High Heels and Homicide mkm-4

by Kasey Michaels

  «You stole my candlesticks,» Sir Rudy said, speaking for the first time. «I barred you from my house, you ungrateful puppy. Told you I'd set the dogs on you if you showed your face here again—if I had dogs.»

  Byrd spread his hands, palms up, and looked at Maggie. «You can see my dilemma. I'd heard all the stories about the jewelry. About Uncle Willis. At some point, probably while bored, I unbent the plans, looked at them, and realized that there was a secret passage located directly inside Uncle Willis's attic prison. It led down to my usual room, as well. I'd been sleeping not ten feet away from that lovely jewelry! After all, where else would the man have hidden it, if not there? I had to get back in that room.»

  «Sir Rudy wasn't happy to see you the other day,» Maggie said, taking up the story. «But you'd convinced Joanne to get the movie filmed here, because when you showed up, and the house was full of people, your uncle wouldn't make a scene, and you knew it. That's why you cut Joanne in on anything in the first place.»

  «A stupid mistake, I agree,» Byrd said, nodding. «I think I enjoyed the intrigue of the thing. Besides, she told me she could, as you Americans say, get me into show business if I helped with her own cash flow. It was all very quid pro quo.»

  «You wanted to go to Hollywood and be a movie star? Another model-turned-actor? Oh, good grief, of course,» Maggie said, shaking her head. «I should have figured that one out the minute you walked in the door.»

  Alex paced as Byrd kept talking, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression thoughtful.

  «I won't be insulted by you, Miss Kelly,» Byrd stated firmly. «And I won't be held responsible for any murders. It was Joanne's idea to bring that ridiculous brown hack into the mix without consulting me. And it was she who strangled him after knocking him unconscious as the fool leaned over the jewelry, telling us both how he would use his share to produce his own screenplay. I was completely shocked. But he had been very helpful in finding the latch for us.»

  Maggie looked at Alex. «Was there a bump on the back of Sam's head?»

  «I didn't notice one,» Alex said. «Perhaps I wasn't all that thorough, once I'd seen the pair of marks on his throat. Although I most sincerely doubt that, don't you?» He turned to Byrd. «You did help her hang him up, didn't you, Robin? You'll at least admit to that?»

  «Stop calling me Robin.»

  «Forgive me, but I do so enjoy it. Back to the late Mr. Undercuffler. You were, according to you, and with no one else alive to gainsay you, shocked, dismayed at the murder of the man you hadn't wanted involved in the first place— splitting the profits three ways rather than two—and are completely innocent of anything other than robbery. However, you did assist Miss Pertuccelli in, shall we say, disposing of the body?»

  At last, Byrd looked disconcerted. «I didn't know what else to do. We'd left him up in the attic, but that wasn't good enough, and Joanne was going crazy, totally off her head. I remembered Uncle Willis, and we decided to make it look like a suicide.»

  He looked at Dennis and Tabby. «But now they were in the room. I had to find a way to get them out so they wouldn't hear us up above their heads, dragging Undercuffler about. The man was, if you'll pardon me, a dead weight. Besides, Joanne had thrown her stopwatch some-where, as if suddenly, somehow, it had turned into a snake she couldn't bear to touch, and we might have to move furniture to find the thing. We never did find it, but that really wasn't a problem for me, was it? I had the jewelry.»

  Maggie raised a hand. «So you didn't think about the dust? The only reason there were no footprints in the dust was because each time you guys went up to the attic room, you went up through the secret passage? Damn. I was so sure of that one.»

  «Even incorrect assumptions can lead to valid conclusions, Maggie. We would never have even considered the existence of a secret passage otherwise,» Alex told her. «Now, if you will, Stockwell, on to the jewels. And Miss Pertuccelli's murder.»

  He spread his hands, shrugged. «I don't know. We'd planned to just hold onto them, wait for the water to go down, and I'd leave, take them with me. Nobody knew we'd stolen anything because nobody knew the jewelry even existed. But, as I've said, Joanne had to go and kill that idiot writer. That's when everything began to fall apart.»

  «Writers will do that for you—screw up everything,» Maggie said, grinning.

  «It doesn't matter. I did not kill that writer. I did not kill Joanne.» He turned on Nikki. '''She did! And she stole my jewelry!»

  Everyone, Maggie included, turned to look at Nikki… and when they turned back, everyone was looking at Byrd Stockwell, who now held Alex's sword cane in his hand, unsheathed. And he looked like he might just know how to use it—who knew what English schoolboys learned in class?

  «Hand over that bag. It's mine!»

  «Of course, Robin,» Alex said, bowing, «as you do appear to be holding the upper hand.» He stepped back, slowly, then sort of whirled around, grabbing the Troy Toy's sword cane out of the actor's hands. A heartbeat later, it was unsheathed, and Alex was facing Stockwell once more, both of them in the en garde position.

  «Alex, for crying out loud, that's a prop ,» Maggie said, really worried now. «You can't fight him with a prop sword. Give him the jewelry. He won't get far.»

  «I should, shouldn't I?» Alex said, not taking his eyes off Stockwell. «But this man murdered two people. We cannot allow him even an attempted escape.»

  «Oh, great, you're doing that honorable thing again, right? Well, cut it out!» Maggie looked behind her. «Where's the jewelry? Who's got the jewelry? Hand it over, okay?»

  «Why?» Bernie asked, then blew her nose. «Alex and I already looked at it. It's fake.»

  Maggie worried that her eyes might just pop right out of her head. «It's—»

  «Fake. Paste. Glass,» Bernie elaborated. «I know my jewelry. Uncle Willis stole fake jewelry. Good fakes, so the pieces are worth something, but not all that much. Life's a bitch, ain't it?»

  Maggie's head was spinning. Looking at Alex, who was looking at Stockwell—the two of them still squared-off— she tried to sort out this entire mess in her mind.

  «You know,» she said, «it could make sense. People back then often replaced their real jewelry with fakes when they needed money. Good fakes, too. But if Uncle Willis stole the jewelry and took it to a pawnbroker, then everybody would know the family was broke.»

  Now she was pacing, well clear of Alex and Byrd Stockwell, who were beginning to look a little silly posing like that. «They had to find that jewelry, and they couldn't let Uncle Willis out to tell anybody the family secret, either. If he figured it out once he actually inspected the pieces, and told anybody, they'd be ruined. Tradespeople would start calling in their accounts, they'd end up in debtor's prison, the whole nine yards. I mean, you think we all live on credit now? Those guys were ten times worse than us. And then, once he'd maybe figured out he was locked up for life and would be hunted down and killed if he escaped with what he knew—not just with the jewelry, but with what he knew —Uncle Willis went mad and got his revenge. God, I love this! I want to write this!»

  «Appeals to your romantic, and often bloodthirsty, fiction-writing mind, yes, I'm sure,» Alex said, still watching Byrd. «I believe, however, the late Mr. Undercuffler and the late Miss Pertuccelli might not share your joy.»

  «That's true,» Maggie agreed, still running scenarios in her head. Yes, this could be a good story. She could drop Saint Just in the middle of it, have him solve the crimes. The idea was definitely better than the book she'd just finished. But Alex was still talking, so she really should pay attention.

  «Stockwell, it's over. You murdered two people for paste and have been ungentlemanly enough to attempt to blame two females for your crimes. You weren't about to share with Mr. Undercuffler, and you killed him while Miss Pertuccelli watched in horror—even borrowing her stopwatch cord to do the deed. Miss Pertuccelli must have been terrified, realizing, as you did, that all the jewelry was much better than half. I imag
ine you discovered her trying to escape, flee for her life, and you stabbed her with one of the kitchen knives.»

  «So much for showbiz,» Maggie said. «But Nikki here is all after the fact, right?»

  «Miss Campion merely happened to discover the jewels and want them for her own, nothing more,» Alex agreed. «Put down your weapon, Stockwell—which is, by the by, also fake. The real sword cane, my sword cane, is in my hand. Mr. Barlow has been very kindly keeping it safe for me.»

  «Really?» Maggie looked from one thin sword to the other. «Troy's been lugging the real one around? Honest to God, Alex?»

  «You doubt me, my dear?»

  Again, maybe it was the fatigue. Maybe it was the four teaspoons of sugar. Most probably, it was Sir Rudy's brandy. Maggie grinned at Byrd Stockwell. «Is it real or is it fake? Well, punk? Huh? Do you feel lucky?»

  An audible sigh came from the couches as Dennis Lloyd said, «Americans. No wonder you don't appreciate Shakespeare.»

  Byrd yelled and went on the attack, only to be stopped in his tracks when Alex poked him hard in the solar plexus with the cane part of the sword cane. He grabbed onto his stomach and gasped for air. It was a simple matter for Sterling and Perry to, at Alex's suggestion, «Cage the robin, if you please, while we await the constable. Tie him up, Sterling.»

  Maggie watched as Alex retrieved both sword canes, reassembled them, then tried to hand one to Troy, who wouldn't touch it.

  «Alex? Were you bluffing?»

  «As in any game of chance, my dear,» he said, smiling, «the winner is not obliged to show his cards once the other party has folded his. What do you think?»

  «I think you switched them at some point. I don't know why you did, or if the Troy Toy just picked up the wrong one at some point and you decided that switch might come in handy and let it alone. But, yes, I think Byrd was holding the fake one. I think you even left it where Byrd might get hold of it because you were itching for a fight and it never occurs to you that you could lose a fight, even with a fake sword—except you're not that crazy, and you had the real one. I think I know you that well. So? Am I right? Alex, damn it, stop smiling at me like that. Am I right?»

  Epilogue

  Sterling returned to his seat on the plane after yet another short constitutional, as Perry had told him that it was important to stretch one's legs while on long flights… and after Perry had made that statement clearer, Sterling had realized that he'd meant getting up and walking the aisles from time to time.

  He reached into the pocket on the back of the seat in front of him and retrieved his journal, but didn't yet open it, as Bernie and Tabby were in the seats in front of him and they were speaking to each other.

  «No, of course I won't see Dennis again. Isn't that what a fling is about—mad passion and then never seeing each other again? Besides, he told me his favorite movie line of all time is 'I'll alert the media.' «

  Bernie laughed, then coughed.

  «Okay, so that's almost funny. But you know what isn't, Bernie? Unless I tell him, David will never even know I had revenge sex. And even worse, if I do tell him, he might not care.»

  Sterling quickly opened his journal, believing he'd heard more than he probably should have, and pulled his pen from his shirt pocket. He really should finish his entry, as they'd be landing soon and he wanted to watch as New York appeared outside his window.

  How good it will be to be home again, dear Journal. And as I've already told you, we all travel together this time. Even Mr. Undercuffler and Miss Pertuccelli, although they are, most unfortunately, traveling below us, in the baggage compartment.

  Saint Just told me as I spoke with him on this recent constitutional that, no, Mr. Byrd Stockwell has not yet made a clean robin redbreast of things, but Saint Just is confident that the man will not escape justice. He said there would be fingerprints and all sorts of what is called forensic evidence for the police to discover, although Saint Just is no longer interested, as there's really not all that much dash and romance —his words, dear Journal —in mucking about with such things .

  Miss Campion remains in England, but on the much lesser charge of stealing fake jewelry, and Maggie assures me I'm not to worry about her overmuch, as the woman is bound to land on her feet.

  Sadly, dear Journal, it would seem that the movie about Saint Just and myself will now be unavoidably delayed. Sir Rudy, who had seemed such a convivial gentleman, all but tossed everyone out on their ears the moment the rain stopped and the water receded.

  Saint Just is convinced the man is a tad overset to learn that his lifelong dream has ended in a huge, horribly expensive house that sits in the middle of flood water several times a year, with no treasure to hunt for anymore and all his village chums openly laughing at him. I think he is pining for Marylou, who is also on this airplane, along with everyone else. She and Evan Pottinger seem to be hitting it off quite nicely, which is a surprise to me but not to Saint Just, who is rarely surprised by anything.

  We saw very little of England during this short and quite eventful trip, sadly, but perhaps we will all return one day. In the summer, when it isn't raining.

  But, dear Journal, all has not been murder and mayhem. Saint Just and Maggie have most definitely cried friends again, and once more my hopes run high in that quarter. After all, they are sitting side-by-side now, and Maggie had been resting her head against Saint Just's shoulder, which I consider an excellent sign. I even have begun to hope that they will soon Come To An Understanding.

  «What do you mean, you solved it?»

  «Now, Maggie, you must admit that—»

  »Me , Sherlock. I did it. Okay, so you helped. A little. You pulled that harebrained stunt with the sword canes, I'll give you that. But I'm the one who jumped in that stupid lake and—»

  «I think you might wish to rephrase that, my dear. As in, 'I stupidly jumped into that lake.' «

  «Oh, yeah? Bite me.»

  «Here? In first class? Is that acceptable?»

  Sterling smiled, sighed, and wrote:

  Then again, dear Journal, perhaps it is not yet time for the fairy-tale ending I dream of. But at least things are back to normal…

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  Document ID: d8d9c473-a6ef-4aac-b6ca-05a5c1105d4a

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  Document creation date: 12 October 2010

  Created using: FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software

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