Kasey Michaels - High Heels and Homicide

«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.»

Maggie heard the knock on the door and let the drapery slide back into place, blocking out the depressing view from her bedchamber window. Ugly scaffolding and rain. Rain and more rain.

She crossed to the door and pulled it open, then turned and headed for one of the pair of wingback chairs on either side of the unfortunately cold fireplace. «Do you believe this, Alex?» she asked as she settled into the chair. «This place is like something out of a book. Only it's the before picture in a remodeling book. You don't want to see the plumbing. Oh—we're sharing a bathroom, all three of us, even though we've each got our own room. Marylou said this wing hasn't been touched since the forties. She said the nineteen-forties, but I'm betting on the eighteen-forties. And we have to make up our own beds, since all the maids went home early because of the rain. Do you know it's been raining for a week?»

«I appear to be learning quite a lot since entering this room. The state of your mood being uppermost, of course.»

«Sorry.» She stood up again, hugging herself, rubbing her hands against her upper arms. «I'm cold, Alex. Do you know how to make a fire?»

Alex eyed the wood piled inside the fireplace. «I most certainly do. You yank on the bellpull over there, tell whomever comes to serve you that you desire the fire lit, and voila .»

«Not funny. I already told you, everybody's gone home. Go look out that window, Alex. The road we drove in on? The creek, stream, whatever you want to call it, is nearly flooding it.»

«And that I do know, my dear. Before I could make good my escape from the main saloon, dear Arnaud emptied his budget of woes on me. The rain, the mud, the damp, the food, the plumbing, his filming schedule. Do you recall, Maggie, that nearly half our story takes place out-of-doors? I hadn't realized I was such a devotee of nature.»

Maggie, who had sunk to her knees in front of the fireplace and was staring at the wood, hoping for some spontaneous combustion, sat back on her heels and looked up at Alex. «You're too happy. Why are you so happy? Or doesn't it bother you, that only the writer baloney?»

«As I'm the creation, not the lowly writer, I believe I can contain my outrage, at least long enough to remind you that we measure ourselves by our own yardsticks, not by the opinions of others.» Alex reached past her, lifting the lid of a small brass box. «Ah, I could be wrong, but this little pile could be called kindling. And matches as well. Aren't we the lucky ones. If you'll excuse me?»

«Be my guest, knock yourself out.» Maggie stood up, backed up, watched as Alex stuck some small bits of wood beneath the logs, then struck a long match against the stone hearth. «On/y the writer . And opinions do matter, Alex. Do you know how sick I am of hearing that line?»

«I believe I do, yes. But do go on.»

«I will go on. The only reason that motley crew downstairs is even here is because I wrote the damn book.»

«Damning your own work?»

«Don't get cute. You know what I mean. Without writers? There'd be no books, no magazines, no movies, no television.»

«No commercials.»

«Yes! Even commercials. Do you think they write themselves? 'When shifting gears, think Boffo.' Oh, yeah, I've seen Miss Boobs in those commercials. Somebody had to write those words. Somebody with very little talent, but still.»