High Heels and Homicide mkm-4

by Kasey Michaels

  He didn't believe her. She'd created him, she knew his skeptical look, and he didn't believe her.

  «I've just come back from indulging in much the same exercise,» he said, turning her about and offering his arm so that they climbed the stairs together. «A rather abbreviated exercise, as one look was more than sufficient to tell me that we are rather cut off from civilization at the moment. As a matter of fact, when you, um, stumbled into me, I was amusing myself by inspecting the artistry on this wall.»

  «Big, isn't it?» Maggie said, stopping to look up at the romping figures, as stalling appealed to her more than going upstairs to see Sam waiting for her. «Who's the guy in the center?»

  «Ah, that I do know, although I have yet to discover the name of the artist. The gentleman riding so triumphantly through the posies in his chariot is none other than Sir Willard Gainsley, the fellow who originally ordered construction of this pile. His great-grandson commissioned the painting shortly after the wing additions were completed.»

  «And everybody else?» Maggie asked, sneaking a look up the stairs, relieved that Sam Undercuffler wasn't still there, maybe dressed in the suit of armor that stood on the landing, ready to split her head with the battle-ax held in one metal gauntlet.

  «Sir Willard's family. Four generations strong at that point.»

  «Sir Willard,» Maggie said, remembering Sterling's pursuit of the estate's ghost. «Uncle Willis?»

  «No, not at all. Uncle Willis was the oldest son of a second son, somewhere along the line, and quite put out to find that a poor relation is just that, never to inherit more than his own father's debt. He came to a rather bad end, I understand, and then decided to haunt the place. Supposedly, there's a complete history in Sir Rudy's study, if you're interested. Marvelous research for you, since you seem to be in need of an alternate plot for our next adventure.»

  «There's an actual history of this place? You know, I think Sam already told me that. I'll think about it—and ignore the sarcasm about needing a new plot because I know that's just you being you. Besides, ghosts are so overdone in mysteries. I'd rather look at the whole history, not just at Uncle Willis. Except I'm really not in the mood.»

  «As you wish,» Saint Just said once they were in the upstairs foyer. «And, now that we've had our idle chatter, exactly what sent you racing down the stairs that way?»

  «I told you. I wanted to look at the driveway.»

  «So being called a no-talent hack by that insufferable brown pup had nothing to do with your haste?»

  «You heard? Oh, that's lousy, Alex. And why didn't you come rescue me? I thought Sam was going to take a swing at me. I really did.»

  «Cowards never hit first, my dear,» Alex said, stepping ahead of her to open the double doors to the main saloon. «But I assure you, I'll deal with the man directly.»

  «No!» Maggie stopped, figuratively dug in her heels. Covered her sudden fear with bravado. «That's the last damn thing I want—you protecting me. We've been there, done that, remember? And it didn't work out all that well. I'll fight my own battles, and I would fight this one except Sam Undercuffler's not really that important, okay? I got spooked for a minute, I'll admit that, but I'm also over it. I'll handle him. Besides, the rain stops and we're out of here, end of story. In the meantime, I'm going to go scope out this study everybody's talking about and find a good book. Even a bad book. And then I'm locking myself in my room.»

  «Very well,» Saint Just said, shooting the cuffs on his Regency costume; today he was wearing a bottle-green morning jacket and tan pantaloons. «I suppose Tabby and Bernie can amuse themselves without their friend, whom they've come to England to support in this possibly trying time spent watching her magnificent book reduced to ninety minutes of film minus commercial breaks.»

  «Bite me.»

  «Ah, there she is, the Maggie I adore. Now, come along. Evan has a question for you. He asked me, actually, but I knew you'd rather answer him.»

  Maggie looked around the main saloon, wondering when she'd before seen such a motley-looking crew of unhappy people. «Oh, this is going to be another fun day. Where's Tabby?»

  «With the also-absent Clarence, one could suppose. More than that, I don't believe either of us wants to know.»

  «I'll drink to that,» Maggie said, pouring herself a glass of orange juice from the pitcher on the coffee table, then snatching up a piece of rather cold, hard toast. «Some breakfast.»

  «There were eggs and ham earlier, but I'm afraid you missed them, as did Bernie, who is still in her room, in case you were about to inquire as to her whereabouts. Ah, but here's our Lord Hervey now. One meets the most insufferable people in Society.»

  «You want to punch him, don't you?» Maggie asked, feeling a little better, especially since Sam Undercuffler was nowhere to be seen. «A wisty castor, then watching when his nose begins leaking claret.»

  «Not really, sorry to disappoint. He, like Undercuffler, really isn't worth the effort of more than a brilliant, cut-ting, verbal set-down, which both will receive soon enough if I'm pushed beyond my endurance. A gentleman must have his standards. Now, sending a few of my servants round to administer a well-deserved beating? That does hold some appeal.»

  «Shhh, he'll hear you,» Maggie said, trying not to giggle. «Ah, Mr. Pottinger, hello. You wanted to ask me something?»

  «Lord Hervey, if you please, madam,» Evan Pottinger said, his bow barely a cursory nod in her direction. «But, in point of fact, I have been reading over the scene in the gazebo, and I can't seem to find my motivation. Why am I so set on killing this servant girl?»

  Maggie rolled her eyes. «Oh, come on, you don't know why? Didn't you understand when you read the book?»

  Evan blinked. «Read the book? Why would I do that?»

  «Because you're a method actor?» Maggie suggested. «Don't you guys immerse yourselves in a role? Or do you just like to dress up and act like you know what's going on?»

  Evan produced his snuff box and did a pretty darn good job of taking imaginary snuff. «Ah. I see now why Sam entertained us all during breakfast with his rather colorful comments about you, Miss Dooley.»

  «Kelly. Dooley's my pen name. And what did he say?»

  «Now, Maggie, you wouldn't want his lordship here to stoop to repeating gossip, now would you?» Alex asked, stepping into the breech. «Come, Lord Hervey, ask Miss Kelly exactly what you want, then be a good fellow and go away.»

  Evan glared at Saint Just, who glared back. «Not worth your effort, remember?» Maggie said quietly, then addressed Evan once more. «You want to know your motivation for being an unmitigated bastard? Is that it? But you don't have time to read the book?»

  «No. I don't have the inclination . Just synopsize it for me, please?»

  Maggie wanted to scream. «Okay. Sure. Lord Hervey is your typical jackass sociopath. Let's see, what sort of background did I give him in my mind when I was creating him? Oh, yeah. Pulled wings off butterflies, likes to set fires, screwed his half-sister, beats his valet—you know, the usual stuff. You kill, Lord Hervey , because you bloody well like it. Good enough?»

  Evan lifted his chin, his eyes bright, dancing. «Oh. Oh, yes. I can see it now. Pent-up rage at an unfeeling mother. Years of abuse at the hands of the father. Jack the Ripper, but in better clothes and operating in a better neighborhood. Oh, this is perfect. This is wonderful. Meaty.»

  He held his balled fists up in front of himself. «The hatred and loathing for his fellow man that lies beneath the urbane, witty surface. I can feel the rage now, the incredible anger beneath the fashionable facade. Now all I have to do is channel it as my hands slowly close around the servant girl's neck and I squeeze… squeeze .»

  Maggie watched, bug-eyed, as Evan turned and walked away, his hands still in fists. «Yeah, right. So glad I could help. The guys in the white coats will meet you at the front door in an hour, okay?» She turned to Alex. «Jeez Louise, that is one scary guy.»

  «Not half as frightening as our Saint Just
. Look at him. God's teeth, I believe I'm experiencing my first failure.»

  Maggie looked across the room to where Troy Barlow and Nikki Campion stood close together, each holding a copy of the script as they read lines to each other. «He looks all right to me, and his coattails aren't wrinkled, either. What's your problem?»

  «Let me count the ways. His accent. His posture. His expression, which reminds me most of a stunned sheep. I worked with him for an hour, earlier, in the breakfast room, trying to explain the proper use of cutlery. Ah, but here comes our host. Sir Rudy? Any news on the state of the cellars?»

  «Not good, not good,» Sir Rudy said, shaking his head as he clomped into the room in thigh-high black rubber waders held up by bright red suspenders. «I used to watch this place all but float away when I was a lad from the village. Thought it was funny then. Not so bloody funny now.»

  «I know I'm not laughing.» Maggie smelled the expelled cigarette smoke before she saw Joanne Pertuccelli. «I just called Stateside to warn everyone off until next week. But that doesn't mean we're going to waste time, people. I've already got Arnaud blocking out interior scenes for some of the stuff that was supposed to take place outside. Sam's helping with that, scoping out possible locations. «We can do this, people. We're Americans. We've got ingenuity. We've got innovation on our side. We've got a budget, damn it. We can do this!»

  «Yay, team,» Maggie grumbled in disgust.

  «We'd damn well better,» Evan called out imperiously from his place in front of the mantel. «I talked to my agent this morning, and I'm up for a voice-over part in The Simpsons Christmas special.»

  «Oh, now there's a huge career move, Evan,» Troy Barlow said, his sneer pretty good for a guy Saint Just seemed to consider a total write-off. «I may start filming December fifteenth on Celebrity Jeopardy .»

  «Oh, he is not,» Maggie said, probably louder than she should have, but she was laughing too hard to be subtle. «What's the first category—-Spelling of Three-Letter Words?»

  But nobody was listening because everyone was talking—yelling, actually—the actors all playing out a scene in what was probably a long-running show of one-upmanship.

  «I don't think I like Americans all that much anymore.»

  Sir Rudy told Maggie. «Present company excepted, of course. I think.»

  «Thank you, Sir Rudy. I think,» Maggie told him. «Is it true we could lose power?»

  The man shrugged. «It's definitely getting wet down there. But it's not all horrible. Dearest little Marylou has the kitchens well in hand. Very amenable girl. I think she likes me. The redhead—not the one over there, screaming, but the other one, the tall one? She said I was sweet, so I know that's not going anywhere. But Marylou. Well, she's a dear.»

  Maggie smiled as gently as she could. «That's nice, Sir Rudy. But do be careful, won't you? You wouldn't want some fast American girl to turn your head, now would you?»

  «I'm not completely against it, no,» he said, then excused himself, telling Maggie he wanted to return to the kitchens, as Marylou had promised him a peach pie. He passed behind Maggie, and she gave a small yelp when she felt him pinch her bottom.

  «He pinched me,» she told Alex, who was watching as Troy Barlow attempted to perform an elegant leg—a particularly deep, sweeping bow. Luckily, the well-muscled Nikki caught him before he fell. «Sir Rudy pinched me.»

  «Callous as this sounds, Maggie, my dear, we all have our problems,» Alex said, then left her where she stood. Before she could make good her own escape, Joanne stomped in her direction.

  «I want to make it clear, Ms. Kelly, that while you may have somehow managed free air flight for yourself and your companions, there will be a ten-ninety-nine sent to you at the end of the year, and you will have to report the fares as income.»

  «Really,» Maggie said, wondering if the water outside was deep enough for her to just go drown herself in it and put herself out of her misery. «There's no such thing as a free ride, is there, Joanne?»

  «Not in this business there's not.» Then Joanne lost her eagle-eyed look and asked, «Have you seen Mr. Stockwell?»

  «Who? Oh, Sir Rudy's nephew. No. I can't say as I have. But you could ask Nikki, I suppose. Last night they seemed… pretty chummy.»

  «Looks can be deceiving, Ms. Kelly,» Joanne said, and once more Maggie was alone. She was being talked at, talked to, and then left alone much too much for one morning, so she decided to hunt down Sir Rudy's study.

  Once there, and after admiring the dark paneling and the walls crammed with books, she found a small stack of People magazines she hadn't read yet. And, wow, there was a small fire in the grate. She could make herself comfortable here for a while. Dragging a cashmere afghan over her legs as she curled up in one of the chairs flanking the fireplace, she was enjoying a review of Harlan Coben's latest book in two minutes, sound asleep in ten.

  She awoke some time later with a stiff neck and in the dark, for the fire had burned down to a few embers and the velvet draperies were shut tight over the windows.

  It took her a few moments to get her bearings, remember where she was, but the sound of hushed voices kept her in her chair.

  She didn't know who was in the room with her, and because they were whispering, she couldn't figure it out. She was able to understand only every second or third word.

  «You said mumble-mumble knew.»

  «I mumble I know. But that's mumble-mumble-mumble same as having mumble in my hands.»

  «I mumble-mumble everything to—»

  «There's no risk mumble-mumble person who only happened to mumble; squared .»

  «Oh, shut up. And I don't like that now he's mumble-

  mumble on it. When do we mumble for the mumble-mumble? Today?»

  «No power mumble nobody mumble us. Enough mumbles to make Maggie want to scream … our friend.»

  «I'm your mumble friend. Don't mumble that or really nasty-sounding run of mumbles . And I mean it.»

  »Mumble-mumble avoid suspicion mumble be silly.»

  And then nothing.

  Maggie heard the study door open and close. She quickly threw off the afghan and raced to open the door, look out into the hallway. But it was nearly pitch black in the hallway.

  One of them had said something about the power, right? Yeah, something about the power.

  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?»