Authors: Claudia Bishop
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Detectives, #Women Sleuths, #Sisters, #Detective and Mystery Stories; American, #Unknown, #Palm Beach (Fla.)
Death Dines Out (13 page)
"The last time you looked a destination up on a map you turned a ten-minute drive into a marathon. I think we ought to talk to Luis and his handy-dandy computer. Either that or leave at least an hour early. It'd be horrible to be late to Cressida Houghton's house."
"Look. I'll show you. We take PGA Boulevard to highway One-A, highway One-A for ten miles to Hobe Sound, and then a right over the bridge. Verger Taylor lives east of the bridge, Cressida lives west. So we take a right. How simple can you get?"
"Don't you tell me about simple. You'll drive us into a canal. There's a directory of the residents of this condo around here somewhere, isn't there?"
"Yeah. By the phone. Why?"
"I vote we ride in with Evan and Corrigan. They live here. Let's call them and go with them."
"No," said Quill firmly. "N. O. No. I'm not getting any more involved with the Taylor family than we are already."
"Okay," said Meg. "You've got one more chance. Hobe Sound in an hour, or I never ride with you again. And just in case, we leave at six."
"We'll be really, really early."
"Then we'll drive around and look at the view."
"This isn't Hobe Sound," said Meg some time later. "That sign says Jupiter Beach."
"Jupiter Beach is near Hobe Sound," Quill said with a confidence she was far from feeling.
Meg picked up the map and eyed it. "It's at least six miles in the wrong direction. Turn here."
Quill peered through the Mercedes windshield. "That road says 'private.' "
"They aren't going to arrest you if you turn around. Which is what you need to do if we aren't going to be later than late at Cressida's."
"We still have plenty of time. It's just past six-thirty."
"Thanks to me."
"And stop calling her Cressida," Quill said irritably.
"She asked me to call her Cressida! Quill, dammit, look out."
The left bumper of the Mercedes struck a solidly built mailbox. Quill craned her neck over the side of the convertible and pursed her lips.
"Well?" Meg demanded. "How is it?"
"It's a mailbox. Not a very nice one, I'm afraid. The pedestal is one of those jockeys in a red-and-white outfit that used to be black and are now painted white. It's dented slightly. Thank goodness I didn't hit those gold lions. That would have been a real mess."
"I don't mean the mailbox, Quill. I meant this super- duper expensive car lent to us by the charming and charitably inclined Tiffany Taylor. How much does this thing retail for?"
Quill thought a moment. "Sixty or seventy thousand."
"Fine. Just fine. So if you figure that left front bumper is what-one twentieth the value of this thing-we're looking at a thousand dollars worth of damage. Easy."
"Fifteen hundred." Quill said. "Your math sucks. It always did."
The blare of a car horn made both of them jump. Quill turned around in her seat, groaned audibly, and put the Mercedes in park.
"What is it?" Meg asked. "More important, who is it? The cops?"
"Turn around and look for yourself," Quill hissed.
"I'm not turning around. I have nothing to do with this. I was the one who wanted to take a cab, remember?"
"What the hell you two braodies doin' here?"
"Hello, Mr. Taylor," Quill said.
Meg turned around. Verger Taylor was coming through the rear door of a large silver Cadillac. His chauffeur was a blur behind the tinted windshield.
"Sorry," said Quill. She eyed the mailbox, which had been knocked askew. The little jockey underneath it had a woebegone expression on its concrete face. The name on the box - in fold letters - said V. Taylor. "This is your driveway?"
"Yeah. What the hell happened?"
"We took a wrong turn. Sorry. We're were looking for Ms. - I mean Miss - Cressida," Quill said lamely. "We had no idea this was your driveway."
"Would that have saved my fuckin' mailbox?" he chuckled. "Women. Who says they can drive? You want Cressy's, you want to continue down that beach road for three miles. She's on the beach side." His face softened, and for a moment, Quill thought, he looked quite appealing. "You can see her place from here, at night."
"Is there a green light on the dock?" Meg cracked. Then, at his frown of incomprehension, "Never mind. Sorry about the mailbox."
"Don't worry about it. Wouldn't expect less from you women drivers."
Quill gave him a thin-lipped smile, got into the convertible, and turned the ignition on. She pulled ahead, let the Cadillac drive by, and reversed into the street.
"How come you didn't give him the 'driving skills are not gender specific' speech?" Meg asked.
"Because it's kind of sad, don't you think?"
"What?"
"The way he looked when he mentioned Cressida's name. He still loves her, I think."
Meg snorted. "Love and Verger Taylor. Right. Okay. I know where we are. Take the long way around and we'll be there at just past seven."
The drive to Cressida's home on Hobe Sound was an extraordinarily lovely one. The sun was setting in a gentle haze. The warmth of the air was a blessing. The two-lane road to Hobe Sound was tree-lined, heavily shrubbed, and very quiet. An occasional car passed them, going at a leisurely pace. All of the cars were police cruisers. The glimpses of the ocean among the heavy vegetation were infrequent, even though it was no more than five hundred yards away. The beach was rocky, the swells thick and slow. Quill like what she cold see of the houses; most of them were low, resting quietly on the dunes like huge, somnolent sea birds. No obvious opulence, just serenity and an appreciation of the land itself.
"There's the turn on the bridge," Meg said. "We're coming in backwards from the directions, so the house should be just ahead, on the right. Yes. There it is, Quill, see? The number four on the blue-painted board and the name: Tern House."
Quill pulled onto a white concrete driveway lined with oleander, bougainvillea, and the white fire of tropical ginger. The way was twisty, and the little car handled the curves with quiet assurance. The house appeared slowly, first a flash of gray between two southern pines, then a long length of gray driftwood siding, and finally a circular drive. Quill parked the car a short way from the entrance. The driveway was well-worn cobblestone.
The front door opened as they approached and a maid in dove-gray greeted them with a polite smile. "Miss Houghton is very glad you made it on time," she said. They followed her into a short hall, paved with flagstones. "Would you like to freshen up?" asked the maid. "There is a toilet over here."
"Thanks, but no," Quill said. "We're fine."
It was dim in the twilight, and Cressida Houghton appeared from the depths of the house like a wistful ghost. "Come in. It's so nice to have you here at Tern House. We're out on the lanai, if you'd like to come with me."
They passed through the living room. The floors were wide-board mahogany, well polished. The furniture was old and comfortable. Quill saw two of her paintings - Iris studies - over a low chest on the wall facing the screened porch. Cressida stopped in front of them and touched each with one slender finger. "I bring them down with me when I come here after Christmas," she said. "Otherwise they are displayed in my little apartment in New York. Such color, Quill. They're wonderful. Well. The boys are out here."
Evan and Corrigan both got to their feet as they came out onto the porch. Evan's hair was tousled; he wore a white turtleneck sweater against the faint chill in the air. His eyes, very blue, met Quill's. She felt that shock of sexual recognition that bears no explaining - unconnected to loyalties, pledges, commitments. Disconcerted, she glanced past him, over his shoulder, to the view beyond the porch. The ocean spread before them, a huge, hushed presence just beyond the screens. "Hurricane weather," Evan said with a smile. He took Quill's hand and held it.
The look Cressida Houghton gave her was poisonous. She didn't move - or didn't seem to. But her face was a mask. Her eyes - the famous silvery eyes-were as cold as the nitrogen room at the Qwik Freeze plant back in Hemlock Falls.
Quill had the unsettling feeling that her throat had closed up, forbidding her to speak above a murmur, damping her reactions, slowing her down like a mouse in front of a very bright light. It was the proximity to this very famous, too-perceptive, very furious woman - an icon of grace and gracious living for people the world over. An icon that seemed to want Quill's blood to water the roses out front.
Meg broke the strained silence. She suddenly shook herself like a puppy and said, "What a great view! How's about a walk on the beach?"
"What wonderful idea," Cressida said. "Perhaps after dinner. Please, sit down and tell Anna what you would like to drink before dinner. It's "just fish", I'm afraid."
Quill accepted a chilled glass of Vouvray. Meg, with a slight wink in Quill's direction, asked for Coke, which, to her somewhat shamefaced embarrassment, was duly brought in a Baccarat water tumbler, poured over shaved ice.
The dinner was "just fish." But it was simply, elegantly cooked, with a touch of fresh tarragon, green peppercorns, and slices of orange. The table was set with hand-dyed linens from Provenā”al and a basket of daisies, larkspur, and winter roses. The service was whisper-quiet, and Quill had to suppress the urge to sit bolt upright and shout "chocolate!" like the guy who'd yelled "fire!" in the old Smothers Brothers song.
Conversation was minimal. Evan looked frequently at Quill. At some point - Quill later recalled it was sometime between the fish course and the salad that ended the meal - he asked Meg if she'd sung to the chefs at the Institute that day. Meg looked at him blankly, opened her mouth, and closed it again. Quill introduced one topic of conversation: art, only to have her hostess murmur' 'wonderful, wonderful" in response to each comment she made. She tried politics - and was met with the gentle comment that he (the current president) had been a great friend of the family for a long while - and they never discussed him. Never.
Cressida, with a slightly disdainful eye on her guests, brought up the activities of Allen on the polo field, Tracy on the tennis court, and David and his sailing - none of whom were known to Quill or Meg. Finally, when Quill heard herself murmuring "wonderful, wonderful, wonderful," like Lawrence Welk after a sex-change operation, she gave up and ate as circumspectly as she could. In the British tradition, which Quill would have found pretentious anywhere else, Cressida led the ladies away for a short time after dinner, and Meg joined Quill in the bathroom. Quill liked the bathroom a lot. Like the rest of the house it was old, unpretentious, and there wasn't a Water Pik in sight. The walls were paneled with white pine, reminding her of the pleasant Nantucket beach cottages she and Meg had spent time in as girls.
"I can't stand it," Meg hissed at her, closing the door. "I want to play the banjo or something."
"Chocolate!" Quill said, in a subdued yell. "Chocolate! Chocolate! Chocolate!"
"Why'd you yell 'fire' when you fell into the chocolate," Meg sang. "Why'd you yell 'fire' when you fell into the choooc-late?"
"Because who would have come if I'd yelled 'chocolate!' Oh, dear." Quill looked in the tiny mirror, ran her fingers through her hair; sighed, and gave up. The humidity made it curl like bedsprings. "Hands down, this is the most awful dinner party I've ever been to."
"Quill, there's no conversation."
"I know there's no conversation. The thing is, Meg, we don't know anyone this woman knows except Verger Taylor. And other than talking about other people, I don't think Miss Houghton has much to say. About anything. Except her boys. Did you see how she looked at me when Evan grabbed my hand?"
"I sure did. Yikes." Meg stood beside her and they both looked into the mirror. Meg's eyes, clear and candid gray, met Quill's greenish-hazel ones. "What do we do now?"
"Bridge, I guess," said Quill. "And I haven't played for months."
"I haven't played for years," Meg complained. "You're the one that started the tournaments at the inn. You know what? There's five of us. And you can't play bridge with five people. So I'll sit out. I'll go for a walk on the beach."
"Coward," Quill said. "I'm the one Cressida Houghton wants to make into mincemeat. Why the heck did she invite us if she resents us?"
When Meg and Quill rejoined their hostess, she rose and gracefully introduced an elderly gentleman, impeccably groomed, apparently the David of the yachting stories. David was, Cressida said, an old and dear neighbor and would make up a fourth. The boys, she said, with a slight emphasis in her tone, were going out to meet some friends closer to their own age.
Two thoughts struck Quill at once. The first-that Cressida Houghton thought she and Meg were. cradle robbers, that she had encouraged Evan's attention-hit her with the force of the so-far nonexistent hurricane. The second, that she'd forced Cressida Houghton, famed for her politesse, into overtly rude behavior, made her want to crawl under the worn chintz couch and stay there. She, Quill, had managed to offend the second or third most famous woman in America. Was that why she and Meg had been invited here? To let the golddigger twins discover that the Taylor boys weren't up for grabs? Quill started to giggle. It was the kind of giggle that, once suppressed, surfaced harder than ever. She sat down with a pink face and bitten lower lip.
Cressida looked at her with no expression at all. "Shall we sit in the game room? Everything's set up in there. I'm afraid the boys and I have been playing three-handed bridge in there since five." She smiled gently. "But the cards are all warmed up."
To Quill's relief, the game room was brightly lit. It was the dimness in the rest of the house, she decided, that had put her so off-balance. A card table with a battered green felt cover had been drawn up before a cold fireplace. Quill sat in the scorekeeper's position, noting idly that East/West had been badly set by North/South three rubbers in a row in the three-handed game that afternoon. One of the games had been a grand slam: seven no-trump, doubled. Ouch.
"If you wouldn't mind," Cressida said, "David and I will play North/South. I had the worst luck this afternoon."
"I can see that," said Meg irrepressibly.
Meg and Quill were down by a thousand points when the dove-gray maid appeared at the game room door with the portable phone on a tray. Cressida took the call. She said "yes," "no," and "I see." For a long moment, she remained perfectly still. Then, "Please call the police. I'll send Mr. Hawthorne." She set the phone back on the tray for the waiting maid and sat relaxed until she'd gone out of the room. "You might as well know this. It's going to be in the newspapers tomorrow morning." She sighed. "And the television news, too, I expect. The boys took their two friends over to their fathers' home. I think they were planning a visit to Au Bar." A slight grimace flitted across the perfect face. "At any rate, there's a great deal of blood in Verger's study. And Verger himself has disappeared."
"Look. I'll show you. We take PGA Boulevard to highway One-A, highway One-A for ten miles to Hobe Sound, and then a right over the bridge. Verger Taylor lives east of the bridge, Cressida lives west. So we take a right. How simple can you get?"
"Don't you tell me about simple. You'll drive us into a canal. There's a directory of the residents of this condo around here somewhere, isn't there?"
"Yeah. By the phone. Why?"
"I vote we ride in with Evan and Corrigan. They live here. Let's call them and go with them."
"No," said Quill firmly. "N. O. No. I'm not getting any more involved with the Taylor family than we are already."
"Okay," said Meg. "You've got one more chance. Hobe Sound in an hour, or I never ride with you again. And just in case, we leave at six."
"We'll be really, really early."
"Then we'll drive around and look at the view."
"This isn't Hobe Sound," said Meg some time later. "That sign says Jupiter Beach."
"Jupiter Beach is near Hobe Sound," Quill said with a confidence she was far from feeling.
Meg picked up the map and eyed it. "It's at least six miles in the wrong direction. Turn here."
Quill peered through the Mercedes windshield. "That road says 'private.' "
"They aren't going to arrest you if you turn around. Which is what you need to do if we aren't going to be later than late at Cressida's."
"We still have plenty of time. It's just past six-thirty."
"Thanks to me."
"And stop calling her Cressida," Quill said irritably.
"She asked me to call her Cressida! Quill, dammit, look out."
The left bumper of the Mercedes struck a solidly built mailbox. Quill craned her neck over the side of the convertible and pursed her lips.
"Well?" Meg demanded. "How is it?"
"It's a mailbox. Not a very nice one, I'm afraid. The pedestal is one of those jockeys in a red-and-white outfit that used to be black and are now painted white. It's dented slightly. Thank goodness I didn't hit those gold lions. That would have been a real mess."
"I don't mean the mailbox, Quill. I meant this super- duper expensive car lent to us by the charming and charitably inclined Tiffany Taylor. How much does this thing retail for?"
Quill thought a moment. "Sixty or seventy thousand."
"Fine. Just fine. So if you figure that left front bumper is what-one twentieth the value of this thing-we're looking at a thousand dollars worth of damage. Easy."
"Fifteen hundred." Quill said. "Your math sucks. It always did."
The blare of a car horn made both of them jump. Quill turned around in her seat, groaned audibly, and put the Mercedes in park.
"What is it?" Meg asked. "More important, who is it? The cops?"
"Turn around and look for yourself," Quill hissed.
"I'm not turning around. I have nothing to do with this. I was the one who wanted to take a cab, remember?"
"What the hell you two braodies doin' here?"
"Hello, Mr. Taylor," Quill said.
Meg turned around. Verger Taylor was coming through the rear door of a large silver Cadillac. His chauffeur was a blur behind the tinted windshield.
"Sorry," said Quill. She eyed the mailbox, which had been knocked askew. The little jockey underneath it had a woebegone expression on its concrete face. The name on the box - in fold letters - said V. Taylor. "This is your driveway?"
"Yeah. What the hell happened?"
"We took a wrong turn. Sorry. We're were looking for Ms. - I mean Miss - Cressida," Quill said lamely. "We had no idea this was your driveway."
"Would that have saved my fuckin' mailbox?" he chuckled. "Women. Who says they can drive? You want Cressy's, you want to continue down that beach road for three miles. She's on the beach side." His face softened, and for a moment, Quill thought, he looked quite appealing. "You can see her place from here, at night."
"Is there a green light on the dock?" Meg cracked. Then, at his frown of incomprehension, "Never mind. Sorry about the mailbox."
"Don't worry about it. Wouldn't expect less from you women drivers."
Quill gave him a thin-lipped smile, got into the convertible, and turned the ignition on. She pulled ahead, let the Cadillac drive by, and reversed into the street.
"How come you didn't give him the 'driving skills are not gender specific' speech?" Meg asked.
"Because it's kind of sad, don't you think?"
"What?"
"The way he looked when he mentioned Cressida's name. He still loves her, I think."
Meg snorted. "Love and Verger Taylor. Right. Okay. I know where we are. Take the long way around and we'll be there at just past seven."
The drive to Cressida's home on Hobe Sound was an extraordinarily lovely one. The sun was setting in a gentle haze. The warmth of the air was a blessing. The two-lane road to Hobe Sound was tree-lined, heavily shrubbed, and very quiet. An occasional car passed them, going at a leisurely pace. All of the cars were police cruisers. The glimpses of the ocean among the heavy vegetation were infrequent, even though it was no more than five hundred yards away. The beach was rocky, the swells thick and slow. Quill like what she cold see of the houses; most of them were low, resting quietly on the dunes like huge, somnolent sea birds. No obvious opulence, just serenity and an appreciation of the land itself.
"There's the turn on the bridge," Meg said. "We're coming in backwards from the directions, so the house should be just ahead, on the right. Yes. There it is, Quill, see? The number four on the blue-painted board and the name: Tern House."
Quill pulled onto a white concrete driveway lined with oleander, bougainvillea, and the white fire of tropical ginger. The way was twisty, and the little car handled the curves with quiet assurance. The house appeared slowly, first a flash of gray between two southern pines, then a long length of gray driftwood siding, and finally a circular drive. Quill parked the car a short way from the entrance. The driveway was well-worn cobblestone.
The front door opened as they approached and a maid in dove-gray greeted them with a polite smile. "Miss Houghton is very glad you made it on time," she said. They followed her into a short hall, paved with flagstones. "Would you like to freshen up?" asked the maid. "There is a toilet over here."
"Thanks, but no," Quill said. "We're fine."
It was dim in the twilight, and Cressida Houghton appeared from the depths of the house like a wistful ghost. "Come in. It's so nice to have you here at Tern House. We're out on the lanai, if you'd like to come with me."
They passed through the living room. The floors were wide-board mahogany, well polished. The furniture was old and comfortable. Quill saw two of her paintings - Iris studies - over a low chest on the wall facing the screened porch. Cressida stopped in front of them and touched each with one slender finger. "I bring them down with me when I come here after Christmas," she said. "Otherwise they are displayed in my little apartment in New York. Such color, Quill. They're wonderful. Well. The boys are out here."
Evan and Corrigan both got to their feet as they came out onto the porch. Evan's hair was tousled; he wore a white turtleneck sweater against the faint chill in the air. His eyes, very blue, met Quill's. She felt that shock of sexual recognition that bears no explaining - unconnected to loyalties, pledges, commitments. Disconcerted, she glanced past him, over his shoulder, to the view beyond the porch. The ocean spread before them, a huge, hushed presence just beyond the screens. "Hurricane weather," Evan said with a smile. He took Quill's hand and held it.
The look Cressida Houghton gave her was poisonous. She didn't move - or didn't seem to. But her face was a mask. Her eyes - the famous silvery eyes-were as cold as the nitrogen room at the Qwik Freeze plant back in Hemlock Falls.
Quill had the unsettling feeling that her throat had closed up, forbidding her to speak above a murmur, damping her reactions, slowing her down like a mouse in front of a very bright light. It was the proximity to this very famous, too-perceptive, very furious woman - an icon of grace and gracious living for people the world over. An icon that seemed to want Quill's blood to water the roses out front.
Meg broke the strained silence. She suddenly shook herself like a puppy and said, "What a great view! How's about a walk on the beach?"
"What wonderful idea," Cressida said. "Perhaps after dinner. Please, sit down and tell Anna what you would like to drink before dinner. It's "just fish", I'm afraid."
Quill accepted a chilled glass of Vouvray. Meg, with a slight wink in Quill's direction, asked for Coke, which, to her somewhat shamefaced embarrassment, was duly brought in a Baccarat water tumbler, poured over shaved ice.
The dinner was "just fish." But it was simply, elegantly cooked, with a touch of fresh tarragon, green peppercorns, and slices of orange. The table was set with hand-dyed linens from Provenā”al and a basket of daisies, larkspur, and winter roses. The service was whisper-quiet, and Quill had to suppress the urge to sit bolt upright and shout "chocolate!" like the guy who'd yelled "fire!" in the old Smothers Brothers song.
Conversation was minimal. Evan looked frequently at Quill. At some point - Quill later recalled it was sometime between the fish course and the salad that ended the meal - he asked Meg if she'd sung to the chefs at the Institute that day. Meg looked at him blankly, opened her mouth, and closed it again. Quill introduced one topic of conversation: art, only to have her hostess murmur' 'wonderful, wonderful" in response to each comment she made. She tried politics - and was met with the gentle comment that he (the current president) had been a great friend of the family for a long while - and they never discussed him. Never.
Cressida, with a slightly disdainful eye on her guests, brought up the activities of Allen on the polo field, Tracy on the tennis court, and David and his sailing - none of whom were known to Quill or Meg. Finally, when Quill heard herself murmuring "wonderful, wonderful, wonderful," like Lawrence Welk after a sex-change operation, she gave up and ate as circumspectly as she could. In the British tradition, which Quill would have found pretentious anywhere else, Cressida led the ladies away for a short time after dinner, and Meg joined Quill in the bathroom. Quill liked the bathroom a lot. Like the rest of the house it was old, unpretentious, and there wasn't a Water Pik in sight. The walls were paneled with white pine, reminding her of the pleasant Nantucket beach cottages she and Meg had spent time in as girls.
"I can't stand it," Meg hissed at her, closing the door. "I want to play the banjo or something."
"Chocolate!" Quill said, in a subdued yell. "Chocolate! Chocolate! Chocolate!"
"Why'd you yell 'fire' when you fell into the chocolate," Meg sang. "Why'd you yell 'fire' when you fell into the choooc-late?"
"Because who would have come if I'd yelled 'chocolate!' Oh, dear." Quill looked in the tiny mirror, ran her fingers through her hair; sighed, and gave up. The humidity made it curl like bedsprings. "Hands down, this is the most awful dinner party I've ever been to."
"Quill, there's no conversation."
"I know there's no conversation. The thing is, Meg, we don't know anyone this woman knows except Verger Taylor. And other than talking about other people, I don't think Miss Houghton has much to say. About anything. Except her boys. Did you see how she looked at me when Evan grabbed my hand?"
"I sure did. Yikes." Meg stood beside her and they both looked into the mirror. Meg's eyes, clear and candid gray, met Quill's greenish-hazel ones. "What do we do now?"
"Bridge, I guess," said Quill. "And I haven't played for months."
"I haven't played for years," Meg complained. "You're the one that started the tournaments at the inn. You know what? There's five of us. And you can't play bridge with five people. So I'll sit out. I'll go for a walk on the beach."
"Coward," Quill said. "I'm the one Cressida Houghton wants to make into mincemeat. Why the heck did she invite us if she resents us?"
When Meg and Quill rejoined their hostess, she rose and gracefully introduced an elderly gentleman, impeccably groomed, apparently the David of the yachting stories. David was, Cressida said, an old and dear neighbor and would make up a fourth. The boys, she said, with a slight emphasis in her tone, were going out to meet some friends closer to their own age.
Two thoughts struck Quill at once. The first-that Cressida Houghton thought she and Meg were. cradle robbers, that she had encouraged Evan's attention-hit her with the force of the so-far nonexistent hurricane. The second, that she'd forced Cressida Houghton, famed for her politesse, into overtly rude behavior, made her want to crawl under the worn chintz couch and stay there. She, Quill, had managed to offend the second or third most famous woman in America. Was that why she and Meg had been invited here? To let the golddigger twins discover that the Taylor boys weren't up for grabs? Quill started to giggle. It was the kind of giggle that, once suppressed, surfaced harder than ever. She sat down with a pink face and bitten lower lip.
Cressida looked at her with no expression at all. "Shall we sit in the game room? Everything's set up in there. I'm afraid the boys and I have been playing three-handed bridge in there since five." She smiled gently. "But the cards are all warmed up."
To Quill's relief, the game room was brightly lit. It was the dimness in the rest of the house, she decided, that had put her so off-balance. A card table with a battered green felt cover had been drawn up before a cold fireplace. Quill sat in the scorekeeper's position, noting idly that East/West had been badly set by North/South three rubbers in a row in the three-handed game that afternoon. One of the games had been a grand slam: seven no-trump, doubled. Ouch.
"If you wouldn't mind," Cressida said, "David and I will play North/South. I had the worst luck this afternoon."
"I can see that," said Meg irrepressibly.
Meg and Quill were down by a thousand points when the dove-gray maid appeared at the game room door with the portable phone on a tray. Cressida took the call. She said "yes," "no," and "I see." For a long moment, she remained perfectly still. Then, "Please call the police. I'll send Mr. Hawthorne." She set the phone back on the tray for the waiting maid and sat relaxed until she'd gone out of the room. "You might as well know this. It's going to be in the newspapers tomorrow morning." She sighed. "And the television news, too, I expect. The boys took their two friends over to their fathers' home. I think they were planning a visit to Au Bar." A slight grimace flitted across the perfect face. "At any rate, there's a great deal of blood in Verger's study. And Verger himself has disappeared."
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