Death Dines Out

by Claudia Bishop

  "What about yesterday?" Meg, still pale, had said only one thing on the drive home from the interview with Linda Longstreet: that she hoped Verger Taylor was dead, and preferably had died slowly.

  " 'Board meeting at institute'-he was there, lucky me. 'Concorde and D.' Who's D? 'Kill Murex' scheduled for three P.M. Who or what is Murex?"

  "A company, I think," said Meg. "Wait a second. Let me get the Palm Beach Post. It's got the stock listings."

  "Since when do you read the stock listings? Is that in between snatches of the weather channel? You're becoming a true Floridian, Meg. Next you'll be getting one of those icky little dogs."

  "No, stupid. If Murex is a publicly traded company, it'll be in there. That's all. As a matter of fact-we've got the last three days of the Post, don't we?"

  "In the wicker basket in the den," Quill said. "Bring a paper and pencil when you come back, will you? I want to write this stuff down. Then we should give Jerry a call and turn the book over to him."

  Tuesday had been a fairly light day for Verger. There'd been a lunch meeting with "D," apparently from the Concorde, then "D" had returned to the airport and Verger had executed Murex at three. There was a short meeting with E. K. - which was easy, Ernst Kolsacker - then nothing until nine P.M., which was noted "C. and E., Au Bar."

  "Well, he didn't make that date," Quill mused aloud. Meg brought the business sections of the newspaper out on the terrace, her cheeks pink. "Now this is interesting, Quill. Murex was trading at six and a quarter on Monday, and jumped to eight and three quarters on Tuesday."

  "There's reasons for Verger making his pile of money," Quill said. "How come we can't make money like that?"

  "Because we don't play the market. Now, look at today's paper. Murex is down ninety percent. That's a lot. That's very unusual. That's something the SEC would look at."

  "So we check that out." Quill started to scribble notes on the pad of paper Meg had brought. "I wonder how far back we should go with this?"

  Meg didn't answer.

  "Meg, I asked you..." She looked up. "What's the matter?"

  "Look at this." She thrust yesterday's paper at Quill. "It's the section on bridge?"

  "Look at the account of the tournament at the Palm Beach Polo Club yesterday."

  "Oh, ugh, Meg. I like bridge, but reading scores is boring."

  "Not this one. Read it."

  COUPLE SET TOURNAMENT RECORD

  In an excitedly fought series of rubbers at the Palm Beach Polo Club today, Luellen Barstow and Frank Barstow of Fairhaven, Connecticut, set local yachtsman David Young and his partner three thousand points. Playing North/ South, the Barstows scored a doubled no trump grand slam for a record two thousand six hundred points in the third rubber, setting East/West.

  Quill stopped reading. She set the paper on the table, slowly. "The bridge scores in Cressida Houghton's game room."

  "Copied right from that reproduction of the score." Meg's face was grim. "So the boys would have an alibi."

  "Oh, my God." Quill shivered in the warmth. "No. Meg. It's not possible."

  "Sure, it's possible. Remember the Menendez brothers."

  "There's got to be another explanation." Quill took a couple of deep breaths. "For one thing-and it's the most obvious-we were there when the call from the kidnappers came through. And even if those boys are good actors, Meg, there was no question that both of them were in shock."

  "Easy enough to have an accomplice. Maybe it was even Cressida Houghton herself."

  "No." Quill shook her head decisively. "This can't be. Other than the fact that Verger was - is? - a bottom line sort of bozo, why would the boys want to have him kidnapped?"

  "Corrigan said it himself-they don't have any money. So far, they're the only offspring, right?"

  "Right."

  "And Verger was going to marry a third time - to a nineteen-year-old, who is presumably fertile."

  "But, Meg, there is no way that those two were pre- tending shock last night. No way."

  "I agree with you. Maybe they had an accomplice and the accomplice screwed up."

  "If they had an accomplice, they wouldn't need an alibi, would they? The accomplice could have done the whole thing. Or two accomplices, since the maid saw two men in arctic masks struggling with Taylor."

  Meg looked cross. "Okay. No accomplice. The boys shoot Verger, staging the murder to look like a home invasion. Their sainted mother, the one and only Cressida Houghton, gives them an alibi that no jury in America is going to question..."

  "It seems pretty thin to me," Quill objected.

  "Yeah. And so was O. J. Simpson's. Justice is this country is frequently for those who can buy it, Quill."

  "I hardly think..."

  "That's what you're doing. Hardly thinking. They've got an alibi from Cressida. And of course, the rest of the evening, there's us."

  "Okay. Let's assume this is possible. Possible, not probable, that Evan and Corrigan kidnapped and/or murdered their father and somehow both of them have enough acting ability to convince us that their grief is genuine. Let's say they even taped and recorded the kidnapper's call, so they'd get it while the police were there. Verger Taylor's worth a lot more than a hundred thousand dollars. Why the piker's fee for the kidnapping? If Taylor's alive and it's a real kidnapping, why not ask for ten times that much? His estate can certainly afford it. And if he's dead - why ask for a hundred thousand dollars at all? Why not just let the body be discovered?"

  "You've raised some good questions," Meg admitted.

  "Good questions? It's an entire bloody defense. And the only evidence you have to convict is the score to a bridge game."

  "What are the odds on two doubled no trump grand slams being played within fifteen miles of each other on exactly the same day?"

  "Very small," Quill admitted. "I'd say they're nonexistent."

  "Which is actually a point in Cressida's favor, Meg. I mean, why take such a risk?"

  "You can bet there won't be any grand masters on the jury. Besides, she may have been in a panic, and let's face it, Quill. She's beautiful, and cultivated, and the closest thing America's got to aristocracy, but she's not a rocket scientist."

  "That's true." Quill leaned back in the lounge chair and sighed heavily. "Okay. So I suppose we call Jerry, give him the appointment book, and make a statement about the bridge scores. He's going to think we're nuts."

  "He won't think we're nuts." Meg bit worriedly at a fingernail. "He'll follow up. If he didn't know Myles, yeah, he might think we're nuts and drop it, and then we could go home in good conscience. Or reasonably good conscience. But he won't, Quill. And what if we're wrong?"

  "We've been wrong before. Maybe we're wrong now. Actually, I'm with Myles on this one. I don't really want to get involved. To tell you the truth, these types of people scare me to death."

  "That's the biggest problem, isn't it?" Meg said quietly. "If we are wrong, one word, just one word from Cressida Houghton could destroy the inn. Permanently. We'd never get any business, not the type that can afford our prices."

  "We can't ignore this."

  "No. We can't." She sat straight up with a yelp of excitement and said, "What we can do is witness the money drop."

  This appealed to Quill, who, like Ratty, loved messing about in boats. "And see who picks the money up? Okay," she said thoughtfully. "We conceal ourselves near the number nine buoy as what, fishermen or something?"

  "Sure. That little boat of Luis's is out there all the time. So are half a dozen other people. It'd look abnormal if no one was out night fishing."

  "So we're fishing and fishing and Evan and Corrigan come out, tie the waterproof bag to the buoy, and then what?"

  Meg shrugged. "Who ,knows? I don't think there's going to be a pick-up. I think Evan and Corrigan are going to fake it."

  "And if we're wrong? And this is a real kidnapping?"

  "My best guess is that the pick-up will be a diver. It'd be too easy for the police to pick up a boat and follow whoev
er's in it back to shore. If there's a pick-up."

  "And if there is a pick-up, we let it happen, right? No funny stuff with trying to capture whomever it is."

  "Of course not. I don't like Verger Taylor any more than anyone else, but if this is a real kidnapping, r m not going to be responsible for his extremities being carved off and sent through the mail. Ugh." Meg shuddered. "Gross. So, let's go rent a boat."

  "We're going to need more than a boat, Meg. We're going to need a disguise, a pair of infrared binoculars so we can watch what happens at a safe distance, and some fishing gear. But first, let's talk to Luis."

  -12-

  "I'll just bet there are policemen allover this complex," Meg said. She was wearing an old straw hat over a long black wig, a battered pair of espadrilles, and a baggy cotton shirt, all borrowed from Luis on the pretext of a scavenger hunt. She'd rolled the bottoms up on Quill's second-best pair of khakis and rubbed them liberally with dirt. Quill had tucked her hair under a cheap navy captain's hat. She was sweltering in a gray sweatshirt and jeans. She'd picked up dark tan makeup at the same shop in which Meg had purchased the wig and covered her face and hands. Both of them had gotten costumed too early. They were waiting for nightfall, seated on the leather couch, looking out at the ocean.

  "I'm turning the air conditioning on," Quill said. "I can't stand this." She got up and closed the French doors, then set the wall thermostat on cold.

  "I hate air conditioning," Meg complained. "I feel like Spam in a Tupperware container in air conditioning."

  "Tough." Quill tugged at her hair and wound one strand around her finger. "The ocean looks quiet, at least." Heavy, oily swells had been coming in all day. She walked to the doors and peered out, scanning the horizon anxiously. "Do those look like cumulonimbus clouds to you?"

  "Like what?"

  "Cumulonimbus clouds. It's what shows up just be- [ore a hurricane. 'Dark, heavy-looking clouds rising like mountains high into the atmosphere, often showing an anvil-shaped veil of false cirrus clouds at the top.' "

  "You've been watching the weather channel."

  "While you were in the shower. How come you took a shower before the fishing trip?"

  Meg, who was scrabbling through a bright-red tackle box (also borrowed from Luis), held up a spoon-shaped lure. "Why not? Hey, do you think we might catch anything?"

  "Not with that. Luis said there's mainly mullet in the bay. You need a net for mullet. Check those clouds out, Meg."

  "No. We're going maybe a quarter mile off the channel into the bay. We've got a nice little motor on that boat and a pair of nice little oars in case the motor fails. We'll have plenty of time to come back to shore if the wind comes up. If bad weather's corning, I don't want to know about it."

  "There is a rain forecast for later on. It's the edge of Hurricane Helen."

  "Shut up." She dumped the infrared binoculars they'd purchased at the tackle shop out of the shopping bag. "Do you suppose these things work?"

  "If they don't we'll have spent a whole bunch of time m the water for nothing. We won't be able to see a thing in the dark. They upgraded Hurricane Helen to a three. That's winds of..."

  "Shut up!" Meg stored the binoculars next to the lure, closed the tackle box with a snap, and picked up he pair of rods. (They'd been rented from Luis for ten bucks each. He hadn't believed Quill when she said she wouldn't drop it over the side. Meg had made Quill pay him - if he hadn't seen her drive, she'd said, they would have gotten the rods for free.) She crossed to the French doors and peered over Quill's shoulder. "Those are plain old cumulus clouds. They've shown up like that every afternoon we've been here."

  "There's been a hurricane forecast every afternoon we've been here."

  "Let's go fishing." She went to the front door, opened it, and Quill followed her out.

  Luis was waiting for them at the kiosk. Meg broke into a flood of voluble, cheerful Spanish, for the benefit of anyone who might be watching.

  "Cara Luis! Buenas tardes! Comme ca va!"

  "That's French, you dufus," Quill muttered. "It's como 'sta."

  Quill could almost feel Jerry Fairchild's furious eyes boring into her back. Her disguise wouldn't have fooled Myles for a minute. She wasn't entirely sure where Jerry and his people had concealed themselves - but she knew they must be allover the complex. She was just as sure that he didn't dare come out and stop the two of them from going out in the boat. The risk to Verger Taylor - if he was still alive - was too great.

  Luis - used, perhaps, to the vagaries of the rich - blinked several times at the way they looked, but offered no comment. He hadn't wondered at their interest in the number nine buoy, either, just printed out a channel locater map on his PC. He led them past the pool and down to the breakwater, where his little boat lay gently bobbing in the swells.

  "Sixteen feet," he said proudly. "Belonged to my grandfather."

  "She's beautiful," Quill said. The name of the craft was printed neatly on the gunwale: The Verity. "Did he name her?"

  Luis nodded. "He was an avacato. In Cuba. Pre-Castro. Batista, you understand. He did not survive. What are you fishing for?"

  "Mullet," said Meg. "We want mullet. Have you got a mullet net?"

  Luis pointed to a pile of green cord folded under the seat in the center of the boat. He seemed slightly reassured when Quill expertly started the little thirty-five horse motor after she hopped into the boat, and waved them genially off the shore.

  The Verity took the heavy swells with ease. Quill kept her right hand on the tiller and her left on the throttle. There were three other boats on the water near the number nine and number twelve buoys out in the channel. Quill had seen two of them several times before: the twenty-two-foot Chris-Craft had a solo occupant, a grizzled old man who spat tobacco over the side with stolid regularity; the eighteen-foot Welbilt carried a honeymoon couple who spent a lot of time horizontal under the gunwales. The third was an Osprey day sailer Quill hadn't seen before. She was willing to bet that the Palm Beach County police didn't use blonde, teenaged girls in brief bikinis as undercover agents. Although anything was possible.

  She opened the throttle and increased her speed, looking back to the shore. The waves slapped smartly against the bow, and the breeze was cool. From the rapidity with which Luis's figure dwindled in size, she figured she was going about thirty miles an hour.

  "Slow down!" Meg shrieked. "I want to fish!" Quill throttled back and looked for a good spot to cut the motor and drift. She look for the dimpled ripples in the water that meant a school of mullet was swimming by. The swells were deeper out here. The boat rose steeply, then slid down the far side of the rising water with an eerie slowness. There was an absence of pelicans.

  Quill cut the throttle out and then drifted for a moment. The silence was not complete. From their vantage point - about halfway to the number nine buoy - they could see all the way down the beach. The high-rise condominiums and village mansions on Ocean Boulevard were distant, but noise carried over the water: radios, the shriek and chatter of a party, the thrum of traffic. To her right-or starboard, Quill thought - was the long, pleasant beach of Singer Island with its hotels. Ahead lay the Atlantic. They really were at sea, at the edge of the Atlantic, and beyond that - " Algeria!" Quill shouted. "Whoop! You want to head due east?"

  "I want to fish!" Quill looked over the side. The water changed beyond here to a deep, navy blue. If they drifted farther out, it'd be too deep for mullet. She debated about casting the anchor; it would slow their drift and the wind out here was quite brisk. She shaded her eyes against the sun and scanned the water. No evidence of mullet yet. The old man in the Chris-Craft was about three hundred yards to port. He spat once over the side, gave Quill a malevolent look, and opened his throttle. The boat shot away in a curve of spray.

  "Follow that guy, Quill."

  "Why?"

  "Because every time I've seen him bring his boat in, it's been full of fish. He's obviously a pro."

  The Chris-Craft slowed, thrott
led down, and stopped. Quill, squinting against the light despite her sunglasses, saw him cast his net from the boat with an efficient snap of the wrists. The net floated in an arc, then settled into the water. Leaning over the side, the old man pulled, heaved, and brought up a net full of fish.