Death Dines Out (21 page)

"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 weather 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?"
"They matched the voice over the phone with Verger's voice on a tape and the little thingys matched. The sound waves."
Meg gathered the plates up in a careless heap and stamped into the kitchen. Quill pulled thoughtfully at her lower lip. "'They tried to kill me?' That's what he said?"
"Yes. We heard the tape ourselves, didn't we, Bea?"
"That part of it, anyway. Mr. Hawthorne gave a press conference very early this morning and they broadcasted live from his home."
"Still in his bathrobe," Birdie said. "He didn't play the whole thing, of course. Said that the whereabouts of this next drop were going to remain secret until Verger was home safe and sound."
Quill couldn't stand it anymore. She leaned forward and touched Bea's hand. "That's what he said at the little speech he made to the board, Bea. Remember? 'They're trying to kill me' or words to that effect."
"Why, so he did," Birdie said.
"I don't remember that, Birdie."
Meg walked the short space from the kitchen to the dining room table and asked, "You think somebody taped it, Quill?"
"I sure do."
Birdie looked at her watch, a Baume-Mercier glittering with chip sapphires. "We've that aerobics class in twenty minutes, Bea. And then the therapy session with Dr. Bittern at noon. Let the girls know why we're here."
"Of course. Well, girls, Verger's disappearance has made a mare's nest of his affairs, as you might imagine."
"Who inherits?" Quill asked.
"That's not the right question," Meg said flatly. "The right question is, who is in control of Taylor Incorporated now?"
"Ernst has full authority," Birdie said, "and he's assured us that everything is going to be handled exactly the way Verger wants it until he gets back."
Meg sat down at the table. "Can Ernst buy and sell any of Taylor's assets?"
"Oh, I don't believe so." Bea looked alarmed at this. "Ernst is a wonderful man, but no one has the talent Verger has. The man's a genius. If Verger's truly gone, then it's time for us to pull our investments out."
"You're selling off your investments in Taylor Incorporated, then?" Meg asked.
"The new ventures, absolutely," said Bea firmly. "That was the very first thing we did last night, after we heard, wasn't it, Birdie? But the existing ones are quite sound, or so Ernst informs me. So we're making no changes there."
Birdie raised her plucked eyebrows. "At any rate, poor Ernst has his hands full, what with trying to do things the way that Verger would want and keeping the empire - that's what Verger always called it, the empire - intact. And he wondered if you two would stay on for a bit. Keep the institute up and running. It's absolute chaos over there-as a matter of fact, that's where Ernst is right now. The place needs a manager, Quill, just for a couple of months. And Chef Jean Paul, Meg, absolutely will not come out of the bread closet."
"What about the chicken people?" Quill asked.
"Oh, that deal wasn't signed. And if it wasn't signed, Ernst said, there's nothing he can do about it. The chicken people are all upset, of course, and as I understand it, Bea, am I right? There was talk of court..."
"Court," Bea echoed. Her mouth was full of brioche.
"... if Ernst doesn't let them occupy the building by a certain date. But that's not going anywhere, Ernst says."
"Let me see if I understand this," Meg said. "As long as Verger is alive, the institute remains in the same state it was in yesterday. That is, no chicken people."
"That's right. And you know who had the idea that you two might help us out for a month or two?" Birdie's eyes were bright. "No, wait. Let me show you what you'll be paid if you accept." She drew a gold Mont Blanc pen from her purse and a pocket notepad. She wrote a number down, then showed it to Meg. "That's each," she said impressively.
Meg tossed the pad to Quill, who took it, read the figure, and managed to keep her face devoid (she hoped) of expression. It was a lot of money.
"Now, guess who made this offer?" Bea said.
"Cressida Houghton," Meg said.
"That's right!" Bea smiled with hope. "So you'll do it? You'll take over pro tern, as it were, until Verger is back at the helm?"
"No other message?" asked Meg sweetly. "From Ms. Houghton, I mean? About not testifying against her poor dear boys? Or dropping the charges of assault and attempted murder? Nothing like that?"
"Of course not." Indignation shook Bea from the top of her dyed brown hair to her Bruno Magli shoes.
"Well, we decline," said Meg. She sprang up and walked rapidly back to the center island. Her lips were a thin line in her rigid face. "Thanks all the same."
"No, we don't," Quill said. "You tell Ms. Houghton that we're seriously considering her offer." She ignored Meg's yelp.
Bea patted Quill's bare ann. Her hand was soft and trembled slightly. Quill, looking at her closely, thought that she and Birdie must be well over seventy. Plastic surgery, laser therapy, vitamins-all those things could disguise the outer envelope. But nothing medicine had come up with yet could change a person's eyes. And Bea's eyes were old.
"We knew you'd help out. Well." She rose from the table with a smile. "Come, Birdie. We'll brave that crowd out there and just make our exercise class, if we're lucky."
"They won't pay any attention to old ladies like us, Bea. Goodbye, girls. Don't get up. We'll see ourselves out. Will you two be here when we get back?"
"Here?" Quill asked blankly.
"The first of Dr. Bob's therapy sessions is going to be here at noon. Isn't it, Bea?"
"That's right."
"Here?" Meg shrieked.
"Tiffany thought it would be best." Birdie's shrewd old eyes twinkled. "The reporters know how to get here, you see. And she made an arrangement with Luis."
"Swell," Meg said darkly. "That's just swell."
"We'll see you then, I hope. Twelve sharp. Come along, Bea."
"Goodbye," Quill said. "Oh, Birdie? Did you happen to catch the name of the psychiatrist treating Corrigan Taylor?"
"Dr. Bittern, of course. He's quite qualified. Quite." Meg waited until the front door had closed, then picked up the dirty plates and threw them one by one, with great precision, against the refrigerator door. Quill watched her, arms folded. When the last plate had smashed, Meg bent over and methodically picked them up and disposed of them in the pail underneath the sink. "There," she said briskly. "Now I feel better. Any ideas about what to do next?"
"Oh, yes," Quill said. "Make a call on Verger Taylor's lawyer and attend Dr. Bittern's therapy session. I want to find out what's behind this bribe. And I'm very interested in Dr. Bittern's future plans."