High Heels and Homicide (25 page)

“And laying the groundwork for ghostly happenings once he was gone?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, although that hadn't occurred to me. What did occur to me is that Uncle Willis
visited
his hidden jewels at some point and relocated them to an even safer place.”

“The passageway. He sneaked out of his prison, grabbed the jewels from wherever he'd first hidden them, and hid them again in the passageway, where nobody would ever find them,” Maggie said, ready to face possible bats, spiders, and anything else. “Let's go look.”

“I have, alas,” Alex said, closing the doorway to the passage. “There is, indeed, a hand-hewn niche cut into the wall. A rather large niche. But it's empty. The pattern of dust and, sadly, bat droppings tell me that until quite recently, there was something in that crude but carefully cutout niche. Something of a size approximately that of my hat box.”

“And it's gone.”

“Vanished.”

“So somebody has it.”

“A brilliant deduction.”

“Well, hell.”

“Yes, that, too.”

“I
f I please could have your kind attention, ladies and gentlemen?”

Saint Just leaned on the sword cane and waited until everyone in the main saloon was looking at him, and for Maggie to be done with glaring at him, before he spoke again.

“Thank you so much,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “I am aware that we are all weary, cold, and quite naturally apprehensive, but I do believe I have news.”

“
You
have news?” Maggie said out of the corner of her mouth. “What am I, chopped liver? Why didn't you tell me you were going to say something when we got back down here? What are you going to say?”

“Go wake Bernice, if you please, Maggie.”

“No.”

“Maggie…don't be contrary.”

“I'll be more than contrary. What are you up to? I
hate
it when you do this.”

“My dear,” Saint Just said as the occupants of the room variously pushed themselves out of their chairs or lounged more deeply into them, “I have absolutely no idea. But I will count most heavily on your assistance.”

“You're going to wing it? Oh, Alex, I don't know…”

“What's going on?” Evan Pottinger asked, standing none too steadily, a glass in his hand. “Are the police here? Did you find another body? I don't want to be a spoilsport, but I'm not touching another body that can't touch me back.”

“No, no, no, Evan,” Saint Just said, motioning for Maggie to go rouse Bernice as he himself stepped more fully into the room. “But thank you so much for providing me with my jumping-off point, as it were. For we have found something I believe will be of interest. If everyone would care to adjourn upstairs?”

Tabby, still wrapped in blankets beside Dennis Lloyd, said, “Oh, Alex, do we have to? I was just getting warm. And you're letting a draft in here with those doors open. I feel like I'm in a refrigerator.”

“You want to feel cold,” Evan said, pouring himself more wine, “try touching a dead body. That's
cold
.”

“Do you
have
to keep talking about Joanne that way?” Nikki Campion asked, then buried her head against Byrd Stockwell's shoulder.

And that's all it took, unfortunately, before everyone in the room began speaking at once.

“Try a cold, wet,
hanging
body, Evan, if you want nightmares. We had to spin Sam around twice before we could get a good hold on him. Sam the Piñata. Cripes!” Arnaud Peppin declared in his high-pitched voice, which had increasingly become a whine as the hours passed.

“And how about me?” Troy asked, once more brandishing the sword cane he'd claimed as his own. “Huh? Huh? How about me? Is anybody ever going to pay attention to
me
?”

“
No
,” at least four voices chimed at once, and the arguing began again.

“And once more, the inmates have taken over the asylum. It's easier when I write all the lines and then feed them to you one by one, isn't it?” Maggie asked, coming to stand beside him once more. “You want me to whistle them to order? I can do that, you know. You put your little fingers in each corner of your mouth and—”

“Anybody got a tissue? I've run out of tissues. And who do I kill for waking me up again, you or Alex?”

“Oh, Bernie, go sit down, honey,” Maggie told her worse-for-wear friend. “I'll find you some tissues. Oh, and I woke you, but you want to kill Alex. I'll hold him for you.”

“More coffee, anyone? There's plenty,” Marylou chirped, circulating with a silver pot as Sir Rudy trailed behind her with containers of cream and sugar, and a besotted expression on his face.

Saint Just was momentarily nonplussed, although he'd never admit that to anyone, most especially Maggie. He'd come back to the main saloon without the glimmer of an idea as to what to do after announcing the existence of the secret passageway, and that clashed badly with his need to have this unpleasant adventure over and done so they could all get back to Manhattan…and the rat.

Wendell hadn't called. Mary Louise hadn't called. He was faced with two dead bodies and a room full of decidedly uncooperative murder suspects who didn't seem the least bit interested in hanging, breathless (Lord knew, none of them
ever
seemed breathless), on his every word.

The idea of taking everyone upstairs had popped into his head, thanks to Evan's inquiry, however, and Saint Just was liking the notion more and more.

If only he could find a way to stifle everyone long enough to listen to him.

“I say, Saint Just, they're an unwieldy group, aren't they?”

“Yes, Sterling, they are. The term ‘herding cats' keeps running through my mind. Ah! Excuse me, Sterling,” Saint Just said, extracting his cell phone from his pocket. “Perhaps this will be good news from some quarter.”

He stepped into the candlelit hallway and closed the doors behind him before opening the phone. “Blakely, here. Speak to me.”

“Where's Maggie?” Steve Wendell demanded, his anxiety obvious even though the man was more than three thousand miles away. “You did what I said and didn't snoop around, right? You waited for me to get back to you? You're waiting for the local cops?”

“Is there any question in your mind,
Left
-tenant?”

“Damn straight there is. Look, I ran those names myself, all of them. And nothing, not that any of them are Boy Scouts. Peppin, the one you said is the director or something? He got picked up once for indecent exposure, and Evan Pottinger has a couple of DWIs—driving drunk. Troy Barlow was caught with a lid of marijuana a couple of years back; using, not selling. Par for the course out in La-La Land. I think they throw parties if their mug shots make it to the tabloids. But that's it. Except for one of your stiffs.”

“I beg your pardon?” Saint Just asked, opening one of the doors just slightly, to hear that mayhem still pretty much reigned in the main saloon. “One of the
victims
?”

“Right. Undercuffler. He's got a short sheet. Some juvey stuff that's sealed, so I can't get it—something he did when he was underage, if you don't know what that means. That could mean anything, from shoplifting to hacking up his parents with a butcher knife.”

“‘Juvey' being cop talk for ‘juvenile,' I suppose. I'm certain I would have worked it out, but thank you,” Saint Just said, pacing. “Yet there's more, isn't there?”

“Yeah, there's more. He has a B and E—breaking and entering. Nothing big. He rolled over on his partner and did eight months in the local lockup in Los Angeles, then probation. But he's been quiet for about six years, far as we know.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning either he cleaned up his act or he got better at it.”

Saint Just thought about this long enough for Steve to begin calling his name, asking if he was still there.

“I'm sorry, Wendell. I was just thinking about your last statement. You have a record of Undercuffler's adult misdeeds, but does the rest of the world? In other words, if anyone wanted to keep such a criminal background concealed, is that possible?”

“If he kept his mouth shut, probably. But he has to admit to it when he applies for a job. Many don't do that, but if anyone finds out, the guy's ass is fired, so it's smarter to just list the arrest up front, on the employment application. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. I was only wondering if any of our small party here might be aware of Undercuffler's less-than-pristine past.”

“And threatened him?”

“Possibly. Or invited him to join the party.” Believing he'd revealed enough, Saint Just said, “A thousand thank-yous for all of your help, but if there's nothing else…?”

“There's a
lot
else, damn it. I want to talk to Maggie. Now, Blakely.”

“Of course, you do. Unfortunately, she is at the moment indisposed. I'll have her phone you as soon as possible, as I am expecting another call. Again, thank you. You've been a tremendous help.”

“Another call? What, you called out for pizza and a canoe? Damn it, Blakely, don't hang—”

Saint Just closed the cell phone and slipped it in his pocket before returning to the main saloon.

“Sterling told me you got a call. Who was on the phone?” Maggie asked him in an, unfortunately, accusing tone. “Was that Steve? I'll bet that was Steve, and I'll bet he wanted to talk to me and you wouldn't let him.”

“We are rather in the middle of things, my dear. I told him you'd phone him back. Or would you choose to bill and coo rather than solve two murders? If so, may I say I'm crushed, truly crushed?”

“Don't push, Alex. Just don't push,” Maggie told him, then turned and stuck the little fingers of both hands in her mouth and quite literally whistled the room to order. “Works every time. My dad taught me that when I was ten. He couldn't do it before that because I didn't have my second teeth yet. Gosh, a good childhood memory surfacing. I ought to write it down,” she said as everyone immediately stopped what they were doing and came to attention.

Most especially Sterling, who raced up to her, grinning, to ask how she'd done that, and, “Will you teach me?”

“Sorry, Sterling, but Alex says everything goes to the back burner while he takes center stage to play the big macho hero.”

“The back…? Oh, Saint Just, you've solved the crime? I never believed for a moment that you wouldn't do it. Isn't that above everything wonderful!”

“He's solved what? He's solved the murders? Spanking jolly good for him.” Sir Rudy, still holding the sugar and creamer aloft, grinned broadly. “Well, then, let's all have some coffee, eh?”

“Thank you, Sir Rudy, and may I say, spoken like an innocent man,” Saint Just said, amused, and very aware that everyone in the room was listening to him now. “But I have only just deduced the
how
of it, and the
why
, but not the
who
, which is why I would ask that everyone adjourn upstairs to Mr. Lloyd's bedchamber.”

“
My
room?” Dennis Lloyd leapt to his feet, sending Tabby quickly sideways on the couch, so that she had to right herself, which she did, straightening her scarf as she, too, got to her feet. “Are you saying I killed Undercuffler and that wretched woman?”

“Oh, Alex, that can't be true,” Tabby said, using both hands now to fluff her hair—a woman who believed appearance counted for much, even in the midst of chaos. Saint Just had always admired her for that trait. “He was with me the whole…that is…that can't be true.”

“I am not proposing that it is, Tabby,” Saint Just said quickly, hoping to spare the woman's blushes. “Now, if you would all be so agreeable as to follow me? Sterling? Perry? Torches and lamps for everyone, if you please.”

“Not for me.”

Saint Just cocked one eyebrow as he looked at Troy Barlow. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said no. I'm not going. Why should we follow you anywhere? Nobody listened to me, so I'm not going to listen to you. Besides, it's cold out there.”

“Oh, good grief,” Maggie muttered, then pasted a very false smile on her face. “Troy? Come with us and I'll give you a cookie.”

“Or stay here and appear guilty,” Saint Just added, believing that while she was certainly amusing, Maggie wasn't being of much help.

Now everyone was looking at the Troy Toy.

“He's always blaming someone else,” Evan pointed out. “Guilty people always do that. I watch
Columbo
reruns. Be helpful, direct attention away from themselves. Why'd you do it, Troy?”

“I didn't…I didn't do
anything
!” Troy said, turning in circles, looking pleadingly at everyone. “You've got to believe me. You've got to believe me! I'm innocent!
Innocent
, I tell you!”

“Now look what you've started,” Saint Just whispered to Maggie. “Happy now?”

“He
is
overacting,” Maggie said. “Then again, maybe the whole dumb-blond thing is an act. Did you think of that one?”

“Maggie, the man is either the greatest actor ever born or the greatest fool ever breeched. Having spoken with and observed the fellow at some length, I believe the latter rather than the former.”

“Me, too, but it was a thought. They're all suspects, although I notice you've just ruled out Sir Rudy. I agree on that one. Okay, here are Sterling and Perry with the lights. Let's go, before Evan turns this gang into a lynch mob.”

Once more calling everyone to order—really, it was so fatiguing—Saint Just and Maggie led the way across the large landing and up the main staircase to the second floor, Sterling having taken up the rear without being asked, to make certain there were no strays.