Kasey Michaels: High Heels and Homicide

«They're hanging on your every word, if you'll excuse my descent into questionable sensitivity where the late Mr. Undercuffler is concerned,» Saint Just assured her.

Maggie grinned at him, then continued her explanation. «Well, this got us thinking—I mean, it would have to get you thinking, right? How did Sam get to the room without disturbing the dust? How did the killer—or killers—get to the room? They didn't fly there. So we—Alex and I—we went looking for plans to the house, figuring there had to be some other way, some secret way of getting to the attics. Alex? You want to tell them about the mural? Because that one was your idea.»

«I think we can safely dispense with that small side trip in our investigation,» Saint Just said, mentally attempting to recall what Maggie would term the time line of the past now-nearly four-and-twenty hours.

«Right. Okay. We'll skip that part, since it didn't work anyway,» Maggie agreed, the bit firmly between her teeth now, bless her. «So what we did was some simple investigating—simple, but pretty brilliant, really—and we found the secret passage.»

«'Row, row, row your boat' is brilliant?»

«Try to forget that part, Alex, okay?»

Sir Rudy was all but drooling now. «Where? Where is it? It's in this room, you said, didn't you? I've been waiting forty years to get some of my own back on that old lady. Chase me with a broom, will she? Laugh at me at my pub, will they? Show me!»

«Over here, Sir Rudy,» Saint Just said, stepping over to the wall beside the fireplace. «Just behind this wall is a set of very narrow, very steep stone stairs that lead up to the attic room once occupied by the man you all now know as the ghostly Uncle Willis. Maggie?»

«I'm thinking, I'm thinking. I want to get this right. I wish I could write it all out on file cards, then shuffle everything until I get it all in order.»

«Let me help you there,» Saint Just offered. «We begin very early yesterday morning, with Mr. Undercuffler dining with a few members of our party.»

«Right,» Troy said, as he had been a part of that small party. «That's when Sam told us about Maggie here, how she was being such a bitch about his screenplay.»

«Gee, thanks for remembering that,» Maggie said with a near-sneer. «I saw Sam after you all ate breakfast, when he showed up in my room, and we came downstairs together, but I didn't see him after that—until I saw him hanging outside my window at—when was that, Alex?»

«Much later,» was all Saint Just said, as he was concentrating on something else entirely. «The electricity became disabled sometime during the night, correct?»

«Yes, but the generators kicked right in like clockwork,» Sir Rudy pointed out. «Until they got flooded. I sure want to know what idiot left those doors unlatched.»

«Our killer, I would say,» Saint Just said, knowing he now had everyone's attention once again. «Tabby? I promise to forget everything you say once you answer my questions, and please forgive me, but where were you and Mr. Lloyd, from the time you left the main saloon until you were asked to join everyone there once more?»

«Alex,» Tabby pleaded through clenched teeth. «Do we have to?»

«Ah, Tabby, honey, I think we do,» Maggie said, stepping in front of Saint Just. «Because I think I can see where Alex is going with this. I… well, I went to your room around noon and you weren't there, but it looked like maybe you had been there?»

«I'll pay you back for this some day,» Tabby said, stepping close to Maggie. «Yes, we were in my room all night. But then we went to Dennis's room around eleven or so in the morning because we'd run out of—well, just you never mind. He had some granola bars, too, because we were hungry. And we stayed there until someone told us to come downstairs, that the generators were out. There. Satisfied?»

«I don't know, I usually do all of this on paper before I write.» Maggie looked at Saint Just. «Are we satisfied?»

«Yes, I think we are.»

«Well, good for you,» Byrd Stockwell said. «Now tell us.»

Saint Just obliged. «Happily. I can verify that Sam Undercuffler was alive at nine o'clock yesterday morning. I understand that Miss Pertuccelli had requested that he investigate the premises, looking for possible locations to film outdoor scenes that, because of the flooding, would most probably be relocated inside the building.»

«You only use dialogue in movies, not all my scene setting,» Maggie offered. «Although there'd be some reworking needed to change the rooftop duel to one on the stairs. Then again, this was supposed to be made-for-TV, so you guys will probably just fake it all. Not that Sam and Joanne probably weren't faking it, giving Sam a reason to disappear for a while.»

«You know, Hollywood does make some quality films, Maggie,» Arnaud said, obviously smarting. «Although I will agree that sometimes we cut a few corners. I know you writers think you are more important, but, as Lloyd Kaufman said so well, 'It's up to us to produce better-quality movies.' «

Maggie shook her head. «Kaufman? I don't know who that is.»

And yet again, Evan came to the rescue. «Lloyd Kaufman produced that classic American movie Stuff Stephanie in the Incinerator . No lie.»

Everyone laughed, and for a moment, the tension eased.

«Where was I?» Maggie asked. «Oh, sorry, Alex. I was jumping ahead, wasn't I? Go on. I see where you're going. Bless you, Bernie.»

«Thanks,» Bernie said after her loud sneeze, then blew her nose. «This had better be worth pneumonia, Alex. Come on, show us the secret passage.»

«First things first,» Saint Just told her. «You will all please remember that what I'm about to say is conjecture only and I've no real proof. However, I believe that Mr. Undercuffler, a known criminal—»

«Whoa! Back up, Sherlock,» Maggie said. «A known criminal? I thought we were just guessing that he was part of it. Is that what Steve told you? Sam was an actual criminal?»

«Yes, indeed, although possibly reformed. But, following your example, I am getting ahead of myself, aren't I? We'll step back in time a moment and consider Miss Pertuccelli, shall we?»

«Why?» Nikki asked, blowing on another recently filed nail. «She's dead. They're both dead. Can we go downstairs now? What do we care about secret passages?»

«I want to see the secret passage first,» Sir Rudy protested. «I paid for it.»

Saint Just, always accommodating, proceeded to drop to one knee and run his hand down the side of the mantelpiece until he felt the slight indentation, then pushed.

As before, the opening appeared, this time to oooh's and aaah's and one heartfelt «And it's all mine!»

«I think it best that we don't further disturb anything inside the passageway until the constable has been,» Saint Just told them, shutting the panel once more. «Fingerprints, that sort of thing. But I will tell you all my theory.»

«Our theory,» Maggie added. «I give you credit.»

«Our theory,» Saint Just concurred. «It is our theory that Miss Pertuccelli was aware of Mr. Undercuffler's dubious background and, either by plan or happenstance, enlisted him in her hunt for the missing jewels, the jewels allegedly hidden somewhere in Medwine Manor by the late and reportedly lingering Uncle Willis.»

Maggie shrugged. «Okay, so I didn't know about his record until now, but I was right about her hiring Sam as a partner in crime.»

«Possibly. Probably.»

Sir Rudy clapped his hands. «The stolen jewelry, of course! That's where Uncle Willis hid it all. They found it? I'd always hoped, but they really found it? A fortune in jewels?» He dropped his hands to his sides. «Oh. That's not good. Because they're gone again, aren't they?»