Kasey Michaels: High Heels and Homicide

«A stupid mistake, I agree,» Byrd said, nodding. «I think I enjoyed the intrigue of the thing. Besides, she told me she could, as you Americans say, get me into show business if I helped with her own cash flow. It was all very quid pro quo.»

«You wanted to go to Hollywood and be a movie star? Another model-turned-actor? Oh, good grief, of course,» Maggie said, shaking her head. «I should have figured that one out the minute you walked in the door.»

Alex paced as Byrd kept talking, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression thoughtful.

«I won't be insulted by you, Miss Kelly,» Byrd stated firmly. «And I won't be held responsible for any murders. It was Joanne's idea to bring that ridiculous brown hack into the mix without consulting me. And it was she who strangled him after knocking him unconscious as the fool leaned over the jewelry, telling us both how he would use his share to produce his own screenplay. I was completely shocked. But he had been very helpful in finding the latch for us.»

Maggie looked at Alex. «Was there a bump on the back of Sam's head?»

«I didn't notice one,» Alex said. «Perhaps I wasn't all that thorough, once I'd seen the pair of marks on his throat. Although I most sincerely doubt that, don't you?» He turned to Byrd. «You did help her hang him up, didn't you, Robin? You'll at least admit to that?»

«Stop calling me Robin.»

«Forgive me, but I do so enjoy it. Back to the late Mr. Undercuffler. You were, according to you, and with no one else alive to gainsay you, shocked, dismayed at the murder of the man you hadn't wanted involved in the first place— splitting the profits three ways rather than two—and are completely innocent of anything other than robbery. However, you did assist Miss Pertuccelli in, shall we say, disposing of the body?»

At last, Byrd looked disconcerted. «I didn't know what else to do. We'd left him up in the attic, but that wasn't good enough, and Joanne was going crazy, totally off her head. I remembered Uncle Willis, and we decided to make it look like a suicide.»

He looked at Dennis and Tabby. «But now they were in the room. I had to find a way to get them out so they wouldn't hear us up above their heads, dragging Undercuffler about. The man was, if you'll pardon me, a dead weight. Besides, Joanne had thrown her stopwatch some-where, as if suddenly, somehow, it had turned into a snake she couldn't bear to touch, and we might have to move furniture to find the thing. We never did find it, but that really wasn't a problem for me, was it? I had the jewelry.»

Maggie raised a hand. «So you didn't think about the dust? The only reason there were no footprints in the dust was because each time you guys went up to the attic room, you went up through the secret passage? Damn. I was so sure of that one.»

«Even incorrect assumptions can lead to valid conclusions, Maggie. We would never have even considered the existence of a secret passage otherwise,» Alex told her. «Now, if you will, Stockwell, on to the jewels. And Miss Pertuccelli's murder.»

He spread his hands, shrugged. «I don't know. We'd planned to just hold onto them, wait for the water to go down, and I'd leave, take them with me. Nobody knew we'd stolen anything because nobody knew the jewelry even existed. But, as I've said, Joanne had to go and kill that idiot writer. That's when everything began to fall apart.»

«Writers will do that for you—screw up everything,» Maggie said, grinning.

«It doesn't matter. I did not kill that writer. I did not kill Joanne.» He turned on Nikki. ' ''She did! And she stole my jewelry!»

Everyone, Maggie included, turned to look at Nikki… and when they turned back, everyone was looking at Byrd Stockwell, who now held Alex's sword cane in his hand, unsheathed. And he looked like he might just know how to use it—who knew what English schoolboys learned in class?

«Hand over that bag. It's mine!»

«Of course, Robin,» Alex said, bowing, «as you do appear to be holding the upper hand.» He stepped back, slowly, then sort of whirled around, grabbing the Troy Toy's sword cane out of the actor's hands. A heartbeat later, it was unsheathed, and Alex was facing Stockwell once more, both of them in the en garde position.

«Alex, for crying out loud, that's a prop ,» Maggie said, really worried now. «You can't fight him with a prop sword. Give him the jewelry. He won't get far.»

«I should, shouldn't I?» Alex said, not taking his eyes off Stockwell. «But this man murdered two people. We cannot allow him even an attempted escape.»

«Oh, great, you're doing that honorable thing again, right? Well, cut it out!» Maggie looked behind her. «Where's the jewelry? Who's got the jewelry? Hand it over, okay?»

«Why?» Bernie asked, then blew her nose. «Alex and I already looked at it. It's fake.»

Maggie worried that her eyes might just pop right out of her head. «It's—»

«Fake. Paste. Glass,» Bernie elaborated. «I know my jewelry. Uncle Willis stole fake jewelry. Good fakes, so the pieces are worth something, but not all that much. Life's a bitch, ain't it?»

Maggie's head was spinning. Looking at Alex, who was looking at Stockwell—the two of them still squared-off— she tried to sort out this entire mess in her mind.

«You know,» she said, «it could make sense. People back then often replaced their real jewelry with fakes when they needed money. Good fakes, too. But if Uncle Willis stole the jewelry and took it to a pawnbroker, then everybody would know the family was broke.»

Now she was pacing, well clear of Alex and Byrd Stockwell, who were beginning to look a little silly posing like that. «They had to find that jewelry, and they couldn't let Uncle Willis out to tell anybody the family secret, either. If he figured it out once he actually inspected the pieces, and told anybody, they'd be ruined. Tradespeople would start calling in their accounts, they'd end up in debtor's prison, the whole nine yards. I mean, you think we all live on credit now? Those guys were ten times worse than us. And then, once he'd maybe figured out he was locked up for life and would be hunted down and killed if he escaped with what he knew—not just with the jewelry, but with what he knew —Uncle Willis went mad and got his revenge. God, I love this! I want to write this!»

«Appeals to your romantic, and often bloodthirsty, fiction-writing mind, yes, I'm sure,» Alex said, still watching Byrd. «I believe, however, the late Mr. Undercuffler and the late Miss Pertuccelli might not share your joy.»

«That's true,» Maggie agreed, still running scenarios in her head. Yes, this could be a good story. She could drop Saint Just in the middle of it, have him solve the crimes. The idea was definitely better than the book she'd just finished. But Alex was still talking, so she really should pay attention.

«Stockwell, it's over. You murdered two people for paste and have been ungentlemanly enough to attempt to blame two females for your crimes. You weren't about to share with Mr. Undercuffler, and you killed him while Miss Pertuccelli watched in horror—even borrowing her stopwatch cord to do the deed. Miss Pertuccelli must have been terrified, realizing, as you did, that all the jewelry was much better than half. I imagine you discovered her trying to escape, flee for her life, and you stabbed her with one of the kitchen knives.»

«So much for showbiz,» Maggie said. «But Nikki here is all after the fact, right?»

«Miss Campion merely happened to discover the jewels and want them for her own, nothing more,» Alex agreed. «Put down your weapon, Stockwell—which is, by the by, also fake. The real sword cane, my sword cane, is in my hand. Mr. Barlow has been very kindly keeping it safe for me.»