Kasey Michaels: High Heels and Homicide

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?»