High Heels and Homicide

Chapter twelve

«Why are we going down here?» Maggie asked, W glad she'd exchanged the oil lantern for one of the larger flashlights, which she kept trained at her feet, not exactly a big fan of falling down the stairs. «What's down on this floor, anyway?»

«Other than the kitchens, various storage rooms? Only the entrance foyer and a small public receiving room for lesser humans, I believe. Solicitors and such. I'm of the opinion the plan for this building was to keep as much of it above ground as possible. The owners would have done better to dredge the stream and pond every year, although that's only my opinion. Careful, watch your step.»

«I would if I could see the steps. Slow down.»

He did. «Forgive me, my dear, but I am beginning to feel some slight urgency in my need to solve this case.»

«And that's your first problem. This isn't your case. If anything, it's our case. I'm in this, too, remember?»

«Correction noted.» Alex stopped at last, on about the third step from the bottom, turned about, and lifted his oil lantern, holding it close to the wall. «All right, here we go. Undercuffler had changed the final scene, if you'll recall, planning a duel between the Viscount and Lord Hervey on these very stairs.»

«Well, whoop-de-do. So what?»

«So, I spent some minutes here earlier, considering the logistics of the thing, how the scene might be played out, and also amused myself admiring this rather unusual mural.»

«Again, whoop-de-do. And another big so what?»

«Even knowing I, as you have just done, could possibly be redundant in saying this, all in good time, my dear. Now, precisely where did I see that?»

«I'll ignore the 'redundant' crack and just say see what? Alex, that mural is about forty feet high and just as wide. We've got that old guy in the chariot. We've got horses pulling the chariot. We've got angels and nymphs and various woodland creatures, who are actually supposed to be the original owner and all his descendants. We've got— hell, the only thing missing is Waldo.»

«Who's Waldo?» Alex asked, taking her flashlight from her and training it higher on the mural.

«He was a little nerdy guy in a striped shirt and a cap, and some artist would draw him somewhere in crowded scenes, and then everybody would look at the drawings and try to figure out where—nobody important, never mind,» Maggie said, holding onto the back of his belt as, slowly, they retraced their steps on the grand staircase. «This isn't going to work. There's not enough light. Whatever you're looking for, it will have to wait until morning. If the sun ever comes out again or the electricity comes back on, that is.»

«No, no. You gave me only until the morning to solve our little murder, remember?»

«Sure. Let me believe I'm in charge of you. That would be different. Novel, even. Novel —get it? Oh, man, I'm losing it.»

«No, no, you're doing just fine, all things considered.

And, I don't have to inspect the entire mural. What I believe I saw was in the bottom third, at the most. I really should have paid stricter attention, but then, who knew the thing would become important?»

«Well, while you're looking for something you don't exactly remember, something that could or couldn't be important, let's talk about the stopwatch some more, all right? Why didn't you hold it up in front of Joanne and tell her you found it? You know, the big ah-ha, got you moment. You live for those moments. Besides, I would have liked to have seen her reaction.»

Alex turned about on the stair and motioned for Maggie to sit down, then joined her. «Maggie,» he said in that maddening tone that told her he knew something— entire worlds of somethings—she didn't know. «If Joanne is involved in Undercuffler's untimely demise, and we cannot be sure that she is or isn't, we have to acknowledge that the woman could not have hoisted the body out of that attic window by herself. Agreed?»

Reluctantly, Maggie nodded, then shifted herself on the stair so that the bottom of her oversized sweatshirt covered her butt. «Agreed. She couldn't have done it alone. So?»

«So, my dear, if we confront her, she could react in one of several ways. She could exhibit delight that we have found her beloved stopwatch, which had somehow become misplaced. She could have very honestly lost the thing, and the murderer used it as a weapon of opportunity, without her knowledge. In other words, she could be innocent. An unlovely person, but innocent. Or, she could act nonchalant, take the thing, secretly delighted to have it back, and then dispose of it before the constabulary can be brought here.»

«Wait. We're back to TV's version of crime scene investigating, right? You're sure jumping into the twenty-first century with a bang, aren't you? But I get it. The stopwatch is full of evidence. Epithelials—skin cells from Sam's neck, for one. From Joanne, too, and maybe even from someone else. DNA. God, you're right. We can't just give it back to her. But we could tell her we noticed she isn't wearing it. That could jump-start something. And you really should get that thing out of your pocket and into a plastic bag.»

«I agree. But let's first consider Joanne Pertuccelli a while longer, if we might? Exactly what is her position, her relationship to this project? I'm afraid I don't really understand all the subtleties of the filmmaking industry.»

«Neither do I,» Maggie admitted. «Directors direct the actual filming. Where the actors should stand, how they should say their lines, what camera angles to use, I think. Anyway, in our case, that's Arnaud. Producers? I think they put up money, get investors to put up the money, then try to tell everyone what to do and how to do it, even if they make their real money selling soup or something, and they don't know squat about making movies. Sort of like a lot of book publishers these days. These conglomerates—»

«Yes, yes. However, alas, we have no time to climb upon one of your many hobbyhorses at the moment. But Joanne isn't a producer?»

Maggie was getting into it now; anything to help herself stay warm. «No, not exactly. At least, I don't think so. Actors, well, actors act. Marylou explained what she does. Screenwriters either write directly for the movies or adapt books—like mine—so they're more visual. Or so Sam told me. Mostly, I think they're like really bad editors who just want their stamp on everything they touch, even if the changes don't make the book better, but only different. My friend Virginia—you remember Virginia?»

Alex sighed. «Yes, I remember Virginia. She sent us another photograph of the baby last week, as I recall. Lovely child. But—»

«Virginia had one of those—one of those hands-on edi-tors. Hands-on? Right. Hands, feet, teeth, you name it. God, he was a pain! Virginia finally told him to go write his own book. But, then again, everybody's writing their own book these days. Sam's was a screenplay, but you get my meaning, right?»

«Maggie, you're losing the focus of my question. While all of this has been extremely edifying, what does Joanne do?»

«Sorry. She works for the producer? The big money man? Maybe that makes her an assistant producer. I really don't know. She's over Arnaud, that much is for sure. And she hired Evan; he told us that. Maybe she oversees everything for the production company? Budget? Scheduling? Casting? Location? That sort of thing. Movies for television have smaller budgets, so they may be doing all of this on a shoestring, and Joanne's the one tying the bows.»

«I see, thank you. All right, you sit here and relax, while I think about this,» Alex said, getting to his feet once more, training Maggie's flashlight on the mural.

«Why not? I always relax by sitting on ice-cold marble steps. It's my favorite thing.» Maggie tilted back her head and watched as Saint Just moved the beam of light slowly over the mural, almost inch by inch, working up the stairs to the top, then slowly making his way back down, the beam of light slightly higher on the wall.

After about ten minutes of this, Maggie was colder than ever and really, really bored. She stood up, wondering if her backside had frozen solid and might just crack and fall off, and asked, «You still don't remember what you're looking for?»

«Oh, I've always known what I'm looking for,» Alex told her, stopping on the fourth step from the top. «I've been looking for this.»

«What? Where? Let me see.»

«Calmly, calmly. Look just up there slightly, to where I'm aiming the light. Do you see it? The adorable little cherub?»

«One of the dozens of adorable little cherubs, you mean. Oh… oh, okay. I see it. What's he holding?»

«That, my dear, is a diagram of this house.»

«No. That can't be. You're pulling my leg.»

«Another time, perhaps, if you ask nicely,» Saint Just said, smiling down at her. «In any case, it would appear that the fellow who commissioned this mural was not only quite impressed with his family tree, but that he was also mightily taken with his architectual accomplishments and wished to share his brilliance with everyone. Over and above displaying his many ancestors and even the children he himself fathered, whose images are preserved for posterity in this mural.»

«Yeah, well, he didn't have a digital camera, did he? Hold the flashlight steady. I can't really make out much of anything,» Maggie said, squinting up at the unrolled scroll the cherub held in front of him. «I can see the outline of the building—both wings, huh?—but I can't make out the separate rooms. I've seen blueprints like this in some of my research books and can never really figure them out— them or the guide map to the Metropolitan Museum, for that matter. But this is only one floor of the mansion, right?»

Saint Just stood on tiptoe, examining the plan. «Well, that's disappointing, isn't it? You're right, Maggie. This plan is of the first floor. Here's the main saloon. The morning room. I see the study—I wonder.»

«You wonder what?» Maggie asked, hanging onto him as he lowered the flashlight and the staircase was plunged into near-total darkness. «And warn me before you do that again, I nearly lost my balance.»

«My apologies. Feel free to hold onto my belt again as we descend the staircase.»

«Looking for?»

«Another cherub, of course, one holding the plan for the second floor. Sadly, while I believe cherubs balanced at either end of the mural to be highly likely, I doubt there is a third showing off the plans for the attics.»

«Unless there's four? Four cherubs, four floor plans. One in each corner. Ground floor, first floor, second floor, attics. That's four.»

«True enough,» Alex agreed. «But let's concentrate on first finding another cherub, shall we? Although, thanks to the pitch of the staircase, this one will be considerably higher on the wall.»

«Find it, and we can ask Sir Rudy where we can get a ladder,» Maggie said, more excited than cold all of a sudden. «You're thinking the plan of the house will show another staircase somewhere? Maybe one that used to lead straight up to Uncle Willis's room before some descendant did some renovating? You English were always renovating. Is that what you're looking for? Or maybe a secret passageway? A priest's hole, maybe? I think I'm thinking the wrong century, but it's a possiblity?»

«Anything is possible, yes, and might serve to explain the lack of footprints in the dust. Ah, what have we here?»

«You found the second plan?»

«No, not yet. But look at this, Maggie,» Alex said, taking hold of her hand so she could join him on the same stair. «Now, this is interesting.»

«A drawing of the house and grounds. Boy, how'd they do that? Go up in a hot air balloon and sketch it that way? This is really pretty good.»

«Ingenuity and talent did not begin with Americans, remember, or with the twentieth century. Why, consider the pyramids.»

«You consider them. I'm looking at the grounds. Alex? There's the stream—see it? Goes almost all the way around the house. It's darn near a moat. And there's the drive we came down, the one that leads to the front door down there. See how it continues around to the back of the house, then splits to go to the stables? Probably the stables, anyway, although they're probably the garages now. Isn't that where the chauffeur said he was going—around to the back, to drop off our luggage? This is neat, I mean, this is really neat . Hold the light steady.»

«Your wish is my command, as always. What do you see? Because I believe I also see it.»

«Wait, I think I've got it. A marking that seems to indicate that there's a back road leading somewhere, right from the area of the kitchens? You think that's the area of the kitchens?»

«I do, yes.»

Maggie, who'd been standing on her tiptoes, eased back down, moved her head from side to side, trying to release the cramp in her neck, the one she'd gotten peering up at the mural. «So what is it, Alex? Why is it there?»

«Tradesman's entrance would be my guess. It appears to hug the outer edge of the gardens before disappearing into that stand of trees. Why hadn't I thought of that earlier? Certainly drays and farm wagons weren't allowed to approach this grand pile on the front drive. I imagine it's still in existence and used by the household staff for their daily comings and goings. Do you suppose it's under water, too? After all, none of the staff was able to come here today.»

Maggie rubbed the back of her neck. «Only one way to find out.»

«True. Unless we ask Sir Rudy.»

«Unless Sir Rudy forgot about it. He forgot about the roof leaking, remember? I don't think he pays much attention to anything except that he's now the owner. Oh, and Marylou, but let's not think about that. Come on, we've been looking at this mural forever and I'm bored with it. Let's go see. Maybe the two of us can walk out of here, go for help somewhere.»

«Tramp on foot at least a mile to the village, in the dark of night, through the rain and wind, yes.»

«Gee, you make it all sound so appealing.» Maggie stopped on the landing and trained the flashlight back down on Alex. «What? What's the matter? You're afraid the local cops will upstage you before you figure out who killed Sam?»

Holding the oil lantern in front of him, he joined her on the first-floor landing. «That remark, madam, is beneath contempt.»

«And right on target,» Maggie said, grinning at him. «Come on, admit it. We weren't looking at that mural to find a way out of here. We were looking for a—oooouuul — a secret passage . A hidden staircase. Oooouuul You want to play the hero, Alex, and now maybe you can't.»

«Bite me.»

Maggie's eyes went wide. Then she giggled. «Bite me? That's all you can think of to say back at me? Bite me ? That's my line, Alex.» Then she slipped her arm through his. «Come on, think positive. Maybe the path is underwater.»

«You can be the most annoying female,» he said just as Nikki came down the stairs toward them, dressed once more in a skintight exercise outfit. She actually had a headband with a small miner's light stuck on the front of it, along with a flashlight in her right hand. Her face was sheened with perspiration; even her hair was wet. Leave it to the woman to be the only one who could work up a sweat in this mausoleum.

«Great, little Miss Perky,» Maggie groused. «And I'm not just talking about the boobs.»

«Hi, all,» Nikki said, waving to them before jogging across the landing to the level of stairs Saint Just and Maggie had just climbed, and starting down them. «Gotta keep the leg muscles working. See ya on the way back!»

«She must have run up and down every staircase in this pile, twice, and there's bunches of them. I hate energetic people. Besides, I thought she was shacking up with the nephew,» Maggie said, then looked at her watch. «Wow, we've actually been fooling around with that mural for over an hour, Alex. Still, I guess Byrd is a fast worker. Alex? Now what's your problem?»

«They all could have scattered everywhere, couldn't they?» he asked, frowning. «I hesitate to suggest we count noses yet again. After all, one or more of them is a murderer, not a potential victim, and none of them can actually escape.»

«Unless the path at the back of the house is passable,» Maggie reminded him, giving his arm a tug. «Come on. We can't just keep counting noses. Let's go do what we can do. There's a staircase leading down to the kitchens back past the study. I used it earlier.»

«Yes, you're right,» Saint Just agreed. «Undercuffler is the victim, and there's no reason to believe there might be another one. And yet, as we've not uncovered a motive, merely the manner of death? Yes. It is time to call in the local authorities. I shouldn't have delayed at all.»

«Like any of us had a choice?»

Alex paused outside the closed door to the main saloon, then reached into his pocket and pulled out—a cell phone!

»You've got a —»

He clamped his hand over her mouth and pulled her to the far side of the hallway, away from the closed doors. «Quietly, my dear. I'm going to take my hand off your mouth now, and you're going to be quiet, correct?»

Maggie nodded, her eyes boring into him until he removed his hand, at which time, whispering , she said accusingly, «You've got a cell phone. How could you have a cell phone and not—oh, Alex. Alex, Alex, Alex. You just can't resist trying to play the hero. Solve the crime.»

«I am the hero, remember?» he pointed out, smiling that infuriating smile of his. The one she'd imagined for her perfect hero. Intelligent. Arrogant. Knee-melting. That smile. «In any event, unless this service entrance is passable, we're still effectively cut off from civilization, remember?»

«Yeah? Well maybe the locals have a rowboat. Did you think of that?»

«Actually, no. You're very good at this, Maggie.»

«I made you, remember?» she said, then swore under her breath as the doors to the main saloon opened and Troy walked out to join them.

«I thought I heard someone out here. We're back inside, most of us,» Troy told them, then looked down at the open notebook he carried. «Let's see. Arnaud—we patched things up—Sir Rudy, Marylou, your two friends, Dennis. The Sterlings. Evan says he's staying in his room unless the place catches fire.»

«I'm beginning to believe I really misjudged that man,» Saint Just said, smiling.

«Uh-huh,» Troy said, running his fingertip down the page. «Who else? Nikki's not here. Probably doing sit-ups somewhere, or her nails. She doesn't have any talent, you know, just the body. That goes and she's done, and she knows it. Paris Hilton without daddy's money behind her. She's thirty already, probably more than that, so she's almost gone now. I mean, really? Boffo Transmissions? Tabloid covers? Oh, here she comes.»

Maggie turned to see Nikki bounding onto the landing. The actress waved again, jogging in place, as she asked, «Everybody back downstairs?»

«We think so, yes, except for Mr. Pottinger, who has barricaded himself in his bedchamber for the duration, I believe,» Alex told her.

«Okay. Good. I'll go change. See ya!» she chirped, then took off toward the second floor.

«Bed aerobics, stair-climbing,» Maggie said quietly. «I guess there's ways, and ways, to feel the burn, huh?»

«Troy?» Alex asked, clearly ignoring her remark. «I may have misinformed Miss Campion just now. You didn't mention the nephew or Miss Pertuccelli.»

«Oh, right. Byrd's in there, and pretty pissed, if you ask me. He doesn't like that his uncle and Marylou are—you know. Hitting it off? I guess I wouldn't, either, if I was the old guy's only heir.»

«And Miss Pertuccelli?»

«Hey, I can't keep tabs on everybody,» Troy said, checking his list again. «Nope. I haven't checked her off. But I can check you two off now, right? It's good to be organized.»

«Hold that thought, Troy,» Maggie told him, then looked at Alex. «You wanted to see if there's any peanut butter in the kitchens, Alex, right?»

«Indeed, yes. I've developed quite a passion for peanut butter. But good work, Troy. Capital! We'll rejoin you shortly.»

«Twit,» Maggie said, shaking her head as Troy turned and marched back into the main saloon, still wearing his Regency Era costume.

«Ah, that's an interesting change. I believe, my dear, you have just put one of my words into your mouth. Although I totally agree, poor fellow. But he does try.»

Maggie aimed the flashlight beam down the hallway as they made their way to the servant stairs leading down to the kitchens on the ground floor. «You're being awfully nice. I thought you couldn't stand the guy.»

«As me, yes, that's true. Evan Pottinger would have done a much better job, much as it pains me to acknowledge that anyone save myself could do me justice. You've said that it's possible Joanne picked the actors for each role, or at least had a hand in the decisions, correct?»

«So why did she pick Troy Toy?» Maggie asked, sure that was Alex's question. «His Q rating, probably, or whatever it's called. And that, before you ask me, is some sort of gauge of how popular a person is with the viewing public. Then again, who can understand Hollywood? I mean, somebody thought Brad Pitt would be a real knockout in Troy .»

Saint Just held open the door for her. «I beg your pardon?»

»Troy . The movie, not the Troy Toy. I just thought of that because the names are the same. But there's plenty of movies where the lead character is cast because the actor is a big star—not that our Troy is a big star, but he is a hit on the soaps, according to Sterling. I remember catching part of an old movie on cable one night. John Wayne—big cowboy movie star long ago—as Genghis Khan or something. The studio guys must have figured they could just stick him in any movie at all and have a hit. Hollywood is shameless.»

«We all are, at one point or another,» Alex said, entering the kitchens behind her. «Now, where would one keep plastic bags, do you think?»

«What? Oh, for the stopwatch? I don't know. Look around over there. I'll check the other room. Big kitchen.»

«Kitchen, pantry, knife room, butler's and housekeeper's sitting room and bedchambers, etcetera. Estate kitchens were massive entities,» Saint Just said. «Ah, here we go. Maggie?»

«Hang on a sec,» she called to him, still poking around, shining the flashlight into dark rooms. «This is great, you know? I mean, there's books, there's the Internet, but this is actually seeing what I write about. I wish I had my camera. Hell, I wish we had lights.»

«We do have rainwear, if that's any consolation,» Alex said as she rejoined him, pointing to a wide, stone-paved hallway and a row of hooks holding several sweaters, coats, and four or five bright yellow slickers. There was a rack holding rubbers and boots below the hooks.

«Hey, this is a bonus,» Maggie said, propping her flashlight on a low table as she grabbed one of the slickers.

«Look, aren't those Sir Rudy's waders over there? Come on, that's got to be the door to the outside back there. You want boots? I'm putting on boots.»

«Rather unlovely,» Alex remarked, holding up one of the slickers to examine it. «But serviceable.»

«Wait a minute,» Maggie said, snapping her slicker shut. «Before we go out into the monsoon, let's talk about the cell phone a little more, all right?»

«I'd rather not,» Alex said, looking handsome in his own slicker—which really made her angry because she was pretty sure she looked like Rubber Duckie. «But, in my own defense, I believed at the time that concealing the fact that I still possessed a working cell phone was prudent.»

«How so?»

«Think, Maggie. If we could have phoned for assistance, and received it, our entire party might have scattered to the four winds before the local constabulary discovered that Undercuffler's death was not, after all, a suicide.»

«You would have told them.»

«Ah, but would they have listened? And I'll admit to harboring a few lingering doubts of my own, until Joanne told us about the missing cell phones. Do you know what those missing cell phones mean, Maggie?»

«You're doing it again,» she reminded him, bristling. «What do they mean? They mean we can't contact anybody until the water goes down. And, yeah, I agree, they mean Sam was murdered, even without the second rope mark on his neck, not to mention the lack of a suicide note. The guy was a writer, Alex. He would have left a note. A long note. You know, good-bye cruel and uncaring world—all that stuff?»

«You are the expert there, I'm sure,» Alex conceded, smiling. «But what the missing cell phones meant to me, Maggie, is that Undercuffler's murder was impromptu, not planned. Gathering up the cell phones, indeed, opening the service doors down here to allow the water easier entry to the generators? Slapdash efforts to keep us isolated here for a while, for one reason or another. I'm attempting to assuage my conscience now for keeping my cell phone a secret, I know, but we are in agreement thus far?»

«You know we are. And I forgot about that one part. Sir Rudy did say someone left the doors open, didn't he? That wasn't an accident.» Maggie clapped her hands together a single time in front of herself, then pointed both index fingers at Saint Just. «So that's it, Alex. It's the old story. Sam heard or saw something he wasn't supposed to hear or see while he was poking around, looking for filming sites, and they killed him. Somebody killed him. We'll say 'they,' because we already know Joanne couldn't have lifted Sam's body by herself and it was her stopwatch we found, right?»

«Joanne may still be innocent, remember? The stopwatch could have been misplaced, then appropriated.»

«I'm not buying that one and neither are you, not really. She probably doesn't take that thing off even when she sleeps. We could ask Evan, I guess, since he slept with her. Anyway, they were interrupted in whatever it was they were doing. They weren't done yet, so they needed to stay here a little while longer, to finish whatever it was they'd started, which wouldn't happen if the cops showed up.»

«Ah, but what had these nameless they started? Sir Rudy has some lovely artwork, I've noticed, but nothing anyone would consider priceless. And paintings would be missed, commented on. Still, a robbery of some sort is the most logical conclusion.»

Alex pulled out his pocket watch, held it up beside the oil lantern. «Later and later. Shall we push on?»

«You're really willing to give this up, turn everything over to the local cops?»

«Lowering as that prospect is, yes. We've been at this for hours, with no real, tangible results. If we were in Manhattan, I confess I would have contacted the good /e/it-tenant by now.»

«I miss Steve, too. I mean, the man carries a gun. I don't like guns, but there's a time and place for everything, you know?»

«Are you suggesting that I cannot protect you?»

Maggie sighed. «No, that's not what I said. I know you can protect me. I can protect myself, too. Don't put words in my mouth.»

Alex's grin was positively wicked. «Poor dear girl. I believe I can sympathize with that particular plea.»

«I'll have a smart comeback for that one, Alex—check with me in the morning, okay?» Maggie turned the large, old-fashioned key that was already inserted in an equally large, old-fashioned lock, and pushed open the door, immediately getting hit in the face by wind-whipped rain. The floodwater was easily seen, deep enough in spots to have its own whitecaps, which meant she was probably looking at the pond. Medwine Manor could have been picked up and dropped down in Venice, there was that much water everywhere. Unfortunately, there were no gondoliers poling past, singing «O Sole Mio» and asking if Maggie and Saint Just wanted a lift.

«Steady on,» Alex said, taking her arm. «Perhaps you should stay here while I see if I can locate any visible paths above the water level. Someone must have been farsighted enough to have the paths elevated at the time of construction.»

«Sounds like a plan, even while I think I should point out that someone didn't think to do that with the front drive,» Maggie agreed, pulling the hood of the slicker closer over her face. «I'll keep the lantern, you take the flashlight.»

Backing against the stone wall, out of the wind, Maggie watched as Alex disappeared into the dark, walking with an ease and posture that hinted that he was having himself a lovely stroll on a sunny spring day. The man had panache…

«See anything?» she called out a minute later. «Alex? Can you hear me?»

«Still walking, Maggie, so that's encouraging,» he called back to her. «The path is composed of rather slippery cobblestones and is nearly covered with water, as it borders the pond to the left, but I believe it could be passable for a single person on foot.»

«What? I didn't catch all of that. Oh, hell,» Maggie said, hoping the oil lantern wouldn't go out as she inched her way beyond the shelter of the stone walls.

Why would anyone build a house—a mansion, for crying out loud—at the bottom of a basin? And surrounded on three sides by a stream and a pond. That was just asking for it every time it drizzled.

«Alex? You still out there? Come on, talk to me, so I know you didn't step in a hole and drown or something.»

«Go back, Maggie. There's rather deep water on either side of the path—the pond on the left, the flooding on the right. It's dangerous out here.»

«For who? Whom?» she corrected, wincing. «For a woman?»

«Maggie,» Alex called out, his voice coming to her through the sound of rumbling thunder. «Not now !»

«Right, bad timing,» she said, figuratively slapping herself. Now was definitely not the time. She wished she'd never seen that drawing showing another exit to this swamp. She wished, if she'd had to see it, she hadn't pointed it out to Alex. Not that he hadn't seen the thing on his own.

She wished she was warm. She wished the rain would stop, and this night would be over, and the sun would come up, and… and that Alex could solve Sam's murder before then, because she knew he wanted to make it up to her for what he'd done to that miserable man back in Manhattan—who, yes, had probably deserved anything he got—but even heroes have to obey some rules.

«Alex? Come back! We'll wait until morning! Damn it, Alex—stop playing the hero!»

I love you anyway . That was the tag end for that sentence, and Maggie knew it. If she were writing this whole stupid story as one of her books, that would be the logical next line of dialogue. But she didn't say the words. She couldn't say those words.

Because she wasn't Rubber Duckie. She was Cowardly Chicken.

Her head down, Maggie plodded back along the slippery stone path toward the door, holding the oil lantern low, the better to guide her steps.

Then she got silly. Maybe she was tired, maybe she was even a little punch-drunk. Something. With a nervous giggle, she cast herself in the role of night watchman, one of the Charlies that once patrolled the streets of Regency England. «Ten o'clock and all's not well-l-l-l-l ,» she sang, swinging the lantern from side to side.

And that's how she saw it. That flash of bright yellow slicker on the ground just at the foundation and a good ten feet from the path as the light from the oil lantern skimmed over it.

She extended her arm, shining the light more fully in the direction of the splash of color as she carefully—and very reluctantly—picked her way closer. Then, for about the count of six, she just… just sort of stared.

Finally, Maggie found her voice. «Nine little Indians. Oh, shit. And I'm not going to faint. This time I am not going to faint. This time, I'm going to scream. Alex! Alllll-exxxxx!»