't, Alex.”

“And yet, ‘'tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.'”

Maggie stopped moving, pushed slightly away from him even as they continued in the dance. “Tennyson? He wrote too late for the Regency Era. I'm very careful to use only quotes written before your time in history. So how do you know Tennyson?”

“Noticed that, did you?” Saint Just rolled his eyes, smiled at this change of subject. Dearest Maggie, so transparent. But he was getting to her, and she had begun to weaken. He could afford to be patient. “My Maggie, the nitpicker. What? I cannot attempt to improve my mind?”

She shook her head, walked over to the portable CD player and shut it off. “I suppose not. But you could have used Congreve. He wrote before the Regency. Remember? You said it in
The Case of the Pilfered Pearls
, right before you gave your mistress her walking papers. ‘Say what you will, 'tis better to be left than never to have been loved.'”

“And got my face slapped for my pains. Yes, I recall the moment. There are times, dearest Maggie, when I believe your mission in life is to deny me pleasure.”

“Bite—never mind. And that's not true. I've written a couple dozen love scenes for you and—oh, no. I'm not going there. I don't want to talk about the books. I most especially don't want to talk about the love scenes. Do you have any idea how
difficult
that is for me since…since you got here?”

She looked so lovely when she was flustered. Saint Just couldn't help himself. He pushed. “No, not really. Tell me.”

“Oh, right. You'd love that, wouldn't you? Forget it.” She ran her fingers through her hair, which settled again most becomingly, which it should, for the price she paid for a silly man with scissors to snip at it once a month. “Okay. This has been a long time coming, and it's not going away without talking about it, is it? So let's get this over with, why don't we?”

“Perceive me as amenable to your every wish, if the
it
you're referring to is our, shall we say, mutual attraction,” Saint Just said, fingering the ribbon holding his quizzing glass. “Shall I put the music on again?”

“That was
not
what I meant, and you know it. God! This is like arguing with myself—you know all the snappy answers, probably even before I ask the questions. Do me a favor, Alex, and get out of my head.”

“Done and done, my dear. Sterling and I both. Not that it wasn't enjoyable there, but I so much prefer our present situation. Although, after seeing Dennis Lloyd in the Saint Just livery, I must say I still do lament that you have yet to make him a fully well-rounded character, so that Clarence might join us here. He had such a way with boot black. I vow, I'm soon to shed a tear, feeling so very nostalgic for the man.”

“Shut up. Just shut up.” Maggie began to pace, yet another of her fortes. For a woman who detested exercise, she was quite the accomplished pacer, some days going for miles in her own living room-cum-office when one of her stories was first percolating in her brain.

Saint Just watched her for a few moments, then broke the silence. “Maggie. My dear, dear girl. We are destined, you know. The
left
-tenant is a mild diversion, nothing more, poor man, and we both are aware of that, also. When you created me, the perfect hero of your dreams, there was nothing else for it but for me to appear in your life.”

She stopped dead to glare at him. “Oh, really. Really? Boy, you're a piece of work. You're telling me you've ruined me for other men? Of all the arrogant, self-serving, miserable excuses I've ever heard, that one—”