Part 14 (2/2)
”A stiff. A body. Sam,” Troy explained. ”Sorry. I keep forgetting you English don't know the language all that well.”
”Indeed,” Saint Just said, gifting the man with a small inclination of his head, as if acknowledging the fellow's superior grasp of the language. ”But if we can push on? I do think we should inquire once more as to everyone's whereabouts earlier today. Say, from breakfast on?”
Troy grinned. ”So you think that's a good idea? Terrific! I knew it was a good idea. I got it from the script. First, we ask where they all were, then we tell them they all had motives-and then the killer makes some sort of mistake, and bam, we've got him. Let's do it.”
”I can hardly wait,” Saint Just said as Troy once more took up what he obviously believed to be center stage in the large room and clapped his hands, asking for everyone's attention.
”It's show time? Oh, goodie, I missed the first show,” Maggie said from behind him.
”He's harmless enough, Maggie. I think we should help him out, volunteer our whereabouts for the day.”
”You just want me to have to say you and I-you and me-that we were together in my bedroom. And you'd just love to volunteer that I had my portable CD player turned full blast, and the two of us were dancing while Sam hung around outside my window, and we didn't hear anything anyway because we were otherwise occupied. I'd rather be a suspect again.”
As there was no real answer for Maggie's accusation other than the truth, which would d.a.m.n him, or a lie, which would similarly d.a.m.n him, Saint Just lightly pressed a finger to her lips to shush her as Troy began to speak.
”Time for alibis. Oh, yes, we're going to do this again, people,” Troy was saying. ”Again and again and again, until we get it right.”
”Oh, you mean the way you always have to do it, Troy, if you need to say more than three words during a scene?” Evan asked, showing that, no, it wasn't that much of a stretch for the man to ”method act” Lord Hervey, in or out of costume.
Nikki giggled, then turned another page in the magazine she'd been reading. ”That's why he's always in bed with some bimbo on his soap-no dialogue, just pecs and abs. One of these days, Troy, they're going to want to see your a.s.s, and it's good-bye career time. Hey! Hey, look at this.”
Saint Just, who was standing behind the couch Nikki seemed to have established as her own, leaned forward slightly on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, looking at the magazine as she held it up for the company.
”That's you, isn't it?” she asked, pivoting sideways in her seat as she looked at Saint Just through the lenses of the small gla.s.ses she hadn't been wearing at any other time. ”You're the Pierre guy. I didn't notice that before. Oh, that's it. I've got to get new contacts.”
”She's resting her eyes, wearing gla.s.ses instead of contacts,” Maggie told Saint Just quietly. ”Colored contacts. I should have noticed. Her eyes aren't half as blue now, are they? Fake b.o.o.bs, fake eye color. Do you think those are all her own teeth? I don't. She's probably bald, too.”
”Thank you for that explanation, along with the unnecessary editorial comments. I had wondered,” Saint Just said, then bowed to Nikki. ”Guilty as charged, Miss Campion. For my sins, I am the public face of Fragrances by Pierre, yes.”
Marylou, who had been wandering about the room carrying a tray she was loading up with dirty gla.s.ses and plates, stopped in front of Saint Just. ”Dang, I couldn't hear that. I missed something, didn't I? What did I miss? Who are you? Are you somebody?”
Saint Just smiled at the young woman, who really should have been kept under her parents' wing a lot longer, perhaps decades longer. ”My dear, we are all somebody.”
Marylou wrinkled her nose. ”Yeah, but not so as it counts, you know? But I'm getting there. Sir Rudy has a t.i.tle, you know.”
Maggie laughed shortly as Marylou moved on, picking up another gla.s.s. ”Lucky Marylou,” she said. ”I guess Sir Rudy gives her another entry in her 'Celebrities I Have Banged' Diary-Overseas Division. And you like her, even feel a little sorry for her, so you're going to pretend I didn't say that, right?”
”Exactly,” Saint Just said as Troy, who had been looking at the advertis.e.m.e.nt, called himself back to attention.
”This isn't getting us anywhere, so I'll start, okay?” Troy suggested, tucking the sword cane beneath his arm. ”I got up around seven, dressed, came down here, and ate breakfast. I saw you, Evan, and you, Nikki-and Sam.”
”Then Arnaud, you came in, right? I left everybody to go run the stairs a couple of times, then do my ab crunches. But I remember that Sam was really getting hot about the writer, how she was driving him nuts,” Nikki added. ”I remember that.”
”Hey,” Maggie cut in when everyone turned to look at her. ”I don't kill people.”
”You write about killing people,” Troy said, except his tone made the words an accusation, one that faltered badly as he added, ”It's almost the same thing.”
”Right. You run up and down the stairs with that one a few times. Jerk,” Maggie said in disgust, so that Saint Just knew he had to step in, yet again. No wonder he'd decided to pop into Maggie's world. Somebody had to protect the dear girl from herself.
”Maggie, if you'd tell us, please, about your last encounter with Sam Undercuffler?” he asked smoothly.
She was still glaring at Troy, her lower jaw thrust out, her green eyes sparkling. ”The last time I saw him was this morning, out there, on the landing. Alive.” She turned to Saint Just. ”Then I was with you for a while, on the stairs, remember? Then I fell asleep in Sir Rudy's study. Then I heard some-”
”Yes?” Saint Just prompted when Maggie suddenly closed her mouth with the sort of quick finality that told him she didn't plan on opening it again any time soon. Perhaps never.
”Nothing. I didn't hear-that is, nothing happened. I heard the storm, that's all. Thunder. I fell asleep, I woke up, I grabbed some sandwiches in the kitchens, and I visited with Bernie for a long time. I went back to my room, you came in, Alex, we talked, I pulled back the drapery-well, we all know that part.”
”And yet there remains a part, some sequence of events, we clearly don't know,” Saint Just whispered as Troy turned to Evan Pottinger to query him about his whereabouts during the time in question.
”I was going to tell you,” Maggie whispered back while Troy and Evan argued, which wasn't really a fair fight. ”I woke up in the study and heard two people arguing, but I couldn't understand what they said, or even what s.e.x they were. Just a couple of words, and I've forgotten most of those, d.a.m.n it. Maybe the same argument Evan heard parts of too. Something about having something, looking for something. Friends.h.i.+p, maybe? Anyway, it's probably nothing.”
”Saint Just?”
Both Troy and Saint Just turned around to look at Sterling. ”Yes?” they said in unison.
Sterling's eyes went wide behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. ”I...I mean this one,” he said, pointing at Saint Just.
”Him?” Troy exclaimed, then threw back his head and laughed. ”Har. Har. Har.” A really bad attempt at an amused, sarcastic laugh. ”Look at me, you knavish, dizzy-eyed varlot. What do you think this costume is all about? Does he look like Saint Just?”
”Well, um...yes. He does,” Sterling said. ”He's always looked like Saint Just. Haven't you, Saint Just?”
”My turn,” Maggie said, stepping in front of her creation. ”I modeled the fictional Saint Just after my distant cousin here, remember, folks? And Sterling Balder after Alex's friend, Sterling Balder. Alex Blakely became Alexandre Blake, then I tacked on the Viscount part. I didn't even change Sterling's name, and now Sterling calls Alex Saint Just as a sort of joke. See? Simple explanation.”
Arnaud Peppin pushed himself out of the chair he'd been sitting in, his legs drawn up on the seat in rather a fetal position. ”Good casting, sweetheart. Now, if your cousin could only act, I might be talked into giving this movie another shot. Troy, you're pathetic.”
”Oh, yeah? And...and you're Arnie Peeps,” Troy shot back.
”Why, you-”
And they were off, the two men standing a good fifteen paces apart, screaming at each other, Arnaud's high-pitched voice particularly grating on the ears.
”Alex? Aren't you going to stop this? Alex?”
Saint Just snapped himself back to attention. ”Pardon me? I'm afraid I was once again considering myself in the role of...well, of myself. Still a tantalizing prospect, wouldn't you agree?”
”Only you could think that. The fictional-hero-turned-real Saint Just would play the fictional Saint Just. Talk about not being able to tell the players without a scorecard. Hey, where's everybody going? Alex? Everybody's leaving the room. Stop them.”
But it was already too late. Arnaud's screaming obviously had chased them away. As if Noah had just announced last call, off everyone went, two by two.
Tabby with Dennis/Clarence.
Bernie with the hot-water bottle Marylou had filled from the kettle on the gas stove in the kitchens.
Marylou herself with a widely grinning, all-but-preening Sir Rudy.
Sterling and Sterling...Sterling and Perry, Saint Just corrected mentally.
<script>