«Sure. Let me believe I'm in charge of you. That would be different. Novel, even. Novel —get it? Oh, man, I'm losing it.»
«No, no, you're doing just fine, all things considered.
And, I don't have to inspect the entire mural. What I believe I saw was in the bottom third, at the most. I really should have paid stricter attention, but then, who knew the thing would become important?»
«Well, while you're looking for something you don't exactly remember, something that could or couldn't be important, let's talk about the stopwatch some more, all right? Why didn't you hold it up in front of Joanne and tell her you found it? You know, the big ah-ha, got you moment. You live for those moments. Besides, I would have liked to have seen her reaction.»
Alex turned about on the stair and motioned for Maggie to sit down, then joined her. «Maggie,» he said in that maddening tone that told her he knew something— entire worlds of somethings—she didn't know. «If Joanne is involved in Undercuffler's untimely demise, and we cannot be sure that she is or isn't, we have to acknowledge that the woman could not have hoisted the body out of that attic window by herself. Agreed?»
Reluctantly, Maggie nodded, then shifted herself on the stair so that the bottom of her oversized sweatshirt covered her butt. «Agreed. She couldn't have done it alone. So?»
«So, my dear, if we confront her, she could react in one of several ways. She could exhibit delight that we have found her beloved stopwatch, which had somehow become misplaced. She could have very honestly lost the thing, and the murderer used it as a weapon of opportunity, without her knowledge. In other words, she could be innocent. An unlovely person, but innocent. Or, she could act nonchalant, take the thing, secretly delighted to have it back, and then dispose of it before the constabulary can be brought here.»
«Wait. We're back to TV's version of crime scene investigating, right? You're sure jumping into the twenty-first century with a bang, aren't you? But I get it. The stopwatch is full of evidence. Epithelials—skin cells from Sam's neck, for one. From Joanne, too, and maybe even from someone else. DNA. God, you're right. We can't just give it back to her. But we could tell her we noticed she isn't wearing it. That could jump-start something. And you really should get that thing out of your pocket and into a plastic bag.»
«I agree. But let's first consider Joanne Pertuccelli a while longer, if we might? Exactly what is her position, her relationship to this project? I'm afraid I don't really understand all the subtleties of the filmmaking industry.»
«Neither do I,» Maggie admitted. «Directors direct the actual filming. Where the actors should stand, how they should say their lines, what camera angles to use, I think. Anyway, in our case, that's Arnaud. Producers? I think they put up money, get investors to put up the money, then try to tell everyone what to do and how to do it, even if they make their real money selling soup or something, and they don't know squat about making movies. Sort of like a lot of book publishers these days. These conglomerates—»
«Yes, yes. However, alas, we have no time to climb upon one of your many hobbyhorses at the moment. But Joanne isn't a producer?»
Maggie was getting into it now; anything to help herself stay warm. «No, not exactly. At least, I don't think so. Actors, well, actors act. Marylou explained what she does. Screenwriters either write directly for the movies or adapt books—like mine—so they're more visual. Or so Sam told me. Mostly, I think they're like really bad editors who just want their stamp on everything they touch, even if the changes don't make the book better, but only different. My friend Virginia—you remember Virginia?»
Alex sighed. «Yes, I remember Virginia. She sent us another photograph of the baby last week, as I recall. Lovely child. But—»
«Virginia had one of those—one of those hands-on edi-tors. Hands-on? Right. Hands, feet, teeth, you name it. God, he was a pain! Virginia finally told him to go write his own book. But, then again, everybody's writing their own book these days. Sam's was a screenplay, but you get my meaning, right?»
«Maggie, you're losing the focus of my question. While all of this has been extremely edifying, what does Joanne do?»
«Sorry. She works for the producer? The big money man? Maybe that makes her an assistant producer. I really don't know. She's over Arnaud, that much is for sure. And she hired Evan; he told us that. Maybe she oversees everything for the production company? Budget? Scheduling? Casting? Location? That sort of thing. Movies for television have smaller budgets, so they may be doing all of this on a shoestring, and Joanne's the one tying the bows.»
«I see, thank you. All right, you sit here and relax, while I think about this,» Alex said, getting to his feet once more, training Maggie's flashlight on the mural.
«Why not? I always relax by sitting on ice-cold marble steps. It's my favorite thing.» Maggie tilted back her head and watched as Saint Just moved the beam of light slowly over the mural, almost inch by inch, working up the stairs to the top, then slowly making his way back down, the beam of light slightly higher on the wall.
After about ten minutes of this, Maggie was colder than ever and really, really bored. She stood up, wondering if her backside had frozen solid and might just crack and fall off, and asked, «You still don't remember what you're looking for?»
«Oh, I've always known what I'm looking for,» Alex told her, stopping on the fourth step from the top. «I've been looking for this.»
«What? Where? Let me see.»
«Calmly, calmly. Look just up there slightly, to where I'm aiming the light. Do you see it? The adorable little cherub?»
«One of the dozens of adorable little cherubs, you mean. Oh… oh, okay. I see it. What's he holding?»
«That, my dear, is a diagram of this house.»
«No. That can't be. You're pulling my leg.»
«Another time, perhaps, if you ask nicely,» Saint Just said, smiling down at her. «In any case, it would appear that the fellow who commissioned this mural was not only quite impressed with his family tree, but that he was also mightily taken with his architectual accomplishments and wished to share his brilliance with everyone. Over and above displaying his many ancestors and even the children he himself fathered, whose images are preserved for posterity in this mural.»
«Yeah, well, he didn't have a digital camera, did he? Hold the flashlight steady. I can't really make out much of anything,» Maggie said, squinting up at the unrolled scroll the cherub held in front of him. «I can see the outline of the building—both wings, huh?—but I can't make out the separate rooms. I've seen blueprints like this in some of my research books and can never really figure them out— them or the guide map to the Metropolitan Museum, for that matter. But this is only one floor of the mansion, right?»
Saint Just stood on tiptoe, examining the plan. «Well, that's disappointing, isn't it? You're right, Maggie. This plan is of the first floor. Here's the main saloon. The morning room. I see the study—I wonder.»
«You wonder what?» Maggie asked, hanging onto him as he lowered the flashlight and the staircase was plunged into near-total darkness. «And warn me before you do that again, I nearly lost my balance.»
«My apologies. Feel free to hold onto my belt again as we descend the staircase.»
«Looking for?»
«Another cherub, of course, one holding the plan for the second floor. Sadly, while I believe cherubs balanced at either end of the mural to be highly likely, I doubt there is a third showing off the plans for the attics.»
«Unless there's four? Four cherubs, four floor plans. One in each corner. Ground floor, first floor, second floor, attics. That's four.»
«True enough,» Alex agreed. «But let's concentrate on first finding another cherub, shall we? Although, thanks to the pitch of the staircase, this one will be considerably higher on the wall.»