'Right here, Mr. Taylor.'
'Clear this room. My brother and I want to talk with you alone.' His gaze swept over Quill; he didn't see her. 'Everyone out of here. Now.'
It was another forty minutes before Meg and Quill were allowed to leave. The police ushered them - accompanied by Maria - back into the kitchen. A detailed statement about their activities was taken from them. They gave their current address and the address in Hemlock Falls. Ange, who'd returned from taking Shirl and Beth back to Beth's home, volunteered to see them to their car and follow them out the gate.
'It's sweet of you, Ange,' Meg said flippantly. 'But we can manage to drive home alone.' She looked critically at Quill. 'Although if I look as bad as she does, I can see why you're concerned.'
'It's not that, miss. It's the crowd outside the gates. We can prevent the media from coming onto a crime scene, but you're going to be mobbed once you leave here.'
'Oh, my God,' Meg said in disgust. 'You might give us an escort at that, Ange. Just to Beach Road. We can take it from there. But you'd better alert the medics.' She grinned. 'I'm so flipped out by all of this that I'm going to break a solemn vow and let my sister drive.'
-9-
Quill sat in a lounge chair overlooking the Atlantic and sipped orange juice. It was late, after ten o'clock in the morning. The sun was high overhead. The French doors were open to the breezes, and she could hear Meg clattering away in the kitchen. There was a brief hiatus, the patter of her bare feet, and then she came out onto the terrace. 'Try this.' She held out a quarter-cup of dark. strong-smelling liquid.
'No,' Quill said. She folded her legs under her and started at the horizon. The clouds looked iffy. News about the weather had been supplanted by the disappearance/kidnapping of Verger Taylor and (less interesting from the media's points of view) the murder of the security guard. Although the tropical storm had been officially upgraded to a grade one hurricane, it was languishing somewhere off the coast of Puerto Rico and was not supposed to pose a threat, except in the minds of the weather anchors, who'd been vainly trying to scrape up a little bit of pleasurable terror all morning with possibilities of doom, death, and destruction. 'There'll be rain later in the day, though,' Quill said aloud.
'What? The so-called hurricane? I told you,' Meg said with splendid inaccuracy, 'that it wasn't going to show up here. Now, taste this. Quill! Come on! Please? Just a teeny, tiny taste.'
'Meg, for heaven's sake. This is the third marinade recipe I've tried for you this morning and I hate it! It's horrible having all this strong stuff before I'm even awake.'
'Just tell me what you think. I added something really different.'
Quill groaned, carefully took the stainless steel cup, and sipped. 'Rum,' she said. 'You added rum.'
'What do you think?'
' Actually, I like it better than the brandy. Besides, it's less expensive.'
'You do? Like it better than the brandy?'
'I really doubt, with all this upset about the kidnapping and with the Institute closed for electrical repairs, that Tiffany's going ahead with the banquet. I don't know why you're fiddling with the marinade, anyhow. You can't get to the rabbits until tomorrow morning and even then, they're already marinating-oh, forget it.'
'You're right, of course. I'm giving up the whole idea. The third star would look better on a gravestone, under these circumstances.' Meg tossed the remainder of the marinade over the terrace railing. It landed on a pair of peach double hibiscus and turned them an unpleasant brown.
'Now look what you've done,' Quill scolded, mildly. She gave Meg's hand an affectionate squeeze. She knew how much the possibility of being rated had meant to her.
Meg perched on the edge of the tiled table. Tiffany - or, as Quill suspected, Tiffany's decorator - had done a wonderful job on the terrace. The furniture was wrought iron. The tables had tiled tops in deep jewel tones. The one Meg sat on was a cross between sky blue and cobalt. Quill had seen the color on a pair of Fu dogs at an exhibit at the Guggenheim, but nowhere else. She rubbed her hand absently on the tabletop and sighed.
'What's the matter, Quill? Did Myles holler at you last night?'
'Don't be an idiot,' Quill said crossly. 'Myles never hollers, as you so gracefully put it. He did make a suggestion that we keep our noses out of Jerry Fairchild's investigation, but that was it.'
'It's a terrible thing,' Meg said soberly. 'Kidnapping. Who do you suppose is behind it? Terrorists? Why would terrorists want to kidnap a real estate mogul? A hundred thousand dollars isn't much these days - it's enough to maybe make a little bomb and bomb, say, a place like Scranton, Pennsylvania, or Topeka. But not much more than that. Why not real money?'
Quill pulled at her lower lip. 'That's it. That's part of it. It's been bothering me. That ransom is a pittance these days.'
'I think it's proof of these home invaders' amateur status.'
Quill shook her head decisively. 'I don't believe it. I don't believe it was a home invasion. I think this was murder, and I think it was someone we know who kidnapped Verger Taylor. This whole home invasion thing is too stagy, Meg. Too coincidental.'
'You could be right. But you know what? Myles is righter. It's none of our business. I think we should call Tiffany, thank her for a perfectly awful experience, and go home.'
Quill raised her head. 'Is that the doorbell? Who do you suppose could have gotten past that media crowd posted at the gates? Luis was pretty good about keeping them out.' Quill walked down the hall to the front door. Before she could get to it, the door pushed open and Tiffany appeared. 'Hi,' Quill said, surprised. 'Meg and I were just going to give you a call.'
'Sorry;' she said.'Had to use my key. I was simply pursued.'
Quill looked over her shoulder. She could see the front gates from where she was standing. There were two vans from the local television stations, a crowd of cars with camerapeople sitting on the hoods and roofs, and a
