Meg sipped coffee. Her dark hair was ruffled. She was still in her nightgown. Quill, who had been swimming in the heated pool, rubbed her face with a towel and looked with concern at her sister. After a moment, she got up, picked the stool up and carried it back to the island separating the kitchen from the living room.
"Well, he didn't like getting up this early."
"Did he give you an opinion?"
"He's a lawyer. He'll have to go to the office and look up the contract I signed. So I didn't get an opinion; I got an impression. But it's his impression that I'm stuck," She smiled. "I'm stuck unless I want to spend a whole pile of time in court. And Howie thinks I'd lose."
"What about Verger's threat to call in the mortgage?"
Meg tugged at her hair. "Howie will check with the bank. He says it'd be unusual, the bank selling just the one mortgage out. But it can be done."
"Good grief. Where the heck would we get three-hundred and fifty-three thousand dollars?"
"From another bank, of course. But Howie says that takes time, and that Taylor can force us to pay on demand. You know what this is like, Quill? Those old Victorian melodramas. 'I can't pay the rent.' 'You must pay the rent.' Jeez. What have I gotten us into?"
"We're both in it," said Quill cheerfully. "What do I you want to do?"
"Stick with it for the moment, I guess. Howie says it is much more likely that I'd get sued for breach of contract and lose than we'd forfeit the Inn. And the publicity would be awful for my career." She sighed. "Those people seem to spend their lives on the front pages anyway. Quill, I think they like the attention!"
"You could be right."
"You're not stuck, though, Why don't you go on home? I'll stay here."
"Okay."
"Quill!"
"Just kidding. Of course I'm not going to leave you to these hyenas."
"Evan didn't seem that much of a hyena," Meg said.
"He didn't, did he? And brother Corrigan looked okay. Maybe a little shy. Which marriage are they from?"
Meg shrugged. "Who knows? God, Quill. What a crew. It's almost as bad as the McIntosh wedding at the Inn. We got through that with only a couple of bodies."
"And we'll get through this. Body-free, unless Tiffany loses it altogether and shoots Verger. If she does, I'll be the first to testify in her defense. Evan seemed sympathetic. Maybe what I can do today while you're with chef whatsis is look him up and talk to him. Maybe he can keep Verger from burning the place down around our ears." She recalled Taylor's specific threat and added glumly, "Literally. Just let me get showered and dressed, and we'll go on to the culinary institute." She went down the hall to the bedroom that had been re- served for her use and rummaged through her suitcase. "What's on the agenda for today?"
"What?" Meg appeared at the door. They'd had an amiable squabble over who should take what bedroom. The master suite - which Meg had insisted on leaving to Quill - had a splendid view of the ocean. Oversized sliding glass doors led to a small stone patio circled by planters filled with impatiens, bougainvillea and gardenias. Beyond the patio, green lawn swept to the sea.
"I said, what's on the schedule for today?"
"Oh." Meg's face brightened. "It's not too bad, actually. I'm meeting with Maitre Jean Paul Bernard to go through the banquet menu and discuss the cooking classes. I've always wanted to meet him. His souffl‚s are outstanding. Just outstanding. And I heard through the grapevine that he's developed a variation on my marinade for potted rabbit that's incredible. He's amazing, Quill. It's his versatility that's so impressive. I mean - he's meats and desserts, which is a rare combination."
"But I meant more in the line of how I should dress. Florida casual? New York chic? Beach bum? What?"
"Well, we're touring the institute. And we're meeting Linda whosis..."
"Longstreet."
"Whatever. And she'll show us the facilities and go over the guest list, so I suppose you should wear whatever you want to wear. It's nothing very formal. I told them we'd be there at ten, but it's quite casual."
"What are you wearing?"
Meg glanced down at her nightshirt. It was the purple one with the puppy logo and the message IN DOG YEARS, I'M DEAD. "I don't know. All I brought were my T-shirts. And my tocque, of course."
Quill sighed. "One of us should look like we know what we're doing, I'll have to put on a suit."
"Poor Quillie. Are you sure you don't want to go home?" She grinned in response to the look on Quill's face, turned on her heel, and disappeared. Her voice floated down the hall, "Don't answer that. I'll be ready in ten minutes."
Quill pulled a cream linen suit from its hanger and found a black scoop-necked bodysuit to go with it. The humidity was doing violent things to her hair, and after a brief struggle with the mass of curls, she combed it out and scooped it on top of her head. She checked her briefcase to make sure she'd kept all of Tiffany's directions. By the time she emerged from the bedroom, Meg (dressed in black trousers and a T-shirt that read LOOK BUSY! JESUS IS COMING!) was wandering disconsolately around the living room. Quill recognized the attitude: precooking nerves.
"Have you got your menus?"
"Yes."
"And your chef's gear?"
Meg picked up her tote bag. It was packed with her knives, her hat, and her tunic. "Yes."
"Don't brood, We'll get through this. You'll be magnificent. Even if it is pearls before swine."
"I'm homesick."
"You can't be homesick. We've been here less than eighteen hours."
"Seems like years. What do we do now?"
Tiffany's New York-based secretary had sent a sheaf of instructions relating to the condo, the car, and their itinerary to the Inn three weeks before they'd left. Quill snapped open her briefcase, pulled out the memo, and referred to page three, which read:
Monday A.M. Car has been left for you with Luis, the concierge. His office is to the left of the parking lot as you exit number 110. It will take you fifteen minutes to get to the institute, depending on traffic.
A clearly drawn map was printed at the bottom of the page.
"Okay," said Quill. "First, we find Luis."
Outside, the sun was glorious: warm, radiant, and effulgent gold. Quill's mood lifted into euphoria, Her early morning swim had left her feeling relaxed, and the weather was like a caress, Feathery white clouds drifted along the edges of the horizon. "I wish Myles were here right now."
"Thursday. He and Andrew will be here Thursday," Meg tugged at her hair absentmindedly; her mind was already dealing with clarified butter and pinches of spice, "How are we supposed to get there? Are they sending a car?"
"We're supposed to find Luis, And then I'm going to drive us."
Meg stopped dead. "You're going to what?" Quill put her hand at the small of Meg's back and propelled her gently forward. A sign to the left of the parking lot read: OFFICE-LUIS MENDOZA, MANAGER. A small, hand-written sign below it read: COMPUTERS REPAIRED. "The map's really clear. And how bad can Florida traffic be?"
"Quill. No offense, but if there's a worse driver in the seven states between here and New York, I would like to meet him. Or her. I am not, I repeat not, going to ride with you to an unknown destination in a car you haven't been in before. And that's flat. We'll get a cab."
"We don't need a cab. Look. This must be Mr. Mendoza." She waved at a young man with black hair and olive skin who'd come out of the office. He was dressed in a royal blue shirt with the Combers Beach Club emblem on the pocket.
"How do you know that's Mr. Mendoza?" Meg whispered. "It could be somebody else. And Luis Mendoza's the name of a famous boxer."
"It says 'Luis' on his name tag, he's carrying the kind of teeny screwdriver they repair computers with, and he's obviously a computer-repairing concierge with the name of a famous boxer. Which is what the sign says." Quill waved as they approached. "Buenas dias, Se¤or."
"Buena." He nodded politely to them. "You are guests, here, madam?"
"Yes. Mrs. Taylor's guests.
I'm Sarah Quilliam, and this is Margaret Quilliam. We're here for a car, I think."
"We're here for a taxi," said Meg firmly. "If you could call us one, please, Mr. Mendoza, I would appreciate it very, very much."
"They just call me Luis here." He grinned. "And Mrs. Taylor's car is a very fine one. I doubt that you'd need a taxi."
"We need a taxi," Meg said.
What kind of a car is it?" Quill asked.
"A Mercedes. The small one. The one Senora Taylor doesn't like."
"A Mercedes?" Meg said. "She doesn't like a Mercedes?"
"The color," said Luis expressionlessly. "It's black. Where are you going?"
"The Florida Institute for Fine Food," Quill said. "The address?"
"Ummm..." Quill referred to the paper. "One Sea View Drive."
"Ah. One moment, please." He vanished inside his office, leaving the door open. Quill and Meg followed him in. The office was small, but efficiently furnished. A row of metal filing cabinets stood against one wall. Long benches ran the length of another. PCs, laptops, desktops, and printers lay in various stages of assembly on the benches.
Luis's desk was in the center of the room. There was a sleek IBM computer, printer, and external hard drive on it, and nothing else. He sat down and key-stroked rapidly. Quill, who was a little afraid of computers, admired his apparent expertise. The printer began to hum and spit out a colored map.
"Here you are," Luis said. "I just bought Find It! software. Amazing, isn't it? Tells you the quickest way to get to the institute."
"Thank you," Quill said. She took it. The instructions were different from those on the memo from New York.
"Now, if you'd like to wait just a minute, I'll bring the Mercedes around for you."
"A Mercedes," said Meg again. "Good grief."
"There, you see?" Quill smiled with what she hoped was a lot of confidence. They walked out of the office together and back into the sunshine. "One of the best cars ever if you have to be in an accident... not," she added hastily, "that there's going to be an accident. Look, Meg. Here's Luis's map. We take a left out of the parking lot, go to the light, and straight on through to Forty-fifth Street. We take a right on Forty-fifth, go down six blocks, and take a left again into the institute. Left-right-left. What could be simpler?" She reexamined the map from New York. "Even simpler than that is Interstate 95. That'll get us there in ten minutes."
"With you driving, quantum physics could be simpler."
"Oh, ha." She clutched Meg's arm. Luis drove a small sports car out of the garage and pulled up in front of them. "Oh, Meg. The car!"
"What about it? It's black. It's dinky..."
"It's a 380 SE! And it's incredible! Meg, please. No taxi. I've always wanted to drive one of these." She grinned happily at Luis, who grinned back. He got out of the car and handed her the keys.
Meg shook her head. "You? And a Mercedes? You're kidding."
"I am not kidding. You remember when I was driving a cab in New York?"
"There are a lot of traffic police who remember you driving a cab in New York."
"Well, one thing that experience taught me is to appreciate fine machinery. This is one of the best-made cars in the world."
"You've been my sister for how long?"
"Too long."
"And still you constantly surprise me. Okay. No cab. But if I'm late to this meeting, Quill, you're dead. And if we crash, you're even deader." She rolled her eyes at Luis, who made a sympathetic clicking sound. "Tell us to go with God, or something." She tossed her tote bag into the boot and slid into the passenger seat. Quill opened the driver's side door, slid in, and sat down with a feeling of awe.
"May you go with God," Luis responded in an accommodating way. He leaned over the door. "And watch out for the traffic on Broadway. It's a killer."
"The freeway looks faster," Quill said. Luis looked alarmed. "I don't think..."
"This car's got an automatic shift," Quill said. "Darn it. Watch out for the what?" She moved into reverse. Luis leaped out of the way. She put her foot on the accelerator and shot backwards.
Meg twisted around and said briefly, "Missed it."
"Missed what?"
"Never mind. Just slow down, Quill. If the map is right, we've got plenty of time."
"The traffic," Luis called. "Be careful! Don't take 95!"
"Ten minutes," said Quill confidently. "Tops."
An hour and a half later, Quill pulled into the parking of the Florida Institute for Fine Food and came to a shaky halt.
"We're late," said Meg, her voice tight. "I know we're late."
"It wasn't your fault," Meg said carefully. "I understand that it wasn't your fault."
"Meg, I've never seen such traffic in my life. Not even in Times Square. At rush hour."
Meg leaned back in the seat. The top was still down, and ninety minutes in the hot Florida sun had turned her face pink. "Lunatics," she said, staring upwards. "Crazed kids going a hundred miles an hour. Stroke victims going twenty miles an hour. Vacationers pulling U-turns on a four-lane expressway. Truck drivers cussing in at least three different languages. Even LA was never like this. Now, Quill, if you don't mind, I have just a few suggestions about driving in this type of - "
"I mind." Crossly, Quill put the car into park and eased herself out of the front seat. She took a couple of deep breaths and said with a brightness even she found artificial, "Look how lovely this place is, Meg. It's all pink stucco. And it's right on the ocean."
"I don't give a hoot about the stucco. You either listen to me, or we spend the rest of the week in taxis. Which will totally destroy any profit we could have hoped to make out of this trip."
"We won't take the freeway next time."
"We'll take a cab next time. And the time after that. At least we can cower in the back seat together. I was afraid to close my eyes. I was afraid to keep my eyes open. I was petrified!"
"You couldn't be," said a hurried voice in Quill's ear, "the Quilliams?"
Quill jumped and turned. A pleasant woman with an anxious face took several steps backward. She was somewhere in her twenties. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a cardigan sweater and a long cotton skirt. Quilt wondered about the cardigan. The temperature was in the upper eighties and climbing. "I'm sorry if you're not the Quilliams, but I've heard about the way you squabble." She flushed, embarrassed. "I mean..."
"It's okay," said Meg. "We're the Quilliams."
"I'm Linda Longstreet?" she said, as though she questioned the fact. "You aren't Sarah and Meg?"
"I'm Sarah. Please call me Quill. And this is my sister, Meg."
"Thank goodness. Thank goodness. I was so worried. So worried. I thought something happened to you."
"We took I-95," said Meg grimly.
"Oh. At this time of day it shouldn't be too bad."
"It gets worse?" said Meg. "It can't possibly get worse."
"Oh, sure it can get worse. But please, come in. We've all been waiting. And waiting." She bit nervously at a forefinger. "And of course the electrical power would decide to play tricks on us this morning... But now you're here and everything's going to be just fine. Just fine."
"I'm really sorry," Quill said as they walked across the parking lot. "But we were trapped by an accident, and there was no way to call."
"What's wrong with the electrical system?" Meg asked. "Are the ovens down? Are the refrigerators down?"
Linda stopped in the middle of the lot. "It's not as bad as last week," she said reassuringly. "We didn't lose a thing. The food's just fine. I think." She looked around, bewildered, seemed to recall where she was, and headed toward the building again.
"And this is just an introductory meeting, isn't it?" asked Meg. "I mean - you didn't have anyone waiting for us. Did you?"
Linda stopped again. Quill had never seen anyone as easily distracted. "Well, they all left after the first hour, I'm afraid. Except for Chef Jean Paul. And he can't leave, you know, since he works here. And liv
es here. He's got an apartment over the Food Gallery."
Death Dines Out Page 4
