«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 DUIs—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.
«Do you know what you're doing now?» Maggie asked Saint Just quietly as they made their way into the un-renovated wing and toward Dennis Lloyd's bedchamber.
«I do, up to a point. I would ask that you not look at me as I reveal the existence of the secret staircase, but rather concentrate your attention on our fellow guests.»
«You expect one of them to make a break for it?»
«No, my dear, that would be too obvious. But I would be most appreciative of any sign of discomfort or apprehension in someone's expression or posture that you might detect.»
«And if nobody blinks?»
«Ah, the well-known Maggie Kelly pessimism. Always so welcome at a moment like this.»
Maggie grinned as she held up the large flashlight she was carrying. «Hey, anything I can do to help, Sherlock.»
Saint Just ushered Maggie into the bedchamber and indicated that both he and she should take up their positions in front of the cold fireplace as everyone else moved into the thankfully large room—Tabby more quickly than the others so that she could pick up some lacy item of clothing from the rumpled bed and stuff it underneath her sweater.
But not without being noticed.
«What have you got there, Tabitha?» Bernie asked, winking in Maggie's and Saint Just's direction. «I wonder. Is it a good thing or a bad thing to be able to go braless at forty-two and nobody can tell the difference?»
«Forty. You're five years older, remember? And everybody can tell the difference with you,» Tabby said quietly. «Especially when you lay on your back.»
«Silicone can be your friend, Tabby, I promise,» Bernie said, pulling a tissue from her slacks pocket as she gave a jerk of her head toward Nikki Campion. «Unless it's overdone, of course. Those things are just plain dangerous.»
Maggie tugged Bernie by the elbow, pulling her beside her. «Could you can it for a minute, Bernie? We're sort of trying to solve a couple of murders here.»
«I'm sorry, Mags. I feel like hell, and I'll apologize for teasing Tabby, I really will. But she said I snore. I do not snore. Besides, / get the men, not her. Not that I want old Dennis over there, but I'm talking the principle of the thing here.»
Saint Just, for the most part, ignored this feminine exchange, as he was once more counting noses.
Their own small party of five, Maggie, Bernice, Tabby, Sterling, and himself, all present and accounted for.
Sam Undercuffler and Joanne Pertuccelli, definitely still where he'd last put them.
Leaving Arnaud Peppin, the director; Troy Barlow, the idiot; Nikki Campion, the—well, he was still undecided about her; Evan Pottinger, the not-so-courageous villain; Dennis Lloyd, the lover; Marylou Keppel, the ambitious gofer; Sir Rudy, their host; Sterling's double-P friend, Perry Posko; and, lastly, Sir Rudy's nephew, the robin.
«Mr. Stockwell?» Saint Just said, visually scanning the assembled parties and not seeing the man who should by all rights be standing next to Nikki. «Has anyone seen Byrd Stockwell?»
«Coming!»
«You were unavoidably detained between here and the main saloon, sir?»
Byrd Stockwell pushed past Arnaud Peppin to stand beside his uncle. «Took a moment for a trip to the loo, if you must know, since nothing was going on in here, unless I missed a catfight. Not that I think this whole thing is more than nonsense. What are we doing here?»
Before everyone else could echo that particular question—which, by the way all their mouths opened in unison like those of baby birds whose mama was approaching with a juicy worm, Saint Just believed very possible—he announced, «I have, through diligent search and considerable luck—»
«And my help,» Maggie added.
«Yes, and with Miss Kelly's kind assistance, I have— that is, we have—discovered a heretofore hidden passageway in Medwine Manor.»
Saint Just then waited patiently for the all-too-expected hubbub to calm down even as he and Maggie watched the faces of the others. He wondered if Maggie had seen what he'd seen, then felt sure she had. He did so because he knew Maggie to be both intelligent and observant… and because she had just now pinched him two inches above the elbow with some force. His Maggie, always so subtle.
«If you could all refrain from shouting out your questions,» Saint Just went on, «I will explain.»
«Everybody stubble it!» Sterling called out when nobody obeyed Saint Just, then he stepped back a pace, looking slightly startled at his own outburst. «Sorry, and all of that, but we really do need to listen. Saint Just is going to be brilliant. Aren't you, Saint Just?»
«Stop calling him Saint Just,» Troy objected, brandishing the sword cane. «I'm—oh, hell, no I'm not. I don't want to be, either. I'll never get the accent right. I don't know why my agent said this stupid movie would be such a great career move.»
«That makes about an even dozen of us,» Evan Pottinger offered, still nursing the glass he'd brought with him from the main saloon, a glass he seemed personally attached to now.
«Me, too,» Maggie said. «I mean, why you're in it, Troy, not why everyone else is. Did your agent call Joanne, Troy, or did she call you? I'm just curious.»
«I can answer that one. His agent is Joanne's most recent ex,» Evan said, hefting the decanter he'd brought with him and refilling his wineglass. «My bet is they swapped something under the table for Troy. A marital asset in exchange for a leading role. Probably the family pooch, right, Troy? You've got to be worth at least a schnauzer.»
«You're drunk, and that's a lie,» Troy said with more feeling than Saint Just had heard from the man to this point.
«People, people,» Arnaud piped up, clapping his hands. «Fight later. Let's get this done.»
Saint Just favored the director with a slight bow. «Thank you, Arnaud. As I was saying—»
«Before you were so rudely interrupted,» Maggie said, grinning. «Sorry. Couldn't resist. It's just that that's right up there with 'I'm innocent, innocent, I tell you.' «
Saint Just reminded himself of how he adored this woman. «Yes, I know, my dear,» he said quietly, «and may I say how prodigiously pleased I am that you're pleased. When we have a moment, however, you might want to consider a restorative lie-down. I believe you're becoming a tad giddy with quite natural fatigue.»
«Bite me.»
«And snarky as well, as you say.»
«I'm getting cold up here, Alex. Start talking before we lose them again. They've all got the attention spans of fleas.»
He nodded his agreement and turned once more to the semicircle of interested faces. «Now, as I was saying, ladies and gentlemen, we've discovered a secret passage in Medwine Manor. A passage, as it happens, that runs from this chamber to the attics. To the very room in the attics in which, as you may or may not know, Sam Undercuffler was attached to the scaffolding that surrounds this wing.»
«Tell them about the dust. Don't forget the dust.» Maggie was fair
to dancing in place, whether from the chill or excitement, he didn't know.
Saint Just sighed, knowing, however, when he'd lost a battle. «Oh, why don't you just do that, my dear. I'm convinced you'll tell it all so much better than I.»
«I'll pretend you didn't mean that as an insult,» Maggie said, then rubbed her hands together in front of herself. «Okay, here's how it goes. When we went up to the attics—gosh, it seems like days ago—we noticed that there were no footprints in the dust in the area that leads from the stairs to the room in question. Uncle Willis's room, which is the same room used to hang Sam out the window. You with me so far?»
«They're hanging on your every word, if you'll excuse my descent into questionable sensitivity where the late Mr. Undercuffler is concerned,» Saint Just assured her.
Maggie grinned at him, then continued her explanation. «Well, this got us thinking—I mean, it would have to get you thinking, right? How did Sam get to the room without disturbing the dust? How did the killer—or killers—get to the room? They didn't fly there. So we—Alex and I—we went looking for plans to the house, figuring there had to be some other way, some secret way of getting to the attics. Alex? You want to tell them about the mural? Because that one was your idea.»
«I think we can safely dispense with that small side trip in our investigation,» Saint Just said, mentally attempting to recall what Maggie would term the time line of the past now-nearly four-and-twenty hours.
«Right. Okay. We'll skip that part, since it didn't work anyway,» Maggie agreed, the bit firmly between her teeth now, bless her. «So what we did was some simple investigating—simple, but pretty brilliant, really—and we found the secret passage.»
«'Row, row, row your boat' is brilliant?»
«Try to forget that part, Alex, okay?»
Sir Rudy was all but drooling now. «Where? Where is it? It's in this room, you said, didn't you? I've been waiting forty years to get some of my own back on that old lady. Chase me with a broom, will she? Laugh at me at my pub, will they? Show me!»
«Over here, Sir Rudy,» Saint Just said, stepping over to the wall beside the fireplace. «Just behind this wall is a set of very narrow, very steep stone stairs that lead up to the attic room once occupied by the man you all now know as the ghostly Uncle Willis. Maggie?»
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