Free High Heels and Homicide by Kasey Michaels

gentlemen,” Sir Rudy announced in a booming voice. “Here’s more of you, come to join the party.”
    One of the gentlemen at the fireplace pushed himself away from the mantel and strode towards them, his rather pasty flesh sheened with perspiration, his totally bald head glistening under the light from the chandeliers.
    â€œMust be one of the actors. He looks like a pint-size version of Telly Savalas, except he’s more rubbery. I wonder if he’s going to offer us a lollipop,” Maggie said out of the corner of her mouth.
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œAn actor, Alex. Played a cop on an old television series. Kojak . My dad was crazy about him. It isn’t important.”
    â€œIndeed,” Saint Just said, feeling more and more comfortable in this large room, more and more in his element. And because of the way he felt, he stepped forward, extended his hand to the bald man, gave a slight inclination of his head. “Alex Blakely…and you are…?”
    â€œPeppin,” the man said in an oddly thin, high voice. An almost childish voice. “Arnaud Peppin, reluctant director of this grand epic, if we can ever start filming. The leads are here, so who are you? Although you already look and sound more English than that idiot over there. He wants an accent coach, like that’s going to happen on our budget.”
    â€œMr. Peppin, of course. How…charming,” Saint Just said with another slight nod and a smile—not having the faintest idea what the man was talking about. Clearly he was going to have to correct that lapse, and quickly. He then repeated the introductions he had begun with Sir Rudy.
    By now, all eyes were on the newcomers, except for those of the woman who was still on the carpet, although now she was lying on her side, her head propped in one hand, her other hand sliding caressingly down the side of her breast and onto her hip as she smiled only at Saint Just.
    Nothing all that out of the ordinary there. He had been very carefully created to have that effect on women. It was a gift. Occasionally a curse.
    Arnaud seemed remarkably unimpressed to learn that the author and her entourage had arrived. Saint Just knew this because the man turned his back to him and said, “Relax, people. Joanne will handle this. It’s only the writer.”
    Saint Just immediately and quite automatically put his right arm straight out to his side, and Maggie’s advancing body immediately and very predictably slammed against it.
    â€œOnly the writer? Only the writer? Hey, cue ball, let me tell you a—”
    â€œMs. Dooley! Oh, how thrilled I am to meet you! I heard you were coming. I’m Sam Undercuffler, screenwriter.”
    Saint Just lifted his quizzing glass to his eye and inspected Undercuffler as he scurried over to them. The young man was depressingly brown. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown slacks; brown tweed jacket with brown suede patches at the elbows. The barrel of a cheap brown pipe protruded from his jacket pocket. His brown shoes, lace shoes, were badly in need of reheeling and a good polish.
    â€œOh, so good to meet you, Ms. Dooley—Cleo. May I call you Cleo? I adapted your book for the screen. Well, you probably figured that out, since I said I’m the screenwriter. Oh, would you listen to me? I’m just so excited to finally meet the creator of the brilliant Saint Just Mysteries. The brilliant creator of the brilliant series, I should say. I’m playing with an idea of my own, for my own television series, you understand, but I know you wouldn’t want to hear about that. Would you? Please, if there’s anything you want, anything you need…”
    Saint Just stood amused as Maggie tried to get her hand back from the screenwriter, who was still pumping it with all the enthusiasm of a dairy maid only three churn strokes away from butter. “Two writers. Together. Members of the same literary fraternity.