"As far as I'm concerned, anyone who offs his old man is crazy as an outhouse rat."
"So you think they did it, too."
"Of course they did it. We haven't even begun to dig into those kids' financial histories, but they owe money all over the place. And there's preliminary evidence that Verger had cut the flow of funds off. So they had a motive, all right."
"Do you think they removed the body?"
"Somebody did."
"So you're pretty sure they have an accomplice," Meg persisted. "Makes sense. I mean, who else would be making those phone calls?" She threw out another piece of bait. "Unless you think that Verger's alive, and that for some reason, he and his kids are involved in an elaborate scam."
"What I think is that you two ought to go shopping. Or out to lunch. Anywhere but here, butting into this investigation. I'm sure you're familiar with the penalties for civilians mixing in with police work?"
"Nope," said Meg pertly. "In all the cases we've been involved in, the police have been glad for our help."
"Uh huh." Jerry refused to be drawn. "Thanks, ladies. Now beat it."
"Ladies. Shopping. Lunch." Meg fumed a few minutes later. "So now what? We find ourselves a lawyer?"
"We find ourselves a lawyer. If he'll talk, we find out who inherits Taylor's money and who's running Taylor Inc. right now. And if the opportunity arises, we explore this business of Murex."
The traffic patterns in south Florida were becoming familiar to Quill. If you got out on the street fairly early - say before seven o'clock - or late, after dark, it was possible to maneuver through the streets in a reasonable period of time. But after nine in the morning and before sunset, the traffic was horrendous. And all the cars had license plates from northern states. In addition to the jams created by sheer volume, most of the out-of-staters didn't seem to know where they were traveling to. Cars pulled U-turns in the middle of the streets, or even stopped, blocking lanes of traffic, while the drivers figured out that they'd missed the bypass to Oklahoma some three streets back. Quill was beginning to feel some sympathy for the hostile bumper stickers on native vehicles.
They inched their way to the offices of Carmichael, Webster, and Ross (offices in New York and Palm Beach) in about the time it would take to have an emergency heart transplant. Although Hurricane Helen still circled off the coast of Africa, the fringes of the weather system made the air sultry, humid, and sticky. Quill pulled the Mercedes over, unsuccessfully tried to find the buttons that raised the top of the convertible, and it took her twenty minutes just to find a break in the traffic flow to reenter the street. By the time Quill pulled into the underground parking lot, both she and Meg were hot, tired, irritable, and very hungry.
"I still say we should have called ahead," Meg said in the elevator. Quill, silently blessing the air conditioning, didn't reply until they reached the fourth floor and entered the carpeted hallway to the attorney's offices.
Then she said, "Five bucks gets you ten that Carmichael will drop whatever he's doing to see us. And if we get him to talk, who knows what kind of information he'll drop? We'll just tell him we've got a book deal. That'll start anybody blabbing these days. Especially a lawyer."
Meg clicked her tongue. "Cynical, cynical."
The offices of Carmichael, Webster, and Ross had the hush of expensive construction. The pale blue carpets were thick. The gleaming rosewood desk of the receptionist was hand-carved. Pale blue suede covered the walls and - as everywhere in Florida - expensive silk flower bouquets covered most available surfaces.
The receptionist was an icy blonde: slim, tanned, with streaked hair that fell in calculated confusion over her shoulders. She was wearing a neat little black suit, which, if Quill hadn't seen the real thing on Birdie McIntyre, would have passed for a Chanel in bright light. She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow when Meg and Quill came in the glass door. "Can I help you?"
"We'd like to see Mr. Carmichael."
"Mr. Carmichael is in a meeting." Her eyes flicked over Quill's cotton dress (seventy-nine ninety-five at Kaufmann's) and Meg's skirt and blouse (with Meg, who knew?). There was a distinct edge of disdain to her voice. "Can I ask the nature of your business?"
"I'm Sarah Quilliam. This is my sister, Margaret. We were friends of the um... of Mr. Verger Taylor."
Both eyebrows went up. "Oh! Not the two women who..." She smiled professionally. "Will you have a seat? I'll see if Mr. Carmichael can be interrupted. He was up all night with this business. He just came in."
She returned, the iciness thawed to at least, Quill judged, sleet, if not above freezing. "It is a matter of some urgency, I presume."
"Yes."
"Then Mr. Carmichael can fit you in. Just for a few minutes. Now, if you don't mind, we just need a little information for our records. If I could ask you a few questions?" She took a clipboard from the comer of the desk and handed it to Quill. It was a questionnaire. The first lines asked the usual questions: name, address, social security number; the remainder looked like an application for a credit card with no limits.
Meg looked over Quill's shoulder, snorted, and said, "Can't you just input this directly? We'll have to write. You'll have to rekey. It'll save some of Mr. Carmichael's time if you open the file up on your server."
"Well." She hesitated and cast a quick look at the office door behind her, which read FRANKLIN CARMICHAEL in gold letters. "Sure." She turned to the key- board on her desk. It was, Quill saw, part of a larger Unix system. She was vaguely aware that this meant the offices in Palm Beach were systems-connected to those in New York.
"You don't mind if we come around to your side of the desk?" Meg said, doing just that. "It'll take less time if we input for you."
She ushered them into the attorney's office a few minutes later. From the crumpled paper in the wastebasket and the smell of onions in the air, Quill guessed that Mr. Carmichael had been meeting with a hoagie. A bag of carrot sticks lay on the top of the desk. Empty foil packets of nicotine gum littered the floor. He was wearing yet another three-piece pin-striped suit that must have been miserably hot in any temperature higher than sixty-five degrees.
He rose from behind his desk and extended both hands. "Miss Quilliam and Miss Quilliam. My sympathies. My profoundest sympathies."
"We didn't know Verger Taylor all that well," said Meg. "So you can save your sympathies. What we're interested is in saving ourselves. It's why we are here."
"I see. Please, ladies, sit down." He indicated a cranberry leather-covered couch in the corner. Quill sat close enough to Meg to pinch her knee and shut her up, if necessary. Carmichael settled across from them in a matching leather wing chair with brass nailhead edging.
"We find ourselves in need of counsel," Quill said. "Before he... that is, before all this happened, Verger spoke highly of you. Very highly."
"Oh?"
Meg's elbow nudged sharply into her side; Verger Taylor hadn't spoken of anyone very highly. "To be candid, he spoke of you with less... um... disapprobation than of others. Besides, we've met before. We trust you."
Carmichael's teeth gleamed in a brief, insincere smile. He shifted the piece of gum in his mouth. "That sounds more like Verger."
"As you may know, we're far from home here, and l. the events of the last couple days have been confusing. Very confusing." Quill waved her hand vaguely. "The reporters. The book deals. Most alarming, we've just come from the police, and there's a strong indication, Mr. Carmichael, that we may be investigated, too."
"Ah." Carmichael steepled his fingers and nodded. "Book deals?"
"And other deals. That's our second concern. Meg, as you may know, is a talented chef."
"Two-star," Meg said pathetically. "I had hoped for the third at tomorrow night's banquet - but..." She trailed off, looking vulnerable.
"And, to get to the point, we've received an offer this morning that's interesting. Most interesting."
"From a publisher?"
"Well, that, of course. But Meg and I dis
cussed it, and we feel strongly that we need some representation. Some protection in the weeks and months that are to follow."
He nodded benignly. The blonde tapped at the office door, walked in, and laid a computer printout of the questionnaire on Mr. Carmichael's desk. His eyes dropped to the bottom of the sheet, which, as Quill was well aware, carried the information about the Quilliam estate's net worth.
He frowned. Quill was annoyed. She'd tripled her salary and quadrupled Meg's, in the certainty that by the time Carmichael checked on their references, they'd be back in New York. She hadn't counted on the Ethernet system.
"The publicity about this case," Quill said, "is already enormous. The reporters outside our door this morning are already talking about this as the Trial of the Century."
Carmichael's face cleared slightly. He began to look very interested.
"And, of course, we're finding ourselves at odds with the Houghton family. We thought that if you had represented Mr. Taylor, you wouldn't be scared of taking them on." This, Quill thought, was absolutely true. However slick and money-grubbing Mr. Carmichael seemed, he was at least a tough cookie. She did her best to look helpless and feminine.
"At odds in what way?"
"This morning, we received a very lucrative offer to run the Florida Institute for Fine Food for an interim period." Quill thought about the proposed "salary," doubled it, and told him.
He smiled. "And this offer seems to you... what?"
"In the nature of a bribe," Meg said bluntly. "Although it's not enough of one, I must say. It doesn't come close to the money we've been offered for the - ah -book."
"Ah. The book. Well. There's no doubt. No doubt at all that you both are in need of - if I may say so in these enlightened days - a strong arm to protect you."
"You may," Meg said sweetly.
"So if we can arrange a suitable retainer, we can get started on the protection right away."
"A retainer," Quill said, dismayed. "How much..."
Mr. Carmichael frowned. Clearly, the vulgar discussion of amount would be handled by Miss Ice. "I'm afraid until that's settled, we'll have to reserve any discussion that might be considered confidential."
Quill was silent for a moment, trying to figure how much they could afford to pay for information about Verger Taylor.
"The thing is," Meg said, "we find ourselves a bit short. Before Verger - um, whatever - he'd recommended a stock buy for us and we went ahead and invested most of our available cash in it."
"A stock tip? You invested your savings based on a stock tip?"
"Mr. Carmichael," said Meg earnestly, "who in their right mind would turn down a stock tip from Verger Taylor? We discussed it with Bea and Birdie, of course, before we wrote the check, and they thought it was a good idea."
"Mrs. Gollinge and Mrs. McIntyre? You know them?
What was the stock Verger advised you to purchase, if I may ask?"
"As our attorney, I'm sure it's all right for you to know. It was Murex."
"Murex?" He frowned. "What kind of game is this, anyway? Verger never would've advised you to buy Murex. He hated the whole deal. He was about to..."
He looked at them for a moment, then rose. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you ladies to leave. I don't know what you're playing at, but you won't play it here, if you please."
"Meg, you idiot!" said Quill, who had been mentally applauding Meg' s cleverness in inserting Murex into the conversation. "It wasn't Mr. Taylor, it was Mr. Kolsacker, speaking for Mr. Taylor."
Puzzled, but game, Meg said, "My gosh, so it was. And it was at my cooking class, too. How could I have forgotten?"
"Ernst advised you to buy Murex." Carmichael sat down again. "That I can believe. Although I don't recall that conversation."
"It was while you were boiling the rabbit carcass," Meg said. "You were very absorbed in how to boil the rabbit carcass. I have very few students with your abilities, Mr. Carmichael. I can assure you. You have the makings of a very fine cook."
"Hm." Carmichael looked pleased. "Well. Ernst and Verger were squabbling over that company from day one. And it just goes to show you. The one good thing about Verger's disappearance is that Ernst stands to make a lot of money from Murex." He smiled broadly and snapped his Nicorette. "And of course, so do you."
-14-
"So what do you think?" Meg asked as they were once again battling the traffic.
"I think he's having a tough time quitting smoking." Quill gasped, braked, and narrowly avoided colliding with a blue Taurus that had cut into her lane without warning.
"What time is it?"
"Lunch," Quill said. "I hope we get there in time for lunch."
A white Chevy Lumina began backing up in front of the Mercedes. Quill laid on the horn. The woman in the driver's seat looked around, waved apologetically, and continued to back up.
"What the heck?" Quill muttered. "I think she wants that right turn back there." Meg thrust her thumb over her shoulder. "Better let her go."
Quill decided that if she kept on expecting traffic here to conform to minimal rules of common sense, she was going to work herself into an overnight stay at Dr. Bittern's clinic. She stopped; allowed the Lumina to back up, make a U-turn, and head in the opposite direction; then shifted into drive. She patted the Mercedes' dashboard in sympathy. "So, how far have we gotten here? I don't think we did all that well."
"We learned that Ernst profited from the rise in Murex stock, and that the stock wouldn't have gone up if Verger had been around to force the sale. I think that's critical. Critical."
"I wonder how much money Ernst made?"
"We can find out."
"How?"
Meg smiled. She patted her skirt pocket on and said, "Luis."
"Luis? What about... damn!" She slammed on the brakes, laid on the horn, then waved and smiled weakly as a pair of senior citizens crossed four lanes of traffic on PGA Boulevard with their little dog.
"Luis and his computer. You know that printout of our references for Carmichael's file?"
"Yeah."
"It's got his E-mail address. His IP/PC code. And they cross-index files by birth dates, Quill. Carmichael's got all of Verger's financial stuff, right? Luis can get us into those files. We can find out exactly how much money Ernst made."
"So we bag the good doctor?"
"Oh, no. I'm dying to see what this therapy session's like. Aren't you? If we hurry, we'll just make it. And then we'll pay a visit to Luis the hacker."
"Hurry? I was hoping you'd say that." Quill slammed on the brakes; laid on the horn; and swung a wide, wide right turn onto PGA from the farthest left lane, leaving a horde of angry motorists screaming in her wake.
"Gotcha," she said. "That felt good."
Meg still wasn't speaking to her when she pulled into the parking lot at the Combers Beach Club. She slipped the key card into the security machine at the gate, drove slowly and carefully to Luis's office door, and shifted into neutral with the gentlest of movements.
"We're here," she said brightly.
Meg opened the passenger side door and got out. Luis waved to her through his front window. She waved back.
"Meg? Meggie? I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. All that traffic, being patient. It just got to me."
"Taxis," said Meg flatly. "Taxis, taxis, taxis."
Quill asked what she thought was not an unreasonable question. "How can detectives take taxis?"
"Then I'll drive."
"Meg, you drive like a potato. You are totally inert when you drive."
"At least we're breathing when we get to wherever we're going. Hey, Luis. How's it going?"
"Not so good," Luis admitted. He opened the driver's-side door for Quill and took her place when she I got out.
"You don't look very well," Quill said. She bent over and peered at him. "A little pale. Are you feeling okay?"
He shrugged. "My heart is sad." He turned the ignition on and raised one hand in a forlorn way.
"Luis?" Meg sa
id. "We've got a new chapter for you for your book. We need you to help us hack into a computer system."
"No book," he said.
"No book?" Quill looked sympathetic. "I'm sorry. But I hear these sorts of things fall through a lot. Another publisher may come along."
"I don't believe so." His accent, which had been only slightly Hispanic in the discussions Quill had had with him, had deepened. "I had visitors, you understand? There are people who would not like this book. People who tell me if I want to stay in this country, I must not help with this book. So I do not."
Death Dines Out Page 20
