The traffic patterns in south Florida were becoming familiar to Quill. If you got out on the street fairly early - say before seven o'clock - or late, after dark, it was possible to maneuver through the streets in a reasonable period of time. But after nine in the morning and before sunset, the traffic was horrendous. And all the cars had license plates from northern states. In addition to the jams created by sheer volume, most of the out-of-staters didn't seem to know where they were traveling to. Cars pulled U-turns in the middle of the streets, or even stopped, blocking lanes of traffic, while the drivers figured out that they'd missed the bypass to Oklahoma some three streets back. Quill was beginning to feel some sympathy for the hostile bumper stickers on native vehicles.
They inched their way to the offices of Carmichael, Webster, and Ross (offices in New York and Palm Beach) in about the time it would take to have an emergency heart transplant. Although Hurricane Helen still circled off the coast of Africa, the fringes of the weather system made the air sultry, humid, and sticky. Quill pulled the Mercedes over, unsuccessfully tried to find the buttons that raised the top of the convertible, and it took her twenty minutes just to find a break in the traffic flow to reenter the street. By the time Quill pulled into the underground parking lot, both she and Meg were hot, tired, irritable, and very hungry.
"I still say we should have called ahead," Meg said in the elevator. Quill, silently blessing the air conditioning, didn't reply until they reached the fourth floor and entered the carpeted hallway to the attorney's offices.
Then she said, "Five bucks gets you ten that Carmichael will drop whatever he's doing to see us. And if we get him to talk, who knows what kind of information he'll drop? We'll just tell him we've got a book deal. That'll start anybody blabbing these days. Especially a lawyer."
Meg clicked her tongue. "Cynical, cynical."
The offices of Carmichael, Webster, and Ross had the hush of expensive construction. The pale blue carpets were thick. The gleaming rosewood desk of the receptionist was hand-carved. Pale blue suede covered the walls and - as everywhere in Florida - expensive silk flower bouquets covered most available surfaces.
The receptionist was an icy blonde: slim, tanned, with streaked hair that fell in calculated confusion over her shoulders. She was wearing a neat little black suit, which, if Quill hadn't seen the real thing on Birdie McIntyre, would have passed for a Chanel in bright light. She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow when Meg and Quill came in the glass door. "Can I help you?"
"We'd like to see Mr. Carmichael."
"Mr. Carmichael is in a meeting." Her eyes flicked over Quill's cotton dress (seventy-nine ninety-five at Kaufmann's) and Meg's skirt and blouse (with Meg, who knew?). There was a distinct edge of disdain to her voice. "Can I ask the nature of your business?"
"I'm Sarah Quilliam. This is my sister, Margaret. We were friends of the um... of Mr. Verger Taylor."
Both eyebrows went up. "Oh! Not the two women who..." She smiled professionally. "Will you have a seat? I'll see if Mr. Carmichael can be interrupted. He was up all night with this business. He just came in."
She returned, the iciness thawed to at least, Quill judged, sleet, if not above freezing. "It is a matter of some urgency, I presume."
"Yes."
"Then Mr. Carmichael can fit you in. Just for a few minutes. Now, if you don't mind, we just need a little information for our records. If I could ask you a few questions?" She took a clipboard from the comer of the desk and handed it to Quill. It was a questionnaire. The first lines asked the usual questions: name, address, social security number; the remainder looked like an application for a credit card with no limits.
Meg looked over Quill's shoulder, snorted, and said, "Can't you just input this directly? We'll have to write. You'll have to rekey. It'll save some of Mr. Carmichael's time if you open the file up on your server."
"Well." She hesitated and cast a quick look at the office door behind her, which read FRANKLIN CARMICHAEL in gold letters. "Sure." She turned to the key- board on her desk. It was, Quill saw, part of a larger Unix system. She was vaguely aware that this meant the offices in Palm Beach were systems-connected to those in New York.
"You don't mind if we come around to your side of the desk?" Meg said, doing just that. "It'll take less time if we input for you."
She ushered them into the attorney's office a few minutes later. From the crumpled paper in the wastebasket and the smell of onions in the air, Quill guessed that Mr. Carmichael had been meeting with a hoagie. A bag of carrot sticks lay on the top of the desk. Empty foil packets of nicotine gum littered the floor. He was wearing yet another three-piece pin-striped suit that must have been miserably hot in any temperature higher than sixty-five degrees.
He rose from behind his desk and extended both hands. "Miss Quilliam and Miss Quilliam. My sympathies. My profoundest sympathies."
"We didn't know Verger Taylor all that well," said Meg. "So you can save your sympathies. What we're interested is in saving ourselves. It's why we are here."
"I see. Please, ladies, sit down." He indicated a cranberry leather-covered couch in the corner. Quill sat close enough to Meg to pinch her knee and shut her up, if necessary. Carmichael settled across from them in a matching leather wing chair with brass nailhead edging.
"We find ourselves in need of counsel," Quill said. "Before he... that is, before all this happened, Verger spoke highly of you. Very highly."
"Oh?"
Meg's elbow nudged sharply into her side; Verger Taylor hadn't spoken of anyone very highly. "To be candid, he spoke of you with less... um... disapprobation than of others. Besides, we've met before. We trust you."
Carmichael's teeth gleamed in a brief, insincere smile. He shifted the piece of gum in his mouth. "That sounds more like Verger."
"As you may know, we're far from home here, and l. the events of the last couple days have been confusing. Very confusing." Quill waved her hand vaguely. "The reporters. The book deals. Most alarming, we've just come from the police, and there's a strong indication, Mr. Carmichael, that we may be investigated, too."
"Ah." Carmichael steepled his fingers and nodded. "Book deals?"
"And other deals. That's our second concern. Meg, as you may know, is a talented chef."
"Two-star," Meg said pathetically. "I had hoped for the third at tomorrow night's banquet - but..." She trailed off, looking vulnerable.
"And, to get to the point, we've received an offer this morning that's interesting. Most interesting."
"From a publisher?"
"Well, that, of course. But Meg and I discussed it, and we feel strongly that we need some representation. Some protection in the weeks and months that are to follow."
He nodded benignly. The blonde tapped at the office door, walked in, and laid a computer printout of the questionnaire on Mr. Carmichael's desk. His eyes dropped to the bottom of the sheet, which, as Quill was well aware, carried the information about the Quilliam estate's net worth.
He frowned. Quill was annoyed. She'd tripled her salary and quadrupled Meg's, in the certainty that by the time Carmichael checked on their references, they'd be back in New York. She hadn't counted on the Ethernet system.