«He's blaming me? Reasonable improvements? Harpy! Oh, for the love of—you're kidding, right? I pass out after seeing Sam swinging outside my window, which was more than reasonable, damn it, and now you're making up stories for when I was out cold. That's mean, Alex. Really mean.»
«If that were true, which it is not, believe me when I tell you that my joy would not be unalloyed. But I will, at least somewhat, relieve your mind. Casting you in the role of hard-hearted female to Bernie when we met her in the hallway was a short-lived theory on the man's part, one she squashed both effectively and with some rather inspired profanity.»
«That's Bernie. And she's feeling sick, too. What a pal. Now tell me why your joy wouldn't be unalloyed.»
«Again, the Troy Toy—Bernie addressed him that way, several times, and I believe the title has a certain ring to it. He only moments ago confided in me that if Undercuffler was the victim of foul play—his words, not mine—he, as the Viscount Saint Just, is the obvious person to step in, solve the dastardly crime. As a matter of fact, he's off now, hunting up Joanne Pertuccelli and the robin, as he insists that everyone be gathered in the main saloon when he renders his verdict.»
«Oh joy, this is going to be good. Evan Pottinger I can see as a method actor, believing himself in a part. But Troy? He couldn't ask someone to pass the salt without a script in front of him. Wait a minute. Joanne and Byrd? They aren't here? There's been a freaking murder, Alex. Why are people just wandering around? Where are they?»
«I'm sure I shouldn't know,» Alex said, helping Maggie to her feet. «After all, I am nothing save an interested bystander, having been firmly put in my place the last time I attempted some sleuthing, and only now slowly climbing back into your good graces. In other words, using your modern vernacular, I believe that other than the observations I have already made, I'm going to sit this one out.»
Maggie laughed, and not kindly. «Oh, sure you are. And as a true Regency character might say, pull the other leg—it's got bells on. You could no more sit out a murder investigation than you could wear stripes with plaids.»
Saint Just gave an exaggerated shudder. «Oh, very well. If you insist.»
«If I—cute. Real cute, Alex. Now I'm asking you to investigate Sam's murder?»
Alex swept her an elegant leg. «Your wish, as ever, is my command. Now, shall we return to the others?»
«So Troy can play at being you and try to declare me guilty again, this time for murder? Oh, yeah, sure. I can't wait.»
«Well, the deceased was dangling outside your window, remember? Troy's original deduction was very nearly reasonable, and it's only a small step from provoker of suicide to murderess.»
«But if I killed Sam, why would I want him hanging outside my own window? Is Troy nuts, or just stupid? Never mind. Rhetorical question. Besides, if Bernie shut him up once, I don't think even Troy could be dumb enough to try to go there again. I'm safe,» Maggie said, reluctantly taking Saint Just's arm. «But you are going to tell everyone about the lividity, right?»
«Only if you'll not nag at me to limit myself to no more than that, perhaps. In for a penny, in for a pound.»
«Nag? Now I'm a nag? You know, Alex, I fainted. I had a shock. A big one. So maybe you could ease off a little, huh?»
«You're not fully recovered?»
«Of course I am,» Maggie said, bristling. «And damn you for knowing that. With Steve, I could have milked that faint for days. Weeks. With you?»
Alex pulled out his pocket watch, the one that had been his fictional grandfather's. «Fifty-seven minutes,» he supplied affably. «Ah, and here come Joanne and our Robin Redbreast. Neither looks particularly happy.»
Joanne saw them first and headed straight for Maggie. «Do you have a cell phone?» she asked, wringing her hands in front of herself while Byrd switched off the large flashlight he was carrying. «Do either of you have a cell phone? I've got to call California, let them know what's happening.»
«So sorry,» Alex said. «I have one, yes, but the battery has run down. And since there's no power… ?»
«I've got one,» Maggie said, sensing something wrong about the studio representative's appearance, but unable to put a finger on just what. «You don't have one, Joanne? I'm sure I saw you with one yesterday.»
«That was yesterday,» Joanne said in clipped tones. Angry tones. «I don't have one today. And neither does Byrd. We just checked his room. Didn't we, Byrd?»
«It's true. My cell has gone missing. Joanne here thinks that's odd. Do you think that's odd?»
Maggie looked at Saint Just. «I think mine's in my room. I'll go get it.»
«Yes, do that, and I'll check with the others. Someone's bound to have one,» Alex said, heading for the main saloon.
Five minutes of intensive searching later (while wondering how Alex could have let her go upstairs alone, with a murderer in the house), Maggie joined him in the main saloon, shaking her head when he first saw her. «Any luck here?»
«Considerable, and all of it bad,» he told her as Troy paced the carpet in the center of the room while everyone ignored him. «The flooding, the lack of electricity, and now all the cell phones have gone missing. No one kept their phone with them while in costume.»
«And now they're all gone? Wonderful.»
«Yes, it is, isn't it? A clumsy ploy, yet effective. It doesn't take a brilliant detective to conclude that we are stranded here quite effectively, with a killer who intends to use that isolation to his or her own benefit—whatever that may be. Whatever, I imagine we shall know before morning. Care for a ham sandwich? Marylou has prepared several more, bless her.»
«Gee, it's nice to know you're still calm,» Maggie said, reaching into her pocket for her nicotine inhaler. «This is all beginning to feel like a bad murder mystery. If the lights weren't already out, I'd expect them to cut out at any moment, then come back on so we all could see the knife sticking out of somebody's back.»
«A charming mental picture, thank you, although there's as yet no good reason to suppose Undercuffler's murder wasn't an isolated incident,» Alex said, pressing a hand to his forehead as if his head ached. «Still, pressing on with your theory of imminent danger to all of us, would you mind terribly if the next victim were our dear Troy?»
«Why? He's still at it? Gee, and I missed it.»
«Yes, my fears have all been confirmed, as Troy does have a new suspect I have not yet shared with you,» Alex said, guiding her over to the table, now piled with sandwiches. «Thus far, unless he's been holding court during our absence, he's seen fit to confide his latest theory only to me.»
«Lucky you. The guy works fast, I'll give him that.» Maggie peeled back the bread from one of the sandwiches, made a face at the mustard smeared on the bread. «No mayo?» She took a quick peek over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, then did a fast shuffle with the bread, making her own sandwich with two plain slices. «So, don't keep me in suspense—who's the new winner?» she then asked around her first large bite of the dry sandwich.
«Uncle Willis.»
Maggie coughed as Alex soundly slapped her back until the bite of ham dislodged from her throat. Wiping her streaming eyes with her sleeve, Maggie choked out, «The ghost? He's blaming the ghost? I'll be right back. I gotta hear this one for myself.»
Troy was still pacing. He was the only one still in costume, his handsome face scrunched up as he attempted to keep the quizzing glass stuck to his eye even as he kept his hands clasped behind his back.
«Troy—I mean, Viscount?» Maggie said. «I hear, my lord, that you have a suspect?»
The actor threw back his head and stuck out his chest. «I do that, madam,» he pronounced carefully, then swore as the quizzing glass fell from his eye.
«Having a spot of bother, my lord?» Maggie asked facetiously, mentally casting Troy in her next book as the too-blond, dandified, totally ineffectual twit. Talk about your typecasting.
«Yes, I am. Damned thing. I'm going to have Sam write it out of the
—oh. Well, whoever's going to take his place, that is.»
«Saint Just's quizzing glass is an integal part of his personality, Troy,» Maggie told him, no longer quite so amused. She looked at the actor's blond hair. «Just like his black hair. I've been afraid to ask. What are you guys going to do about that, anyway? You're going to wear a wig? Because my readers expect a Saint Just with black hair.»
«That doesn't matter. Readers don't watch television. And television viewers don't read. Everybody knows that.»
Maggie felt her temper rising. «I don't. I watch television and I read. I even chew gum and walk at the same time. Most of America does.»
«Whatever. I only know that the American public will be tuning in because of me . I'm the draw—not your story. Definitely not Nikki, who's only famous for being famous, or Evan, who always plays the villain. But I really like being Saint Just. He's cool. So now, exactly like in the script, I'm going to gather the suspects together and ask a few questions before I unmask our dastardly murderer. Dastardly . Great word.»
«Yeah. One of my all-time favorites. Go on, please.»
Troy swept his right arm out in front of him, as if spreading his words across a screen hung in the air. «I can see the headlines. Troy Barlow, as the Viscount Saint Just, solves writer's murder on location. Barlow saves the day!»
He dropped his arm to his side. «Well, something like that. It'll make great publicity for the movie, might even guarantee a series. My agent's going to love it. I love it. Do you love it? And now, if you don't mind, I believe I'm on.»
«No, no, wait a minute. I think it's a brilliant plan. Wonderful,» Maggie said quickly. «I think it's really… really cool that you've decided to take charge this way. As Saint Just, I mean. Great publicity, I agree. But we don't want any mistakes, do we? After all, Saint Just is my creation, remember. So I want to hear about this suspect of yours. I know you want to tell everyone, but could you just give me a hint?»
Troy lifted the quizzing glass once more, then seemed to think better of it and let it fall back to his chest. «Oh, okay. But only a hint.» He looked to his left, his right, then motioned for Maggie to lean in close. «Uncle Willis,» he said, then paused for effect. «You know. The ghost . He did it.»
Maggie couldn't see Alex from where she was standing. She couldn't hear him. But she knew he was laughing.
«Really? Uncle Willis, huh?» she said as Troy straightened again, struck a pose, one hand on his hip. «What was his motive?»
Troy frowned. «Motive? I… well… I imagine Sam, urn, bumped into him in the attics while he was searching out a new spot to shoot the gazebo scene, since the gazebo's under water. Ghosts don't like to be disturbed, you know. When I played in Teen Screamfest Twelve —a small part, but memorable; I was the second Chess Club member—I met my end when I opened the wrong door and disturbed the ghost. Bam! Ax straight through my head. You saw me in Screamfest? The flick was a bomb, but I got noticed, let me tell you.»
«I'll bet you did. And look at you now. A real star,» Maggie said, squeezing her folded hands until her knuckles turned white as she forced herself to look serious. Interested. «But that was a movie, Troy, remember? I don't think ghosts actually kill people. Actually, I don't believe in ghosts. So, a ghost killed you in that movie?»
Troy frowned. «Gosh, now I'm not so sure. Maybe it was a mummy?» He spread his hands, shrugged. «Well, that's one more down. This isn't as easy as I thought. No script, you know? I'm great with scripts. My phonographic memory.»
«Photographic,» Maggie corrected, but quietly, because the guy's train of thought was already half off the rails and she didn't want to lose him completely. Just as quietly, she made another mental note for his character in her next book: blond, dandy, brick-stupid, speaks like Mrs. Mala-prop. Oh, she was going to have fun with this character— and how great was it that, even with Sam dead in the morning room, she was feeling the urge to write.
«So that's two down, huh? But, hey, you're the writer. Help me out here. Who else have we got?»
«Just look around, Troy,» Maggie told him, also looking around the room, counting heads. One little, two little, three little Indians. «Why don't we two try to narrow down the numbers? Let's deduct you, me, Alex, both Sterlings. Tabby and Bernie, of course.»
Troy narrowed his eyelids as he looked at her. «That was quick. All your friends. And you included me, just to trick me into agreeing with you.» Picking up his sword cane, which had been propped against a chair, he looked down his nose at Maggie, once more playing Saint Just. «Oh, I don't think so, madam. Everyone is a suspect. Every last damn gleeking, dizzy-eyed scallion!»
«Scullion,» Maggie corrected numbly. «You mean scullion. A scallion is a kind of onion.»
«Whatever.» Troy tucked the cane under his arm, turned away from her, then clapped his hands to call the occupants of the room to attention. «Now hear this! Sam Undercuffler is dead, murdered. He did not kill himself. Murdered, ladies and gentlemen, and everyone in this room is a suspect. Everyone. So… so… so nobody leaves town!»
Everyone began talking at once, denying their own guilt, then the sudden noise subsided as everyone began looking at everyone else with suspicion. Great. Now they had a room full of people who were suddenly afraid of each other.
«Wine?» Alex said, handing Maggie a glass.
«What, no hemlock, to put us both out of our misery?» She took the glass, downed half its contents in one gulp. «Did you hear that idiot?» she asked. «Nobody leaves town? But, hey, don't worry, be happy, at least Uncle Willis and yours truly are off the hook as suspects.»
«You said 'yours truly' because you don't know if the proper pronoun is 'I' or 'me,' didn't you, my dear?»
«Sometimes I really hate how well you know me,» Maggie said, allowing him to distract her because she knew him well enough to know that's what he was doing. Unfortunately, in this case, his attempt didn't work for more than five seconds. «Oh, God, Alex, you'd better keep to your promise about solving Sam's murder before dawn because, to paraphrase Will Shakespeare, this is going to be one flap-eared, boil-brained, long night.»
Chapter ten
«Saint Just? A word, if you don't mind?»
«Certainly, Sterling,» Saint Just said, patting the empty seat beside him in the study, where he had retired for a space, to cerebrate. «You know I am always interested in whatever you might have to say to me.»
Sterling bowed his head and studied his folded hands. «Perhaps not this time. But I promised Perry. Saint Just? Do you think Uncle Willis might have taken all of the cell phones?»
Saint Just eyed his friend carefully. «What do you think, Sterling?»
Appearing to be caught between nervous disbelief and equally nervous apprehension, Sterling shook his head. «I don't know. I don't think I really believe in ghosts. Specters. All of that. But Perry was adamant, telling me all about his childhood home in a place called South Dakota. His family had a ghost, in their barn.»
«Really? Did Perry see this ghost?»
«No, he never did. But he heard him, more than once, as a child. Several times. Moaning, groaning, and then some hay would sort of sift down from the loft above his head and he'd run off.»
«Perhaps someone was in the loft, Sterling. Someone real , that is. Did Perry consider that possibility?»
«Oh, yes, he did. In point of fact, one time he saw his sister and her friend leaving the barn some minutes after he'd heard the ghost, but they told him they hadn't heard anything.»
Saint Just smiled, happy for the diversion from all his heavy thinking about the method of Sam Undercuffler's messy demise and what, if anything, to do with the quite workable cell phone in his pocket. «His older sister, I imagine. And her male friend?»
«He didn't say,» Sterling said, frowning. «Shall I go ask him?»
«No. No need. But I shouldn't worry overmuch about your friend Perry's experiences with ghosts if I were you. Mr. Undercuffler's murderer is very much a living, breathing person. I
'm quite convinced of that.»
«Working in league with Uncle Willis?»
«No, I don't think so. I doubt ghosts, if they exist, take on worldly partners in crime. But since you're here, why don't you tell me more about your experience in the attics. Did you hear any other noises, other than the bats, that is?»
Saint Just realized at that moment, or possibly at the moment Joanne had asked him about his cell phone, precisely why he hadn't offered the thing to her. He dearly wished to solve this crime himself, without interference from the local constabulary. Selfish, perhaps, but very much in his nature. Back in Manhattan, the good Left –tenant was always so dreadfully in the way. Helpful, occasionally, but still—Saint Just, not Steve Wendell, was the hero.
«Sterling? Was the question difficult? Shall I rephrase it?»
Sterling scratched his head. «No, I don't think so. I'm just attempting to be thorough. What did we hear? Not much, if anything, in the first wing we searched. Nothing much there but small empty rooms, probably once the servant quarters. Sir Rudy has only daily help, from the village. I asked him. The attics over our wing? Above our bedchambers? Those are more open, Saint Just, with only a few divisions. There is a multitude of old furniture, much of it under dust sheets. I admit to being quite nervous in those attics. And then the bats, of course. That's where we heard the squeaking.»
Saint Just considered all of this information for several moments. «The bats. Yes. About the bats, Sterling. So you didn't hear or see any in the other wing of attics?»
«No, I don't think so. And we were there a long time, poking about. Not so long in the attics above our chambers. Not more than a minute, to be truthful about the thing. Are the bats important, Saint Just?»
«I'm not sure, Sterling. I'm merely collecting information.» He got to his feet. «I'm assuming everyone is now congregated once more in the main saloon?»
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