Kasey Michaels: High Heels and Homicide

«You go with the others, Robin,» Saint Just said, taking hold of the man's arm and turning him about. «Sterling? Please see that our Robin Redbreast remains with the others.»

«Really?» Sterling blinked several times, then stood up very straight. «Perry and I will see to it, Saint Just, have no fears on that head. Perry? You take his left, I'll take his right.»

«Anything you say, Sterling.»

«Don't you dare,» Byrd said, backing away, only to bump into Bernice, of all people, who had picked up a very substantial-looking brass figurine and was now holding it with the same intensity with which Saint Just's favorite New York Met, Mike Piazza, gripped a baseball bat.

«Go on, try to run, I dare you,» Bernie said. «I've been looking for someone to beat on all night. If I can't drink, I can get my jollies this way.»

«Thatta girl,» Maggie said, then took off for the other wing, Saint Just beside her. «I know which is Nikki's room. I saw it yesterday morning.»

«This doesn't make sense,» Saint Just told her as they broke into a jog. «You saw the robin look at the wall when I announced we'd found the passage— before I revealed the location of the opening?»

«I did. And he's logical. Nikki isn't. One thing's for sure—the robbery itself was planned . Only the murders were unplanned.»

They were past the main staircase now, and Maggie suddenly stopped, then turned back.

«I thought you said you knew the location of her bedchamber.»

«I do, but she went this way,» Maggie said, holding up her flashlight as she grabbed the railing and started down the stairs toward the candlelit first floor.

«How do you know that?»

«Because I can smell her perfume, and the smell died off when we got past the staircase,» Maggie said, moving faster on the stairs than Saint Just ever would have supposed; obviously a woman on a mission. «She went this way.»

«Very good, Maggie.»

«Not really,» she said as they reached the bottom of the staircase and then sniffed again before heading back toward the study and, beyond that, the servant staircase leading to the kitchens. «She pours on the perfume. A Chihuahua with a deviated septum could follow her scent. Come on, Alex, she's getting away!»

Maggie ran until she realized she probably should slow down before she fell and broke something— most probably herself—and then hesitated as she and Alex got to the servant stairs.

«She went down. And you know why? Because she knows to go down. Do you know why she knows to go down?»

«Maggie, she's down. And very soon to be out and about, so we can probably leave this discussion for later, yes?»

«Good point. But I know how she knows how to get out, so file that—I knew first.»

«My compliments,» Alex said, indicating with a slight bow that she should precede him down the stairs to the kitchens.

Maggie felt the breeze before she saw the door open to the outside, and she was off again, hot on the heels of a woman who really, really got on her nerves… and it had nothing to do with Nikki's great looks or her even greater body. Really, it didn't. At least not much.

«We'll need Wellington boots and raincoats,» Alex said, grabbing her arm as she was halfway out the door into the downpour and the growing gray light of dawn.

«We don't have time for those.»

«We do if we have to go more than ten feet to find her, and I'm sure we do. We've been out there before, remember? At least the Wellingtons, Maggie. You'll fall without them.»

«Sure, okay, you're right,» she said, smiling at him. Then she waited until he'd sat himself down on the old wooden bench before she bolted. «She's mine , Alex!»

The cold rain hit Maggie with only a little less than the impact she'd expect from a bucket of ice water being thrown at her, and she blinked, sputtered… and pressed on, already knowing the location of the path Alex had investigated earlier.

She felt her feet slipping out from under her as she staggered along, rethinking her refusal of those time-consuming rubber boots to cover her leather-soled shoes. But she kept the flashlight beam headed straight ahead, not down, and kept moving along the narrow path that just barely rose above water, water, and more water.

«Maggie! Maggie, come back here!» Alex yelled—gosh, he'd actually yelled .

«I can't. She's got a head start,» Maggie yelled back at him.

And then she saw a figure, darker than the dawn around it. Nikki Campion. Nikki Campion, who'd taken the time to pull on rubber boots and one of those ugly yellow coats.

The idiot woman also had two suitcases, one in each hand. Was she nuts? Who makes a getaway with Gucci?

«Halt!» Maggie cried out. «Halt or I shoot!»

Which really worked only in truly bad cop and war movies.

Nikki let go of the suitcases and broke into a trot, the miner's light strapped to her headband lighting her way.

«Damn,» Maggie swore, rubbing her face with her free hand, trying to wipe off the rain that had already saturated her hair and was now running down into her eyes.

How was she going to keep up with the woman? Nikki ran flights of stairs for fun , for crying out loud. The last time Maggie could remember running was weeks and weeks ago, when she'd gone after that creep and tackled him, nearly getting herself killed in the process.

You'd think a woman would learn.

Then again, every once in a while, a woman catches a break. Even Margaret Kelly.

With a startled screech, Nikki Campion lost her footing on the slippery cobbles, or bricks, or whatever the old stones were, and, her arms waving wildly, over she went, into the pond.

Where the Boffo Transmissions girl, even with her built-in flotation devices, sank like a rock.

«I'll get her,» Alex shouted, coming toward Maggie in his boots and slicker, carrying another slicker for her. «I knew she wouldn't get far. Here, put this on.»

Maggie had her flashlight trained on the water. Wow, whitecaps. When this pond flooded, it didn't fool around. «I don't see her, Alex. We can't wait for you to get out of that stuff. And she's wearing it, too. She can't swim in that.» She began stripping off her soggy sweatshirt.

«Maggie, no—»

Maybe if he'd said «please» she wouldn't have done it? No, she was going to do it no matter what Alex said. Jumping in after Nikki Campion was just the sort of thing Maggie always did. Jump first, think later.

As the water closed over her head, Maggie instantly gained a whole new understanding of the word «cold.» She'd have to tell Evan.

She surfaced to sputter and to yell, «It's cold!» Treading water as she worked to toe off her loafers, she tried to get her bearings, but there was still no sign of Nikki. «She come up at all?» she yelled at Alex, who had trained both flashlights on the water.

«Only for a moment. To your left. Maggie, I—»

«Okay.» Maggie took another deep breath and went back under, opening her eyes, as she hoped to see something in the dark water.

And she did see something. The glow from Nikki's miner's light, or runner's light, or whatever the heck it was.

Maggie's feet touched bottom—the pond was probably only about nine or ten feet deep in this spot—then pushed off the graveled bottom even as she reached out with one hand and grabbed for the yellow slicker by the back of the collar.

Except her fingers hadn't closed around a collar; they'd closed around a strap, a wide strap. She pulled, and the strap came with her—or rather, the large cloth bag attached to the strap came with her. But not Nikki.

Maggie let go of the bag and it sank to the bottom of the pond. She was a good swimmer, which came from living her formative years at the Jersey shore, but she had limits. Lung capacity was one of them. Good thing she didn't smoke anymore or Nikki would be a goner.