High Heels and Homicide

Chapter nine

Maggie sat propped up by pillows on one of the sofas in the candlelit main saloon and watched out of one slightly open eye as a rather low-keyed mayhem unfolded around her. She'd been back among the living for some twenty minutes or so, but had been «floating,» not really awake, not really paying attention.

She could get away with that only for so long, however, because reality kept coming back to hit her in the face.

That reality was that Sam Undercuffler was dead. In an old English manor house. With its inhabitants cut off from civilization. In the dark. While a storm raged outside. It was all so cliche.

Ten Little Indians . Sort of. Maybe the Three Stooges version…

Arnaud Peppin appeared not to want to participate in directing that mayhem, having taken to a corner of the room, where he sat with both hands on his blue beret, which he was audibly sucking between his teeth.

Nikki Campion was weeping into the hem of her Regency gown, when she wasn't checking to make sure everyone noticed her weeping into the hem of her Regency gown.

Evan Pottinger, also still in Regency costume, hovered at the mantelpiece, clipping his nails, flipping the clippings into the fire. Yeech .

Dennis Lloyd, out of his Clarence the valet costume, but unfortunately having misbuttoned his shirt in his haste to get to the main saloon, a nervously grinning Tabby in tow, was busily explaining to anyone who would listen that he and Tabby were very sorry for Sam, but they'd heard nothing, seen nothing out of the ordinary about the man. After all, they'd been together the entire time, mostly in his bedchamber. All day in his bedchamber, as a matter of fact.

«And what would be the entire time, sir?» Alex asked the man, sticking his quizzing glass to his right eye. «After all, we have no idea how long poor Mr. Undercuffler has been hanging outside Maggie's window, now do we?»

«Well… um… it doesn't matter. Tabby and I have been together since last night, first in her room, then in mine, because nobody would bother us there. Haven't we, Tabby?»

«Shhh, Dennis,» Tabby said, her cheeks going red. «No one was supposed to know that.»

«Oh, yeah, right,» Bernie said from her seat on the facing couch before blowing her nose quite noisily into her handkerchief. «None of us knows the two of you have been banging each other senseless, Tabby. Not us. Jeez. Nope. Totally clueless.»

Maggie believed she should step in before her friends came to blows, but when Tabby put a hand to her mouth and ran out of the room, scarves flying, Dennis chasing after her, Maggie decided the two would sort themselves out in time. They always did.

Sterling—both Sterlings—leaned over the back of the couch, which for a moment had Maggie believing her faint had left her seeing double. «Maggie?» Sterling asked her.

«Are you all right now? When Saint Just came down the stairs like that, carrying you, I had quite a fright. Didn't I, Sterling?»

«Oh, he did, he did,» Sterling redux said, nodding furiously. «But you're all right now, right? Right?»

«Yes, I'm fine, thank you. Both of you.»

But they didn't take her word for it and go away. They just leaned over the couch some more, still staring at her. As if she might go pop at any moment.

«Um… so, have you guys found Uncle Willis yet?»

Both Sterlings frowned, shook their heads. «We thought we heard him earlier on, while we were poking about in the attics, but we didn't see anything.»

Ah-ha! As Alex would say: a clue . Perhaps even the beginning of the reason Sam killed himself. Please let him have killed himself . Maggie pushed for more information. «You heard something? What did you hear? When? Which wing of the attics? The wing where Sam was hanging?»

«Is something amiss, Maggie?» Alex asked, for he was a man who missed nothing.

She looked up at him in mild disgust, and with a fleeting nervousness as she remembered their earlier interlude. Oh, bad word, interlude . Much too romantic a word. «What do you have, anyway? Built in radar? And not amiss, Alex, no. But the Sterlings—I mean, Sterling and Perry—said they heard some noise in the attics. Earlier.» She turned to the Regency Twins. «When earlier, Sterling?»

The two exchanged looks.

«After the suit of armor?»

«Definitely after the suit of armor.»

«But before the bat?»

«Most definitely before the bat.»

«Gentlemen? Can we be a tad more precise, if you please.»

«Let them alone, Alex. They're trying,» Maggie said, then finished the rest of the water someone had brought her and sat up straighten «What bat?»

«The one in the attics, of course,» Sterling said. «We heard the squeaking, the wings flap-flapping. One bat. Maybe more. In any case, we concluded that we didn't wish to stand about and wait for the thing to get tangled in our hair.»

Maggie looked at the nearly identical, both partially bald men. Best casting of the whole movie. «No. You wouldn't have wanted that to happen, would you? So, you heard the bat, but you didn't see the bat. Or bats. But when?»

They looked at each other, then said in unison: «Before dinner.»

«Just before,» Sterling added. «Sorry we can't be more precise, Saint Just. I know how you like things precise, and all of that.»

«Not to worry, Sterling. So, shall we say at approximately five o'clock? Once it was already dark? Very well. Thank you, gentlemen,» Saint Just said, and the two retired to a corner of the room where Marylou had set up a small dessert table consisting of the pies and cakes she'd so industriously prepared in the, thankfully, gas-powered ovens.

Sir Rudy, still in his waders, entered the room, wiping his forehead with a large red handkerchief. «So sorry to report this, but the telephones won't work. Checked them all, I did, and it surprised me how many I've got. Upstairs, downstairs. Don't know why I have so many. But they're all those portable types, you understand, and we need power for them to operate. We'll have to find a way to get to the constable in the morning, if the water dissipates. Not that it makes much difference, for the constable couldn't get to us tonight in any case, and the poor boy is still dead. Oh, peach pie. Smashing! Excuse me!»

«Nice to see him so concerned,» Maggie said, getting to her feet. «Poor Sam commits suicide, and our host cares more about peach pie.»

«If it was suicide,» Alex said quietly. «Which I very much doubt.»

Maggie closed her eyes, took a deep breath. «Why did you say that? Why did I know you were going to say that? Why do I know that Sam's ego was way too big for him to kill himself? Do the others know? Damn it. Alex, we could be stuck here with a murderer. Do something.»

«I am doing something, my dear. I'm observing. Have no fears, we'll have this settled before dawn.»

«You wish.»

«I promise,» he corrected, chucking her under the chin, so that she swiped his hand away, which was less revealing than throwing herself into his arms and screaming, «Protect me!»

«The police can't get here? Nobody can come take away the body?» Troy Barlow, still in his Regency costume, spoke from the drinks table, where he'd been dedicatedly depleting an entire carafe of wine, one glass after the other. «So Sam stays here all night? Oh, no. We can't have him here all night. He could start to smell .»

«No more than you do, you imbecile,» Evan Pottinger said on his way out of the room. «I'm going to go get changed. Suddenly, this costume feels silly. Troy? Did you hear me? You look silly. You, too, Nikki.»

Nikki interrupted her grief for Sam to stare down at her gown in sudden horror. «Oh!»

Maggie looked at Alex as Nikki ran past them, then picked up two of the many flashlights on the table and pointed toward the hallway. Even with Evan and Nikki gone, there were still too many ears in the main saloon. Not to mention too many imbeciles.

Once the two of them were sitting side-by-side on the stairs leading down to the ground floor, Maggie asked, «Sam's in the house? When did that happen?»

«While you were still playing the die-away heroine who'd had a tremendous shock to her sensibilities, I imagine, my dear,» Alex told her, carefully wiping his hands together as if to rid himself of any lingering feeling of having touched the dead screenwriter as he hauled him in through the open window.

«You pulled him in? You touched him? Boy, that took guts. I couldn't do that.»

«We could hardly leave him where he was, with his nose pressed against your windowpane as if begging entry.»

«Oh, please. It was graphic enough the first time. Don't re-run it for me.»

«My apologies. Arnaud assisted me in the retrieval, which may explain why he's on his third Scotch at the moment. We placed Sam in the morning room, on the table there. He—Undercuffler, that is, was already in rigor. Stiff as the proverbial board. We discovered the body at six this evening, but I'd say he'd already been deceased for several hours as a body goes into rigor in about three hours. No one can remember seeing him since shortly after the two of you had your argument this morning.»

«Then the Sterlings did hear a bat in the attics, not Sam, at five o'clock. Okay. It's probably good to establish some sort of time line. So you cut Sam down, then laid him out in the morning room? Boy, there goes breakfast,» Maggie said, closing her eyes. «I didn't know you knew about rigor.»

«The Learning Channel,» Alex explained with a slight bow of his head. «Which is where, coincidentally, I also gained my incomplete but at least serviceable knowledge concerning lividity.»

«Well, bully for you. What's lividity? Oh, wait, I know that one. I saw that on CSI . Someone dies, and the blood pools inside the body at the lowest points of gravity, right? So Sam's blood,» she hesitated, swallowed down hard, «was probably in his face, because of the rope, and maybe in his feet and legs?»

«One would assume so, wouldn't one?»

Maggie turned the beam of her flashlight on him. «You're smiling. One of those Saint Just supercilious smiles. I hate when you do that because it means you know something I don't. Still, I'll bite, as it's the only way I'm going to learn anything. One wouldn't assume so?»

«Not once one had stripped the poor fellow of his soggy clothing and looked, no. Sam Undercuffler's lividity was, excuse the crudity, almost entirely behind him.»

«His back? But… but that would mean he was killed, left to lie somewhere, and then later… hung up?»

«To be discovered with only a slight, secondary lividity in the areas you mentioned. Ah, the blessings of forensic science as imparted by commercial television programs. We're all experts now save, I think we can safely deduce, our murderer. Yes, Maggie. The hanging was for effect and after the fact. Hours after the fact, I believe. Entirely unnecessary and definitely overdone.»

«And that bothers you, doesn't it?» Maggie thought about this for a moment. «Not at all your sort of thing, right? Not an English, understated sort of thing? Which makes it an overdone American sort of thing?»

«I would say so, yes. Possibly. But not definitely. It's equally possible the murderer had simply wanted Under-cuffler out of the way—assuming he was murdered in the attic—and that's why he hung Sam out the window.»

«Because the Sterlings have been poking around in the attics and might have stumbled over the body?»

«Precisely. In that case, the murderer slipped back upstairs to the attic and hung Undercuffler out the window. Without—once again proving we are not dealing with a genius here—checking to make sure Sam wouldn't be visible from the floor below.»

«So we weren't meant to find him?»

«No, I don't think so. At least not until several hours after we'd noticed he'd gone missing. Would you, for instance, have asked about his whereabouts?»

«Are you kidding? I was trying to avoid him all day.»

«But he would have been missed at some point, so all the murderer stood to gain was time. I wonder why.»

Maggie thought about this. «Time for the rain to stop and the water to go down? Time for a getaway?»

«Hmmm, possibly. We'll consider that later, if we might? For now, I would like to concentrate on the how, not necessarily the why. And most definitely the who . Lifting a stiff, dead weight, having the strength to tie that dead weight to a length of heavy, braided drapery cord knotted to the scaffold, then pushing that same dead body out an attic window? I believe we can rule out the ladies, don't you?»

«Nikki lifts weights,» Maggie said, then shook her head. «No. That's pushing it. Unless there's two people involved.»

«Yes, I've considered that possibility as well. Irregardless, the lividity certainly squashes Troy Barlow's theory, although I allowed him to run with that notion for a while, if only to keep him occupied. Unfortunately, you see, he heard me when I took Sterling aside outside the morning room to inform him that we might be dealing with a murder.»

«Oh, good going, Alex.»

«It was an unfortunate lapse, yes, with my only excuse being the dim light in that hallway, even with all the candles lit in their sconces. But I did impress him with the fact that Undercuffler's death could also be a suicide. That nobody has ruled out that possibility, even as we consider alternate possibilities. Which,» Saint Just ended with a small smile, «set him off quite nicely with a theory of his own.»

«Troy? He has a theory? Okay, this should be good.

What's his theory? Murder or suicide? You said suicide, right?»

«Suicide, of course, as Troy's first choice was that Under-cuffler did indeed do away with himself. Provoked by your cruel rebuffs, by the way, your constant harping on the very reasonable improvements he made to your book. And then you crushed him—totally destroyed his spirit—by refusing to read his own script.»

«I was going to read the damn thing,» Maggie protested. «Eventually.»

«Yes, I'm sure you would have, thanks to your lamentable inability to say no and mean it when others encroach on your good-heartedness. But to continue? Undercuffler, opined our Troy, hanged himself from the scaffold, making sure you would be the one who eventually discovered his body. In other words, Sam Undercuffler killed himself to upset you. Rather like slicing off one's own nose to spite one's face, but it has been done before. Shame on you, you cold, heartless woman. Or, to quote our trumped-up Viscount Saint Just, you 'bawdy, artless harpy.'»

«He's blaming me? Reasonable improvements? Harpy! Oh, for the love of—you're kidding, right? I pass out after seeing Sam swinging outside my window, which was more than reasonable, damn it, and now you're making up stories for when I was out cold. That's mean, Alex. Really mean.»

«If that were true, which it is not, believe me when I tell you that my joy would not be unalloyed. But I will, at least somewhat, relieve your mind. Casting you in the role of hard-hearted female to Bernie when we met her in the hallway was a short-lived theory on the man's part, one she squashed both effectively and with some rather inspired profanity.»

«That's Bernie. And she's feeling sick, too. What a pal. Now tell me why your joy wouldn't be unalloyed.»

«Again, the Troy Toy—Bernie addressed him that way, several times, and I believe the title has a certain ring to it. He only moments ago confided in me that if Undercuffler was the victim of foul play—his words, not mine—he, as the Viscount Saint Just, is the obvious person to step in, solve the dastardly crime. As a matter of fact, he's off now, hunting up Joanne Pertuccelli and the robin, as he insists that everyone be gathered in the main saloon when he renders his verdict.»

«Oh joy, this is going to be good. Evan Pottinger I can see as a method actor, believing himself in a part. But Troy? He couldn't ask someone to pass the salt without a script in front of him. Wait a minute. Joanne and Byrd? They aren't here? There's been a freaking murder, Alex. Why are people just wandering around? Where are they?»

«I'm sure I shouldn't know,» Alex said, helping Maggie to her feet. «After all, I am nothing save an interested bystander, having been firmly put in my place the last time I attempted some sleuthing, and only now slowly climbing back into your good graces. In other words, using your modern vernacular, I believe that other than the observations I have already made, I'm going to sit this one out.»

Maggie laughed, and not kindly. «Oh, sure you are. And as a true Regency character might say, pull the other leg—it's got bells on. You could no more sit out a murder investigation than you could wear stripes with plaids.»

Saint Just gave an exaggerated shudder. «Oh, very well. If you insist.»

«If I—cute. Real cute, Alex. Now I'm asking you to investigate Sam's murder?»

Alex swept her an elegant leg. «Your wish, as ever, is my command. Now, shall we return to the others?»

«So Troy can play at being you and try to declare me guilty again, this time for murder? Oh, yeah, sure. I can't wait.»

«Well, the deceased was dangling outside your window, remember? Troy's original deduction was very nearly reasonable, and it's only a small step from provoker of suicide to murderess.»

«But if I killed Sam, why would I want him hanging outside my own window? Is Troy nuts, or just stupid? Never mind. Rhetorical question. Besides, if Bernie shut him up once, I don't think even Troy could be dumb enough to try to go there again. I'm safe,» Maggie said, reluctantly taking Saint Just's arm. «But you are going to tell everyone about the lividity, right?»

«Only if you'll not nag at me to limit myself to no more than that, perhaps. In for a penny, in for a pound.»

«Nag? Now I'm a nag? You know, Alex, I fainted. I had a shock. A big one. So maybe you could ease off a little, huh?»

«You're not fully recovered?»

«Of course I am,» Maggie said, bristling. «And damn you for knowing that. With Steve, I could have milked that faint for days. Weeks. With you?»

Alex pulled out his pocket watch, the one that had been his fictional grandfather's. «Fifty-seven minutes,» he supplied affably. «Ah, and here come Joanne and our Robin Redbreast. Neither looks particularly happy.»

Joanne saw them first and headed straight for Maggie. «Do you have a cell phone?» she asked, wringing her hands in front of herself while Byrd switched off the large flashlight he was carrying. «Do either of you have a cell phone? I've got to call California, let them know what's happening.»

«So sorry,» Alex said. «I have one, yes, but the battery has run down. And since there's no power… ?»

«I've got one,» Maggie said, sensing something wrong about the studio representative's appearance, but unable to put a finger on just what. «You don't have one, Joanne? I'm sure I saw you with one yesterday.»

«That was yesterday,» Joanne said in clipped tones. Angry tones. «I don't have one today. And neither does Byrd. We just checked his room. Didn't we, Byrd?»

«It's true. My cell has gone missing. Joanne here thinks that's odd. Do you think that's odd?»

Maggie looked at Saint Just. «I think mine's in my room. I'll go get it.»

«Yes, do that, and I'll check with the others. Someone's bound to have one,» Alex said, heading for the main saloon.

Five minutes of intensive searching later (while wondering how Alex could have let her go upstairs alone, with a murderer in the house), Maggie joined him in the main saloon, shaking her head when he first saw her. «Any luck here?»

«Considerable, and all of it bad,» he told her as Troy paced the carpet in the center of the room while everyone ignored him. «The flooding, the lack of electricity, and now all the cell phones have gone missing. No one kept their phone with them while in costume.»

«And now they're all gone? Wonderful.»

«Yes, it is, isn't it? A clumsy ploy, yet effective. It doesn't take a brilliant detective to conclude that we are stranded here quite effectively, with a killer who intends to use that isolation to his or her own benefit—whatever that may be. Whatever, I imagine we shall know before morning. Care for a ham sandwich? Marylou has prepared several more, bless her.»

«Gee, it's nice to know you're still calm,» Maggie said, reaching into her pocket for her nicotine inhaler. «This is all beginning to feel like a bad murder mystery. If the lights weren't already out, I'd expect them to cut out at any moment, then come back on so we all could see the knife sticking out of somebody's back.»

«A charming mental picture, thank you, although there's as yet no good reason to suppose Undercuffler's murder wasn't an isolated incident,» Alex said, pressing a hand to his forehead as if his head ached. «Still, pressing on with your theory of imminent danger to all of us, would you mind terribly if the next victim were our dear Troy?»

«Why? He's still at it? Gee, and I missed it.»

«Yes, my fears have all been confirmed, as Troy does have a new suspect I have not yet shared with you,» Alex said, guiding her over to the table, now piled with sandwiches. «Thus far, unless he's been holding court during our absence, he's seen fit to confide his latest theory only to me.»

«Lucky you. The guy works fast, I'll give him that.» Maggie peeled back the bread from one of the sandwiches, made a face at the mustard smeared on the bread. «No mayo?» She took a quick peek over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, then did a fast shuffle with the bread, making her own sandwich with two plain slices. «So, don't keep me in suspense—who's the new winner?» she then asked around her first large bite of the dry sandwich.

«Uncle Willis.»

Maggie coughed as Alex soundly slapped her back until the bite of ham dislodged from her throat. Wiping her streaming eyes with her sleeve, Maggie choked out, «The ghost? He's blaming the ghost? I'll be right back. I gotta hear this one for myself.»

Troy was still pacing. He was the only one still in costume, his handsome face scrunched up as he attempted to keep the quizzing glass stuck to his eye even as he kept his hands clasped behind his back.

«Troy—I mean, Viscount?» Maggie said. «I hear, my lord, that you have a suspect?»

The actor threw back his head and stuck out his chest. «I do that, madam,» he pronounced carefully, then swore as the quizzing glass fell from his eye.

«Having a spot of bother, my lord?» Maggie asked facetiously, mentally casting Troy in her next book as the too-blond, dandified, totally ineffectual twit. Talk about your typecasting.

«Yes, I am. Damned thing. I'm going to have Sam write it out of the—oh. Well, whoever's going to take his place, that is.»

«Saint Just's quizzing glass is an integal part of his personality, Troy,» Maggie told him, no longer quite so amused. She looked at the actor's blond hair. «Just like his black hair. I've been afraid to ask. What are you guys going to do about that, anyway? You're going to wear a wig? Because my readers expect a Saint Just with black hair.»

«That doesn't matter. Readers don't watch television. And television viewers don't read. Everybody knows that.»

Maggie felt her temper rising. «I don't. I watch television and I read. I even chew gum and walk at the same time. Most of America does.»

«Whatever. I only know that the American public will be tuning in because of me . I'm the draw—not your story. Definitely not Nikki, who's only famous for being famous, or Evan, who always plays the villain. But I really like being Saint Just. He's cool. So now, exactly like in the script, I'm going to gather the suspects together and ask a few questions before I unmask our dastardly murderer. Dastardly . Great word.»

«Yeah. One of my all-time favorites. Go on, please.»

Troy swept his right arm out in front of him, as if spreading his words across a screen hung in the air. «I can see the headlines. Troy Barlow, as the Viscount Saint Just, solves writer's murder on location. Barlow saves the day!»

He dropped his arm to his side. «Well, something like that. It'll make great publicity for the movie, might even guarantee a series. My agent's going to love it. I love it. Do you love it? And now, if you don't mind, I believe I'm on.»

«No, no, wait a minute. I think it's a brilliant plan. Wonderful,» Maggie said quickly. «I think it's really… really cool that you've decided to take charge this way. As Saint Just, I mean. Great publicity, I agree. But we don't want any mistakes, do we? After all, Saint Just is my creation, remember. So I want to hear about this suspect of yours. I know you want to tell everyone, but could you just give me a hint?»

Troy lifted the quizzing glass once more, then seemed to think better of it and let it fall back to his chest. «Oh, okay. But only a hint.» He looked to his left, his right, then motioned for Maggie to lean in close. «Uncle Willis,» he said, then paused for effect. «You know. The ghost . He did it.»

Maggie couldn't see Alex from where she was standing. She couldn't hear him. But she knew he was laughing.

«Really? Uncle Willis, huh?» she said as Troy straightened again, struck a pose, one hand on his hip. «What was his motive?»

Troy frowned. «Motive? I… well… I imagine Sam, urn, bumped into him in the attics while he was searching out a new spot to shoot the gazebo scene, since the gazebo's under water. Ghosts don't like to be disturbed, you know. When I played in Teen Screamfest Twelve —a small part, but memorable; I was the second Chess Club member—I met my end when I opened the wrong door and disturbed the ghost. Bam! Ax straight through my head. You saw me in Screamfest? The flick was a bomb, but I got noticed, let me tell you.»

«I'll bet you did. And look at you now. A real star,» Maggie said, squeezing her folded hands until her knuckles turned white as she forced herself to look serious. Interested. «But that was a movie, Troy, remember? I don't think ghosts actually kill people. Actually, I don't believe in ghosts. So, a ghost killed you in that movie?»

Troy frowned. «Gosh, now I'm not so sure. Maybe it was a mummy?» He spread his hands, shrugged. «Well, that's one more down. This isn't as easy as I thought. No script, you know? I'm great with scripts. My phonographic memory.»

«Photographic,» Maggie corrected, but quietly, because the guy's train of thought was already half off the rails and she didn't want to lose him completely. Just as quietly, she made another mental note for his character in her next book: blond, dandy, brick-stupid, speaks like Mrs. Mala-prop. Oh, she was going to have fun with this character— and how great was it that, even with Sam dead in the morning room, she was feeling the urge to write.

«So that's two down, huh? But, hey, you're the writer. Help me out here. Who else have we got?»

«Just look around, Troy,» Maggie told him, also looking around the room, counting heads. One little, two little, three little Indians. «Why don't we two try to narrow down the numbers? Let's deduct you, me, Alex, both Sterlings. Tabby and Bernie, of course.»

Troy narrowed his eyelids as he looked at her. «That was quick. All your friends. And you included me, just to trick me into agreeing with you.» Picking up his sword cane, which had been propped against a chair, he looked down his nose at Maggie, once more playing Saint Just. «Oh, I don't think so, madam. Everyone is a suspect. Every last damn gleeking, dizzy-eyed scallion!»

«Scullion,» Maggie corrected numbly. «You mean scullion. A scallion is a kind of onion.»

«Whatever.» Troy tucked the cane under his arm, turned away from her, then clapped his hands to call the occupants of the room to attention. «Now hear this! Sam Undercuffler is dead, murdered. He did not kill himself. Murdered, ladies and gentlemen, and everyone in this room is a suspect. Everyone. So… so… so nobody leaves town!»

Everyone began talking at once, denying their own guilt, then the sudden noise subsided as everyone began looking at everyone else with suspicion. Great. Now they had a room full of people who were suddenly afraid of each other.

«Wine?» Alex said, handing Maggie a glass.

«What, no hemlock, to put us both out of our misery?» She took the glass, downed half its contents in one gulp. «Did you hear that idiot?» she asked. «Nobody leaves town? But, hey, don't worry, be happy, at least Uncle Willis and yours truly are off the hook as suspects.»

«You said 'yours truly' because you don't know if the proper pronoun is 'I' or 'me,' didn't you, my dear?»

«Sometimes I really hate how well you know me,» Maggie said, allowing him to distract her because she knew him well enough to know that's what he was doing. Unfortunately, in this case, his attempt didn't work for more than five seconds. «Oh, God, Alex, you'd better keep to your promise about solving Sam's murder before dawn because, to paraphrase Will Shakespeare, this is going to be one flap-eared, boil-brained, long night.»