High Heels and Homicide (22 page)

“Joanne may still be innocent, remember? The stopwatch could have been misplaced, then appropriated.”

“I'm not buying that one and neither are you, not really. She probably doesn't take that thing off even when she sleeps. We could ask Evan, I guess, since he slept with her. Anyway, they were interrupted in whatever it was they were doing. They weren't done yet, so they needed to stay here a little while longer, to finish whatever it was they'd started, which wouldn't happen if the cops showed up.”

“Ah, but what had these nameless
they
started? Sir Rudy has some lovely artwork, I've noticed, but nothing anyone would consider priceless. And paintings would be missed, commented on. Still, a robbery of some sort is the most logical conclusion.”

Alex pulled out his pocket watch, held it up beside the oil lantern. “Later and later. Shall we push on?”

“You're really willing to give this up, turn everything over to the local cops?”

“Lowering as that prospect is, yes. We've been at this for hours, with no real, tangible results. If we were in Manhattan, I confess I would have contacted the good
left
-tenant by now.”

“I miss Steve, too. I mean, the man carries a gun. I don't like guns, but there's a time and place for everything, you know?”

“Are you suggesting that I cannot protect you?”

Maggie sighed. “No, that's not what I said. I know you can protect me. I can protect myself, too. Don't put words in my mouth.”

Alex's grin was positively wicked. “Poor dear girl. I believe I can sympathize with that particular plea.”

“I'll have a smart comeback for that one, Alex—check with me in the morning, okay?” Maggie turned the large, old-fashioned key that was already inserted in an equally large, old-fashioned lock, and pushed open the door, immediately getting hit in the face by wind-whipped rain. The floodwater was easily seen, deep enough in spots to have its own whitecaps, which meant she was probably looking at the pond. Medwine Manor could have been picked up and dropped down in Venice, there was that much water everywhere. Unfortunately, there were no gondoliers poling past, singing “O Solé Mio” and asking if Maggie and Saint Just wanted a lift.

“Steady on,” Alex said, taking her arm. “Perhaps you should stay here while I see if I can locate any visible paths above the water level. Someone must have been farsighted enough to have the paths elevated at the time of construction.”

“Sounds like a plan, even while I think I should point out that
someone
didn't think to do that with the front drive,” Maggie agreed, pulling the hood of the slicker closer over her face. “I'll keep the lantern, you take the flashlight.”

Backing against the stone wall, out of the wind, Maggie watched as Alex disappeared into the dark, walking with an ease and posture that hinted that he was having himself a lovely stroll on a sunny spring day. The man had panache…

“See anything?” she called out a minute later. “Alex? Can you hear me?”

“Still walking, Maggie, so that's encouraging,” he called back to her. “The path is composed of rather slippery cobblestones and is nearly covered with water, as it borders the pond to the left, but I believe it could be passable for a single person on foot.”

“What? I didn't catch all of that. Oh, hell,” Maggie said, hoping the oil lantern wouldn't go out as she inched her way beyond the shelter of the stone walls.

Why would anyone build a house—a mansion, for crying out loud—at the bottom of a basin? And surrounded on three sides by a stream and a pond. That was just
asking
for it every time it drizzled.

“Alex? You still out there? Come on, talk to me, so I know you didn't step in a hole and drown or something.”

“Go back, Maggie. There's rather deep water on either side of the path—the pond on the left, the flooding on the right. It's dangerous out here.”

“For who? Whom?” she corrected, wincing. “For a
woman
?”

“Maggie,” Alex called out, his voice coming to her through the sound of rumbling thunder. “Not
now!
”

“Right, bad timing,” she said, figuratively slapping herself. Now was definitely not the time. She wished she'd never seen that drawing showing another exit to this swamp. She wished, if she'd had to see it, she hadn't pointed it out to Alex. Not that he hadn't seen the thing on his own.

She wished she was warm. She wished the rain would stop, and this night would be over, and the sun would come up, and…and that Alex could solve Sam's murder before then, because she knew he wanted to make it up to her for what he'd done to that miserable man back in Manhattan—who, yes, had probably deserved anything he got—but even heroes have to obey
some
rules.

“Alex? Come back! We'll wait until morning! Damn it, Alex—stop playing the hero!”

I love you anyway.
That was the tag end for that sentence, and Maggie knew it. If she were writing this whole stupid story as one of her books, that would be the logical next line of dialogue. But she didn't say the words. She couldn't say those words.

Because she wasn't Rubber Duckie. She was Cowardly Chicken.

Her head down, Maggie plodded back along the slippery stone path toward the door, holding the oil lantern low, the better to guide her steps.

Then she got silly. Maybe she was tired, maybe she was even a little punch-drunk. Something. With a nervous giggle, she cast herself in the role of night watchman, one of the Charlies that once patrolled the streets of Regency England. “Ten o'clock and all's not
well-l-l-l-l
,” she sang, swinging the lantern from side to side.

And that's how she saw it. That flash of bright yellow slicker on the ground just at the foundation and a good ten feet from the path as the light from the oil lantern skimmed over it.

She extended her arm, shining the light more fully in the direction of the splash of color as she carefully—and very reluctantly—picked her way closer. Then, for about the count of six, she just…just sort of stared.

Finally, Maggie found her voice. “Nine little Indians. Oh, shit. And I'm not going to faint. This time I am
not
going to faint. This time, I'm going to scream.
Alex
!
Alllll-exxxxx!
”

S
aint Just stood in front of the mirror in his assigned bedchamber, rubbing his wet hair with a thick white towel.

“Saint Just?”

“Yes, Sterling?” he answered, able to see his friend's reflection in the mirror as Sterling perched on the edge of the high tester bed rather like an apprehensive hovering angel.

“I…um…this is all beginning to be a little much, isn't it? I mean, first Mr. Undercuffler and now Miss Pertuccelli? Poor thing. That was a rather large knife stuck in her, wasn't it?”

“Where it remains—stuck in her, that is, as we wouldn't want to tamper with the evidence. And, yes, Sterling, a quite unfortunate demise. Very much unexpected—most obviously by me.”

“It was good of Lord Hervey—that is, Mr. Pottinger—to assist you in carrying the body into the dining room. I would have performed that particular service with you, Saint Just, had you asked, although I will be eternally grateful that you did not.”

“I somehow sensed that, yes,” Saint Just said, arranging his hair as he employed the twin pair of small, silver-backed brushes engraved with his family crest. Or, at least, what Maggie had envisioned as his family crest. The brushes had been one of his small indulgences once his finances had taken such a sunny turn with the advent of Fragrances by Pierre into his life.

“Do you think Miss Pertuccelli is the last of them? Bodies, that is.”

“We can only live in hope, as we're rapidly running scarce on laying-out tables,” Saint Just said, slipping into a black cashmere sports jacket he had chosen to wear over black slacks and a black silk pullover sweater. “How do I look, Sterling? Properly funereal, I trust? I suppose I could hunt up something to serve as a black armband?”

“This is not a joking matter, Saint Just,” Sterling said sternly, pushing himself off the bed. “Perry said we could all be dead by morning.”

“Did he now? And where is your new friend, Sterling? I've discovered this recent obsession—that of counting noses.”

Sterling frowned, then brightened. “Oh, yes, of course. He's with the others, I suppose, in the main saloon. I believe everyone was more than willing to obey your suggestion on that head. I never thought I could become so dreadfully disenchanted with England. Can we please go home, Saint Just?”

“As soon as may be, dear friend,” Saint Just assured him as he located his quizzing glass and draped it over his head, sliding the glass into the breast pocket of his jacket. No matter what the ruckus, no matter how upsetting the situation, one must always strive to be well-groomed. “But it's good to know that at least we won't have to worry about everyone scattering willy-nilly all over the mansion. And, as Sir Rudy has put in a call to the local constabulary now that I've belatedly located my cell phone, we should be very shortly joined by those good gentlemen.”

“Oh, I didn't tell you? So sorry. But as you were up here, changing out of your wet clothing, you don't know, do you?”

Indicating with a small sweep of his arm that Sterling should precede him to the door, Saint Just said, “I know many things, Sterling. But you know something I do not know, yes?”

“Oh, yes. Sir Rudy was quite put out about it, as were we all, but it would seem that the local office of the police is rather small. Miniscule enough that everyone toddles off home at six, so that Sir Rudy could only leave a message on an answering machine. No one at the police station will come back on duty until the morning.”

“Six, you say? Already too late, even if we had summoned them at once. And that, Sterling, would comfort me more if I wasn't aware that there doubtless are other calls Sir Rudy could make.”

Sterling stepped to one side to allow Saint Just to precede him down the staircase to the first floor. “Oh, he did, he did. But there's still the bother of all that water, you understand. We've been told to sit tight until the morning and hope it stops raining. And it is well after midnight now, in any case. We're to stay together in the main saloon, just as you already said, although I don't think we're a very jolly party.”

“Is Evan dressed and downstairs again?”

“Mr. Pottinger? Yes. And sitting with his back to the wall while dedicatedly drinking most anything he can find. He said something about Miss Pertuccelli not feeling any more dead than any other time he touched her, but nobody but Miss Campion laughed, and he really doesn't look at all in plump currant. Mr. Arnaud Peppin, who accompanied him to his room as a sort of guard, or swimming buddy, as Tabby termed the thing, is with him. Have we spoken earlier of the coincidence of all the
P
's, Saint Just? Peppin. Pottinger. Pertuccelli. And Perry. Perry Posko. He's got two.”

Saint Just paused at the foot of the stairs. “And you think this means something important, Sterling?”

“You mean as a clue? No,” Sterling said, slightly abashed. “But it is interesting, isn't it? And somewhat confusing?”

“Life is often confusing, Sterling. That's what makes the thing so endlessly interesting, and what, most of all, prompted me to bring us here.”

“And Maggie. You wanted to see Maggie. Be with Maggie.”

Saint Just raised one expressive eyebrow. “I am as a pane of glass to you, aren't I, my dear friend? How extraordinarily humbling. Shall we join the others?”

“I wonder if Maggie's still shivering,” Sterling said, pushing open the doors and stepping into the main saloon. “We piled her with blankets because she said she's so cold, but I think it may be more than that. Poor thing, she suffered more than one shock today.”

“Discovering rather messily disposed-of bodies is probably never a jolly event, no matter how often one indulges in the exercise,” Saint Just agreed, his gaze immediately going to Maggie, who sat curled on one of the couches, rather cocooned in blankets.

She looked so small, so very vulnerable. Frightened.

No, no, no. He couldn't have that.

“Well, there she is,” Saint Just declared as he walked over to her, “our little heroine. Tell me, do you suppose this news will travel across the pond to be read by your dear mother in New Jersey? That should delight her no end—her trash-penning, hell-raking, still woefully spinster daughter embroiled in yet another scandalous adventure.”

Maggie glared at him. “And don't think I haven't already thought about that one,” she said, leaning forward to pick up the teacup on the table in front of her. “I'm thinking about a name change and move to Australia or somewhere. Care to put a shrimp on the barbie, Alex?”

“I think not, whatever that means. Once a person has resided in New York City, the center of the modern world, one could never be happy elsewhere. I know I shouldn't be. Shall we argue? I do adore arguing with you.”

Maggie rolled her eyes. “Nice try, bucko, and thanks. But don't bother trying to divert me. I'm all right. I just want to know—” she looked around the room, lowered her voice, “—I want to know which one of these Looney Toons characters is a murderer, that's what I want to know. We're sitting here with a murderer until morning, Alex. Talk about being creeped-out.”

“Yes. The Troy Toy seems particularly tense, doesn't he? The man's got a death grip on the sword cane.”

“Do you blame him? Everybody's nervous. Arnaud's sucking his beret again. Sir Rudy and Marylou are in the kitchens getting more food and tea, but they'll be right back. Tabby and Dennis are stuck together over there like someone glued them to each other. And poor Bernie.”

Maggie turned on the couch, looked toward the small settee in the corner, where her friend and editor was curled into a small ball beneath several blankets. “Oh, good, she's finally asleep. Which is a lot better than sneezing and blowing her nose all the time.”

Saint Just looked across the room. “Ah, yes, poor thing, indeed. A small brandy in such circumstances wouldn't come amiss, would it?”

“I don't know. I almost poured her one myself. But she'll be all right. It's just a very bad cold, something she picked up on the flight over here. I think. Bernie thinks she's got bubonic plague. Anyway, we're all pretty much here and accounted for, now that you and Sterling are back. Although I could do without Nikki and Byrd billing and cooing over there.”

“The robin? Oh, yes, there he is. A pretty yet entirely useless ornament. And so very unlike Sir Rudy. Still, he is serving to keep Nikki occupied.”

“Yeah, well, we could have just handed her a mirror. That would have kept her occupied, too, since nobody thought to bring a weight bench and some barbells. Now, which one of them is our murderer? Have you figured that out yet?”

“Unfortunately, no. We hung so much of our hope on the dearly departed Joanne, didn't we?”

“Doesn't mean she was innocent in Sam's murder, and we did think there could be two of them, so the other one might just have wanted to shut her up because she felt bad and was about to confess,” Maggie pointed out.

“And keep her share of whatever profits are involved.”

“Okay, that too. But I saw her face, remember? Her eyes were open in all that rain, and she looked so—so
surprised
. If we follow your idea that Sam was just poking around the house for shooting locations and tripped over Joanne and her partner while they were planning a robbery, then we
could
have a case of thieves falling out over who takes blame for Sam's murder. Because we both also agree that Sam's wasn't a planned murder. Or, if they didn't argue about Sam, then the age-old reason. You know, the standard double-cross?”

“A theory I've already mentioned, yes. However, knowing now that Miss Pertuccelli was not universally loved, to say the least, who would she have tapped as her partner in crime?”

“Good point,” Maggie said, pushing out of the blankets as the conversation seemed to warm her, bring her back from her chill. “And there's still the question of what they hoped to steal. I know working in Hollywood isn't the greatest job security in the world. Maybe she was about to be fired and figured she'd make a big score first? Do you think Joanne saw Medwine Manor before they came here for the filming? She probably had to, in order to choose the place, right? Then she cased the joint, recruited a partner—
cast
someone who was going to be her partner?”

“That seems reasonable. And may I say, your love of the venacular is quite amusing. In my day, I believe Miss Pertuccelli, as the dimber-damber, would have gulled the gentry cove—Sir Rudy—as she locked her glimmers on the lay of the ken, then when she knew all was bob, called her carriers to dub the gig of the case before loping off.” He grinned. “And Bob's your uncle.”

“Cute. Real cute. Now what?”

“And here I was hoping you'd have a suggestion. Ah, but never mind. Here comes Sir Rudy now, carrying a lovely yet far-from-priceless silver tea service. Shall we ask him what he has that might appeal to a thief?”

“Do we call him over and ask him quietly, or do you want to have a full Saint Just gathering-of-the-suspects scene? You're sure dressed for the part.”

“I'll take that as a compliment, thank you. But I'm afraid the dramatic denouement will have to wait until we know more, so I'll make my inquiries as discreetly as possible. Excuse me.”

“Not so fast, Sherlock.” Maggie uncrossed her legs and made to stand up, nearly coming to grief as she momentarily became tangled in the blankets. “I want to come along.”

“As if there was a doubt in my mind,” Saint Just said, offering his hand as she stepped out of the blankets. “You'll be discreet?”

“You think I won't be? You think I'll just ask Sir Rudy if he's got anything worth stealing?”

“That is what we want to know.”

“Okay. Just remember, you said it,” she said, grinning at him as they came to a halt alongside Sir Rudy and the clinging Marylou, whose eyes had gone as huge as saucers a good hour ago and remained so now, leaving the impression she probably had not so much as blinked in the interim.

Marylou gawked at Saint Just. “You really
touched
her? You know, Joanne? How can you
do
that? Touch a body, I mean? I'm
so
scared. I told Rudy, he doesn't leave me for a
minute
until the cops get here. If I have to
pee
, he comes with me.”

“Charming,” Saint Just said with a slight bow. “Sir Rudy? This is awkward, at best, but Maggie and I would very much appreciate it if you would answer a few questions for us.”

“Questions?” Marylou released her two-handed grip that had been clutching Sir Rudy at the elbow, and took two quick steps away from him, as if divorcing herself from her association with the man. “You think
Rudy
did it?”

“Not at all,” Saint Just assured her. “Sir Rudy?”

The older man nodded his agreement, then said, “You want me to tell you who I think did it? Because I think it's that Troy fellow over there. Nobody's that dumb, right? And he's an actor. Actors can act dumb. Act dumb, act smart. Besides, he keeps accusing everyone else. That's a sure sign, don't you think?”