High Heels and Homicide (15 page)

“Nikki lifts weights,” Maggie said, then shook her head. “No. That's pushing it. Unless there's two people involved.”

“Yes, I've considered that possibility as well. Regardless, the lividity certainly squashes Troy Barlow's theory, although I allowed him to run with that notion for a while, if only to keep him occupied. Unfortunately, you see, he heard me when I took Sterling aside outside the morning room to inform him that we might be dealing with a murder.”

“Oh, good going, Alex.”

“It was an unfortunate lapse, yes, with my only excuse being the dim light in that hallway, even with all the candles lit in their sconces. But I did impress him with the fact that Undercuffler's death could also be a suicide. That nobody has ruled out that possibility, even as we consider alternate possibilities. Which,” Saint Just ended with a small smile, “set him off quite nicely with a theory of his own.”

“Troy? He has a theory? Okay, this should be good. What's his theory? Murder or suicide? You said suicide, right?”

“Suicide, of course, as Troy's first choice was that Undercuffler did indeed do away with himself. Provoked by your cruel rebuffs, by the way, your constant harping on the very reasonable improvements he made to your book. And then you crushed him—totally destroyed his spirit—by refusing to read his own script.”

“I was going to read the damn thing,” Maggie protested. “Eventually.”

“Yes, I'm sure you would have, thanks to your lamentable inability to say no and mean it when others encroach on your good-heartedness. But to continue? Undercuffler, opined our Troy, hanged himself from the scaffold, making sure you would be the one who eventually discovered his body. In other words, Sam Undercuffler killed himself to upset you. Rather like slicing off one's own nose to spite one's face, but it has been done before. Shame on you, you cold, heartless woman. Or, to quote our trumped-up Viscount Saint Just, you ‘bawdy, artless harpy.'”

“He's blaming
me
? Reasonable improvements?
Harpy
! Oh, for the love of—you're kidding, right? I pass out after seeing Sam swinging outside my window, which was more than reasonable, damn it, and now you're making up stories for when I was out cold. That's mean, Alex. Really mean.”

“If that were true, which it is not, believe me when I tell you that my joy would not be unalloyed. But I will, at least somewhat, relieve your mind. Casting you in the role of hard-hearted female to Bernie when we met her in the hallway was a short-lived theory on the man's part, one she squashed both effectively and with some rather inspired profanity.”

“That's Bernie. And she's feeling sick, too. What a pal. Now tell me why your joy wouldn't be unalloyed.”

“Again, the Troy Toy—Bernie addressed him that way, several times, and I believe the title has a certain ring to it. He only moments ago confided in me that if Undercuffler was the victim of foul play—his words, not mine—he, as the Viscount Saint Just, is the obvious person to step in, solve the dastardly crime. As a matter of fact, he's off now, hunting up Joanne Pertuccelli and the robin, as he insists that everyone be gathered in the main saloon when he renders his verdict.”

“Oh joy, this is going to be good. Evan Pottinger I can see as a method actor, believing himself in a part. But Troy? He couldn't ask someone to pass the salt without a script in front of him. Wait a minute. Joanne and Byrd? They aren't here? There's been a freaking murder, Alex. Why are people just
wandering
around? Where are they?”

“I'm sure I shouldn't know,” Alex said, helping Maggie to her feet. “After all, I am nothing save an interested bystander, having been firmly put in my place the last time I attempted some sleuthing, and only now slowly climbing back into your good graces. In other words, using your modern vernacular, I believe that other than the observations I have already made, I'm going to sit this one out.”

Maggie laughed, and not kindly. “Oh, sure you are. And as a true Regency character might say, pull the other leg—it's got bells on. You could no more sit out a murder investigation than you could wear stripes with plaids.”

Saint Just gave an exaggerated shudder. “Oh, very well. If you insist.”

“If I—cute. Real cute, Alex. Now I'm
asking
you to investigate Sam's murder?”

Alex swept her an elegant leg. “Your wish, as ever, is my command. Now, shall we return to the others?”

“So Troy can play at being you and try to declare me guilty again, this time for murder? Oh, yeah, sure. I can't wait.”

“Well, the deceased was dangling outside your window, remember? Troy's original deduction was very nearly reasonable, and it's only a small step from provoker of suicide to murderess.”

“But if I killed Sam, why would I want him hanging outside my own window? Is Troy nuts, or just stupid? Never mind. Rhetorical question. Besides, if Bernie shut him up once, I don't think even Troy could be dumb enough to try to go there again. I'm safe,” Maggie said, reluctantly taking Saint Just's arm. “But you are going to tell everyone about the lividity, right?”

“Only if you'll not nag at me to limit myself to no more than that, perhaps. In for a penny, in for a pound.”

“Nag? Now I'm a nag? You know, Alex, I fainted. I had a shock. A big one. So maybe you could ease off a little, huh?”

“You're not fully recovered?”

“Of course I am,” Maggie said, bristling. “And damn you for knowing that. With Steve, I could have milked that faint for days. Weeks. With you?”

Alex pulled out his pocket watch, the one that had been his fictional grandfather's. “Fifty-seven minutes,” he supplied affably. “Ah, and here come Joanne and our Robin Redbreast. Neither looks particularly happy.”

Joanne saw them first and headed straight for Maggie. “Do you have a cell phone?” she asked, wringing her hands in front of herself while Byrd switched off the large flashlight he was carrying. “Do either of you have a cell phone? I've got to call California, let them know what's happening.”

“So sorry,” Alex said. “I have one, yes, but the battery has run down. And since there's no power…?”

“I've got one,” Maggie said, sensing something wrong about the studio representative's appearance, but unable to put a finger on just what. “You don't have one, Joanne? I'm sure I saw you with one yesterday.”

“That was yesterday,” Joanne said in clipped tones. Angry tones. “I don't have one today. And neither does Byrd. We just checked his room. Didn't we, Byrd?”

“It's true. My cell has gone missing. Joanne here thinks that's odd. Do you think that's odd?”

Maggie looked at Saint Just. “I think mine's in my room. I'll go get it.”

“Yes, do that, and I'll check with the others. Someone's bound to have one,” Alex said, heading for the main saloon.

Five minutes of intensive searching later (while wondering how Alex could have let her go upstairs alone, with a murderer in the house), Maggie joined him in the main saloon, shaking her head when he first saw her. “Any luck here?”

“Considerable, and all of it bad,” he told her as Troy paced the carpet in the center of the room while everyone ignored him. “The flooding, the lack of electricity, and now all the cell phones have gone missing. No one kept their phone with them while in costume.”

“And now they're all gone? Wonderful.”

“Yes, it is, isn't it? A clumsy ploy, yet effective. It doesn't take a brilliant detective to conclude that we are stranded here quite effectively, with a killer who intends to use that isolation to his or her own benefit—whatever that may be. Whatever, I imagine we shall know before morning. Care for a ham sandwich? Marylou has prepared several more, bless her.”

“Gee, it's nice to know you're still calm,” Maggie said, reaching into her pocket for her nicotine inhaler. “This is all beginning to feel like a bad murder mystery. If the lights weren't already out, I'd expect them to cut out at any moment, then come back on so we all could see the knife sticking out of somebody's back.”

“A charming mental picture, thank you, although there's as yet no good reason to suppose Undercuffler's murder wasn't an isolated incident,” Alex said, pressing a hand to his forehead as if his head ached. “Still, pressing on with your theory of imminent danger to all of us, would you mind terribly if the next victim were our dear Troy?”

“Why? He's still at it? Gee, and I missed it.”

“Yes, my fears have all been confirmed, as Troy does have a new suspect I have not yet shared with you,” Alex said, guiding her over to the table, now piled with sandwiches. “Thus far, unless he's been holding court during our absence, he's seen fit to confide his latest theory only to me.”

“Lucky you. The guy works fast, I'll give him that.” Maggie peeled back the bread from one of the sandwiches, made a face at the mustard smeared on the bread. “No mayo?” She took a quick peek over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, then did a fast shuffle with the bread, making her own sandwich with two plain slices. “So, don't keep me in suspense—who's the new winner?” she then asked around her first large bite of the dry sandwich.

“Uncle Willis.”

Maggie coughed as Alex soundly slapped her back until the bite of ham dislodged from her throat. Wiping her streaming eyes with her sleeve, Maggie choked out, “The ghost? He's blaming the ghost? I'll be right back. I gotta hear this one for myself.”

Troy was still pacing. He was the only one still in costume, his handsome face scrunched up as he attempted to keep the quizzing glass stuck to his eye even as he kept his hands clasped behind his back.

“Troy—I mean,
Viscount
?” Maggie said. “I hear, my lord, that you have a suspect?”

The actor threw back his head and stuck out his chest. “I do that, madam,” he pronounced carefully, then swore as the quizzing glass fell from his eye.

“Having a spot of bother, my lord?” Maggie asked facetiously, mentally casting Troy in her next book as the too-blond, dandified, totally ineffectual twit. Talk about your typecasting.

“Yes, I am. Damned thing. I'm going to have Sam write it out of the—oh. Well, whoever's going to take his place, that is.”

“Saint Just's quizzing glass is an integal part of his personality, Troy,” Maggie told him, no longer quite so amused. She looked at the actor's blond hair. “Just like his black hair. I've been afraid to ask. What are you guys going to do about that, anyway? You're going to wear a wig? Because my readers expect a Saint Just with black hair.”

“That doesn't matter. Readers don't watch television. And television viewers don't read. Everybody knows that.”

Maggie felt her temper rising. “I don't. I watch television
and
I read. I even chew gum and walk at the same time. Most of America does.”

“Whatever. I only know that the American public will be tuning in because of
me
. I'm the draw—not your story. Definitely not Nikki, who's only famous for being famous, or Evan, who always plays the villain. But I really like being Saint Just. He's cool. So now, exactly like in the script, I'm going to gather the suspects together and ask a few questions before I unmask our dastardly murderer.
Dastardly
. Great word.”

“Yeah. One of my all-time favorites. Go on, please.”

Troy swept his right arm out in front of him, as if spreading his words across a screen hung in the air. “I can see the headlines. Troy Barlow, as the Viscount Saint Just, solves writer's murder on location. Barlow saves the day!”

He dropped his arm to his side. “Well, something like that. It'll make great publicity for the movie, might even guarantee a series. My agent's going to love it. I love it. Do you love it? And now, if you don't mind, I believe I'm on.”

“No, no, wait a minute. I think it's a brilliant plan. Wonderful,” Maggie said quickly. “I think it's really…really
cool
that you've decided to take charge this way. As Saint Just, I mean. Great publicity, I agree. But we don't want any mistakes, do we? After all, Saint Just is my creation, remember. So I want to hear about this suspect of yours. I know you want to tell everyone, but could you just give me a hint?”

Troy lifted the quizzing glass once more, then seemed to think better of it and let it fall back to his chest. “Oh, okay. But only a hint.” He looked to his left, his right, then motioned for Maggie to lean in close. “Uncle Willis,” he said, then paused for effect. “You know. The
ghost
. He did it.”

Maggie couldn't see Alex from where she was standing. She couldn't hear him. But she knew he was laughing.

“Really? Uncle Willis, huh?” she said as Troy straightened again, struck a pose, one hand on his hip. “What was his motive?”

Troy frowned. “Motive? I…well…I imagine Sam, um, bumped into him in the attics while he was searching out a new spot to shoot the gazebo scene, since the gazebo's under water. Ghosts don't like to be disturbed, you know. When I played in
Teen Screamfest Twelve
—a small part, but memorable; I was the second Chess Club member—I met my end when I opened the wrong door and disturbed the ghost. Bam! Ax straight through my head. You saw me in
Screamfest
? The flick was a bomb, but I got noticed, let me tell you.”