The house, like the others around it, was neat and clean. The small yard was enclosed by a chain-link fence. The house itself was concrete blocks covered with stucco and a red tile roof, architecture ubiquitous to south Florida. Next door, outside a small stucco house painted aquamarine blue, an elderly black man hoed his garden. He stopped and leaned on his hoe when the Mercedes came to a halt at the curb.
A nondescript tan dog lay under the shade of an orange tree in Linda's yard, and when Meg and Quill approached the gate, got up, tongue lolling in the heat, head down, tail wagging. Quill reached over the fence and patted its head.
"It doesn't look like anyone's home," Quill said.
"You lookin' for Miz Longstreet?" the elderly man called. "She'd be at her brother's today. Two blocks over."
"Thanks," Quill said. Longstreet Catering was housed in a small, cheap Morton building with aluminum sides and a low pitched roof. A house trailer sat in front. Children's toys were scattered around the steps. Two plastic, webbed lounge chairs had been placed near a small, inflatable pool. One was occupied by a large, bare-chested man in his early thirties. He had a beer can in one hand, a cigarette in the other. A small, tow-headed boy played in the plastic pool. He was naked, probably about three years old, and he splashed merrily in the sunshine.
The occupant of the second lawn chair was Linda Longstreet.
"You have any idea at all how to approach this with her?" Meg asked in a low voice. "Do you suppose that's her husband? Or her boyfriend? How do we talk about her affair with Taylor in front of him?"
"It wasn't an affair," Quill said. "He - um - encountered her twice, once in the patisserie kitchen and once in the bread closet."
Meg sighed. Quill pulled the car up to the curb. Linda jumped up from the chair, raised her hand, shading her eyes. She was wearing a blue-checked, short-sleeved shirt and a pair of cutoffs. Her feet were bare. She was visibly relaxed when Meg and Quill got out of the car.
"Welcome," she said as they walked up. "Isn't that Mrs. Taylor's car? For a moment, I thought it was her, but it's you come to call. Isn't it awful about Mr. Taylor? We heard about it on the news. We saw you on the news, too. All about how you both are really detectives from New York? And not cooks at all."
"I'm a cook," Meg said indignantly.
"I'm an innkeeper." Quill added. "We're not genuine detectives, you know. Amateurs."
"It's just a thrill to meet you," Linda said. "Just a thrill."
Quill, who wanted to point out that she had met them before, said, "May we talk to you a moment?"
"Me? Sure. This man here? My brother, Curtis. Curtis. This is Margaret and Sarah Quilliam. You both want to sit down?" She turned to her brother. "Curtis, you bring folding chairs from the back. And can I get you ice tea? A Coke?"
Quill was forcibly reminded that if you peeled away the resort and vacation atmosphere, Florida was a Southern state, and this was Southern-style hospitality. Curtis brought two rusting lawn chairs from behind the trailer and opened them onto the lawn with a grunt. Quill pulled her chair a little closer to Meg's and sat down. Meg went over to the plastic pool and knelt down in front of the little boy, who stopped splashing and regarded her with an unsmiling, direct blue gaze.
"You sure I can't get you ice tea?"
It was hot. Quill was thirsty. Southern ice tea was always heavily sugared. Besides, Nero Wolfe had a strict rule about breaking bread (and, Quill assumed by extension, drinking tea iced or otherwise) with potential murderers. Quill reflected that here, on home ground, Linda was more relaxed, less jittery. If she had something to drink with her, she might relax even more. Even the way she spoke - while as rushed and disconnected as her speech at her offices - was less defensive. Less servile. And she certainly didn't appear to be guilty of anything - either overbilling or kidnapping.
"I'd love some," Quill said.
Linda darted up the steps to the trailer, knocking over a scraggy pot of geraniums as she went. Curtis settled back into his lawn chair, drained his beer, and burped.
He crumpled the beer can with one hand and threw it on the grass.
"And whose little boy are you?" Meg asked the child.
"Curtis," Curtis called. "C'mere."
Curtis (Junior?) stuck his thumb in his mouth and regarded his father balefully.
"C'mere, I told you."
Curtis shook his head.
"You want me to come and get you?"
Curtis took his thumb from his mouth, grinned, and then yelled, "Yaaahhh!"
"I'm comin' to get you," Curtis Senior threatened genially.
Curtis the younger squealed. His father got up from his lawn chair with another grunt, walked heavily to the pool, his stomach jiggling, and picked up the little boy. "Time for his nap," he said to the air over Quill's head. He carried his son up the steps, standing well aside as Linda came out the door with a metal tray, a pitcher, and three glasses. "You don't spill that, Lin," he warned. He went into the trailer, banging the screen door shut behind him.
Linda set the tray on the grass and poured the tea. Meg came back from the pool and sat next to Quill. "So," Linda said. "You both were right there, last night? In the mansion? I've heard it's plain beautiful."
"It's out of the ordinary," Quill said carefully. "Linda - we came across some information that we'd like to check. Do you mind if we talk about it a bit?"
"Well," she said, with some return of her old manner, "I can't say that I'm all that sorry he's been kidnapped. If you'll excuse me for being rude. He was a bad man. Now, I hope nothing awful's happened to him, but honestly, it doesn't bother me a bit if he's scared a little somewhere. But I guess I'll help if I can."
"The - ah - first little problem is one of the inventory. Franklin Carmichael implied that - "
The sound of Curtis Junior's giggle floated through the air. Quill heard his father chuckle in response.
"He's a great kid," Linda said proudly. "I'm sorry, you were saying?"
"Carmichael thought there were discrepancies in the inventory. That you and your brother conspired to fill the shelves at the institute with overpriced, unnecessary goods."
"You found out about that?" Linda's eyes filled with tears. The effect on Quill was sudden and unsettling. "We had permission. Mr. Taylor gave us permission."
"I don't understand," Quill said gently.
"You okay out here, Lin?" Curtis came out of the trailer..'Hey. You crying or what? You two upsetting my sister?"
Quill took a deep breath. "It's about the inventory at the institute, Mr. Longstreet."
"So?" His eyes darkened. "Oh. I get it. That son- um-bitch disappears and now he's gonna try to get back those payments? You tell him he can stuff it."
"I can't tell him anything, Mr. Longstreet," Quill said quietly. "Verger Taylor's either been kidnapped, murdered, or both."
"Far as I'm concerned, that bastard's better off at the bottom of the Okeechobee. You two get out of here. You, Lin. Get in the house."
"I'm all right, Curtis." Linda pulled the tail of her shirt out of her shorts and wiped her eyes. "I knew it was all going to come out anyway." Tears fell faster down her face.