High Heels and Homicide

Chapter fifteen

«If I please could have your kind attention, ladies and gentlemen?»

Saint Just leaned on the sword cane and waited until everyone in the main saloon was looking at him, and for Maggie to be done with glaring at him, before he spoke again.

«Thank you so much,» he said, inclining his head slightly. «I am aware that we are all weary, cold, and quite naturally apprehensive, but I do believe I have news.»

»You have news?» Maggie said out of the corner of her mouth. «What am I, chopped liver? Why didn't you tell me you were going to say something when we got back down here? What are you going to say?»

«Go wake Bernice, if you please, Maggie.»

«No.»

«Maggie… don't be contrary.»

«I'll be more than contrary. What are you up to? I hate when you do this.»

«My dear,» Saint Just said as the occupants of the room variously pushed themselves out of their chairs or lounged more deeply into them, «I have absolutely no idea. But I will count most heavily on your assistance.»

«You're going to wing it? Oh, Alex, I don't know…»

«What's going on?» Evan Pottinger asked, standing none too steadily, a glass in his hand. «Are the police here? Did you find another body? I don't want to be a spoilsport, but I'm not touching another body that can't touch me back.»

«No, no, no, Evan,» Saint Just said, motioning for Maggie to go rouse Bernice as he himself stepped more fully into the room. «But thank you so much for providing me with my jumping-off point, as it were. For we have found something I believe will be of interest. If everyone would care to adjourn upstairs?»

Tabby, still wrapped in blankets beside Dennis Lloyd, said, «Oh, Alex, do we have to? I was just getting warm. And you're letting a draft in here with those doors open. I feel like I'm in a refrigerator.»

«You want to feel cold,» Evan said, pouring himself more wine, «try touching a dead body. That's cold.»

«Do you have to keep talking about Joanne that way?» Nikki Campion asked, then buried her head against Byrd Stockwell's shoulder.

And that's all it took, unfortunately, before everyone in the room began speaking at once.

«Try a cold, wet, banging body, Evan, if you want nightmares. We had to spin Sam around twice before we could get a good hold on him. Sam the Pinata. Cripes!» Arnaud Peppin declared in his high-pitched voice, which had increasingly become a whine as the hours passed.

«And how about me?» Troy asked, once more brandishing the sword cane he'd claimed as his own. «Huh? Huh? How about me? Is anybody ever going to pay attention to me?»

»No ,» at least four voices chimed at once, and the arguing began again.

«And once more, the inmates have taken over the asy-lum. It's easier when I write all the lines and then feed them to you one by one, isn't it?» Maggie asked, coming to stand beside him once more. «You want me to whistle them to order? I can do that, you know. You put your little fingers in each corner of your mouth and—»

«Anybody got a tissue? I've run out of tissues. And who do I kill for waking me up again, you or Alex?»

«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?»

«I'm thinking, I'm thinking. I want to get this right. I wish I could write it all out on file cards, then shuffle everything until I get it all in order.»

«Let me help you there,» Saint Just offered. «We begin very early yesterday morning, with Mr. Undercuffler dining with a few members of our party.»

«Right,» Troy said, as he had been a part of that small party. «That's when Sam told us about Maggie here, how she was being such a bitch about his screenplay.»

«Gee, thanks for remembering that,» Maggie said with a near-sneer. «I saw Sam after you all ate breakfast, when he showed up in my room, and we came downstairs together, but I didn't see him after that—until I saw him hanging outside my window at—when was that, Alex?»

«Much later,» was all Saint Just said, as he was concentrating on something else entirely. «The electricity became disabled sometime during the night, correct?»

«Yes, but the generators kicked right in like clockwork,» Sir Rudy pointed out. «Until they got flooded. I sure want to know what idiot left those doors unlatched.»

«Our killer, I would say,» Saint Just said, knowing he now had everyone's attention once again. «Tabby? I promise to forget everything you say once you answer my questions, and please forgive me, but where were you and Mr. Lloyd, from the time you left the main saloon until you were asked to join everyone there once more?»

«Alex,» Tabby pleaded through clenched teeth. «Do we have to?»

«Ah, Tabby, honey, I think we do,» Maggie said, stepping in front of Saint Just. «Because I think I can see where Alex is going with this. I… well, I went to your room around noon and you weren't there, but it looked like maybe you had been there?»

«I'll pay you back for this some day,» Tabby said, stepping close to Maggie. «Yes, we were in my room all night. But then we went to Dennis's room around eleven or so in the morning because we'd run out of—well, just you never mind. He had some granola bars, too, because we were hungry. And we stayed there until someone told us to come downstairs, that the generators were out. There. Satisfied?»

«I don't know, I usually do all of this on paper before I write.» Maggie looked at Saint Just. «Are we satisfied?»

«Yes, I think we are.»

«Well, good for you,» Byrd Stockwell said. «Now tell us.»

Saint Just obliged. «Happily. I can verify that Sam Undercuffler was alive at nine o'clock yesterday morning. I understand that Miss Pertuccelli had requested that he investigate the premises, looking for possible locations to film outdoor scenes that, because of the flooding, would most probably be relocated inside the building.»

«You only use dialogue in movies, not all my scene setting,» Maggie offered. «Although there'd be some reworking needed to change the rooftop duel to one on the stairs. Then again, this was supposed to be made-for-TV, so you guys will probably just fake it all. Not that Sam and Joanne probably weren't faking it, giving Sam a reason to disappear for a while.»

«You know, Hollywood does make some quality films, Maggie,» Arnaud said, obviously smarting. «Although I will agree that sometimes we cut a few corners. I know you writers think you are more important, but, as Lloyd Kaufman said so well, 'It's up to us to produce better-quality movies.' «

Maggie shook her head. «Kaufman? I don't know who that is.»

And yet again, Evan came to the rescue. «Lloyd Kaufman produced that classic American movie Stuff Stephanie in the Incinerator . No lie.»

Everyone laughed, and for a moment, the tension eased.

«Where was I?» Maggie asked. «Oh, sorry, Alex. I was jumping ahead, wasn't I? Go on. I see where you're going. Bless you, Bernie.»

«Thanks,» Bernie said after her loud sneeze, then blew her nose. «This had better be worth pneumonia, Alex. Come on, show us the secret passage.»

«First things first,» Saint Just told her. «You will all please remember that what I'm about to say is conjecture only and I've no real proof. However, I believe that Mr. Undercuffler, a known criminal—»

«Whoa! Back up, Sherlock,» Maggie said. «A known criminal? I thought we were just guessing that he was part of it. Is that what Steve told you? Sam was an actual criminal?»

«Yes, indeed, although possibly reformed. But, following your example, I am getting ahead of myself, aren't I? We'll step back in time a moment and consider Miss Pertuccelli, shall we?»

«Why?» Nikki asked, blowing on another recently filed nail. «She's dead. They're both dead. Can we go downstairs now? What do we care about secret passages?»

«I want to see the secret passage first,» Sir Rudy protested. «I paid for it.»

Saint Just, always accommodating, proceeded to drop to one knee and run his hand down the side of the mantelpiece until he felt the slight indentation, then pushed.

As before, the opening appeared, this time to oooh's and aaah's and one heartfelt «And it's all mine!»

«I think it best that we don't further disturb anything inside the passageway until the constable has been,» Saint Just told them, shutting the panel once more. «Fingerprints, that sort of thing. But I will tell you all my theory.»

«Our theory,» Maggie added. «I give you credit.»

«Our theory,» Saint Just concurred. «It is our theory that Miss Pertuccelli was aware of Mr. Undercuffler's dubious background and, either by plan or happenstance, enlisted him in her hunt for the missing jewels, the jewels allegedly hidden somewhere in Medwine Manor by the late and reportedly lingering Uncle Willis.»

Maggie shrugged. «Okay, so I didn't know about his record until now, but I was right about her hiring Sam as a partner in crime.»

«Possibly. Probably.»

Sir Rudy clapped his hands. «The stolen jewelry, of course! That's where Uncle Willis hid it all. They found it? I'd always hoped, but they really found it? A fortune in jewels?» He dropped his hands to his sides. «Oh. That's not good. Because they're gone again, aren't they?»

Maggie nodded her agreement. «Right. But let's get back to Sam because he's our first victim and the murders are more important than the jewelry.»

«Says you, missy,» Sir Rudy grumbled, looking crestfallen.

Maggie pushed on. «Instead of sending Sam looking around for places to shoot the movie, Joanne was really sending Sam off to look for the jewels. Except she already had a pretty good idea where they were, and I don't think we understand that part yet. Do we, Alex?»

«A detail that will fall into place in time,» Saint Just told her. «For the nonce, we'll concentrate on Sam, as you call him, and Joanne. Joanne sent Sam off, the hiding place for the jewels was discovered, and the jewels recovered, all via this room and the secret passage. At which point there may have been a general falling-out or a planned severing of an uneasy partnership.»

«She killed him and left him in the attic room, maybe even dragged him up there,» Maggie clarified for their very attentive audience. «Sam didn't hang himself or get himself hanged. We told you it was murder, but I don't think we told you how we knew. He was strangled with Joanne's stopwatch cord and not hung up until hours later. That can be proved by the marks on Sam's neck, but we won't go into the how of that right now, either. We found the stopwatch behind a bureau up in the attic room right above us. We're figuring he died maybe an hour after I last saw him.»

«But then there was a problem, as is often the case with impulsive acts,» Saint Just said, taking up the story, pleased as he could be at how he and Maggie seemed to so neatly dovetail each other. «It would seem that Tabby and you, Mr. Lloyd, had decided to adjourn to this room, with the first murder committed and Sam's body still in the attic above you. And, quite possibly, the jewels were still there as well. You had to be removed from the room. Thus the open doors to flood the generators.»

«Why not just climb the stairs to the attics, Saint Just?» Sterling asked.

«A good question, but I believe I have the answer. The dust. Once the murder was done, the murderer or murderers had time to think, to come up with a plan. Footprints in the considerable dust would leave a trail showing that more than one person had climbed those stairs and walked those attics, both coming and going—that one person being the supposedly suicidal Sam Undercuffler, who could not possibly have made two tracks of footprints if he was dead by his own hand.»

«They could have just swept the attic and gotten rid of the whole dust problem,» Maggie said.

«True, but we've had more time to consider alternative possibilities. The murderers did not. They were, as you would say, winging it. To continue, the lack of footprints in the dust also would delay anyone's curiosity in searching for the writer in this particular attic of this very large pile, at least long enough for the murderers to make good their escape.»

«Besides,» Maggie interrupted yet again, «Sam was only the writer. If Joanne didn't ask about him, nobody would probably even notice he was missing. Except they didn't count on us.»

«Thank you, Maggie. And once a serious search party was mounted, there would be so many footprints that the former lack of them would never be noticed. And not to offend the ladies, but the cold would also have served to keep Undercuffler's body undiscovered.»

«So they could just have left him in the attic room,» Evan Pottinger said, obviously not as drunk as he might appear. «Why'd they go back and hang him out the window? Oh, right, maybe they had to go back for the jewelry anyway. And the suicide angle. You're figuring they didn't decide to fake the suicide until after he was already dead. I forgot. And we're saying murderers now. Plural. There's more than one?»

Maggie jumped in to answer. «Joanne's stopwatch cord may have been used as the murder weapon, but the woman most certainly did not lift Sam's dead weight up and out the window while tying him to the scaffolding. Not alone.»

«She's right,» Arnaud said, shaking his head. «It took the two of us just to cut him down again. Joanne couldn't have done it alone. But she killed him?»

«I'm afraid we can't ask her that,» Saint Just said, stepping away from the fireplace. «But there you have it. Unbelievable as it may seem, it appears that Joanne Pertuccelli and Sam Undercuffler, and one as-yet-unnamed cohort in crime, heard about the missing jewels, discovered the hidden passage, found the jewels, and then had a falling out that ended in the murders of two of the three accomplices. It is only left to discover that third party, who is, sadly, one of us, unexpectedly trapped here with us at the moment. And the jewels, of course. When we discover the one, we will find the other.»

«I don't understand,» Troy said, frowning. «How did they know about the jewelry?»

Saint Just, who had previously been annoyed with Troy Barlow's thick skull, wished the man hadn't taken this moment to at last appear incisive.

«We don't know. We're working on that, just as I am still wondering why the miscreants didn't simply shut Sam's body in the secret passage and be done with it, allowing everyone to think he'd simply gone missing—at least until the heat of summer. Perhaps the faked hanging was a natural thought progression for someone in the very visual movie industry? Or perhaps the method of demise for Uncle Willis spurred their imaginations?»

«Stuff him behind that wall? And you said summer. Eeeeuuuwww , you mean he'd start to smell when it got hot.» Marylou put her hand to her mouth, then buried her head against Sir Rudy's chest. «That's just too gross.»

«Indeed,» agreed Saint Just. «Now, if there are no further questions, and if no one is prepared to confess, I suggest you all adjourn once more to the main saloon and the warmth of that quite delightful fire while we await the arrival of the constable.»

«That's it? That's all? Sam and Joanne were bad guys, and they're dead—and so what? And there's still a killer in the group? No way.» Evan Pottinger lifted the lead crystal stopper from the decanter he held and threw it in the general direction of the bed. «I say let's frisk everybody, find the jewels. I get to pat down Boffo girl.» Then he drank straight out of the decanter.

Saint Just was tempted to agree with at least the spirit of Evan's suggestion. It was time every guest's bedchamber was searched, as, judging by the size of the outline in the dusty stone niche, the amount of jewels was considerable, certainly more than could be concealed on anyone's person. «I think personal searches are unnecessary, Evan. However, as you all return to the main saloon, please, Maggie, Sterling, and I will conduct searches of each bedchamber until such time as the constable can ford the flood.»

«I don't want you poking around in my room. You're no cop,» Troy said, pouting. «I'm going with you.»

A chorus of «me, too's» followed. Naturally.

«Very well. But we'll all go together, room to room.»

«Like a group toidy,» Bernice said, and Maggie giggled.

«Please don't explain that, ladies,» Saint Just said. «Now off you go, two by two, as has already been suggested.»

«She's gone.» Byrd Stockwell turned in a full circle. «Nikki's gone! Son-of-a—»

«Nikki?» Maggie looked up at Saint Just, wide-eyed. «No. She's the third one?»

Saint Just was confused. Really, really confused. How could he have been watching the wrong suspect? «There was always the hope someone would, as you Americans say, make a break for it. But Miss Campion? Perhaps she, too, had need of the facilities?»

«Yeah? Well, let's go find out,» Maggie said, already heading for the doorway to the hall, hard on Byrd Stockwell's heels.

«You go with the others, Robin,» Saint Just said, taking hold of the man's arm and turning him about. «Sterling? Please see that our Robin Redbreast remains with the others.»

«Really?» Sterling blinked several times, then stood up very straight. «Perry and I will see to it, Saint Just, have no fears on that head. Perry? You take his left, I'll take his right.»

«Anything you say, Sterling.»

«Don't you dare,» Byrd said, backing away, only to bump into Bernice, of all people, who had picked up a very substantial-looking brass figurine and was now holding it with the same intensity with which Saint Just's favorite New York Met, Mike Piazza, gripped a baseball bat.

«Go on, try to run, I dare you,» Bernie said. «I've been looking for someone to beat on all night. If I can't drink, I can get my jollies this way.»

«Thatta girl,» Maggie said, then took off for the other wing, Saint Just beside her. «I know which is Nikki's room. I saw it yesterday morning.»

«This doesn't make sense,» Saint Just told her as they broke into a jog. «You saw the robin look at the wall when I announced we'd found the passage—before I revealed the location of the opening?»

«I did. And he's logical. Nikki isn't. One thing's for sure—the robbery itself was planned . Only the murders were unplanned.»

They were past the main staircase now, and Maggie suddenly stopped, then turned back.

«I thought you said you knew the location of her bedchamber.»

«I do, but she went this way,» Maggie said, holding up her flashlight as she grabbed the railing and started down the stairs toward the candlelit first floor.

«How do you know that?»

«Because I can smell her perfume, and the smell died off when we got past the staircase,» Maggie said, moving faster on the stairs than Saint Just ever would have supposed; obviously a woman on a mission. «She went this way.»

«Very good, Maggie.»

«Not really,» she said as they reached the bottom of the staircase and then sniffed again before heading back toward the study and, beyond that, the servant staircase leading to the kitchens. «She pours on the perfume. A Chihuahua with a deviated septum could follow her scent. Come on, Alex, she's getting away!»