"I agree with you. Maybe they had an accomplice and the accomplice screwed up."
"If they had an accomplice, they wouldn't need an alibi, would they? The accomplice could have done the whole thing. Or two accomplices, since the maid saw two men in arctic masks struggling with Taylor."
Meg looked cross. "Okay. No accomplice. The boys shoot Verger, staging the murder to look like a home invasion. Their sainted mother, the one and only Cressida Houghton, gives them an alibi that no jury in America is going to question..."
"It seems pretty thin to me," Quill objected.
"Yeah. And so was O. J. Simpson's. Justice is this country is frequently for those who can buy it, Quill."
"I hardly think..."
"That's what you're doing. Hardly thinking. They've got an alibi from Cressida. And of course, the rest of the evening, there's us."
"Okay. Let's assume this is possible. Possible, not probable, that Evan and Corrigan kidnapped and/or murdered their father and somehow both of them have enough acting ability to convince us that their grief is genuine. Let's say they even taped and recorded the kidnapper's call, so they'd get it while the police were there. Verger Taylor's worth a lot more than a hundred thousand dollars. Why the piker's fee for the kidnapping? If Taylor's alive and it's a real kidnapping, why not ask for ten times that much? His estate can certainly afford it. And if he's dead - why ask for a hundred thousand dollars at all? Why not just let the body be discovered?"
"You've raised some good questions," Meg admitted.
"Good questions? It's an entire bloody defense. And the only evidence you have to convict is the score to a bridge game."
"What are the odds on two doubled no trump grand slams being played within fifteen miles of each other on exactly the same day?"
"Very small," Quill admitted. "I'd say they're nonexistent."
"Which is actually a point in Cressida's favor, Meg. I mean, why take such a risk?"
"You can bet there won't be any grand masters on the jury. Besides, she may have been in a panic, and let's face it, Quill. She's beautiful, and cultivated, and the closest thing America's got to aristocracy, but she's not a rocket scientist."
"That's true." Quill leaned back in the lounge chair and sighed heavily. "Okay. So I suppose we call Jerry, give him the appointment book, and make a statement about the bridge scores. He's going to think we're nuts."
"He won't think we're nuts." Meg bit worriedly at a fingernail. "He'll follow up. If he didn't know Myles, yeah, he might think we're nuts and drop it, and then we could go home in good conscience. Or reasonably good conscience. But he won't, Quill. And what if we're wrong?"
"We've been wrong before. Maybe we're wrong now. Actually, I'm with Myles on this one. I don't really want to get involved. To tell you the truth, these types of people scare me to death."
"That's the biggest problem, isn't it?" Meg said quietly. "If we are wrong, one word, just one word from Cressida Houghton could destroy the inn. Permanently. We'd never get any business, not the type that can afford our prices."
"We can't ignore this."
"No. We can't." She sat straight up with a yelp of excitement and said, "What we can do is witness the money drop."
This appealed to Quill, who, like Ratty, loved messing about in boats. "And see who picks the money up? Okay," she said thoughtfully. "We conceal ourselves near the number nine buoy as what, fishermen or something?"
"Sure. That little boat of Luis's is out there all the time. So are half a dozen other people. It'd look abnormal if no one was out night fishing."
"So we're fishing and fishing and Evan and Corrigan come out, tie the waterproof bag to the buoy, and then what?"
Meg shrugged. "Who ,knows? I don't think there's going to be a pick-up. I think Evan and Corrigan are going to fake it."
"And if we're wrong? And this is a real kidnapping?"
"My best guess is that the pick-up will be a diver. It'd be too easy for the police to pick up a boat and follow whoever's in it back to shore. If there's a pick-up."
"And if there is a pick-up, we let it happen, right? No funny stuff with trying to capture whomever it is."
"Of course not. I don't like Verger Taylor any more than anyone else, but if this is a real kidnapping, r m not going to be responsible for his extremities being carved off and sent through the mail. Ugh." Meg shuddered. "Gross. So, let's go rent a boat."
"We're going to need more than a boat, Meg. We're going to need a disguise, a pair of infrared binoculars so we can watch what happens at a safe distance, and some fishing gear. But first, let's talk to Luis."
-12-
"I'll just bet there are policemen allover this complex," Meg said. She was wearing an old straw hat over a long black wig, a battered pair of espadrilles, and a baggy cotton shirt, all borrowed from Luis on the pretext of a scavenger hunt. She'd rolled the bottoms up on Quill's second-best pair of khakis and rubbed them liberally with dirt. Quill had tucked her hair under a cheap navy captain's hat. She was sweltering in a gray sweatshirt and jeans. She'd picked up dark tan makeup at the same shop in which Meg had purchased the wig and covered her face and hands. Both of them had gotten costumed too early. They were waiting for nightfall, seated on the leather couch, looking out at the ocean.
"I'm turning the air conditioning on," Quill said. "I can't stand this." She got up and closed the French doors, then set the wall thermostat on cold.
"I hate air conditioning," Meg complained. "I feel like Spam in a Tupperware container in air conditioning."
"Tough." Quill tugged at her hair and wound one strand around her finger. "The ocean looks quiet, at least." Heavy, oily swells had been coming in all day. She walked to the doors and peered out, scanning the horizon anxiously. "Do those look like cumulonimbus clouds to you?"
"Like what?"
"Cumulonimbus clouds. It's what shows up just be- [ore a hurricane. 'Dark, heavy-looking clouds rising like mountains high into the atmosphere, often showing an anvil-shaped veil of false cirrus clouds at the top.' "
"You've been watching the weather channel."
"While you were in the shower. How come you took a shower before the fishing trip?"
Meg, who was scrabbling through a bright-red tackle box (also borrowed from Luis), held up a spoon-shaped lure. "Why not? Hey, do you think we might catch anything?"
"Not with that. Luis said there's mainly mullet in the bay. You need a net for mullet. Check those clouds out, Meg."
"No. We're going maybe a quarter mile off the channel into the bay. We've got a nice little motor on that boat and a pair of nice little oars in case the motor fails. We'll have plenty of time to come back to shore if the wind comes up. If bad weather's corning, I don't want to know about it."
"There is a rain forecast for later on. It's the edge of Hurricane Helen."
"Shut up." She dumped the infrared binoculars they'd purchased at the tackle shop out of the shopping bag. "Do you suppose these things work?"
"If they don't we'll have spent a whole bunch of time m the water for nothing. We won't be able to see a thing in the dark. They upgraded Hurricane Helen to a three. That's winds of..."