«I've got one,» Maggie said, sensing something wrong about the studio representative's appearance, but unable to put a finger on just what. «You don't have one, Joanne? I'm sure I saw you with one yesterday.»
«That was yesterday,» Joanne said in clipped tones. Angry tones. «I don't have one today. And neither does Byrd. We just checked his room. Didn't we, Byrd?»
«It's true. My cell has gone missing. Joanne here thinks that's odd. Do you think that's odd?»
Maggie looked at Saint Just. «I think mine's in my room. I'll go get it.»
«Yes, do that, and I'll check with the others. Someone's bound to have one,» Alex said, heading for the main saloon.
Five minutes of intensive searching later (while wondering how Alex could have let her go upstairs alone, with a murderer in the house), Maggie joined him in the main saloon, shaking her head when he first saw her. «Any luck here?»
«Considerable, and all of it bad,» he told her as Troy paced the carpet in the center of the room while everyone ignored him. «The flooding, the lack of electricity, and now all the cell phones have gone missing. No one kept their phone with them while in costume.»
«And now they're all gone? Wonderful.»
«Yes, it is, isn't it? A clumsy ploy, yet effective. It doesn't take a brilliant detective to conclude that we are stranded here quite effectively, with a killer who intends to use that isolation to his or her own benefit—whatever that may be. Whatever, I imagine we shall know before morning. Care for a ham sandwich? Marylou has prepared several more, bless her.»
«Gee, it's nice to know you're still calm,» Maggie said, reaching into her pocket for her nicotine inhaler. «This is all beginning to feel like a bad murder mystery. If the lights weren't already out, I'd expect them to cut out at any moment, then come back on so we all could see the knife sticking out of somebody's back.»
«A charming mental picture, thank you, although there's as yet no good reason to suppose Undercuffler's murder wasn't an isolated incident,» Alex said, pressing a hand to his forehead as if his head ached. «Still, pressing on with your theory of imminent danger to all of us, would you mind terribly if the next victim were our dear Troy?»
«Why? He's still at it? Gee, and I missed it.»
«Yes, my fears have all been confirmed, as Troy does have a new suspect I have not yet shared with you,» Alex said, guiding her over to the table, now piled with sandwiches. «Thus far, unless he's been holding court during our absence, he's seen fit to confide his latest theory only to me.»
«Lucky you. The guy works fast, I'll give him that.» Maggie peeled back the bread from one of the sandwiches, made a face at the mustard smeared on the bread. «No mayo?» She took a quick peek over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, then did a fast shuffle with the bread, making her own sandwich with two plain slices. «So, don't keep me in suspense—who's the new winner?» she then asked around her first large bite of the dry sandwich.
«Uncle Willis.»
Maggie coughed as Alex soundly slapped her back until the bite of ham dislodged from her throat. Wiping her streaming eyes with her sleeve, Maggie choked out, «The ghost? He's blaming the ghost? I'll be right back. I gotta hear this one for myself.»
Troy was still pacing. He was the only one still in costume, his handsome face scrunched up as he attempted to keep the quizzing glass stuck to his eye even as he kept his hands clasped behind his back.
«Troy—I mean, Viscount?» Maggie said. «I hear, my lord, that you have a suspect?»
The actor threw back his head and stuck out his chest. «I do that, madam,» he pronounced carefully, then swore as the quizzing glass fell from his eye.
«Having a spot of bother, my lord?» Maggie asked facetiously, mentally casting Troy in her next book as the too-blond, dandified, totally ineffectual twit. Talk about your typecasting.
«Yes, I am. Damned thing. I'm going to have Sam write it out of the—oh. Well, whoever's going to take his place, that is.»
«Saint Just's quizzing glass is an integal part of his personality, Troy,» Maggie told him, no longer quite so amused. She looked at the actor's blond hair. «Just like his black hair. I've been afraid to ask. What are you guys going to do about that, anyway? You're going to wear a wig? Because my readers expect a Saint Just with black hair.»
«That doesn't matter. Readers don't watch television. And television viewers don't read. Everybody knows that.»
Maggie felt her temper rising. «I don't. I watch television and I read. I even chew gum and walk at the same time. Most of America does.»
«Whatever. I only know that the American public will be tuning in because of me . I'm the draw—not your story. Definitely not Nikki, who's only famous for being famous, or Evan, who always plays the villain. But I really like being Saint Just. He's cool. So now, exactly like in the script, I'm going to gather the suspects together and ask a few questions before I unmask our dastardly murderer. Dastardly . Great word.»
«Yeah. One of my all-time favorites. Go on, please.»
Troy swept his right arm out in front of him, as if spreading his words across a screen hung in the air. «I can see the headlines. Troy Barlow, as the Viscount Saint Just, solves writer's murder on location. Barlow saves the day!»
He dropped his arm to his side. «Well, something like that. It'll make great publicity for the movie, might even guarantee a series. My agent's going to love it. I love it. Do you love it? And now, if you don't mind, I believe I'm on.»
«No, no, wait a minute. I think it's a brilliant plan. Wonderful,» Maggie said quickly. «I think it's really… really cool that you've decided to take charge this way. As Saint Just, I mean. Great publicity, I agree. But we don't want any mistakes, do we? After all, Saint Just is my creation, remember. So I want to hear about this suspect of yours. I know you want to tell everyone, but could you just give me a hint?»
Troy lifted the quizzing glass once more, then seemed to think better of it and let it fall back to his chest. «Oh, okay. But only a hint.» He looked to his left, his right, then motioned for Maggie to lean in close. «Uncle Willis,» he said, then paused for effect. «You know. The ghost . He did it.»
Maggie couldn't see Alex from where she was standing. She couldn't hear him. But she knew he was laughing.
«Really? Uncle Willis, huh?» she said as Troy straightened again, struck a pose, one hand on his hip. «What was his motive?»
Troy frowned. «Motive? I… well… I imagine Sam, urn, bumped into him in the attics while he was searching out a new spot to shoot the gazebo scene, since the gazebo's under water. Ghosts don't like to be disturbed, you know. When I played in Teen Screamfest Twelve —a small part, but memorable; I was the second Chess Club member—I met my end when I opened the wrong door and disturbed the ghost. Bam! Ax straight through my head. You saw me in Screamfest? The flick was a bomb, but I got noticed, let me tell you.»
«I'll bet you did. And look at you now. A real star,» Maggie said, squeezing her folded hands until her knuckles turned white as she forced herself to look serious. Interested. «But that was a movie, Troy, remember? I don't think ghosts actually kill people. Actually, I don't believe in ghosts. So, a ghost killed you in that movie?»
Troy frowned. «Gosh, now I'm not so sure. Maybe it was a mummy?» He spread his hands, shrugged. «Well, that's one more down. This isn't as easy as I thought. No script, you know? I'm great with scripts. My phonographic memory.»
«Photographic,» Maggie corrected, but quietly, because the guy's train of thought was already half off the rails and she didn't want to lose him completely. Just as quietly, she made another mental note for his character in her next book: blond, dandy, brick-stupid, speaks like Mrs. Mala-prop. Oh, she was going to have fun with this character— and how great was it that, even with Sam dead in the morning room, she was feeling the urge to write.