Maggie turned to see Nikki bounding onto the landing. The actress waved again, jogging in place, as she asked, «Everybody back downstairs?»
«We think so, yes, except for Mr. Pottinger, who has barricaded himself in his bedchamber for the duration, I believe,» Alex told her.
«Okay. Good. I'll go change. See ya!» she chirped, then took off toward the second floor.
«Bed aerobics, stair-climbing,» Maggie said quietly. «I guess there's ways, and ways, to feel the burn, huh?»
«Troy?» Alex asked, clearly ignoring her remark. «I may have misinformed Miss Campion just now. You didn't mention the nephew or Miss Pertuccelli.»
«Oh, right. Byrd's in there, and pretty pissed, if you ask me. He doesn't like that his uncle and Marylou are—you know. Hitting it off? I guess I wouldn't, either, if I was the old guy's only heir.»
«And Miss Pertuccelli?»
«Hey, I can't keep tabs on everybody,» Troy said, checking his list again. «Nope. I haven't checked her off. But I can check you two off now, right? It's good to be organized.»
«Hold that thought, Troy,» Maggie told him, then looked at Alex. «You wanted to see if there's any peanut butter in the kitchens, Alex, right?»
«Indeed, yes. I've developed quite a passion for peanut butter. But good work, Troy. Capital! We'll rejoin you shortly.»
«Twit,» Maggie said, shaking her head as Troy turned and marched back into the main saloon, still wearing his Regency Era costume.
«Ah, that's an interesting change. I believe, my dear, you have just put one of my words into your mouth. Although I totally agree, poor fellow. But he does try.»
Maggie aimed the flashlight beam down the hallway as they made their way to the servant stairs leading down to the kitchens on the ground floor. «You're being awfully nice. I thought you couldn't stand the guy.»
«As me, yes, that's true. Evan Pottinger would have done a much better job, much as it pains me to acknowledge that anyone save myself could do me justice. You've said that it's possible Joanne picked the actors for each role, or at least had a hand in the decisions, correct?»
«So why did she pick Troy Toy?» Maggie asked, sure that was Alex's question. «His Q rating, probably, or whatever it's called. And that, before you ask me, is some sort of gauge of how popular a person is with the viewing public. Then again, who can understand Hollywood? I mean, somebody thought Brad Pitt would be a real knockout in Troy .»
Saint Just held open the door for her. «I beg your pardon?»
»Troy . The movie, not the Troy Toy. I just thought of that because the names are the same. But there's plenty of movies where the lead character is cast because the actor is a big star—not that our Troy is a big star, but he is a hit on the soaps, according to Sterling. I remember catching part of an old movie on cable one night. John Wayne—big cowboy movie star long ago—as Genghis Khan or something. The studio guys must have figured they could just stick him in any movie at all and have a hit. Hollywood is shameless.»
«We all are, at one point or another,» Alex said, entering the kitchens behind her. «Now, where would one keep plastic bags, do you think?»
«What? Oh, for the stopwatch? I don't know. Look around over there. I'll check the other room. Big kitchen.»
«Kitchen, pantry, knife room, butler's and housekeeper's sitting room and bedchambers, etcetera. Estate kitchens were massive entities,» Saint Just said. «Ah, here we go. Maggie?»
«Hang on a sec,» she called to him, still poking around, shining the flashlight into dark rooms. «This is great, you know? I mean, there's books, there's the Internet, but this is actually seeing what I write about. I wish I had my camera. Hell, I wish we had lights.»
«We do have rainwear, if that's any consolation,» Alex said as she rejoined him, pointing to a wide, stone-paved hallway and a row of hooks holding several sweaters, coats, and four or five bright yellow slickers. There was a rack holding rubbers and boots below the hooks.
«Hey, this is a bonus,» Maggie said, propping her flashlight on a low table as she grabbed one of the slickers.
«Look, aren't those Sir Rudy's waders over there? Come on, that's got to be the door to the outside back there. You want boots? I'm putting on boots.»
«Rather unlovely,» Alex remarked, holding up one of the slickers to examine it. «But serviceable.»
«Wait a minute,» Maggie said, snapping her slicker shut. «Before we go out into the monsoon, let's talk about the cell phone a little more, all right?»
«I'd rather not,» Alex said, looking handsome in his own slicker—which really made her angry because she was pretty sure she looked like Rubber Duckie. «But, in my own defense, I believed at the time that concealing the fact that I still possessed a working cell phone was prudent.»
«How so?»
«Think, Maggie. If we could have phoned for assistance, and received it, our entire party might have scattered to the four winds before the local constabulary discovered that Undercuffler's death was not, after all, a suicide.»
«You would have told them.»
«Ah, but would they have listened? And I'll admit to harboring a few lingering doubts of my own, until Joanne told us about the missing cell phones. Do you know what those missing cell phones mean, Maggie?»
«You're doing it again,» she reminded him, bristling. «What do they mean? They mean we can't contact anybody until the water goes down. And, yeah, I agree, they mean Sam was murdered, even without the second rope mark on his neck, not to mention the lack of a suicide note. The guy was a writer, Alex. He would have left a note. A long note. You know, good-bye cruel and uncaring world—all that stuff?»
«You are the expert there, I'm sure,» Alex conceded, smiling. «But what the missing cell phones meant to me, Maggie, is that Undercuffler's murder was impromptu, not planned. Gathering up the cell phones, indeed, opening the service doors down here to allow the water easier entry to the generators? Slapdash efforts to keep us isolated here for a while, for one reason or another. I'm attempting to assuage my conscience now for keeping my cell phone a secret, I know, but we are in agreement thus far?»
«You know we are. And I forgot about that one part. Sir Rudy did say someone left the doors open, didn't he? That wasn't an accident.» Maggie clapped her hands together a single time in front of herself, then pointed both index fingers at Saint Just. «So that's it, Alex. It's the old story. Sam heard or saw something he wasn't supposed to hear or see while he was poking around, looking for filming sites, and they killed him. Somebody killed him. We'll say 'they,' because we already know Joanne couldn't have lifted Sam's body by herself and it was her stopwatch we found, right?»
«Joanne may still be innocent, remember? The stopwatch could have been misplaced, then appropriated.»
«I'm not buying that one and neither are you, not really. She probably doesn't take that thing off even when she sleeps. We could ask Evan, I guess, since he slept with her. Anyway, they were interrupted in whatever it was they were doing. They weren't done yet, so they needed to stay here a little while longer, to finish whatever it was they'd started, which wouldn't happen if the cops showed up.»
«Ah, but what had these nameless they started? Sir Rudy has some lovely artwork, I've noticed, but nothing anyone would consider priceless. And paintings would be missed, commented on. Still, a robbery of some sort is the most logical conclusion.»
Alex pulled out his pocket watch, held it up beside the oil lantern. «Later and later. Shall we push on?»