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 gaggle of reporters just standing around. One or two of them looked Tiffany's way, but the others kept their attention in the direction of the second stack of buildings where Evan and Corrigan had their apartment. Pursued, my foot.
Tiffany shook her hair out dramatically - today's color was a bright gold - and put her hand to her head. "Jackals," she said. "The press. Could I have a cup of coffee?"
"Sure. Come in. Meg and I were just sitting on the terrace. Go on out and I'll bring you the coffee there. Black?"
"Yes." She patted her slim midriff. She was wearing a scarlet pant suit, bare feet with fashionable slides, and huge acid-green earrings. Her eyes seemed very blue. As she walked across the living room to the porch, the slides squeaked against her instep.
Quill set three cups on a tray and sliced coffee cake. When Meg was nervous, she tended to bake rather than cook, and she'd been up early that morning. She'd made the sour-cream coffee cake, a strudel, and brioche dough was rising in the corner of the kitchen by the television set. Quill put the kettle on the boiler, poured it through the carafe of coffee, and carried the whole arrangement out on the porch.
"The coffee takes a while to drip through," she said, setting the tray on the largest table. "Tiffany, these tiles are absolutely marvelous. Where did you find these colors?"
"How can you think of tiles at a time like this?"
"Oh." Quill took a moment to regroup. She ignored Meg's sarcastic grin. She'd been wondering what to say to Verger's ex-wife about the kidnapping. I'm so sorry didn't seem quite appropriate when the day before she would have been glad to see Verger cut up into little bits and fed to the fish. It was clear now that the sympathy accorded to widows would be welcomed. "I'm so sorry," she said inadequately. "This must be terrible for you."
"It is. It is. Poor Verger," she said intensely, "poor, poor Verger." She took a slice of cake from the tray, nibbled a comer off it, and put it back. "Cressida said I shouldn't talk to the press at all," she said with a pout. Then, "I think that's wise, of course."
"Very," Quill agreed. It was becoming clearer that Tiffany, with attention switched to her missing ex-husband, the Institute closed, and no one much interested in her vitriol now that genuine tragedy was in the making, had nowhere else to go but here.
"We're sorry about the banquet," Meg said, courteously. "A lot of planning went into it."
"The banquet? No. Oh, no. I don't think that would be wise at all, to cancel the banquet. Do you? I mean... I would think poor Verger would have wanted it to go on."
"I shouldn't think poor Verger would want anything of the sort," Meg said tartly.
"It's still on," Tiffany said defiantly. "And Ernst assures me that the building will be open tomorrow, just as soon as the whatchamacallit boxes are all replaced. So I expect to see both of you there bright and early tomorrow morning. We've had to cancel Quill's lecture on innkeeping, which is okay because the only person who signed up is Linda Longstreet and she's history. And of course, the Le Nozze kitchens will be tied up with the banquet, so we've had to cancel your cooking courses, Meg. But I promised the students we'll have it next week."
"We're going home," Meg said, ''as soon as the Syracuse airport opens."
"Nonsense. In the middle of all this excitement? And of course, Dr. Bob's therapy sessions are on, too." She sighed happily. "It's going to be a nice, full couple of weeks. And I think that the media people will be very interested in the therapy group. Very interested."
"So everything's the way it was before the murder?"
Tiffany's eyes got wide. "So he's dead? How do you know?"
"The security guard's dead," Quill said. "And that makes it murder. Whether Verger is alive or not."
Meg jiggled her foot impatiently. "It's going to be a circus, Tiffany. Please reconsider."
"Everything's set," Tiffany said firmly. "The press releases are out. My secretary in New York faxed them this morning. The banquet's on, the Excelsior therapy sessions are on, and I've rescheduled your cooking classes for next week. Besides, I haven't even gotten to the best part yet. You'll drop all this talk of going home when I show you what I've brought you."
"What if Verger comes back?" Meg asked.
"He'll be far too interested in letting everyone know about his experience to worry about my little old Excelsior. Trust me on this one. Now, how would you two like to help me solve the murder of that little person? The security guard? Might be good for a laugh, wouldn't you think?"
"How would we like to help you solve the murder?" Meg echoed. "Not a lot, I have to say."
"The early news had some clips of the crimes you and Quill helped solve up in Hemlock Falls. Bernie Waters from Hot Tip thinks you already may be working on the crime. Are you?"
Quill carefully avoided looking at Meg. "I did have a couple of questions. About who would want to harm Verger."