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 (3 page)
For a moment, nobody said anything.
Quill poured herself a cup of tea and sat next to Tiffany on the couch. "Volcanic eruption?" she asked, just to fill the silence. "You've been through a volcanic eruption?"
"Hawaii," Tiffany said. "A combination fund-raising and site selection trip for my little hospital. I'd planned to build it on the side of Haleakala mountain, with a marvelous view of the Kiluea Iki crater. But it blew up. Barfed lava and whatnot allover the place. You wouldn't have believed it. Red hot molten rock simply poured down the side of that mountain. It hit the ocean and smack-giant sauna. Clouds of steam everywhere. Marvelous, really, but my architect thought it might upset the patients."
Meg looked at Quill and raised her eyebrows. "So you decided to place it here, in Palm Beach," Meg said. "A hospital for phobics."
"Well, it's a lot calmer, really. You only get hurricanes a couple of months out of the year."
Meg's expression was innocently inquiring. "Any of the patients suffer from hurricane phobia?" She closed her eyes dreamily. "What would you call somebody who's terrified of hurricanes? An aeoliaphobe?"
"A what?" Quill demanded.
Meg gestured vaguely. "Winds. Aeolian is Greek for winds."
"My charity is for women afraid to marry wealth again. I told you that. It's not a phobia, they tell me. I may have told you that. But Dr. Bob straightened me out. It has to do with identity crises and that sort of thing. So Hawaii would have been perfect. I mean - between the ambiance and the beach boys, you can't get much more therapeutic than that. But the volcano worked out for the best. Things like that always do. For instance, I don't know if I could have gotten Meg to come to Hawaii to cook for my fund-raiser. It was hard enough to get you to come to Florida for two weeks."
Meg sat up straight. "It's a hospital for whom?"
"Women who've married wealth, gotten divorced, and are afraid to marry for money again," Tiffany said patiently. "I can't tell you how many of my dearest friends have gone through simply agonies. Agonies. One of them got a job in publishing rather than marry again."
"Shaw," said Meg, with a told-you-so look at Quill. "Old George Bernard himself. He asked Mrs. Siddons or somebody to go to bed with him for a million pounds and she smiled and said she'd think about it. And then he asked her to sleep with him for twenty pounds and she got indignant and shrieked, 'Sir! What do you think I I am?' And he said 'Madam. We've established what you are. We are just trying to establish the price.' I knew it. Quill? We're here under false pretenses."
"It wasn't Mrs. Siddons," said Quill, momentarily! diverted. "It was Mrs. Patrick Campbell. Mrs. Siddons lived a hundred years earlier."
"What are you talking about?" Tiffany said crossly. "We're not talking about hookers, here."
Meg grinned ominously. Quill was recalled to the task at hand, which was to keep the volatile Meg from annihilating Mrs. Taylor. She got up and fetched Meg a cup of strong tea. Meg took it, drank half in two swallows, and glowered.
"You wouldn't have, would you?" Tiffany persisted.
"Wouldn't have what?" asked Meg.
"Gone to Hawaii to cook for my fund-raiser."
"I wouldn't have crossed the street for the fund-raiser if I knew what it was for - wealthy women who are afraid to marry wealth again?"
Quill sent a hasty prayer to whatever gods were in charge of Meg's temper. "What Meg means, Tiffany, is that we're busy most of the year - "
"That's not what I meant," Meg said doggedly. "What I meant was that a bunch of rich women who've gotten their big bucks from - "
Quill raised her voice. "Early November's about the only time we could close the Inn and not lose a ton of money. And a week is the maximum time Meg can spend away from her kitchen without freaking out. So, no. We probably wouldn't have gone to Hawaii. Not if you wanted seven days of celebrity cooking lessons capped by a celebrity-cooked banquet. Between celebrities and jet lag Meg would have had to check into your hospital."
"It's not for stress. I've told you what it's for. Women who are afraid to take a chance on mar - "
"Phooey," Meg interrupted rudely.
"You have doubts about it. I can see that. Both of you. Well, if you don't believe in the charity now, you will after you've met Dr. Bob." Tiffany's perfectly taut brow didn't wrinkle with sincerity, which it should have, since her tone was passionate with it. Quill remembered reading that in a full face lift, the surgeon peeled the skin off the forehead, severed the frown muscles, and pulled the extra skin over the skull. Tiffany's brow I couldn't wrinkle if she wanted it to.
"It's not doubts, precisely," Quill began.
"It's doubts," said Meg flatly. "We've been seduced by the beaches and swimming in warm weather when everybody else at home is armpit-deep in snow. But we're getting unseduced fast. Of course we don't believe in a charity for wealthy women who have divorce phobias. Charities are for people in need."
"Exactly. Charities are for people in need. And need occurs at all levels of society. At all levels of income. Do you have any idea how neglected women such as myself and my friends are? Do you realize the kind of abuse we've taken from people like Verger?"
"Gee, no." Meg's own forehead wrinkled quite satisfactorily, which, Quill knew, frequently presaged an eruption quite as volcanic as Kiluea Iki's. "Unless your mother sold you to him at an early age, you had something to say about marrying him, didn't you? Plus, I can't say as I have a whole lot of sympathy for people who got the second-best Rolls in a settlement." She grabbed her head. "Aaagh! The bells!"
Tiffany glowed. "It's Dr. Bob." She uncrossed her legs and got up gracefully. "You're sure you don't want to do something about your hair, Quill?"
"Shall I get the door?" asked Quill politely.
"He'll use his key." She cocked her head, listening. Quill heard the door open, then the click of shoes on the wooden floor. Tiffany extended her hands. "And here he is. Darling!"
"My dear."
-2-
Quill had imagined Dr. Bittern as a slick, smooth Richard Gere look-alike. He wasn't. The doctor (psychologist? psychiatrist? osteopath?) was small and shaped like a fire hydrant. It was hard to tell how old he was. (Quill was discovering that in Palm Beach it was hard to decide how old anybody was. Florida seemed to be the appearance-surgery capital of the world.) Dr. Bittern had silvery white hair - very thick-wire rimmed glasses, and a small black goatee. He stopped several feet in front of Tiffany, crossed his hands on his paunch, and beamed at her with the smile of a happy baby.
"Kiss, kiss," Tiffany cooed, pecking the air on either : side of his cheeks. "And here is our cook."
"Chef," Meg corrected belligerently.
"Meg, may I introduce Dr. Robert Bittern? And Dr. Bob, this is Sarah Quilliam, Meg's sister."
He inclined his head and, to Quill's surprise, gave Meg her proper title. "Maitre Quilliam. An honor. And Ms. Quilliam? I have seen your art. It is wonderful."
"Thank you - um - Dr. Bittern."
He gestured toward the couch. "May I?"
"Please," said Tiffany. "Please. Dr. Bob..." She fluttered down next to him. "I am so glad you're here! I was just trying to explain the importance of our work to the girls..."
Meg made a noise like a steam kettle.
Tiffany acknowledged the reaction with a vague smile and murmured, "Women, then, and I can't do it half so well as you. No, not a tenth so well as you. If you would?"
"Perhaps a cup of tea, before we begin?" Dr. Bittern sat erect, his back several inches from the couch cushions. His voice was precise and his feet were tiny.
"Meg?" Tiffany all but snapped her fingers.
Quill looked at her sister. Meg looked back. For a moment, Meg's reaction hung in the balance. Suddenly she grinned, shook her head, and got up. "What kind would you like, Dr. Bittern? Black? Green?"
He waved a perfectly manicured hand in the air. His hands were small, too. "Something peaceful. Scented. Not too strong."
"Jasmine," said Meg. She walked behind the couch toward the kitchen, then turned and made a horrible face at Quill.
Quill cleared her throat. "You were telling us about the charity, Dr. Bittern."
"Excelsior," said Tiffany.
"I beg your pardon?" Quill said. It had sounded like a sneeze.
"Excelsior," said Dr. Bittern. "To indicate life's journey. One must move past the past. One must move onward, upward, to the pinnacle of experience."
"Tennyson," said Meg, setting a cup of tea on the marble slab in front of Dr. Bittern. "Same guy who wrote about Lancelot cleaving the heads off his enemies. 'My strength is of the strength of ten, because my heart is pure.' Whack!" She drew her finger across her throat execution-style and wiggled her eyebrows.
"That is a different poem, I believe," said Dr. Bittern gravely. "But yes, the name comes from the pen of that noble poet."
"So you're not an illiterate phony anyhow." Meg settled cheerfully on the arm of Quill's chair. "What kind of phony are you?"
"Hey!" said Tiffany. "Hey!"
Quill shoved her elbow sharply into Meg's leg. "Meg was up all night," she lied, "with a particularly difficult recipe..."
"No, I wasn't," said Meg. "But before I get involved with this thing I want to know what it's all about. If I'd known it was some screwy fund-raiser for a bunch of gold diggers, I would have stayed home."
Dr. Bittern cocked his head with a faraway expression, as though he was listening to a strain of music only he could hear. He crossed his hands over his paunch- a gesture Quill was beginning to recognize as very characteristic - and beamed impartially at the three of them. "Ms. Quilliam' s objections are familiar to me - if somewhat infelicitously stated." He looked at Tiffany. "This is the sort of question we must anticipate from the press. I am, of course, prepared to answer."
"Good," said Meg. "I am prepared to listen."
A scuffling sound came from the patio outside. Quill turned her head. Three figures loomed against the glass. One of them was very tall. Quill had seen that face before - not fifteen minutes ago on the TV screen in the kitchen.
"Oh my God!" Tiffany shrieked. "It's Verger!"
The French door banged open. Verger Taylor stamped arrogantly into the room. With him were two young men. He came to a full stop and thrust his head forward. His fierce blue eyes raked over Meg and Quill, then rested on Dr. Bittern with the intensity of a mongoose after a snake. "You!" he said. He whirled on the balls of his feet. "Goddammit, Tiffany. I've had about enough of this. You're gonna cancel the whole goddamn thing - or you'll regret it. You got that?"
"How did you get in here?" Tiffany hunched back into the couch. "Who let you in here? I had the locks changed! Luis? Was it Luis? I'll kill him!"
"Not as much control as you thought you had, Tif? Told you it'd be different out there after being married to the Verbster." Taylor grinned nastily. He was tall - three or four inches over six feet - with the neck, shoulders, and belly of a defensive tackle who'd been benched too long. He was dressed in part of a three-piece suit in banker's gray; the vest hung open over a rumpled white shirt and his trousers belled over a low-slung belt. The suit coat was nowhere in evidence. He clutched a balled-up newspaper in one fist. "Verger Taylor," he grunted finally to Meg. "You this celebrity chef, or what?"
Tiffany's voice rose several decibels. "Isn't that just like you, Verger? She is not an 'or what.' She is not a thing. She is a woman. This is Margaret Quilliam, Verger, one of the few female three-star chefs - "
"Two star," Meg corrected with glum punctilio.
" - whatever - in the country. And I will not, I repeat, will not have you demeaning her with your macho, sexist, piggish attitudes."
Keeping his eyes on Meg, Verger swung his head rather like a bull that's been bitten in the ear. "What the hell, Tiffany."
"What the hell yourself." She hissed like a snake. "And you look at me when you talk to me, you bastard."
Verger's eyes flickered over Meg's dark head then took in her shorts and the newest in her T-shirt collection. He rolled his eyes, sighed, and shook his head. "It's taken Tif a while to get over the divorce, you see?" He gave Meg a grin meant to be complicit. "She's discovering what I told her - it's impossible to replace the Verbster. Lotta women'll tell you that." He hooked both thumbs through the buckle of his alligator belt and hitched up his trousers.
Tiffany screamed, "If you're not out of here in two seconds, I'm calling the cops!"
Verger sneered. "Ask for Captain Phillips. Old buddy of mine."
Tiffany spat, "Tell me what you want, then, and get out." Her face crumpled. Her eyes teared. "Can't you just leave me alone? I'm having a nice, quiet time with my friends..."
"Bullshit." His eyes flickered over Dr. Bittern. "Goddammit, Tiffany. This guy's a phony." His face reddened underneath the leather of a Florida tan. "I've warned you about this shitface before."
"Goddammit yourself," said Tiffany icily. "You leave Dr. Bob alone. He's a far, far better man than you will ever be."
Quill looked at Dr. Bittern, who seemed quite unperturbed by Verger's venom. Perhaps, like Sydney Carton, he was into self-sacrifice, but Quill doubted it.
Tiffany squalled suddenly, "What are you doing here, anyhow? How did you get a goddamn key? This condo's mine. Get out of here. And take those two little bastards with you."
"Who are these two guys?" Meg interrupted in an overly casual tone. "I know who you are - Verger Taylor. Anybody who watches CNN knows who you are. But who are they?"
Verger swung his head; his head and shoulders moved together, as though his neck were nonexistent. He used his height and weight like a club, Quill thought. Not a nice guy at all. She moved closer to Meg. "Can I get anyone anything to drink?" she asked brightly. "Would you like some planter's punch, Mr. Taylor? And what about your friends?"
"Those two aren't his friends," Tiffany said sulkily. "They're his sons. That's Corrigan" - she jerked her chin in the direction of a slight, blond boy of nineteen or so - "and the other one's Evan. And they're not staying long enough to have a drink."
Evan resembled his father in height-but the paternal genetics stopped there. He was dark, probably in his mid-twenties, and casually elegant. His voice was a pleasant baritone. "Sorry to barge in like this, but Dad has a couple of questions." He clapped his hand on his father's shoulder. "Take five, Dad. We'll get this sorted out. And I think a drink's a good idea."
"Yeah?" Verger's glower darkened.
"I do." Evan smiled at Quill. "We just need to talk a little bit. You're Sarah Quilliam?"
Quill poured herself a cup of tea and sat next to Tiffany on the couch. "Volcanic eruption?" she asked, just to fill the silence. "You've been through a volcanic eruption?"
"Hawaii," Tiffany said. "A combination fund-raising and site selection trip for my little hospital. I'd planned to build it on the side of Haleakala mountain, with a marvelous view of the Kiluea Iki crater. But it blew up. Barfed lava and whatnot allover the place. You wouldn't have believed it. Red hot molten rock simply poured down the side of that mountain. It hit the ocean and smack-giant sauna. Clouds of steam everywhere. Marvelous, really, but my architect thought it might upset the patients."
Meg looked at Quill and raised her eyebrows. "So you decided to place it here, in Palm Beach," Meg said. "A hospital for phobics."
"Well, it's a lot calmer, really. You only get hurricanes a couple of months out of the year."
Meg's expression was innocently inquiring. "Any of the patients suffer from hurricane phobia?" She closed her eyes dreamily. "What would you call somebody who's terrified of hurricanes? An aeoliaphobe?"
"A what?" Quill demanded.
Meg gestured vaguely. "Winds. Aeolian is Greek for winds."
"My charity is for women afraid to marry wealth again. I told you that. It's not a phobia, they tell me. I may have told you that. But Dr. Bob straightened me out. It has to do with identity crises and that sort of thing. So Hawaii would have been perfect. I mean - between the ambiance and the beach boys, you can't get much more therapeutic than that. But the volcano worked out for the best. Things like that always do. For instance, I don't know if I could have gotten Meg to come to Hawaii to cook for my fund-raiser. It was hard enough to get you to come to Florida for two weeks."
Meg sat up straight. "It's a hospital for whom?"
"Women who've married wealth, gotten divorced, and are afraid to marry for money again," Tiffany said patiently. "I can't tell you how many of my dearest friends have gone through simply agonies. Agonies. One of them got a job in publishing rather than marry again."
"Shaw," said Meg, with a told-you-so look at Quill. "Old George Bernard himself. He asked Mrs. Siddons or somebody to go to bed with him for a million pounds and she smiled and said she'd think about it. And then he asked her to sleep with him for twenty pounds and she got indignant and shrieked, 'Sir! What do you think I I am?' And he said 'Madam. We've established what you are. We are just trying to establish the price.' I knew it. Quill? We're here under false pretenses."
"It wasn't Mrs. Siddons," said Quill, momentarily! diverted. "It was Mrs. Patrick Campbell. Mrs. Siddons lived a hundred years earlier."
"What are you talking about?" Tiffany said crossly. "We're not talking about hookers, here."
Meg grinned ominously. Quill was recalled to the task at hand, which was to keep the volatile Meg from annihilating Mrs. Taylor. She got up and fetched Meg a cup of strong tea. Meg took it, drank half in two swallows, and glowered.
"You wouldn't have, would you?" Tiffany persisted.
"Wouldn't have what?" asked Meg.
"Gone to Hawaii to cook for my fund-raiser."
"I wouldn't have crossed the street for the fund-raiser if I knew what it was for - wealthy women who are afraid to marry wealth again?"
Quill sent a hasty prayer to whatever gods were in charge of Meg's temper. "What Meg means, Tiffany, is that we're busy most of the year - "
"That's not what I meant," Meg said doggedly. "What I meant was that a bunch of rich women who've gotten their big bucks from - "
Quill raised her voice. "Early November's about the only time we could close the Inn and not lose a ton of money. And a week is the maximum time Meg can spend away from her kitchen without freaking out. So, no. We probably wouldn't have gone to Hawaii. Not if you wanted seven days of celebrity cooking lessons capped by a celebrity-cooked banquet. Between celebrities and jet lag Meg would have had to check into your hospital."
"It's not for stress. I've told you what it's for. Women who are afraid to take a chance on mar - "
"Phooey," Meg interrupted rudely.
"You have doubts about it. I can see that. Both of you. Well, if you don't believe in the charity now, you will after you've met Dr. Bob." Tiffany's perfectly taut brow didn't wrinkle with sincerity, which it should have, since her tone was passionate with it. Quill remembered reading that in a full face lift, the surgeon peeled the skin off the forehead, severed the frown muscles, and pulled the extra skin over the skull. Tiffany's brow I couldn't wrinkle if she wanted it to.
"It's not doubts, precisely," Quill began.
"It's doubts," said Meg flatly. "We've been seduced by the beaches and swimming in warm weather when everybody else at home is armpit-deep in snow. But we're getting unseduced fast. Of course we don't believe in a charity for wealthy women who have divorce phobias. Charities are for people in need."
"Exactly. Charities are for people in need. And need occurs at all levels of society. At all levels of income. Do you have any idea how neglected women such as myself and my friends are? Do you realize the kind of abuse we've taken from people like Verger?"
"Gee, no." Meg's own forehead wrinkled quite satisfactorily, which, Quill knew, frequently presaged an eruption quite as volcanic as Kiluea Iki's. "Unless your mother sold you to him at an early age, you had something to say about marrying him, didn't you? Plus, I can't say as I have a whole lot of sympathy for people who got the second-best Rolls in a settlement." She grabbed her head. "Aaagh! The bells!"
Tiffany glowed. "It's Dr. Bob." She uncrossed her legs and got up gracefully. "You're sure you don't want to do something about your hair, Quill?"
"Shall I get the door?" asked Quill politely.
"He'll use his key." She cocked her head, listening. Quill heard the door open, then the click of shoes on the wooden floor. Tiffany extended her hands. "And here he is. Darling!"
"My dear."
-2-
Quill had imagined Dr. Bittern as a slick, smooth Richard Gere look-alike. He wasn't. The doctor (psychologist? psychiatrist? osteopath?) was small and shaped like a fire hydrant. It was hard to tell how old he was. (Quill was discovering that in Palm Beach it was hard to decide how old anybody was. Florida seemed to be the appearance-surgery capital of the world.) Dr. Bittern had silvery white hair - very thick-wire rimmed glasses, and a small black goatee. He stopped several feet in front of Tiffany, crossed his hands on his paunch, and beamed at her with the smile of a happy baby.
"Kiss, kiss," Tiffany cooed, pecking the air on either : side of his cheeks. "And here is our cook."
"Chef," Meg corrected belligerently.
"Meg, may I introduce Dr. Robert Bittern? And Dr. Bob, this is Sarah Quilliam, Meg's sister."
He inclined his head and, to Quill's surprise, gave Meg her proper title. "Maitre Quilliam. An honor. And Ms. Quilliam? I have seen your art. It is wonderful."
"Thank you - um - Dr. Bittern."
He gestured toward the couch. "May I?"
"Please," said Tiffany. "Please. Dr. Bob..." She fluttered down next to him. "I am so glad you're here! I was just trying to explain the importance of our work to the girls..."
Meg made a noise like a steam kettle.
Tiffany acknowledged the reaction with a vague smile and murmured, "Women, then, and I can't do it half so well as you. No, not a tenth so well as you. If you would?"
"Perhaps a cup of tea, before we begin?" Dr. Bittern sat erect, his back several inches from the couch cushions. His voice was precise and his feet were tiny.
"Meg?" Tiffany all but snapped her fingers.
Quill looked at her sister. Meg looked back. For a moment, Meg's reaction hung in the balance. Suddenly she grinned, shook her head, and got up. "What kind would you like, Dr. Bittern? Black? Green?"
He waved a perfectly manicured hand in the air. His hands were small, too. "Something peaceful. Scented. Not too strong."
"Jasmine," said Meg. She walked behind the couch toward the kitchen, then turned and made a horrible face at Quill.
Quill cleared her throat. "You were telling us about the charity, Dr. Bittern."
"Excelsior," said Tiffany.
"I beg your pardon?" Quill said. It had sounded like a sneeze.
"Excelsior," said Dr. Bittern. "To indicate life's journey. One must move past the past. One must move onward, upward, to the pinnacle of experience."
"Tennyson," said Meg, setting a cup of tea on the marble slab in front of Dr. Bittern. "Same guy who wrote about Lancelot cleaving the heads off his enemies. 'My strength is of the strength of ten, because my heart is pure.' Whack!" She drew her finger across her throat execution-style and wiggled her eyebrows.
"That is a different poem, I believe," said Dr. Bittern gravely. "But yes, the name comes from the pen of that noble poet."
"So you're not an illiterate phony anyhow." Meg settled cheerfully on the arm of Quill's chair. "What kind of phony are you?"
"Hey!" said Tiffany. "Hey!"
Quill shoved her elbow sharply into Meg's leg. "Meg was up all night," she lied, "with a particularly difficult recipe..."
"No, I wasn't," said Meg. "But before I get involved with this thing I want to know what it's all about. If I'd known it was some screwy fund-raiser for a bunch of gold diggers, I would have stayed home."
Dr. Bittern cocked his head with a faraway expression, as though he was listening to a strain of music only he could hear. He crossed his hands over his paunch- a gesture Quill was beginning to recognize as very characteristic - and beamed impartially at the three of them. "Ms. Quilliam' s objections are familiar to me - if somewhat infelicitously stated." He looked at Tiffany. "This is the sort of question we must anticipate from the press. I am, of course, prepared to answer."
"Good," said Meg. "I am prepared to listen."
A scuffling sound came from the patio outside. Quill turned her head. Three figures loomed against the glass. One of them was very tall. Quill had seen that face before - not fifteen minutes ago on the TV screen in the kitchen.
"Oh my God!" Tiffany shrieked. "It's Verger!"
The French door banged open. Verger Taylor stamped arrogantly into the room. With him were two young men. He came to a full stop and thrust his head forward. His fierce blue eyes raked over Meg and Quill, then rested on Dr. Bittern with the intensity of a mongoose after a snake. "You!" he said. He whirled on the balls of his feet. "Goddammit, Tiffany. I've had about enough of this. You're gonna cancel the whole goddamn thing - or you'll regret it. You got that?"
"How did you get in here?" Tiffany hunched back into the couch. "Who let you in here? I had the locks changed! Luis? Was it Luis? I'll kill him!"
"Not as much control as you thought you had, Tif? Told you it'd be different out there after being married to the Verbster." Taylor grinned nastily. He was tall - three or four inches over six feet - with the neck, shoulders, and belly of a defensive tackle who'd been benched too long. He was dressed in part of a three-piece suit in banker's gray; the vest hung open over a rumpled white shirt and his trousers belled over a low-slung belt. The suit coat was nowhere in evidence. He clutched a balled-up newspaper in one fist. "Verger Taylor," he grunted finally to Meg. "You this celebrity chef, or what?"
Tiffany's voice rose several decibels. "Isn't that just like you, Verger? She is not an 'or what.' She is not a thing. She is a woman. This is Margaret Quilliam, Verger, one of the few female three-star chefs - "
"Two star," Meg corrected with glum punctilio.
" - whatever - in the country. And I will not, I repeat, will not have you demeaning her with your macho, sexist, piggish attitudes."
Keeping his eyes on Meg, Verger swung his head rather like a bull that's been bitten in the ear. "What the hell, Tiffany."
"What the hell yourself." She hissed like a snake. "And you look at me when you talk to me, you bastard."
Verger's eyes flickered over Meg's dark head then took in her shorts and the newest in her T-shirt collection. He rolled his eyes, sighed, and shook his head. "It's taken Tif a while to get over the divorce, you see?" He gave Meg a grin meant to be complicit. "She's discovering what I told her - it's impossible to replace the Verbster. Lotta women'll tell you that." He hooked both thumbs through the buckle of his alligator belt and hitched up his trousers.
Tiffany screamed, "If you're not out of here in two seconds, I'm calling the cops!"
Verger sneered. "Ask for Captain Phillips. Old buddy of mine."
Tiffany spat, "Tell me what you want, then, and get out." Her face crumpled. Her eyes teared. "Can't you just leave me alone? I'm having a nice, quiet time with my friends..."
"Bullshit." His eyes flickered over Dr. Bittern. "Goddammit, Tiffany. This guy's a phony." His face reddened underneath the leather of a Florida tan. "I've warned you about this shitface before."
"Goddammit yourself," said Tiffany icily. "You leave Dr. Bob alone. He's a far, far better man than you will ever be."
Quill looked at Dr. Bittern, who seemed quite unperturbed by Verger's venom. Perhaps, like Sydney Carton, he was into self-sacrifice, but Quill doubted it.
Tiffany squalled suddenly, "What are you doing here, anyhow? How did you get a goddamn key? This condo's mine. Get out of here. And take those two little bastards with you."
"Who are these two guys?" Meg interrupted in an overly casual tone. "I know who you are - Verger Taylor. Anybody who watches CNN knows who you are. But who are they?"
Verger swung his head; his head and shoulders moved together, as though his neck were nonexistent. He used his height and weight like a club, Quill thought. Not a nice guy at all. She moved closer to Meg. "Can I get anyone anything to drink?" she asked brightly. "Would you like some planter's punch, Mr. Taylor? And what about your friends?"
"Those two aren't his friends," Tiffany said sulkily. "They're his sons. That's Corrigan" - she jerked her chin in the direction of a slight, blond boy of nineteen or so - "and the other one's Evan. And they're not staying long enough to have a drink."
Evan resembled his father in height-but the paternal genetics stopped there. He was dark, probably in his mid-twenties, and casually elegant. His voice was a pleasant baritone. "Sorry to barge in like this, but Dad has a couple of questions." He clapped his hand on his father's shoulder. "Take five, Dad. We'll get this sorted out. And I think a drink's a good idea."
"Yeah?" Verger's glower darkened.
"I do." Evan smiled at Quill. "We just need to talk a little bit. You're Sarah Quilliam?"
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