"Jer-ry," the woman in the kitchen protested.
"Beat it. I'll give you a statement down at the station. And be glad I'm not pulling you in like Miss Quilliam."
"Since you've blown my cover, could I just ask her a few questions?"
"No."
"Miss Quilliam, how does it feel to have solved what promises to be the crime of the century?"
"Wet," Quill said cheerfully. "I'll be back in a second."
"Out," said Jerry. "All of you."
Outside, the rain continued in fitful gusts. Quill's euphoria ebbed the closer they came to the Palm Beach County police station. It was situated on PGA Boulevard, across from the Gardens Mall, near the community college. Despite the proximity of these three facilities, the area was blessedly free of the sprawling, neon-lit buildings that seemed to characterize Florida. It baffled Quill that drugstores, grocery stores, and gas stations were placed higgedly-piggedly among golf communities with high stone gates and pot-bellied security guards. The zoning committees must have had unlimited access to rum punches. But the police station was neither tasteless nor intimidating - just a large concrete block building stuccoed over with the ubiquitous white paint and, of course, a red-tiled roof. The building housed the DMV, the tax bureau, and other county offices as well as the jail.
Quill and Meg sat in the back of Jerry's Chevrolet. There was a huge crowd of vans and cars crowded in the parking lot. and a large clutch of people at the door. Some of them carried umbrellas against the rain, but most stood there unfazed by the weather, pale faces dripping, hair lank. To her amazement, Quill saw a few hand-lettered signs:
FREE CRESSIDA'S BOYS! and WE LOVE EVAN.
"My lord." Meg gasped.
"Told you Miss Houghton knows all the tricks." Jerry parked in the FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY spot and shut off the ignition. "You two ready?"
The next few minutes reminded Quill of the session in the boat. Terrifying, chaotic, noisy, and wet. Hands plucked at her arms, her hair. Voices shouted in her ear. Microphones were thrust under her nose and the lights of video cameras shone in her eyes. She grabbed Jerry's raincoat with one hand and Meg's sweater with the other and they all ducked though the crowd.
Inside, they went through the metal detector at the entrance. The hallways were wide, the floors covered with a beige, rubberized tile. Quill noticed there was no odor of disinfectant or dust-just the scent of damp clothes. There was group of people clustered at the en- trance to the county judge's chambers. In the center of the group was a tall, graceful figure in immaculate beige.
Even the reporters kept a respectful distance. Cressida's silvery hair was gathered in a loose bun at her neck. In the strong light, she looked tired, beautiful, and fragile. Her eyes-pale blue, distant-fell on Quill and Meg. She nodded slightly in their direction. The reporters - two of whom Quill recognized as national anchors for evening news programs - turned as if they were one body. Jerry held up his hand in warning. Video cameras whirred, a few cameras flashed. Cressida bent her neck like a swan and said something in a sorrowful tone.
"Cressida's claim is," Jerry said sarcastically, "that you two older women were after the boys' fortune. That this whole kidnapping thing with Taylor was a set-up."
"You're kidding!" Quill said.
"Come in here." He took a key from his pocket and unlocked a side door set unobtrusively midway down the hall. They entered what was apparently a small interrogation room. There were three metal chairs, a square wood table, and bars on the window in the wall.
"The Houghton family is going to try to twist this around to say that we're responsible for Verger Taylor's kidnapping?" Meg said. "Whew! That takes a lot of nerve."
"Takes a lot of money," said Jerry. "But it's not going to work."
"Not going to work?" Meg exploded. "Of course it's not going to work! It's a huge lie!"
"Doesn't mean the defense isn't going to be successful." He looked at them with deeply cynical eyes. "We've got the whole business on videotape, of course. From the drop and the newspapers spilling out to the Taylor kids ramming your boat. There's some great footage of Evan grabbing your hair, Quill, and trying to keep you underwater. Cressy and her lawyers are going to have a tough time defending that."
Meg grabbed Quill's hand and squeezed it hard. "I guess I missed that."
"There's also some good footage of Meg ramming Luis Mendoza's boat into the pier." Jerry laughed silently and shook his head.
"Hah," said Quill. "I don't want to hear another word about my driving."
"Okay," said Meg, uncharacteristically subdued. "There's got to be more evidence than the videotape, Jerry." Quill ran her fingers through her hair. It was still damp.
"There's the money itself. The twenty thousand dollars that was missing from Verger's office. Evan had it stored in an identical tote in the back of his closet. But..."
A tap on the door interrupted him. He frowned. The woman Quill had seen with him the night before - his partner, Quill guessed - came in and shut the door be- hind her. She gave Quill a brief, angry glance.
"I've already ticked them off about interfering with the investigation, Trish," Jerry said. "And you have to admit that without them, we wouldn't have a charge that would stick."
"We do now," Trish said. "Corrigan just confessed. He says he and Evan staged the break-in to look like a home invasion and shot Verger Taylor twice in the chest with a thirty-eight pistol.
"Where the hell's the body?" Jerry asked.
"That's just it, Jer. He claims they left the body there. Went back to their mother's at seven o'clock and waited for the Quilliams to join them for dinner. Corrigan says he has no idea what happened to Verger's body, and that the kidnapping came entirely from left field."
"What does Evan say?" Quill asked.
"He denies everything. Says his brother was coerced." Her lips twisted. "We've got the confession on tape, Jer. And goddammit, the kid's lawyer was right there. Protesting like anything, but the kid just went on blurting and blurting. We've got 'em. I think we've got 'em. Of course, the thing we all want to know now is...
Jerry grunted, then said, "Where the hell is Verger Taylor?"
-13-
The hammering on the front door finally stopped. Meg put her coffee down and said, "Remember that little dead raccoon we found in the woods when I was six?"
They'd drawn the blinds down over the French doors and all the windows in the condo. The reporters had arrived in force before the sun was up. Luis didn't get to work until eight. They were barricaded until he could arrive to drive them away.
Quill didn't have to think very hard. The dead raccoon had been Meg's first sight of death. "Yeah."
"All the black flies over it."
"It was October, Meg. I told you that flies are part of a grand plan to..."
"Those so-called journalists are just like' em. The black flies."
"More like Nazis on Krystallnacht," Quill grumbled. "We can't answer the phone, we can't go out, we can't even see what kind of weather's outside, and don't tell me to turn on the weather channel. I hate the weather channel."
"You can't hate a whole channel."
"Well, I do. And the whole state of Florida, as well."
"Hate the whole state of New York, instead," Meg advised. "That's where the snowstorm is that's delayed Myles and Doreen."
"That's what we need, Doreen and her mop. She'd take care of that bozo from the Inquirer in two seconds flat."
"Well, I'm going to make us a fabulous breakfast. You're just suffering from post-near death syndrome. All those endorphins were coursing through your system like mad and then, wham. Big letdown."
The phone had been ringing when they'd walked in the door at one o'clock that morning. Every time Quill plugged the phones back into the jacks, it started again. A flotilla of TV, radio, magazine, and newspaper reporters were pursuing Cressida Houghton's version of Verger Taylor's disappearance: that Meg and Quill, intruders from up North and spumed fortune hunters to boot, had deci
ded to involve her innocent sons in a heinous crime committed by persons unknown. Quill caught about three minutes of the early-morning news and switched the television off.
It was now a little after seven. She'd talked to Myles twice, once last night and again this morning. At nine, she'd call Tiffany to beg off the rest of the week. They'd return the money. As soon as the Syracuse airport opened, they'd leave. Quill had never wanted to go home as much in her life.
The doorbell chimed softly. Quill gritted her teeth. Meg was making an omelet Suzette, with orange slices and Cointreau. Fresh scones were in the oven. She'd peeled and sliced sections of fresh grapefruit, which she'd filched from a tree outside the condo the day before.
"Looks delicious," Quill said, ignoring the bell with an effort.
"Those bells are driving me crazy."
"They'll stop eventually. Whoever it is is pretty polite. There's only been two short rings so far."
"Just answer it, Quill, will you? Tell them go away. Say no comment, all that stuff. But tell them to stop ringing the damn doorbell. If they don't, we'll call the police."
"Who, since they are really, really happy with our interference in their case last night, will be delighted to help us out." Quill smoothed her hair behind her ears and put on a pleasant expression. Channel 7 had run the videotapes they'd taken the night before on the morning news. She'd looked like a drowned rat. Moreover, a drowned rat with a very bad temper. If she was going to be photographed without her consent, she might as well look dignified and presentable.
She reached the front door and opened it with a sigh. "Sorry," she said. "No comment." There was the expected crowd of reporters and the obligatory flashbulbs in her face, but out of the babble came two absolutely dignified and presentable figures: Bea Gollinge and Birdie McIntyre.
"Sorry to trouble you, dear. May we come in?" Birdie said. She was wearing a khaki skirt and a fresh white cotton blouse with a bow. The pearl earrings in her ears were large baroque drops. Quill would have bet a year's pay that they were genuine Renaissance.
"My goodness. Yes, of course. How nice to see you." Bea snorted. She was wearing freshly pressed jeans and a T-shirt that read CARPE TEDIUM: SONGS FROM THE FORTIES FOR THOSE IN THE NINETIES. A red golf cap shaded her eyes. "I'm sure it's not nice at all, given the adventure you had last night." She turned and raked the clamoring journalists with a fierce stare. "And considering what you are enduring this morning. But Bea and I felt we should talk to you as soon as possible."
Quill led them to the kitchen counter and offered coffee. Meg cast a quick glance over her shoulder and added four more eggs to the omelet she was whipping.
"Hi, guys. Love the T-shirt, Bea. How's about some breakfast?"
"We couldn't possibly," Birdie said. "What are you making?"
"It's an omelet Suzette. I use heavy cream, eggs, sweet butter, and Suzette sauce. Quill, could you get the chafing dish out? And get the scones from the oven, will you? They're about" - the oven timer chimed - "ready."
Birdie looked hungry. "Now, omelets. Omelets are low in calories, Bea."
"Not with heavy cream and sweet orange glaze, they're not," Bea said brusquely. "But I'm not going to pass up the offer of a meal from Chef Meg."
"It would be rude, wouldn't it?" said Birdie with a pleased air. "Can we help?"
"Why don't you set that table over there for four, pour some cranberry juice, and sit down. This'll be ready in three minutes. If Quill gets the chafing dish heated."
There was a pleasant bustle in the kitchen. Birdie and Bea found place mats, napkins, and exclaimed critically over the sterling flatware. (It was Gorham.) Quill lighted the Sterno under the chafing dish, put out the scones, and began to feel less like an alien and more at home for the first time since she'd come to Florida. The widows sat down at one end of the ornately carved dining room table and waited for Meg to make her omelet.
"Marvelous," Bea said, nibbling the scone. "Cranberry, is it?"
"And raisin," Meg said. "Lot of sweet stuff this morning. Quill needs the energy. Put a trivet or something under the chafing dish, Quill, and bring it to the table. And I need the tray with the brandy, oranges, and sugar." She talked as she poured a quarter cup of the egg mixture into the heated pan and watched it puff up, carefully pulling the edges away from the rim with a wooden spatula. She flipped it with an expert twist of her wrist, waited a moment, then slid the omelet onto a plate. "You've heard about what happened last night."
"We certainly did," said Birdie. "That's why we're here." She accepted the omelet, took a bite, and beamed. "We were right, Bea."
"I was right, you mean. I was the one with the idea." She watched closely as Meg sprinkled powdered sugar over her eggs. "Little more than that, dear. That's fine. Thank you. You see" - she turned to Quill - "we want you and Meg to take over the institute."
"That's very kind of you, Bea," said Quill. "But Meg and I are going home. As soon as I tell Tiffany we're resigning."
"You're getting ahead of the game, Bea," Birdie said. "Typical of you. Now you two listen to me." She put her fork down. "Verger's disappearance has made a considerable difference in things."
"His death was a terrible, terrible thing," Quill said. "His own sons. It's hard to believe, but..."
"Oh, you're not one of those who believes that non- sense about Corrigan killing him?" Bea crumbled a bit of scone with one hand. "The police coerced that confession from him, poor boy."
"He always was a fragile child," Birdie added. Meg set her omelet in front of her and began on Quill's serving. "Thank you, dear. Do you remember how much trouble Cressy had with him when it was time to send him to school?"
"Wait just a cotton-pickin' minute." Meg shut the Sterno off with a snap of the lid. "You think the police coerced that confession?"
"Well, of course they did! After a good night's sleep, I the poor boy came to his senses. He's under the care of a psychiatrist now. Cressy's simply frantic."
"I'll just bet." Meg dumped Quill's omelet - without the sauce - onto her plate.
"Meg," Quill said.
"Hush. Eat your eggs." She scowled at Birdie. "This is the same poor boy who tried to ram our boat and sink us last night out on the water. The same poor boy who held the boat as steady as he could so that his creep of a brother could try to drown my sister! Fragile? Mentally ill? That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard in my life." She eyed Quill's plate. "That omelet's raw."
"I don't want it right now, anyway." Quill shoved the plate away. "So this is the story, is it? This is how the Taylor boys are explaining their attempt on our lives last night? What about the fact that they substituted newspaper for the real ransom money? They can't explain that away, can they?"
"They thought you were the kidnappers, of course." Birdie took a few sips of cranberry juice. "And that business about newspaper being substituted for the money is nonsense."
"We saw it!" Meg shrieked. "We saw it with our own eyes."
"I'm sure you thought you saw it," Bea said kindly. "No one believes you two would lie on purpose." She looked at them solemnly. "You know they heard from the kidnappers again last night."
"They couldn't have!" Meg said. "There aren't any kidnappers. Verger Taylor's dead."
Bea shook her head slowly. "I don't know what you girls were doing this morning. It was allover the news. The kidnapper called with a second ransom demand. Mr. Hawthorne got the call. He's been Cressy's lawyer for years and, of course, he's unimpeachable."
"We've fallen down the rabbit hole," Quill said to no one in particular. "And what were the kidnappers' demands this time?"
"Nobody knows the details. There's a great deal that's been said, Quill, not that I believe for a minute that the police involving amateurs almost cost two more lives in addition to that poor security guard. But a great deal has been said about how you two almost got those poor boys killed. Of course, it is possible that one of you may have been hurt as well. You two and the Taylor boys, messing around in that awful w
eather last night, each thinking the other was responsible for the tragedy... it's a mercy no one was hurt."
Quill looked at Meg. Meg crossed her eyes, looked at the ceiling, and muttered, "We are not crazy. We are not crazy."
Quill turned to the widows. "We aren't making a bit of headway here. Tell me, Birdie, what do you know about this phone call from the kidnappers?"
"Apparently they were quite upset about the botched delivery last night. And then Verger himself got on the phone, for just a moment, poor man. He said 'they're trying to kill me' and they cut him off, just like that."
Quill opened her mouth, thought the better of it, and shut it again. Birdie continued. "But it was Verger, no question about it. They did one of those voice thingys - what d'ya call 'em, Bea?"
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