High Heels And Homicide Part 17

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, h.e.l.l-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 circ.u.mstances 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 n.o.body 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, pus.h.i.+ng 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 a.s.sociation with the man. "You think Rudy did it?"

"Not at all," Saint Just a.s.sured 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. n.o.body'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?"

"Oh, brother..."

"Tch-tch, Maggie," Saint Just scolded, careful not to smile. "Everyone's opinion holds equal weight. Although I have as yet to ascertain a motive for either murder, Sir Rudy. Which, as it happens, brings me back to you. Maggie and I, amateur sleuths, to be sure, have been playing with possibilities, and it has occurred to us that, perhaps, there could have been a calculated effort to-"

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake. Some time tonight, Alex, okay?" Maggie interrupted, then poked a finger toward their host. "Do you have anything here worth stealing, Sir Rudy?"

"Worth? Do I? Well, of course I do. This whole place is littered with valuables. The furniture, for one. Dead old, all of it, and no more comfortable than a church pew, so it has to be valuable."

"Yes, and it is all quite lovely," Saint Just said before Maggie could interrupt again. "However, we were thinking of something rather more portable. The art, for example. Paintings, in particular. I have not had the pleasure of a complete tour, unfortunately, so I wondered if you may have a Rembrandt, for instance, in your possession? A da Vinci? A Botticelli? Two? Three? More? Or perhaps some fine Chinese pots? A collection of rare jade?"

Sir Rudy shook his head. "Afraid not. None of those things. The old girl sold that stuff off piecemeal years ago to keep this pile running. She'd made a good start on the silver, too, but then she died. Lucky for me. Why? You think somebody's here to rob me? I thought somebody was here to kill people. There are dead people, you know. I saw them."

"He sees dead people," Maggie said quietly, turning her face into Saint Just's sleeve. "Ready to punt back to me yet, sport?"

"Shhh," Saint Just warned quietly, although he, too, was rather amused. "Sir Rudy," he said, trying again. "Let me proffer another question, if I might? Did Miss Pertuccelli happen to visit Medwine Manor before arriving here to film the movie?"

Sir Rudy shook his head, das.h.i.+ng yet another possibility. "No. We met in London, as a matter of fact. Lucky for me, or so I thought at the time. Only up there for the day, you understand, to see my banker, and we met by chance, in a restaurant. Pricey place. I'll not go there again. Pay the earth and barely get two bites of food. Ate better when I was poor."

"So you met at a restaurant in London, entirely by chance?"

"I said that, didn't I?" Sir Rudy asked, frowning at Marylou, who was still regarding him much like a leper. "She was wearing red, my favorite color. Package the Medwine Marauder in red, you know? She was sitting at the next table, as alone as I was, and we struck up a conversation. People do that, you know. Next thing I knew, she was telling me about her movie, and I was telling her how I've always wanted to have a movie filmed here. Not that I always wanted that. I only own this place less than a year. But once I thought of the idea, I was sure I'd always wanted to. All those lovely American actresses cavorting about the place in their skimpy clothes."

"All right. Thank you, Sir Rudy. Oh, and if I might have my cell phone? We'll probably all be leaving here in the morning, and I wouldn't wish to forget it in the rush."

Sir Rudy fished in his pocket and handed over the cell phone. "Here you go. Is there anything else you want to know?"

"Oh, right. Thanks, Sir Rudy," Maggie said brightly. "We'd like a ladder. Do you have one?"

"A ladder? What for? You two planning on climbing out a window? You'd just land in the water, like everyone else. You'd want a ladder to go up, not down. But I've got stairs. I've got more stairs than you'll ever need."

Saint Just was finding whole new worlds of meaning in the phrase "like pulling teeth."

"We would like the ladder, Sir Rudy, in order to get a closer look at the mural on the grand staircase, if you don't mind. You see, there's a diagram of the floor plan of this house and-"

"Sure, sure, I know that. Four of them, actually, one in each corner, not that you can see the ones up-top without binoculars. But you don't need a ladder for that. I've got drawings in my study, along with all those histories I told you about. Laid everything out on a table. Didn't I tell you about the histories? Being a writer, too, young lady, I would have thought you'd taken a look."

Saint Just smiled. If one waits long enough, most everything comes to one. "You said 'too,' Sir Rudy. Does that mean Sam Undercuffler did look at the histories you keep in your study? Perhaps saw the floor plans?"

"I don't know what all he looked at. He was in there for hours-that was before you people got here. Told you, nothing much to do around here in the rain," Sir Rudy said, shrugging. "But you don't need a ladder. I know that."

"Thank you, Sir Rudy, you've been an enormous help," Saint Just said, taking hold of Maggie's elbow and leading her toward the doorway, pausing only to pick up two of the larger flashlights and hand one to her.

"You're carrying your cane again," she said as they made their way to the study. "You looked sort of naked without it."

"And felt so, to be truthful about the thing," Saint Just told her smoothly. "It's much easier to carry a flashlight and cane than to lug one of those oil lanterns about everywhere. So? What do you think Undercuffler discovered in the study?"

"That's obvious, isn't it? No footprints in the dust, remember? Sam found a way into that attic room. Amateur sleuths? Come on, Alex, we're better than that. Which means, especially since we already know what we're looking for, we'll find what Sam found in half the time."

Unfortunately, Maggie's optimism didn't prove to be correct, as a good thirty minutes later, with one of the flashlights dimming, they had found nothing.

"Nothing," Maggie said, unknowingly echoing Saint Just's thoughts. "If there's a secret pa.s.sage built into this pile, the old guy kept his secret. Which also means that Sam didn't find any secret pa.s.sage. You have any more bright ideas, or should we just call it a night?"

"As long as we avoid the main saloon. We're still waiting for return calls from the good left-tenant and Mary Louise. I'd rather no one else was aware that I placed calls to anyone."

Maggie propped her elbows on the ancient library table and dropped her chin in her hands. "Yeah, right. I know why you called Steve, but tell me again why you called Mary Louise."

Saint Just pulled yet another marble-backed book toward him, wondering why he would want to read about the third Earl and his notion that Rotating Crops Is An Abomination Against Mother Nature. "How odd. And here I am, pondering why I thought to call Wendell, when the first ten minutes of the conversation consisted mostly of the good left-tenant screaming in my ear. Anyone would think I plan to have all these little adventures."

"Anyone could, couldn't they?" Maggie sat back in her chair, sighed. "Okay, so Steve is checking the backgrounds of all our fellow guests. That takes time, so I doubt we'll get much of anything, although it was nice of you to call him, let him know how we're doing, even if you did wake him up. Now explain about Mare."

"You'll agree that Mary Louise is an inventive young lady?"

"I have completely forgotten that she's the one who made up fake identification papers for you and Sterling, your pa.s.sports. That has gone totally out of my mind now that she's posing with you for those perfume ads. I even try to forget that she's younger than me, small and thin and beautiful, and that she's in on your Streetcorner Orators along with her cousin and his friend."

"Dear Snake. Dear Killer. Or, as we prefer to call them now, since they've left their budding lives of petty crime, our good friends Vernon and George. But all of that to one side, you will agree, Maggie, that Mary Louise is very intelligent, very creative. And rather accomplished."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. NYU, all that good stuff. And a criminal mind. So?"

"So, Maggie, among her many talents, Mary Louise is also quite adept at surfing the Web. Indeed, she taught me everything I know. As we are without your laptop-"

"Don't blame me for that one. Everybody told me to leave it at home."

"True, including me. However, Mary Louise-"

"Is a computer whiz. She's going to Google everybody? And we don't have any power anyway, and I would have worn down the battery on the flight over, and n.o.body else has power left in their laptops, either, so let it go, all right?"

"Done now?"

Maggie nodded. "Sorry. I'm being snarky. It's late and, like Sir Rudy, I keep seeing dead people. Except I always get to see them first. So, Mare's going to search Google?"

"Yes. Among other searches. Actors are fairly public people, after all. She may discover something useful about one of our fellow guests. Wendell will only run the names, as he termed it, for criminal activity."

Maggie shrugged. "Okay. It's worth a shot, I suppose. Covers a few more bases. But n.o.body will probably know anything until tomorrow afternoon, anyway. Which leaves us where?"

"Very much back where we started, I'm afraid, as the house plans proved worthless. Unless you're interested in a small experiment?"

"If it keeps us from having to go back to that wake in the main saloon, I'm up for anything."

"Very good. But first, I'll straighten this mess we've made with the house plans while you run down the hall and fetch us another flashlight. Oh, and if you'd please gather up Sterling and Perry, and bring them back here, while you're at it. We'll each need one of them with us, as what I plan necessitates the two of us separating for a s.p.a.ce."

"I get Sterling," Maggie said flatly.

"Oh, most a.s.suredly, my dear, as I don't expect Perry to be anything but a dead loss. But Sterling will insist on this swimming buddy notion of Tabby's, and I don't want to upset him. Now hurry along, as we're running out of time."

"Meaning the cops will be here soon, and you want to hand them the killer on a silver platter. Okay, okay. So do I."

Saint Just piled up the marble-backed, handwritten histories and began folding the floor plans, all while running his mind over the voice-mail message from Socks he'd discovered on his cell phone.

Alex? You there? Pick up. Pick up, Alex. d.a.m.n. You're not there. Um, okay...I thought I should tell you. Maggie got this package? In the mail, not just left here or something like that other time, remember? With Sterling? I kept it for her, with her other mail, but it started to stink. I...um...I opened it just now, Alex. It's a rat. A dead one. Ripe, really ripe. No note or nothing that I could see, but I didn't look real hard, you know? Just dropped it all in a heavy-duty plastic garbage bag and put it in the bas.e.m.e.nt. I'd call Lieutenant Wendell, but you'd skin me, right? So what do you want me to do? This isn't good, right? Call me!

Saint Just had already returned that particular call while Maggie was busy reading one of the histories, telling Socks in a rather inventive spate of cryptic words, if he had to say so himself, to do nothing, as they'd be back in Manhattan in less than twenty-four hours.

Yet another reason, a very pressing reason, to solve these plaguey murders before morning...

Chapter Fourteen.

Maggie was halfway to the main saloon-not that long a walk, considering Medwine Manor was about as long as a New York City block-before it dawned on her. She was alone in a dark house. "Well, thanks, Alex. Nice to know you think I can take care of myself."

Then again, she had a mouth. She could scream. Unless someone came up from behind her and clamped his hand over her mouth while he dragged her into another room-"Good. Keep thinking like a fiction writer," she told herself as she broke into a trot.

The doors to the main saloon opened just as she was reaching for the latches, and she stepped back, an involuntary squeal making it very obvious that she was approximately two heartbeats from total hysterics.

"Sterling! You scared me to death!"

"Oh, no, Maggie, I wouldn't do that," Sterling said, taking her hand and leading her into the main saloon. "I was just coming to see where you were. Sir Rudy wants to talk to you. You and Saint Just both."

"Not now, Sterling, all right? Saint Just has an idea, and he wants you and Perry to come with me. Bring lanterns with you, and another flashlight for me. A big one. And before you ask me, no, he didn't tell me his idea. You know Alex. He likes the drama. So let's just humor him, all right?"

"Oh, but Sir Rudy said you'd asked him a question, and he feels he didn't give you a complete answer."

For a moment, Maggie thought maybe Sir Rudy did have some priceless art or something here at Medwine Manor. But then again, how would even Sir Rudy forget priceless art? "I'm sure it'll keep. Go get Perry, okay? I just want to check on Bernie a minute."

"Tabby did just that a few minutes ago. Felt her head, offered her a cool drink, told her to blow her nose because she was snoring, and all of that. Bernie says she's feeling better now, although she doesn't look very much better. She's sleeping again. And, alas, snoring, although I'd never say so."