Kasey Michaels: High Heels and Homicide

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.»