Meg gestured at her to shut up. "Hey. Yes. I'm not coming back. No. I was just telling Quill... she seems unimpressed. And she's probably right. As usual. Here. You talk to her." She thrust the receiver at Quill. "It's home. I'm getting dressed and going on to the Institute. My cab's due in twenty minutes."
"Meg, I'll be happy to drive you..."
"No way. Here." She shoved the phone into Quill's hand and marched off to get dressed.
"Don't leave before you talk to me, Meg! I want to go over what I'm going to say at this meeting. Can you think of anything good to say about the Southern Fried people?"
"They're not wasteful! They don't change the deep fat oftener than once a week."
Quill shuddered. She put the receiver to her ear. A familiar foghorn voice barked into it. She felt a pang of homesickness. "Doreen!"
"That you, Quill?"
"It's me. How's everything at home?"
"All right, I guess. If you don't count that blonde sniffin' around Sher'f McHale."
Quill considered several replies to this. Doreen had several strong prejudices, which included a fixed belief that no single woman should travel more than fifty miles from home unaccompanied by armed guards. This supported a determination to see Quill and Myles married as soon as possible.
She fell for Doreen's bait. "What blonde?"
"Some divorcee what's been making up to the sheriff. Been here a couple of days, I guess. Stay on with that Nadine Peterson till the baby comes. Don't look like she's goin' to be movin' on soon, 'less you two get back here where you belong."
"Myles isn't the sheriff anymore, Doreen. Davy Kiddermeister's the sheriff. And we'll be home as soon as we've finished up here."
"Huh. Thought you'd say that."
"Then why did you bring it up? Myles isn't the type to chase blondes." She weakened. "How old is she?"
"The blonde? 'Bout your age, I guess. Younger maybe. So I guess I'd better bring him along with me."
"Who? Myles? Along where?"
"If you ain't coming home with this hurricane coming..."
"Doreen, I saw the weather map. The thing's a hundred miles off the coast of South America and may be headed this way. And if you listen through all the baloney the television's blabbering, it isn't even a hurricane yet. It's a tropical storm. So where are you going?"
"Got tickets to the Palm Beach airport, don't we?"
"Do you? I mean, you do? What about Andy? I thought he was coming with Myles."
"Ayuh. For Thursday. Unless we can't land because the hurricane took out the runway."
"If the hurricane comes, it won't be until the week- end. You're kidding, aren't you? You're coming to Florida with Myles?"
"I don't kid," said Doreen with some indignation. "Stoke's goin' to some newspaper convention in Rochester for a few days and John don't need me here, he says, so yeah, we got tickets. You tell Meg Doc Bishop is sorry, but Nadine's 'bout due and he may have to do a C-section. You got a pencil?"
"Well, yes, but..."
"We're coming in on Delta." She gave Quill the flight number and arrival time and then rang off at length, alluding darkly to the probable total of the long-distance charges for the call, the iffy state of the bank balance since Meg and Quill were off gallivanting and the inn was closed, and the outrageous state of American debt in general.
Quill hung up. The beep of an impatient taxi sounded. Meg called, " 'Bye." The front door slammed shut and Quill was left alone. "Hey!" she shouted. No answer. "Darn it!"
She went into the bathroom to shower and change. If Myles were here now, she could practice her approach to the hapless innocents at the Institute. You're not fired, you've been downsized. No. Right-sized. No. Face it - they were all going to be fired to make way for the chicken people. They were about to be deep fried. And Myles's advice would be to stay out of it. Completely.
"Well," she said aloud to the absent Meg. "Here's another fine mess you've got us in." She had a couple of alternatives; she could call Myles, exchange affectionate greetings, and diddle away another twenty minutes when she'd see him Thursday anyway. And he'd know something was up from the tone of her voice. Or, she could check the third bedroom on behalf of Doreen - except the daily maid service - silent, (as far as Quill could see - invisible) changed the sheets and towels daily, whether anyone had used them or not. Or she could get dressed and go to meet her own personal hurricane at the Florida Institute for Fire Food monthly management meeting.
The traffic. She brightened. If she took I-95, she might miss the meeting altogether.
"You're early," said Linda Longstreet, sounding delighted. "Mr. Taylor said you were going to join us this morning." Her delight was brief; she looked pale and as though she needed a good night's sleep.
"Traffic was great," said Quill glumly. "It said on the radio that a tractor trailer accident closed six west-bound lanes outside of Miami. Everyone else is stuck up there."
They were in one of the institute's classrooms. Logically, Quill knew that it was impossible for all sides of a rectangular building to face the sea, but this room - as did all the others she'd seen - had a splendid view of the ocean. The walls were painted a pale raspberry. The floor was made of dark mahogany, slightly sticky in the way such floors were. A set of daguerreotypes of Parisian caf‚s were arranged on one wall. The air was scented with garlic, burnt sugar, and baking bread. Quill much preferred that to the odors of fried chicken.
It was very cold. A banquet-sized table - at least eleven feet long - occupied the center of the room. Twelve chairs were pulled up to it, four on each long side and two at each end. A yellow pad and pencil had been placed in front of each chair.
"They'll all start coming in a few minutes," Linda said. "Sit anywhere you like."
"Who comes to these meetings?"
"Well, Chef Jean Paul, of course. He's the director. And each of the heads of the five other kitchens: des:. sects, entrees, breads, and so on. And me. And the board of directors, those of them that are here. This month we've got two of the five: Mrs. Gollinge, and Mrs. McIntyre."
The lights flickered and went out. "Oh, no," Linda wailed. "Not now, dammit. Please not now, with the board of directors here!"
The lights went back on.
"Birdie and Bea," Quill said.
"The Merry Widows," Linda said with a smile. "Plus Selma, of course, although she won't be here today. We're very lucky in our board."
"Eleven," said Quill. "That's eleven people. Who's the twelfth?"
"I assumed that Maitre Quilliam would be with you."
"Meg? I don't think so. She's in the middle of a class with the student chefs."
"That's right. I should have known that, because Chef Bruce, the man…ge … gare, was quite put out that he would miss seeing Meg teach. The others, I'm afraid, took the high road - you know how chefs can be - what could a rival teach you - and a woman! They're all frantic, of course, over the competition. Now, I wonder." She frowned. "Mr. Taylor said two guests would be here, I'm sure of it."
The door to the classroom swung open and Bea and Birdie marched in. Bea's track suit this morning was white and gold, with silver metal stars scattered across the breast of the jacket. Birdie wore a Chanel suit in a vibrant pink tweed with black velvet collar and cuffs. She had a long strand of pearls draped around her neck, and her eyeglasses hung from a lapis lazuli chain that reached the last button on the jacket. Quill began to get an inkling about the high level of the air conditioning allover southern Florida: How else could you wear expensive outfits in the heat?
"It's Quill!" Birdie said with warm pleasure. "How are you, dear?"
"I'm fine, thanks."
"Mrs. Gollinge, Mrs. McIntyre. Please sit down." Linda fluttered around them like a distressed bobwhite. "I was sorry to hear that Mrs. Goldwyn is indisposed. Is she feeling better?"
"Eyelashes," said Birdie. "She's getting them dyed this morning. And of course, with that face peel she had yesterday, she won't be fit to be seen for at least ten days, so as far as I'm conce
rned, she should have waited."
"Which means she'll miss the cooking courses," Bea sighed. "Poor Selma! But we're ready to roll. We've signed up for Meg's classes, did we tell you?"
"Yes, you did," Quill said. "There are twelve chairs here, Birdie," Bea said. "Are you and your sister going to join us, Quill?"
"I don't think that Meg is. I don't know who the twelfth is for."
"My two favorite widows!" Verger Taylor boomed. He walked into the classroom with an air both expectant and threatening. Ernst Kolsacker and a large man in a pin-striped suit were with him. The unknown man was well barbered, with a clean-shaven pink face, and a full head of recently clipped white hair. The suit must have been miserably hot in any temperature higher than sixty-five degrees. He was chewing gum.
Ernst was in his golf shirt and chinos. He gave Quill an impish smile. Both he and the suited man ranged themselves against the side of the wall.
"Verger?" Bea put her gold-trimmed glasses to her eyes, then let them fall again. "And Franklin. Quill? You've already met Ernst. This is Franklin Carmichael, Verger's lawyer." Her face closed in displeasure. "Frank? Are you chewing gum?"
He blushed. "Sorry. It's that nicotine gum. I'm trying to quit smoking." Both Verger and Franklin Carmichael seemed taken aback by this attack, which may, Quill thought to herself, have been Bea' s intention. Ernst gave her a large wink. Quill bit back a snort of laughter and sat down.
"Spit it out at once, please." Franklin took the gum from his mouth and wrapped it in his handkerchief. Bea rounded on Taylor. "I didn't expect to see you here, Verger. What's going on? Is it true? I heard that you've bought the buildings here. You're a damn fool if you have. The electrical system's all screwed up. Why didn't you let Linda know you were coming? You should have been on the agenda."
Verger's bluster returned in full force. "I always like a little surprise. Keeps the troops on their toes." He winked at Quill. She blushed furiously. She held onto her temper; if he wanted to sit and watch how she handled this mess, fine. Just fine. He shook hands vigorously with Bea and gave Birdie a hug. "Linda? Where the hell are the kitchen chefs? And where the hell's the coffee?"
Linda gave a squeak, knocked over one of the chairs, and rushed out.
"I've got exactly ten minutes for this meeting, and then I'm outta here. Have to meet the Concorde. I'd tell you who's coming in on it, but I'm sworn to keep the I old lips closed. Linda?" He looked around, instantly angry. "Where the hell did she get to?"
"I think she went to find the chefs, Verger," Birdie said dryly. "None of us expected to find you here this morning, or Miss Quilliam either, for that matter. What's going on?"
"You're goddamn late," Verger snarled as Linda ushered a group of white-hatted men into the classroom. "When I call a goddamn meeting, it's to start on time."
"Verger?" Birdie demanded. "You didn't call this meeting. It's the monthly meeting of the board of directors. Technically, you're our guest. Franklin, can't you teach him some better manners?"
Carmichael smiled genially. But Quill noticed he wasn't as cool as he appeared; he reached into his pocket, took out a silver foil packet, put another piece of nicotine gum in his mouth, and chewed it nervously.
"You chefs all here?" Verger demanded. "Vegetables, desserts, manage a whatever the hell it is? Yeah? Okay. Sit down, all of you. This is only gonna take a minute, and then Miss Fancy Pants Quilliam here is going to answer any questions you got Linda, I thought I told you to get coffee. And some goddamn something to eat. 'All right? Now. I want everyone to sit the hell down. You." He jerked his thumb at Chef Jean Paul, who had seated himself at the head of the table. "That's my chair. Beat it." He swung his head toward Linda Longstreet, who was looking pale, frightened, and determined. "Hel-Io? Hello? I thought I asked for coffee."
"I'd like to be here, Mr. Taylor, for whatever it is that you're going to say to us."
"I'll get the coffee," Quill volunteered. Once she was out of this room, she decided, she was going to get into the Mercedes and drive straight back to the condo. I-95 was infinitely preferable to this.
"Linda will call for coffee," said Birdie. "She certainly doesn't have to fetch it herself. I'm sure that the students in the pastry kitchen can spare a few minutes to bring it over." Linda nodded timidly and went to the wall phone near the door. "We will all sit down now. Verger? What is it you have to tell us?"
Verger walked to the head of the table with impressive slowness. The five kitchen chefs sat stiffly in their chairs. Chef Jean Paul pulled mournfully on his mustache. Quill sank back into her seat, between Birdie and Bea. Verger thrust his chair aside and, standing, grasped the edge of the table with both hands. "The Wall Street Journal will announce today that Taylor Incorporated has acquired the property at one Sea View Drive in Palm Beach County, formerly known as the Florida Institute for Fine Food. As of next week, I want you all out of here." He glared at Linda. "Especially you, cookie. You I want out of here today. The way you maintain this place, I'm amazed it hasn't fallen around my ears."
The assembled group looked at him like frozen rabbits. Franklin snapped his gum, apparently in mild distress. The sound was profoundly irritating. There was a small, dismayed gasp - from Linda Longstreet, Quill thought - but no more reaction than that. Of course, it wouldn't have come as a surprise; the altercation between Tiffany and Verger at Le Nozze had hit the six o'clock news; since then, the town had been rife with rumor.
"I'm calling a press conference later in the day to go : into the specifics." He grinned. Quill told herself his teeth were not pointed; it was merely an illusion of the light. "But if anyone here in this room objects, I want to tell you this. A lot of people have tried to take me down before." He lowered his head, thrust out his jaw, and repeated in a stagy rumble, "Yes, they've tried to kill me." There was a kind of swell around the table as if some mammoth Moby-Dick were about to rise from beneath an ominously still ocean.
"You don't mean that, Verger," Birdie said.
Taylor raised his eyebrows in exaggerated surprise. "You don't believe it. Sure. I can read you. Don't think I can't. You think I would have come as far as I have if I couldn't read you all like a book? Hunh!" He made a sound that managed to be expressive of contempt, lofty amusement, and menace all at once. "Yep-per," he said cockily. "They tried to beat me. Bankrupt me. Run me out of town. Me! I don't take this kind of bulls hit lightly, ladies and gentlemen. Not from the press, not from my so-called colleagues in banking. Not from the goddamned Supreme Court of the United States of America. Not from..." He rolled his eye upward. "Anyone."
"Do get to the point, Verger," Birdie said tartly. "What are you planning on doing with these buildings?
"Miss Quilliam'll tell you that. I just wanted you to know - you don't like it - you can lump it. I just wanted you to know."
"Verg?" Ernst Kolsacker looked at his watch. "The helicopter's on its way. The freeway's backed up again, and you'll miss the Concorde if you don't fly to the airport." He looked mildly exasperated. "I told you Miss Quilliam had agreed to take care of this."
"You wanna see something done right, you do it yourself, Ernst." His eyes swept the room in a menacing way. "You all got what I just said. You listen to this broadie here and take it like troopers. Quill? You stay here and take care of any questions. 'Kay? All right?"
He turned to Franklin Carmichael and said "Frank? We got all this covered?" Franklin jumped, slapped his hand against his breast pocket, found it empty of a cigarette pack, and pulled out another piece of nicotine gum from his pants pocket. He popped the foil packet, tossed the small square into his mouth, and began to chew.
Verger clapped his hand heavily on Franklin's shoulder. "Good man!" He thrust his thumb up in triumphant farewell. He turned and went through the door, Franklin Carmichael in his wake like an obedient tug. Ernst Kolsacker stood aside and closed it softly after them. He then pulled up the chair Taylor had dragged away from the table and sat down. There was a brief hesitation, then a babble of noise broke out.
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Linda's face was pale. "He's going to evict us."
Quill nodded, tremendously relieved not to have to actually say it.
"He dares?" Chef Jean Paul rose to his feet with a shriek. "This pig. This swine! This vache stupide has bought my kitchens! And he does not want me to cook? Quel imbecile!" He shot a nervous glance at Ernst and hastily sat down.
"What in the world for!" Linda wailed. "Why? Why? We knew about the sale of the building, of course. Everyone did after that scene in Le Nozze. But to fire us all? Why, what in the name of goodness is he going to do with all the equipment?"
They all looked at her. Quill rubbed the back of her neck. She coughed slightly. Ernst Kolsacker was looking at her with a slight smile. She sent him an appealing glance and the smile broadened. Not for the first time since she had come to Florida, Quill felt she was a pawn in some lunatic chess game. She got to her feet. "I want to assure you that Mr. Taylor - " she began. She cleared her throat. "Mr. Taylor has apparently purchased just the institute's buildings. Not," she said hastily, "the program or anything like that. The Florida Institute for Fine Food is still a... a... viable entity." Two of the kitchen chefs eased back into their seats. Heartened, Quill continued, "You don't exist because of this building. This building exists because of you." Without realizing it, she held up her hand for silence. It seemed to work. The outbreak of noise quieted. "I've been thinking about it. You clearly have a wonderful place here, with loyal staff and dedicated students, and why can't your board of directors find another facility-maybe even nicer than this one - where you can all run the program in peace?" She sat down, slightly breathless.
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