High Heels and Homicide

Chapter four

One hand on the golden knob of a sword cane that in style and quality of workmanship greatly resembled the one his fictional self had purchased at the same small shop, Saint Just was a very happy, extremely content man as the limousine rolled out of London and, eventually, into Surrey.

It was raining, nothing out of the ordinary for England, and was rather gray and damp, also not unusual, but nothing could put a damper on Saint Just's enthusiasm. Or on Sterling's.

«Oh, look, Saint Just,» Sterling said now, his head half out of the window he insisted on keeping lowered, the better to take in the scenery. «That marvelous mansion, up there, at the top of the hill. The very picture of your family's estate in Sussex, isn't it?»

Saint Just leaned past Maggie. «Seventeenth century. The pediment is familiar, indeed. The same symmetrical flanking wings, most likely added in the eighteenth century. The unique bell tower. Good God, Sterling, I think you're right. That's Blake House. But here, in Surrey?»

In between them, Maggie slid down on her spine on the leather seat. «Is there a sign anywhere, Sterling? Something with the name of the place on it?»

«I don't—oh, there's an old fingerpost.» Sterling leaned even farther out the window. «It's… I can barely make it out… it's—got it! Peakely Manor. Why?»

Maggie sort of sucked in her cheeks. «Oh, okay. Thanks, Sterling.»

«Maggie?» Saint Just asked quietly. «Is there something you want to tell me?»

«Absolutely not. Nope. Nothing I want to say.» Then she sighed audibly and sat up straight once more. «Okay. I've never been to England until now, right? But you had to have a house, a bunch of houses. Other characters had to have houses. So… so I bought a few books. I think, I'm pretty sure, your Blake House is based on Peakely Manor. I just moved it to Sussex.»

Saint Just was actually finding it difficult to breathe. On one level, he understood what Maggie was telling him. Yet, on another, a more visceral level, he'd just been or-phanedj disenfranchised. Erased. Eliminated. «But… but it's my home. My family home.»

Maggie shook her head. «Oh, cripes. Alex,» she said, putting a hand on his arm as she spoke to him, quietly. «You're fake, remember? Fictional. You've never really been here. You're more real in New York than you've ever been here. I mean, you exist in New York. People see you, talk to you. You're evolving, just as you keep saying, and growing, and becoming more Alex Blakely, less Alexandre Blake, less the Viscount Saint Just. But I agree, this has to be a shock, seeing my imagination up against the real thing. I… I'm sorry.»

She was wrong. Maggie was wrong. He was Saint Just. He would always be Saint Just. His address had changed, that was all. This wasn't his England. His England had long ago disappeared, along with Brummell; and Byron, Shelley, and Keats; Prinney himself… even Carleton House.

The past was the past, and he was very much of the moment. To go back would be to disappear into the pages of Maggie's books. He and Sterling both, living again in the Regency Era, but never again living now . He could not, would not, allow that to happen.

There was no Blake House to return to, no mansion in Grosvenor Square, no hunting box in Scotland.

In a way, this was probably a good thing. He was becoming less fictional by the day. After all, he couldn't go back… not if there was nowhere to return to .

Saint Just took a breath, let it out slowly. «My goodness, Maggie, how you're looking at me. As if I might have an attack of the vapors or fall into a sad decline. I assure you, that is far from the truth. As you say, as I've said, Sterling and I are evolving. Blake House was drafty in the winter, in any case.»

Maggie was quiet for some moments before she spoke again. «You're pissed, right?»

«I am not—upset. I fully understand what you did, why you did it. However, even without home or fortune, I remain Saint Just. That, my dear, will never change.»

She saluted. «Yes, sir . Jeez, what a grouch. Sterling? Why aren't you being a grouch?»

Sterling smiled sheepishly. «I don't want to go back,» he said, then blushed. «Sorry, Saint Just, I hate to be disloyal, and all of that, but I really don't. I like Henry, and my motorized scooter, and Socks, and the television machine, and—»

«Yes, Sterling, we get the point,» Saint Just said as the limousine slowed and the driver made the very tight turn between stone pillars. He had turned onto a gravel drive that led downhill rather than up, then finally leveled as the leather seat. «Is there a sign anywhere, Sterling? Something with the name of the place on it?»

Sterling's, mumbling something about driving around to the back door to unload the luggage, then took a moment to inspect the foyer.

«I knocked, but no one came, and when I tried the door it was open,» Maggie told him, wiping raindrops from her face. «Oh, this is big, isn't it?»

Saint Just took inventory of the large foyer, at least forty feet square. An intricate black-and-white marble tile floor shone beneath a soaring ceiling painted to look like a summer sky dotted with fluffy white clouds. A wonderfully broad stone staircase rose slowly from the open hallway, and a gallery stretched around three of the four age-darkened white marble walls that had been carved to include columns and angels and goddesses, or some such romantic nonsense.

That last wall, along the stairs, was dominated by an immense mural stretching from the ground floor up to the top of the first floor, a creation that depicted a goodly number of dancing, frolicking ladies and gentlemen being attended by rosy-cheeked children.

«I can only sigh in relief to see that as you were thumbing through books and building my various estates, you didn't pattern any of them after the interior of this pile. The decor is rather… flamboyant.»

«Yeah, well, I think it's pretty neat,» Maggie said, her head back as she turned in a slow circle, looking at their surroundings. «No wonder they decided to film here. Wow.»

«The place is passable, I agree,» Saint Just said, amazed to find he was feeling more and more comfortable by the moment. Then again, after all, this was his milieu, real or imaginary. «Ah, and I may be wrong, but I do believe our host approaches now. He's not rigged out well enough to be a servant.»

They all watched as a fairly squat man dressed in hunting clothes that had obviously seen their share of hunts came lumbering down the stairs, one hand on the stone railing, his gaze directed at his boots, as if he'd taken a tumble once and planned never to do that again.

Not until he had safely navigated the stairs and stood on the parquet floor did the man raise his head and smile at Maggie. (Saint Just and Sterling could very well have been invisible.)

«Hullo, you beautiful bit,» he said, waggling his bushy white eyebrows. «Welcome to Medwine Manor. I'm Sir Rudy Medwine, and you're gorgeous. Another American actress, I hope. We've already got one, but she's a little starchy. Don't think she likes me. She should. I'm very rich. Mine's the Medwine Marauder, best fishing reel in the world. Knighted for it, I was. Now I'm living the high life. Used to live down the road from this place, in a pokey two-up-two-down, and now all this is mine. You want to know me. Really, you do.»

Maggie opened her mouth, may have said, «Uh…» before Saint Just deftly stepped in front of her and bowed to Sir Rudy. «Sir Rudy, how delighted and, indeed, honored we all are to be numbered among your guests. Please allow me to present to you Miss Maggie Kelly, who, writing as Cleo Dooley, penned the brilliant book that will be filmed here on your marvelous estate. I, for my sins, am Alex Blakely, Miss Kelly's personal assistant, and the gentleman just now waving to you is Sterling Balder, her spiritual advisor. We are all quite happy to make your acquaintance.»

Sir Rudy pointed his finger at Saint Just. «You… you're English. Upper-crust English, at that. Are you all English? I wanted Americans. I distinctly told them I wanted Americans.»

«For what?» Maggie grumbled.

This was certainly going well.

«Miss Kelly is very much the American woman, Sir Rudy,» Saint Just told him, taking the man's arm and lead-ing him back to the staircase. «Sterling and I are English, yes, although it has been years since we've been on this side of the pond.»

«Centuries, even,» Maggie groused, following the two men while Sterling brought up the rear.

The small party climbed the stairs slowly, giving Sir Rudy ample time to catch his breath, but he was huffing and puffing by the time they reached the first floor.

«I think everybody's in there,» the man said, pointing to closed double doors that probably led to the main saloon. «They're not a happy bunch. The rain, you see. It's keeping them indoors. And that scaffolding has to come down before next week, for the filming. Dicey, that. I ordered a joint and pudding for dinner, hoping to cheer them up, but they haven't eaten yet, so be careful none of them tries to take a bite out of you.»

«Charming,» Saint Just said, turning to hold out his arm, indicating that Maggie should proceed, enter the room ahead of him. «Sir Rudy is rather unusual, isn't he?» he asked her quietly as she stopped beside him.

«I like him,» Sterling said, standing on tiptoe, the better to see once Sir Rudy had crossed the wide hallway and pushed open the doors. «No airs and graces about that man. None at all.»

«And I'm a toplofty prude, I imagine?» Saint Just asked him.

He should have known Maggie would answer: «If the high-topped Hessian boot fits, Chauncy,» before giving him a wink and heading into the chandelier-lit expanse of the main saloon.

Left with little else to do, Saint Just followed, to be met by an odd assortment of people, some of whom lounged on green-on-green-striped satin couches, some of whom propped up the enormous marble fireplace mantel, and one who was stretched out on the floor, a long leg behind her ear, most of her backside showing, the rest of her fairly magnificent body covered in a bright-blue leotard.

«Ladies and gentlemen,» Sir Rudy announced in a booming voice. «Here's more of you, come to join the party.»

One of the gentlemen at the fireplace pushed himself away from the mantel and strode towards them, his rather pasty flesh sheened with perspiration, his totally bald head glistening under the light from the chandeliers.

«Must be one of the actors. He looks like a pint-size version of Telly Savalas, except he's more rubbery. I wonder if he's going to offer us a lollipop,» Maggie said out of the corner of her mouth.

«I beg your pardon?»

«An actor, Alex. Played a cop on an old television series. Kojak . My dad was crazy about him. It isn't important.»

«Indeed,» Saint Just said, feeling more and more comfortable in this large room, more and more in his element. And because of the way he felt, he stepped forward, extended his hand to the bald man, gave a slight inclination of his head. «Alex Blakely… and you are… ?»

«Peppin,» the man said in an oddly thin, high voice. An almost childish voice. «Arnaud Peppin, reluctant director of this grand epic, if we can ever start filming. The leads are here, so who are you? Although you already look and sound more English than that idiot over there. He wants an accent coach, like that's going to happen on our budget.»

«Mr. Peppin, of course. How… charming,» Saint Just said with another slight nod and a smile—not having the faintest idea what the man was talking about. Clearly he was going to have to correct that lapse, and quickly. He then repeated the introductions he had begun with Sir Rudy.

By now, all eyes were on the newcomers, except for those of the woman who was still on the carpet, although now she was lying on her side, her head propped in one hand, her other hand sliding caressingly down the side of her breast and onto her hip as she smiled only at Saint Just.

Nothing all that out of the ordinary there. He had been very carefully created to have that effect on women. It was a gift. Occasionally a curse.

Arnaud seemed remarkably unimpressed to learn that the author and her entourage had arrived. Saint Just knew this because the man turned his back to him and said, «Relax, people. Joanne will handle this. It's only the writer.»

Saint Just immediately and quite automatically put his right arm straight out to his side, and Maggie's advancing body immediately and very predictably slammed against it.

«Only the writer? Only the writer? Hey, cue ball, let me tell you a—»

«Ms. Dooley! Oh, how thrilled I am to meet you! I heard you were coming. I'm Sam Undercuffler, screenwriter.»

Saint Just lifted his quizzing glass to his eye and inspected Undercuffler as he scurried over to them. The young man was depressingly brown. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown slacks; brown tweed jacket with brown suede patches at the elbows. The barrel of a cheap brown pipe protruded from his jacket pocket. His brown shoes, lace shoes, were badly in need of reheeling and a good polish.

«Oh, so good to meet you, Ms. Dooley—Cleo. May I call you Cleo? I adapted your book for the screen. Well, you probably figured that out, since I said I'm the screenwriter. Oh, would you listen to me? I'm just so excited to finally meet the creator of the brilliant Saint Just Mysteries. The brilliant creator of the brilliant series, I should say. I'm playing with an idea of my own, for my own television se-ries, you understand, but I know you wouldn't want to hear about that. Would you? Please, if there's anything you want, anything you need…»

Saint Just stood amused as Maggie tried to get her hand back from the screenwriter, who was still pumping it with all the enthusiasm of a dairy maid only three churn strokes away from butter. «Two writers. Together. Members of the same literary fraternity. Why, he even looks so much the writer, doesn't he? Isn't this wonderful, Cleo? I imagine you two will have so much to talk about.»

Now, sometimes Maggie said bite me , out loud, so everyone could hear her. But sometimes she could say bite me without actually uttering a word. Her facial expression was more than enough. This was one of those times.

Still, when she did speak, it was to say hello to Sam Undercuffler, smile politely, ask him to please call her Maggie, and agree that it was wonderful that two writers could be here, each with their own hand in the creation, as it were.

Poor girl. That had to have been painful.

«Well, come on, come on, there's lots more to meet,» Sir Rudy said from behind them, actually giving Sterling a little push so that he stumbled farther into the room.

«I'll take care of this, Sir Rudy. Thanks anyway,» Arnaud said, then clapped his hands. «Okay, people, listen up. It's introduction time. Raise your hand when I call out your name, and let's get this over with. I've got things to do.»

«And yet again… charming,» Saint Just said quietly.

«Yeah,» Maggie agreed. «I feel so warm and fuzzy… so wanted.»

«Okay… right. Here we go,» Arnaud continued, either slightly deaf or just not caring what anyone else might say; Saint Just was fairly certain it was the latter. «You met the writer. Sam, back up, you're blocking my view. Okay, over there. The tall guy who looks like an English valet? He's our English valet, Clarence. Real name, Dennis Lloyd. Raise your hand, Dennis.»

The man bowed, and Sterling waved to him.

«Next up, Sterling Balder.»

«Hullo?» Sterling said, his arm still raised in midwave.

«I don't think he means you, Sterling,» Maggie said, squeezing his hand.

«That's me! Over here on the couch! Perry Posko, otherwise known as Sterling Balder.»

Saint Just looked at the actor, then at his own Sterling Balder. They were very nearly a match, from their likewise thinning hair to their spectacles, to their pudgy waistlines, to the open, trusting grins on their faces.

«Good casting,» Maggie said. «Clarence and Sterling both. That's encouraging, right?»

«I imagine so,» Saint Just said, leaning closer to her. «I do have a few reservations about the gentleman in front of the mantel. Is he wearing makeup?»

«Tanning booth. Bet you,» Maggie said, then shut up when Arnuad pointed to a rather tall, definitely dark gentleman who seemed to be studiously ignoring everyone.

«Evan? Over here, Evan. That's Evan Pottinger, our Lord Hervey. The villain, but you know that.»

Saint Just bowed yet again. «Delighted, I assure you.»

«Completely and totally unimpressed, I assure you, » Pottinger drawled, then turned his back on everyone.

«Method actor,» Arnaud said. «He's getting into the role. Everybody thinks they're De Niro. Evan wants to wear the costumes and everything. Wants everyone in costume. Pain in my ass, that's what he really is.»

«How very droll,» Saint Just drawled as well, amused, and certainly not ready to reveal that he had no idea what a method actor was. «I believe I should like to see that.»

«Well, you won't. Period costumes cost a fortune, and we're only renting them from the company that supplied Sense and Sensibility . I'm not going to have anyone dribbling gravy all over them.»

«Ah, my good sir, a true gentleman would never dribble.»

«Too bad, gorgeous. Because I could lick it all up for you,» the leotard-clad beauty said from the floor, so that Saint Just had no recourse but to look at her, watch as, catlike, she uncurled herself and stood up. «Hi. I'm Nikki Campion, and I'm the love interest. Just call me Nikki.»

«That would be my honor, Nikki,» Saint Just said, fairly certain that if Miss Campion were to hold out her hand and he was to bow over it, kiss it, his life expectancy could most probably be measured in the minutes it would take for Maggie to get him alone and kill him.

So wasn't he lucky that Miss Campion didn't hold out her hand? She merely pressed herself up against him, went up on tiptoe, and kissed him on his left ear. «If you screw as good as you look, see me later,» she breathed into that ear, then turned and walked away in a manner that left no doubt that she felt every male in the room watched her every step.

Sir Rudy made a sort of whimpering sound in his throat, turned on his heels, and quit the room.

Saint Just looked at Maggie—not that he, the perfect hero, was actually afraid of the woman—and was surprised to see her looking at him in some sympathy.

«I'd be pretty disgusted by having to watch that, and hear it—the woman obviously doesn't know how to whisper—except it wasn't your fault. And because we're down to the last man, that one very tanned and blond man has to be playing Saint Just. You want to call that nice Miss Browning with the tinkling-bells laugh and ask her to book us on the next plane home? I can't believe you want to stick around to watch surfer dude over there in action as you.»

Saint Just would have blanched if he was the sort who blanched. He turned his attention to the man awkwardly lounging at the mantel just as the fellow made some sort of flourishing motion and then went to rest one elbow on the mantel, missed, and nearly came to grief before righting himself.

«I have to work with this,» Arnaud said, shaking his head, as obviously he'd also seen the actor's clumsiness. «Troy? Give us a wave, why don't you, and try not to kill yourself when you do it. People, meet Troy Barlow, our Viscount Saint Just. Our blond beachboy turned dark-haired, sophisticated sleuth. Does Hollywood know casting or what?»

Sterling nearly danced in place. «I know him! That's Brick. Brick Lord. He's in one of my favorite soap operas. He's Dyson's identical twin brother, and Brittany thinks Dyson's the father of her unborn child, but it's really Brick who—oh, my!»

«I play both parts, yes,» Troy said, advancing only as far as the couches, where, as Saint Just manfully stifled a wince, he sat down with all the grace of a lobster navigating an escalator. «You thought Brick and Dyson were really twins? You hear that, Nikki? I'm a working actor. A craftsman. While you're humping transmission repairs. Now do you understand why my name comes first on the credits?»

Nikki looked at Arnaud, pouted. «You told me last night that you'd fix that, Arnie.»

«That'll teach you to screw short, bald men,» a female voice said, behind Saint Just. «Like he's in charge of credit placement? I am, sweetheart. And don't bother shaking that silicone at me because I don't think you're that hot.»

Saint Just stepped to one side to allow a slim woman as tall as Bernice Toland-James—as thin as Bernice, as redheaded as Bernice, presenting as powerful a presence as Bernice—to push past everyone, to pose directly beneath the main chandelier. «Joanne Pertuccelli here. In charge of production. Who the hell are you people?»

«Oh, no, not again. I'm getting bored,» Maggie said in her marvelously mulish way that so endeared her to Saint Just. «Is anyone else going to crawl out of the woodwork or are you it? Because this is the last time I want to hear, 'Oh, it's only the writer.'»

«You're Cleo Dooley? Name looks pretty decent above the title. Good use of Os.» Joanne frowned, fingering the large silver stopwatch that hung around her neck on a long, black, braided band. «You don't look like a writer.»

«Yeah. I get a lot of that one, too,» Maggie said as Sterling, a man who learned from experience, prudently stepped behind Saint Just. «Thanks heaps, Joanne. I take it you're also in charge of public relations? I mean, I was hoping for a welcome like that after a long flight and the rain and everything. Thanks so much. Really.»

«I think that's probably sufficient, Maggie,» Saint Just warned quietly, taking her arm and leading her across the wide expanse of faded Aubusson carpet, toward the drinks table, where Evan the Villain was already in residence, still studiously glowering and ignoring everyone.

«Touchy,» Joanne called after them. «Hey, nice ass, handsome.»

«Is she talking to—»

«No, Sterling, I believe not, so you can spare your blushes,» Saint Just said as Maggie, always put in a good mood by the so-innocent Sterling, grinned. «Besides, as gentlemen, we'll ignore the lady's lapse into crudity.»

A nervous giggle caught Saint Just's attention, and a moment later, a gum-chewing young lady with hair too blonde to be genuine pushed herself out of a chair in the farthest corner of the room. «Hi, I'm Marylou Keppel. I heard the introductions, before, but Arnaud always forgets me, unless he needs something. I'm the gofer.»

«I… I beg your pardon?»

«You know. If somebody needs something? Gofer it, Marylou. Go-find it, Marylou. Go-get it, Marylou. Gofer. Oh, I stand in sometimes, I prompt. Tight budget on this one. But mostly? Mostly I'm a gofer.»

«How… how wonderful for you, I'm sure,» Saint Just said blankly. «Maggie? Isn't that wonderful for Miss Keppel?»

«You're dying here, aren't you, Alex?» Maggie asked, then laughed. «But, hey, you wanted to come.»

«Excuse me,» Joanne Pertuccelli said from behind Saint Just. «I still don't know who you two are. Who authorized you to be here?»

Maggie covered her mouth with her hand, pretended to cough as she said, «Time to turn on the charm, big boy.»

As if he had to be told.

«Ah, Miss Pertuccelli, a thousand pardons,» Saint Just said, bowing to the woman, taking her hand—a litte awkward, having to reach for the thing—and raising it to within an inch of his lips. «You see before you Miss Dooley's inspiration, immodest as that is to say. Her distant English relation. I am Alex Blakely, on whom the Viscount is patterned, and with me is my dear friend and compatriot, Sterling Balder. We… we travel everywhere with Miss Dooley.»

«Really?» Joanne said, obviously not impressed, which was, in fact, quite lowering to the perfect hero, the irresistible-to-women perfect hero. He consoled himself with the sure knowledge that her heart must be otherwise engaged, making all other men invisible to her. «Just so you know, you're not included in her expense account.

Arnaud? Hey—Arnie! This weather is costing us big money. What are you going to do about all this damn rain?»

Arnaud stayed where he was, his back to the woman. «What do you want me to do with it? Wave my hands at the sky and yell 'cut'?»

«I think I like him, even with his 'only the writer' crack,» Maggie said. «Marylou? Is showing me to the nearest bathroom outside your job description?»

«Heck, no, that's fine. This way. And there's piles of bedrooms. I know who's in each one, so we can sniff out three more for you guys, okay? The rooms are big, but the plumbing sucks.»

As Joanne, Marylou, and Maggie walked away, Perry Posko moved across the room so quickly, and slid to a halt so sharply, that he nearly left skid marks. «You're Sterling Balder? Really? Oh! Oh! And he's right—we even look alike! Why didn't I see that? Oh, this is great. This is terrific. Can I watch you? Can I follow you around? I mean, I want to be Sterling Balder. I want to eat, drink, breathe the character. I want to be you!»

«Well, um… well, you can't,» Sterling said, then looked at Saint Just. «Can he? I mean, I'm Sterling Balder. I've always been Sterling Balder. I don't want to be anybody else—why does he want to be me? Is that allowed?»

«Oh. Oh, no, no,» Perry said quickly. «Not identity theft or anything like that. Gosh, I wouldn't want you to think that. Nothing strange, nothing kooky. But this part is a real break for me. If the first movie goes over, I'm set for the next five, six years. There's already talk of a series, you know. It's not like I'm ever going to be anything but a character actor, not looking like this. Um… no offense. I just want to get it right, and I know you could help me. Will you help me?»

«Saint Just?»

«Go, Sterling. Enjoy yourself. Teach Perry here to be you. There cannot be too many good-hearted gentlemen in the world. You already possess your own fan club on the Internet. Perhaps Perry can bring that good heart of yours to an entire new audience.»

«Well,» Sterling said, blushing, shuffling his feet. «I suppose we could… we could talk.»

«There you go, Sterling. I'll be here, praying Sir Rudy keeps a tolerable cellar as I sample his wine. Oh, and while you two are talking? Perhaps you can toddle after Maggie and Miss Keppel, and find out which bedchambers have been alloted to us. I feel the need to change out of my dirt before the dinner gong goes. There's a good fellow.»

Perry pointed a finger at Saint Just. «Oh, you're good . Just the way you stand, just the way you said that—the accent, the way you almost threw away the line, yet at the same time it was so clear you expect to be obeyed. Troy should be watching you, taking notes.»

«Really,» Saint Just said, chancing a look at the man who would portray him, to see Troy Barlow chewing on a handful of nuts, his mouth open, before he wiped his salt-greasy hand on his trousers. This… this buffoon was going to play the Viscount Saint Just? «I do believe it's possible you're on to something there, Perry. Thank you.»