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 up the offer of a meal from Chef Meg."
"It would be rude, wouldn't it?" said Birdie with a pleased air. "Can we help?"
"Why don't you set that table over there for four, pour some cranberry juice, and sit down. This'll be ready in three minutes. If Quill gets the chafing dish heated."
There was a pleasant bustle in the kitchen. Birdie and Bea found place mats, napkins, and exclaimed critically over the sterling flatware. (It was Gorham.) Quill lighted the Sterno under the chafing dish, put out the scones, and began to feel less like an alien and more at home for the first time since she'd come to Florida. The widows sat down at one end of the ornately carved dining room table and waited for Meg to make her omelet.
"Marvelous," Bea said, nibbling the scone. "Cranberry, is it?"
"And raisin," Meg said. "Lot of sweet stuff this morning. Quill needs the energy. Put a trivet or something under the chafing dish, Quill, and bring it to the table. And I need the tray with the brandy, oranges, and sugar." She talked as she poured a quarter cup of the egg mixture into the heated pan and watched it puff up, carefully pulling the edges away from the rim with a wooden spatula. She flipped it with an expert twist of her wrist, waited a moment, then slid the omelet onto a plate. "You've heard about what happened last night."
"We certainly did," said Birdie. "That's why we're here." She accepted the omelet, took a bite, and beamed. "We were right, Bea."
"I was right, you mean. I was the one with the idea." She watched closely as Meg sprinkled powdered sugar over her eggs. "Little more than that, dear. That's fine. Thank you. You see" - she turned to Quill - "we want you and Meg to take over the institute."
"That's very kind of you, Bea," said Quill. "But Meg and I are going home. As soon as I tell Tiffany we're resigning."
"You're getting ahead of the game, Bea," Birdie said. "Typical of you. Now you two listen to me." She put her fork down. "Verger's disappearance has made a considerable difference in things."
"His death was a terrible, terrible thing," Quill said. "His own sons. It's hard to believe, but..."
"Oh, you're not one of those who believes that non- sense about Corrigan killing him?" Bea crumbled a bit of scone with one hand. "The police coerced that confession from him, poor boy."
"He always was a fragile child," Birdie added. Meg set her omelet in front of her and began on Quill's serving. "Thank you, dear. Do you remember how much trouble Cressy had with him when it was time to send him to school?"
"Wait just a cotton-pickin' minute." Meg shut the Sterno off with a snap of the lid. "You think the police coerced that confession?"
"Well, of course they did! After a good night's sleep, I the poor boy came to his senses. He's under the care of a psychiatrist now. Cressy's simply frantic."
"I'll just bet." Meg dumped Quill's omelet - without the sauce - onto her plate.
"Meg," Quill said.
"Hush. Eat your eggs." She scowled at Birdie. "This is the same poor boy who tried to ram our boat and sink us last night out on the water. The same poor boy who held the boat as steady as he could so that his creep of a brother could try to drown my sister! Fragile? Mentally ill? That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard in my life." She eyed Quill's plate. "That omelet's raw."
"I don't want it right now, anyway." Quill shoved the plate away. "So this is the story, is it? This is how the Taylor boys are explaining their attempt on our lives last night? What about the fact that they substituted newspaper for the real ransom money? They can't explain that away, can they?"
"They thought you were the kidnappers, of course." Birdie took a few sips of cranberry juice. "And that business about newspaper being substituted for the money is nonsense."