'What does Evan say?' Quill asked.
'He denies everything. Says his brother was coerced.' Her lips twisted. 'We've got the confession on tape, Jer. And goddammit, the kid's lawyer was right there. Protesting like anything, but the kid just went on blurting and blurting. We've got 'em. I think we've got 'em. Of course, the thing we all want to know now is...
Jerry grunted, then said, 'Where the hell is Verger Taylor?'
-13-
The hammering on the front door finally stopped. Meg put her coffee down and said, 'Remember that little dead raccoon we found in the woods when I was six?'
They'd drawn the blinds down over the French doors and all the windows in the condo. The reporters had arrived in force before the sun was up. Luis didn't get to work until eight. They were barricaded until he could arrive to drive them away.
Quill didn't have to think very hard. The dead raccoon had been Meg's first sight of death. 'Yeah.'
'All the black flies over it.'
'It was October, Meg. I told you that flies are part of a grand plan to...'
'Those so-called journalists are just like' em. The black flies.'
'More like Nazis on Krystallnacht,' Quill grumbled. 'We can't answer the phone, we can't go out, we can't even see what kind of weather's outside, and don't tell me to turn on the weather channel. I hate the weather channel.'
'You can't hate a whole channel.'
'Well, I do. And the whole state of Florida, as well.'
'Hate the whole state of New York, instead,' Meg advised. 'That's where the snowstorm is that's delayed Myles and Doreen.'
'That's what we need, Doreen and her mop. She'd take care of that bozo from the Inquirer in two seconds flat.'
'Well, I'm going to make us a fabulous breakfast. You're just suffering from post-near death syndrome. All those endorphins were coursing through your system like mad and then, wham. Big letdown.'
The phone had been ringing when they'd walked in the door at one o'clock that morning. Every time Quill plugged the phones back into the jacks, it started again. A flotilla of TV, radio, magazine, and newspaper reporters were pursuing Cressida Houghton's version of Verger Taylor's disappearance: that Meg and Quill, intruders from up North and spumed fortune hunters to boot, had decided to involve her innocent sons in a heinous crime committed by persons unknown. Quill caught about three minutes of the early-morning news and switched the television off.
It was now a little after seven. She'd talked to Myles twice, once last night and again this morning. At nine, she'd call Tiffany to beg off the rest of the week. They'd return the money. As soon as the Syracuse airport opened, they'd leave. Quill had never wanted to go home as much in her life.
The doorbell chimed softly. Quill gritted her teeth. Meg was making an omelet Suzette, with orange slices and Cointreau. Fresh scones were in the oven. She'd peeled and sliced sections of fresh grapefruit, which she'd filched from a tree outside the condo the day before.
'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
