"Speak to that son of a bitch," Tiffany snarled, coming down the stairs. "Why in the hell would you speak to that son of a bitch?" She reached the foot of the stairs and stretched out her hands to the psychiatrist. "Dr. Bob! Dr. Bob," she wailed. "He's wrecked everything. I knew it. I just knew it."
"He only has the power you give him," Dr. Bittern said, with what Quill thought was a remarkable lack of sense. Verger Taylor seemed to have more power than the nine justices of the Supreme Court put together. "Excelsior will survive. I have a small building for sale right off of the main boulevard on Singer Island. There is a marvelous view of the ocean, and the quiet will be perfect for our clients."
"How in the world am I going to afford that?" Tiffany demanded. She'd shed her protective apron. Her. outfit today consisted of yet another tightly fitted jacket. flared at the hips, and a short skirt. The predominant colors were black and yellow. Like a giant, discontented bee, she walked agitatedly around Quill, then into the Food Gallery. She walked along the walls, tapping restlessly at the glass enclosed exhibits with her sharp red nails. Dr. Bittern followed her - and, as if drawn by a psychic magnet, Quill followed them both. "You don't understand. I've got to abandon my precious Excelsior altogether. Verger's cut off all the funding. All of it."
Dr. Bittern's precise diction dropped away. "What do you mean? Your settlement is more than enough to carry the costs of running the Excelsior."
Tiffany's bright blue eyes avoided his. "There's this little villa in Cannes. Right next to the center of the village. I must have it, Dr. Bob. You understand, don't you? The sea air, the breezes, the vitality of the film festival in March of every year. This will be far, far better for my frame of mind than the clinic." She stopped in front of a butter sculpture of a cow. "You understand, darling Dr. Bob."
"So he's bribed you, too," Dr. Bittern snapped. The lights flickered for a second time that day, once, twice, and then out. Quill could hear his harsh breathing in the dark. He said, "Someone, at some time, is going to give that bastard his just desserts."
A shadow darkened the archway leading to the stairs. Quill heard the snap of gum. "You folks okay in here?"
Franklin Carmichael stood aside and beckoned them back toward the light. "Come on out. I'm afraid that this particular outage is permanent. Verger sent me back here to see if I could straighten things out. It's not precisely within my duties as his attorney... but, there you are."
"Mr. Carmichael?" Quill said. "Dr. Bittern and I were both wondering if you could see your way clear to help Linda keep her job."
Franklin took out his gum, folded it carefully in the little foil packet from which he'd originally taken it, and sighed. "Look, Dr. Bittern, Miss Quilliam. Come to the window here." He beckoned with one finger. Quill and the psychiatrist went to the foot of the stairs leading to the second floor. A large window looked out over the parking lot. "See that truck there? That fellow's delivering three gross of paper napkins; several hundred boxes of plastic knives, forks, and spoons; and a couple gross of plastic cups. To a gourmet facility. The picnic supply company's owned by Mrs. Longstreet's cousin. Now, see that electric truck pulling out of the driveway? That's her brother, Curtis. He's the one who's been doing the electrical work on the building up until now. If you check the food stores and the inventory, you'll find a lot of items this institute wouldn't use in a million years. If you check the bills for electrical repair, you'll find a lot of money going out and very little work to show for it. Are you getting the picture here?"
"But do you know for sure that Linda's intent is criminal?" Quill protested. "I mean, I do the inventory ordering for my sister, and you'd be amazed at the weird things you have to have on hand."
"Two gross of canning jars?"
"Well, maybe, yes. That's a lot of jars, but..."
"Two hundred and eighty-eight, to be precise. Priced at four dollars each. And how many classes in canning? None. Zero. Zip. As Chef Jean Paul so elegantly put it when I questioned him - zis is not ze Betty Crock. And what about one gross of Doritos? Three cartons of Miracle Whip? Skippy peanut butter, Rice Krispies Treats, Stove Top stuffing... I don't need to go on, do I? And what have we got to show for forty thousand dollars' worth of electrician's bills this year? As you see..." He waved one hand at the dark room behind them. "She's been earning a lot more than her salary here, Miss Quilliam. Give Linda Longstreet her job back? I don't think so. At least Verger isn't going to prosecute. I talked him out of that."
"Next stop, drinks and bridge with Cressida Houghton," Meg said. She tossed her tote in the comer of the leather couch in the condo's living room and the Bloomingdale's shopping bag after that. She sat down with a sigh. "What a day. I tell you, Quill. Everything seemed to be going well this morning. Do you know who was; in my class?" She grinned. "Not only Cressida - she asked me to call her Cressida, by the way - but that; actress, Ellen Kale? It was hard to recognize her without all her makeup and stuff. She says she hates being recognized on the street. Those two, plus a couple of women whose net worth could buy a small African country. You know who else came in, after you left? Ernst Kolsacker and Franklin Carmichael. No kidding. Turns out they're avid amateurs. And Ernst was a hoot."
"Until the lights went out."
"Yep. It's going to last a couple of days - so its phhhtt to the cooking classes. But the banquet's still on. This is a great vacation, Quill. Can you believe we had time to go shopping?" She poked at the Bloomingdale's bag with her toe. "What a place Florida is, Quill. I mean, the weather's fantastic. Just fantastic. But did you see those bumper stickers in the parking lot at the mall?"
"The one that said, 'When I get old and sick I'm going to move up north and drive real slow'? Yeah."
"Or how's about my favorite: 'Florida. We love it You leave it.' "
Quill went to the French doors and opened them to the sea breezes. "There's a lot of hostility here."
"I'll say. I wanted to disguise myself as a native. Lie and tell people in a cracker accent that I was born in Okeechobee. And they shoot tourists in Miami."
"I didn't mean that sort of hostility. I meant all the hostility toward Verger Taylor."
"That's nothing new. I think the guy thrives on it."
"Do you know how many people want to get rid of him?"
"Well, Tiffany, for one."
"And Dr. Bittern. And poor Chef Jean Paul. And I overheard Linda Longstreet threatening his life."
"Linda Longstreet? She couldn't threaten a moth with a flyswatter."
"I'm not so sure." Quill curled up in the chair across from her sister. She pulled reflectively at her lip.
Meg lowered her head, raised her eyebrows, and said, "No."
"No, what?"
"I recognize that lip-pulling. It's your investigative detective mode. No corpses. We left all the corpses behind in HeinIock Falls. This stuff is just nice nasty group dynamics."
"I'm not so sure, Meg. If anyone's ever ripe for murder, it's Verger Taylor."
"You said Myles and Doreen are coming in Thursday morning, right?"
"Yes. And I'm sorry Andy's not going to make it. But why did you bring that up now? We've got a nice little murder shaping up here, Meg. I can feel it."
"When Myles and Doreen show up, you'll be too busy to think up reasons why someone is going to murder Verger Taylor."
Quill regarded her curiously. "You aren't sorry that Andy's not coming with Doreen and Myles?"
"Well, I miss him, of course. But I'm worried about the marinade. And you know what happens just before 1 have to cook big. I get a bit worked up."
"And you have to cook really, really big this time." Quill smiled. "How's the marinade going?"
"I'll know tomorrow."
"Did you bring the stuff back here with you?"
"Of course not! I'll just have to take a flashlight into the Institute. It's a good thing they have all those windows. The hares are hanging in the bread closet, because that's the airiest, driest place, and the marinade's in there, too. To tell th
e truth, I'm a little worried. The climate's different here, Quill. The air pressure and everything. That affects cooking. You can't tell me it doesn't. I'm afraid it's going to throw the timing off. What do you think?"
"I think that odd clock in the kitchen says a quarter past five and that we should get ready to visit Cressida Houghton."
"How long does it take to get there?"
"An hour. And I'm going to wear that new lime-green cotton dress I bought this afternoon."
"Does it take an hour by cab?" Meg asked suspiciously.
"No, Meg. By borrowed Mercedes. I looked it up on the map."
"The last time you looked a destination up on a map you turned a ten-minute drive into a marathon. I think we ought to talk to Luis and his handy-dandy computer. Either that or leave at least an hour early. It'd be horrible to be late to Cressida Houghton's house."
"Look. I'll show you. We take PGA Boulevard to highway One-A, highway One-A for ten miles to Hobe Sound, and then a right over the bridge. Verger Taylor lives east of the bridge, Cressida lives west. So we take a right. How simple can you get?"
"Don't you tell me about simple. You'll drive us into a canal. There's a directory of the residents of this condo around here somewhere, isn't there?"
"Yeah. By the phone. Why?"
"I vote we ride in with Evan and Corrigan. They live here. Let's call them and go with them."
"No," said Quill firmly. "N. O. No. I'm not getting any more involved with the Taylor family than we are already."
"Okay," said Meg. "You've got one more chance. Hobe Sound in an hour, or I never ride with you again. And just in case, we leave at six."
"We'll be really, really early."
"Then we'll drive around and look at the view."
"This isn't Hobe Sound," said Meg some time later. "That sign says Jupiter Beach."
"Jupiter Beach is near Hobe Sound," Quill said with a confidence she was far from feeling.
Meg picked up the map and eyed it. "It's at least six miles in the wrong direction. Turn here."
Quill peered through the Mercedes windshield. "That road says 'private.' "
"They aren't going to arrest you if you turn around. Which is what you need to do if we aren't going to be later than late at Cressida's."
"We still have plenty of time. It's just past six-thirty."
"Thanks to me."
"And stop calling her Cressida," Quill said irritably.
"She asked me to call her Cressida! Quill, dammit, look out."
The left bumper of the Mercedes struck a solidly built mailbox. Quill craned her neck over the side of the convertible and pursed her lips.
"Well?" Meg demanded. "How is it?"
"It's a mailbox. Not a very nice one, I'm afraid. The pedestal is one of those jockeys in a red-and-white outfit that used to be black and are now painted white. It's dented slightly. Thank goodness I didn't hit those gold lions. That would have been a real mess."
"I don't mean the mailbox, Quill. I meant this super- duper expensive car lent to us by the charming and charitably inclined Tiffany Taylor. How much does this thing retail for?"
Quill thought a moment. "Sixty or seventy thousand."
"Fine. Just fine. So if you figure that left front bumper is what-one twentieth the value of this thing-we're looking at a thousand dollars worth of damage. Easy."
"Fifteen hundred." Quill said. "Your math sucks. It always did."
The blare of a car horn made both of them jump. Quill turned around in her seat, groaned audibly, and put the Mercedes in park.
"What is it?" Meg asked. "More important, who is it? The cops?"
"Turn around and look for yourself," Quill hissed.
"I'm not turning around. I have nothing to do with this. I was the one who wanted to take a cab, remember?"
"What the hell you two braodies doin' here?"
"Hello, Mr. Taylor," Quill said.
Meg turned around. Verger Taylor was coming through the rear door of a large silver Cadillac. His chauffeur was a blur behind the tinted windshield.
"Sorry," said Quill. She eyed the mailbox, which had been knocked askew. The little jockey underneath it had a woebegone expression on its concrete face. The name on the box - in fold letters - said V. Taylor. "This is your driveway?"
"Yeah. What the hell happened?"
"We took a wrong turn. Sorry. We're were looking for Ms. - I mean Miss - Cressida," Quill said lamely. "We had no idea this was your driveway."
"Would that have saved my fuckin' mailbox?" he chuckled. "Women. Who says they can drive? You want Cressy's, you want to continue down that beach road for three miles. She's on the beach side." His face softened, and for a moment, Quill thought, he looked quite appealing. "You can see her place from here, at night."
"Is there a green light on the dock?" Meg cracked. Then, at his frown of incomprehension, "Never mind. Sorry about the mailbox."
"Don't worry about it. Wouldn't expect less from you women drivers."
Quill gave him a thin-lipped smile, got into the convertible, and turned the ignition on. She pulled ahead, let the Cadillac drive by, and reversed into the street.
"How come you didn't give him the 'driving skills are not gender specific' speech?" Meg asked.
"Because it's kind of sad, don't you think?"
"What?"
"The way he looked when he mentioned Cressida's name. He still loves her, I think."
Meg snorted. "Love and Verger Taylor. Right. Okay. I know where we are. Take the long way around and we'll be there at just past seven."
The drive to Cressida's home on Hobe Sound was an extraordinarily lovely one. The sun was setting in a gentle haze. The warmth of the air was a blessing. The two-lane road to Hobe Sound was tree-lined, heavily shrubbed, and very quiet. An occasional car passed them, going at a leisurely pace. All of the cars were police cruisers. The glimpses of the ocean among the heavy vegetation were infrequent, even though it was no more than five hundred yards away. The beach was rocky, the swells thick and slow. Quill like what she cold see of the houses; most of them were low, resting quietly on the dunes like huge, somnolent sea birds. No obvious opulence, just serenity and an appreciation of the land itself.
"There's the turn on the bridge," Meg said. "We're coming in backwards from the directions, so the house should be just ahead, on the right. Yes. There it is, Quill, see? The number four on the blue-painted board and the name: Tern House."
Quill pulled onto a white concrete driveway lined with oleander, bougainvillea, and the white fire of tropical ginger. The way was twisty, and the little car handled the curves with quiet assurance. The house appeared slowly, first a flash of gray between two southern pines, then a long length of gray driftwood siding, and finally a circular drive. Quill parked the car a short way from the entrance. The driveway was well-worn cobblestone.
The front door opened as they approached and a maid in dove-gray greeted them with a polite smile. "Miss Houghton is very glad you made it on time," she said. They followed her into a short hall, paved with flagstones. "Would you like to freshen up?" asked the maid. "There is a toilet over here."
"Thanks, but no," Quill said. "We're fine."
It was dim in the twilight, and Cressida Houghton appeared from the depths of the house like a wistful ghost. "Come in. It's so nice to have you here at Tern House. We're out on the lanai, if you'd like to come with me."
They passed through the living room. The floors were wide-board mahogany, well polished. The furniture was old and comfortable. Quill saw two of her paintings - Iris studies - over a low chest on the wall facing the screened porch. Cressida stopped in front of them and touched each with one slender finger. "I bring them down with me when I come here after Christmas," she said. "Otherwise they are displayed in my little apartment in New York. Such color, Quill. They're wonderful. Well. The boys are out here."
Evan and Corrigan both got to their feet as they came out onto the porch. Evan's hair was tousled; he wore a white turtleneck sw
eater against the faint chill in the air. His eyes, very blue, met Quill's. She felt that shock of sexual recognition that bears no explaining - unconnected to loyalties, pledges, commitments. Disconcerted, she glanced past him, over his shoulder, to the view beyond the porch. The ocean spread before them, a huge, hushed presence just beyond the screens. "Hurricane weather," Evan said with a smile. He took Quill's hand and held it.
The look Cressida Houghton gave her was poisonous. She didn't move - or didn't seem to. But her face was a mask. Her eyes - the famous silvery eyes-were as cold as the nitrogen room at the Qwik Freeze plant back in Hemlock Falls.
Quill had the unsettling feeling that her throat had closed up, forbidding her to speak above a murmur, damping her reactions, slowing her down like a mouse in front of a very bright light. It was the proximity to this very famous, too-perceptive, very furious woman - an icon of grace and gracious living for people the world over. An icon that seemed to want Quill's blood to water the roses out front.
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