Kasey Michaels - High Heels and Homicide

«Nikki?» Alex asked the woman. «Do you care to comment? Or would you rather I supply more details? For instance, the fact that your last name isn't really Campion. It's Campiano. And that your uncle is Salvatore Campiano, a gentleman with, as my informant told me, connections .»

Maggie slapped a hand to her forehead. «Just when you think you know everything…»

«Shh, my dear. Miss Campion? We know now that Boffo Transmissions, a marvelously successful enterprise that had its birthplace in Brooklyn, is owned by your uncle, who was nice enough to pay for his favorite niece's nose job—I believe that's the term—then feature her in his nationwide television advertisments, thus making you a celebrity. Rather like Paris Hilton without the Internet photos, I believe my friend explained to me—known for being known. I really don't understand the concept. But I applaud you, my dear. Many wouldn't know what to do with a windfall of stolen jewelry. But your uncle would. Wouldn't he, Miss Campion?»

«Mary Louise knew all of that?» Maggie asked, impressed. «That's what she told you?»

«No, my dear. Our friends Vernon and George knew all of this, George's relatives once more proving veritable fonts of information.»

«George is Killer, right? And Killer's Italian, right? How could I forget that one? Does everybody in the five boroughs know everybody else? Why don't I know anybody?»

«Perhaps you should consider getting out more?» Alex suggested with a smile.

«I'm ignoring that. But you're saying you don't think Nikki here was in this thing from the get-go? Hers is what they call a crime of opportunity? What makes you so sure?»

«I'm not, actually. But this entire exercise, start to ignoble finish, has the air of slapdash and clumsy improvisation about it, don't you agree? Robin, put us out of our misery, please. Remember, confession is purportedly good for the soul.»

Oh, goody, now they were getting to the really nifty part. «Yeah, Robin ,» Maggie urged, «you know the jig is up. Tell us everything.»

Byrd Stockwell looked up at Evan, who had just noticed that his glass was once more empty and was wandering off, poker in hand, to correct that lapse.

«He said he'd hit me with that. You people are all crazy. Americans. Everything's violence for you.»

«Yeah, yeah, shame on us,» Maggie said, putting down her teacup, as she'd realized about three sips ago that Sir Rudy had laced the tea with brandy. Which was why she'd finished all of it, the warmth of the brandy doing wonders for her. «Now spill your guts. You and Joanne and Sam. Maybe Nikki here, too, maybe not. How did it start? How did you all get together? Come on, Robin. First one to roll over catches the break, but the offer goes on the table only once. Let's hear it, Robin—one, two, three, cop that plea.»

«And you say I watch too much television,» Alex said, shaking his head.

And then Byrd Stockwell surprised her. He crossed one long leg over the other, folded his hands in his lap, and became one hundred and fifty percent stiff-upperlip British. «Oh, very well. Only an idiot would not try to salvage something out of this ungodly mess. But I want to make this clear. I killed nobody .»

«Don't try to blame me, Byrd Stockwell! You just shut up!» Nikki yelled, throwing back the blankets and jumping to her feet… only to fall forward, flat on her face, as she must have forgotten the rope around her ankle. It was beautiful to see, Maggie decided, grinning. Almost poetical.

«No, Nikki, you shut up,» Bryd declared flatly. «Always walking around the room naked, hunting for your nail polish while prattling on in that annoyingly high-pitched voice of yours about how I should admire your biceps, of all things. That's how you found the jewelry, isn't it? My jewelry. I shouldn't have listened to Joanne.»

«Listened to Joanne about what?» Maggie asked. «You talked to her about Nikki?»

Byrd rolled his eyes. «Joanne felt that we should behave as if we weren't already acquainted, although she didn't much care for the method I chose to allay suspicions on that head.»

Maggie pointed at him. ' '''You're the one I heard arguing in the study yesterday. You and Joanne.»

Byrd shrugged. «Possibly. Probably. She was becoming a bit intense. Even unnerving.»

«Being the object of Miss Pertuccelli's affections could very well be terrifying, I'd imagine,» Alex suggested sympathetically.

«Funny, Alex,» Maggie said, then looked at Byrd. «She loved you? She expected marriage?»

«You Americans. You need everything wrapped up in a fantasy, don't you? This was business , Miss Kelly.»

Maggie believed she was getting closer now. «Except American Joanne didn't think so. She got jealous. She thought you were going to drop her for Nikki. So you killed her.»

«Incorrect on all counts,» Byrd said, pushing back his blond hair, almost preening. «If you'd allow me to explain from the beginning?»

«Who's stopping you?» Maggie asked, then winced. «All right, point taken. At least it's only Alex and me talking this time. Go ahead.»

And he did. He explained that he'd happened to meet Joanne in London. She was impressed («naturally»), and he was intrigued by her tale of woe about an upcoming movie she'd been all but blackmailed into working on. Re-creating England on a California soundstage—ridiculous.

But the budget was limited, there was no choice, nothing she'd found in England could be had for a reasonable amount of money.

«She was all about money,» Byrd said. «Probably why I was attracted, as I am also very concerned with money. I won't bore you with the details, but we came to conclude that I could help her and she could help me, and we both could get very rich. It seemed that she paid alimony to quite a few people.»

«You set up that meeting between Joanne and Sir Rudy?»

Byrd brushed some invisible lint from his slacks. «Right down to the red dress, Miss Kelly. My jumped-up uncle so admires red. By the end of the evening, he believed it was his idea to offer Medwine Manor to the production company, gratis. He's a simple man, my uncle. Joanne, unfortunately, turned out to be much more complicated.»

«So that's how the movie got switched from Hollywood to England at the last minute. Sorry, go on,» Maggie said, even as she could hear Marylou saying, «There, there, sweetie, we had fun, remember? It's not all bad,» to an obviously upset Sir Rudy.

And Byrd went on, Nikki being very quiet, to explain that he had somehow become persona non grata in his uncle's house, unfortunately just as he'd discovered an old set of plans for the house in the back of one of the silver cupboards. Someone, he told them, had actually used them to wrap up some godawful bits of blackened silver. Byrd took the plans, not knowing at that moment what they were, to wrap up «a few things.»

«You stole my candlesticks,» Sir Rudy said, speaking for the first time. «I barred you from my house, you ungrateful puppy. Told you I'd set the dogs on you if you showed your face here again—if I had dogs.»

Byrd spread his hands, palms up, and looked at Maggie. «You can see my dilemma. I'd heard all the stories about the jewelry. About Uncle Willis. At some point, probably while bored, I unbent the plans, looked at them, and realized that there was a secret passage located directly inside Uncle Willis's attic prison. It led down to my usual room, as well. I'd been sleeping not ten feet away from that lovely jewelry! After all, where else would the man have hidden it, if not there? I had to get back in that room.»

«Sir Rudy wasn't happy to see you the other day,» Maggie said, taking up the story. «But you'd convinced Joanne to get the movie filmed here, because when you showed up, and the house was full of people, your uncle wouldn't make a scene, and you knew it. That's why you cut Joanne in on anything in the first place.»