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 (4 page)
Quill nodded.
"I'm glad to meet you. My brother's glad, too. Aren't you, Cor?"
Corrigan blushed attractively, hunched his shoulders, and nodded.
Evan sighed and shook his head. "Graceless as Dad, bro. Believe it or not, Ms. Quilliam, we're here to talk things over. Like gentlemen. Right, Dad?"
"Sure," said Verger. "What about that drink?"
Evan sat down next to Quill. He smelled like soap and fresh air. "I had a professor at Yale who said that there is nothing in the human condition that is not ultimately compromisable. I've believed that ever since I heard it. There isn't any reason why all of us can't discuss Excelsior sensibly."
His father made a noise like a sneaky, angry dog. "Dad?" Evan's smile was engaging.
"Okay." Verger slouched onto a kitchen stool. "Okay, kid. This is why I brought you along. You wanna negotiate with this little tart? You negotiate."
Tiffany went "huh" in a resigned way.
Evan leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Tif. We've had some good times, haven't we? At the beginning. When you first married Dad."
Tiffany's mouth thinned. "I've been in absolute hell since I signed the damn marriage certificate."
"Tif, that's just not true. Remember that trip we took? On the Seamew? Just the four of us?"
"What I remember is that I was goddamned seasick for two goddamn weeks."
"And remember how Dad took care..."
"I remember shit! I have had enough of this." Her voice rose to a shriek. "And you people here are witnesses to how these guys have harassed me for three years of the most miserable marriage a woman ever went through and are harassing me still." She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and the color receded from her face. She waved her hand at Meg. "Get these people something to drink. Then maybe they'll get out of here."
"What I'm going to get," said Meg, "is a nap. And after the nap, I'm going to get a taxi to the airport. I'm going home. I refuse to get smack in the middle of a family squabble."
Quill stood up. Meg was right. She couldn't imagine anyone less of a victim than Tiffany Taylor. And she couldn't say "nice to have met you all," because it hadn't been.
Tiffany snapped, "Where do you two think you're going?"
Quill forced herself to smile. "I'm sorry, Tiffany. This kind of thing just isn't right for either Meg or me. We were hesitant about it from the start - and honestly, I don't think you'd be happy at how things would turn out if we stayed. We'll pay our own way back to New York."
Verger gave a whoop of triumph. Tiffany's cornflower blue eyes were narrow slits. "The two of you aren't going anywhere. Meg signed a contract. Remember?"
"I didn't sign on for this," Meg said. "This is a circus. And you misrepresented that charity."
"I don't think - no, I don't think that you can afford a lawsuit." Tiffany's voice was sweet.
"Sure, she can," Verger said. "I'll pay for it."
"Fat chance," Meg snapped.
Tiffany shook her head. "Oh, but all that time spent taking depositions and whatnot? She's a cook. And that's what cooks do for a living-cook. And she can't cook if she's in court."
Meg's face went pink. She took a deep breath. Quill braced herself.
Dr. Bittern stood up and said gently, "All this dissension. Please. If everyone would just sit down?" He gestured toward the couches. "Please."
"Good idea, doc." Evan Taylor nodded vigorous approval, followed by Corrigan, who so far hadn't said a word. Verger drew a large cigar from his vest pocket and lit it, grinning unpleasantly.
Dr. Bittern inclined his head toward Quill. "If you would, Ms. Quilliam, I will help you serve some wine. And we will all take a moment to calm ourselves."
Verger spat tobacco leaf on the floor.
In the midst of a charged silence, Quill took a bottle of Pouilly Fuisse and the wine cooler from the refrigerator. Dr. Bittern set wineglasses on a tray. He uncorked the bottle, set it on the tray, and carried it back to the living room. He set the tray on the coffee table, poured six glasses, upended the empty bottle in the cooler, and passed the glasses around. Meg refused with a curt shake of her head.
"There," he said. "We are set. Now." He sat down primly next to Tiffany. "What seems to be the chief trouble here? We will sort it out. You, Maitre Quilliam, thought that perhaps you would combine a nice vacation with some charitable work? And you, Quill, loyal to your sister, have accompanied her. You, Mr. Taylor, are afraid that this charitable work will in some way embarrass you?"
"Damn straight," Verger grunted. "Look at this damn thing." He waved the crumpled newspaper at them. "You know what this goddamn headline says? "Spurned Wife's Last Laugh!" This charity's a joke. Lemme tell you right here. Right now. Nobody laughs at me. Nobody."
"People have laughed at you for years, Verger," said Tiffany. "Years."
"We will not pursue this," Dr. Bittern said firmly. "What we will pursue is calm. Life is a journey. For those who are depressed, who are unenlightened, it is a downward journey. But for those whose eyes are on the stars..."
"Bullshit. My eye's on what's going on right in front of my nose." His gaze rested on his ex-wife. "You still going through with this?"
"You'll see who my friends are, Verger. You'll see. Everyone's coming this week. Simply everyone. You can't bully me anymore, Verger."
"Right. I wouldn't count on it, if I were you." Verger tossed his cigar in the sink. "Evan, Corrigan. We're going."
Evan shrugged, smiled at Quill, and joined his brother and father. Verger went to the French door, opened it, and turned back to confront them. His eyes reflected red in the light of the lamps. "I stopped by to tell you, Tiffany, that this shit's gotta stop, and Evan thought he could goddamn reason with you and look what happened. So listen up. I see one more newspaper article about your goddamn therapy club, I'm taking this condo, the Palm Beach house, the Westchester house, and I'm gonna goddamn burn them down. You got that?"
"You wouldn't dare. You wouldn't dare."
His teeth flashed white. "Try me, sweetie. Just try me." He swiveled heavily on his feet. "And as for you two. Quilliam, isn't it? I've checked out that cute little place you've got in New York. There's a nice fat mortgage on it - what was the balance, Evan?"
"Dad, I really don't think..."
Verger snapped his fingers. "Three-hundred-fifty-three thousand," said Corrigan.
"At seven and one-eighth." He blushed apologetically. "Sorry."
Verger cocked his head at Quill. "You two prepared to pay that out if the note's called? You think about it. Think about it hard."
Tiffany leaped to her feet. "You wait just a minute, Verger."
The door slammed and they were gone.
-3-
Meg hung up the phone with a sigh. Quill had opened the French doors to the morning air. Sun streamed across the floor. The view of the Atlantic was dreamlike. Little flags that indicated the presence of scuba divers bounced along the water side of the sea wall. Three fishing boats floated peacefully on the water beyond the buoys marking the channel entrance to the Port of Palm Beach. The Combers Beach Club was located on the west end of Palm Beach key. There were two stacks of three-story-high condominiums. Both stacks faced the Atlantic on the west and the channel on the north. Singer Island - Palm Beach's poorer cousin - lay straight across the channel. Quill, who'd placed a kitchen stool in front of the open French doors so that she could watch the water, wriggled her bare toes in the sunlight. "What does Howie say?"
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."
"I'm glad to meet you. My brother's glad, too. Aren't you, Cor?"
Corrigan blushed attractively, hunched his shoulders, and nodded.
Evan sighed and shook his head. "Graceless as Dad, bro. Believe it or not, Ms. Quilliam, we're here to talk things over. Like gentlemen. Right, Dad?"
"Sure," said Verger. "What about that drink?"
Evan sat down next to Quill. He smelled like soap and fresh air. "I had a professor at Yale who said that there is nothing in the human condition that is not ultimately compromisable. I've believed that ever since I heard it. There isn't any reason why all of us can't discuss Excelsior sensibly."
His father made a noise like a sneaky, angry dog. "Dad?" Evan's smile was engaging.
"Okay." Verger slouched onto a kitchen stool. "Okay, kid. This is why I brought you along. You wanna negotiate with this little tart? You negotiate."
Tiffany went "huh" in a resigned way.
Evan leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Tif. We've had some good times, haven't we? At the beginning. When you first married Dad."
Tiffany's mouth thinned. "I've been in absolute hell since I signed the damn marriage certificate."
"Tif, that's just not true. Remember that trip we took? On the Seamew? Just the four of us?"
"What I remember is that I was goddamned seasick for two goddamn weeks."
"And remember how Dad took care..."
"I remember shit! I have had enough of this." Her voice rose to a shriek. "And you people here are witnesses to how these guys have harassed me for three years of the most miserable marriage a woman ever went through and are harassing me still." She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and the color receded from her face. She waved her hand at Meg. "Get these people something to drink. Then maybe they'll get out of here."
"What I'm going to get," said Meg, "is a nap. And after the nap, I'm going to get a taxi to the airport. I'm going home. I refuse to get smack in the middle of a family squabble."
Quill stood up. Meg was right. She couldn't imagine anyone less of a victim than Tiffany Taylor. And she couldn't say "nice to have met you all," because it hadn't been.
Tiffany snapped, "Where do you two think you're going?"
Quill forced herself to smile. "I'm sorry, Tiffany. This kind of thing just isn't right for either Meg or me. We were hesitant about it from the start - and honestly, I don't think you'd be happy at how things would turn out if we stayed. We'll pay our own way back to New York."
Verger gave a whoop of triumph. Tiffany's cornflower blue eyes were narrow slits. "The two of you aren't going anywhere. Meg signed a contract. Remember?"
"I didn't sign on for this," Meg said. "This is a circus. And you misrepresented that charity."
"I don't think - no, I don't think that you can afford a lawsuit." Tiffany's voice was sweet.
"Sure, she can," Verger said. "I'll pay for it."
"Fat chance," Meg snapped.
Tiffany shook her head. "Oh, but all that time spent taking depositions and whatnot? She's a cook. And that's what cooks do for a living-cook. And she can't cook if she's in court."
Meg's face went pink. She took a deep breath. Quill braced herself.
Dr. Bittern stood up and said gently, "All this dissension. Please. If everyone would just sit down?" He gestured toward the couches. "Please."
"Good idea, doc." Evan Taylor nodded vigorous approval, followed by Corrigan, who so far hadn't said a word. Verger drew a large cigar from his vest pocket and lit it, grinning unpleasantly.
Dr. Bittern inclined his head toward Quill. "If you would, Ms. Quilliam, I will help you serve some wine. And we will all take a moment to calm ourselves."
Verger spat tobacco leaf on the floor.
In the midst of a charged silence, Quill took a bottle of Pouilly Fuisse and the wine cooler from the refrigerator. Dr. Bittern set wineglasses on a tray. He uncorked the bottle, set it on the tray, and carried it back to the living room. He set the tray on the coffee table, poured six glasses, upended the empty bottle in the cooler, and passed the glasses around. Meg refused with a curt shake of her head.
"There," he said. "We are set. Now." He sat down primly next to Tiffany. "What seems to be the chief trouble here? We will sort it out. You, Maitre Quilliam, thought that perhaps you would combine a nice vacation with some charitable work? And you, Quill, loyal to your sister, have accompanied her. You, Mr. Taylor, are afraid that this charitable work will in some way embarrass you?"
"Damn straight," Verger grunted. "Look at this damn thing." He waved the crumpled newspaper at them. "You know what this goddamn headline says? "Spurned Wife's Last Laugh!" This charity's a joke. Lemme tell you right here. Right now. Nobody laughs at me. Nobody."
"People have laughed at you for years, Verger," said Tiffany. "Years."
"We will not pursue this," Dr. Bittern said firmly. "What we will pursue is calm. Life is a journey. For those who are depressed, who are unenlightened, it is a downward journey. But for those whose eyes are on the stars..."
"Bullshit. My eye's on what's going on right in front of my nose." His gaze rested on his ex-wife. "You still going through with this?"
"You'll see who my friends are, Verger. You'll see. Everyone's coming this week. Simply everyone. You can't bully me anymore, Verger."
"Right. I wouldn't count on it, if I were you." Verger tossed his cigar in the sink. "Evan, Corrigan. We're going."
Evan shrugged, smiled at Quill, and joined his brother and father. Verger went to the French door, opened it, and turned back to confront them. His eyes reflected red in the light of the lamps. "I stopped by to tell you, Tiffany, that this shit's gotta stop, and Evan thought he could goddamn reason with you and look what happened. So listen up. I see one more newspaper article about your goddamn therapy club, I'm taking this condo, the Palm Beach house, the Westchester house, and I'm gonna goddamn burn them down. You got that?"
"You wouldn't dare. You wouldn't dare."
His teeth flashed white. "Try me, sweetie. Just try me." He swiveled heavily on his feet. "And as for you two. Quilliam, isn't it? I've checked out that cute little place you've got in New York. There's a nice fat mortgage on it - what was the balance, Evan?"
"Dad, I really don't think..."
Verger snapped his fingers. "Three-hundred-fifty-three thousand," said Corrigan.
"At seven and one-eighth." He blushed apologetically. "Sorry."
Verger cocked his head at Quill. "You two prepared to pay that out if the note's called? You think about it. Think about it hard."
Tiffany leaped to her feet. "You wait just a minute, Verger."
The door slammed and they were gone.
-3-
Meg hung up the phone with a sigh. Quill had opened the French doors to the morning air. Sun streamed across the floor. The view of the Atlantic was dreamlike. Little flags that indicated the presence of scuba divers bounced along the water side of the sea wall. Three fishing boats floated peacefully on the water beyond the buoys marking the channel entrance to the Port of Palm Beach. The Combers Beach Club was located on the west end of Palm Beach key. There were two stacks of three-story-high condominiums. Both stacks faced the Atlantic on the west and the channel on the north. Singer Island - Palm Beach's poorer cousin - lay straight across the channel. Quill, who'd placed a kitchen stool in front of the open French doors so that she could watch the water, wriggled her bare toes in the sunlight. "What does Howie say?"
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."
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