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 (5 page)
"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 lives here. He's got an apartment over the Food Gallery."
"All left?" said Meg. "All who?"
"Well, there were the folks from Carpe Tedium..."
"From where?" asked Quill.
"It's a choral group. They rewrite songs from the forties for the nineties. Retired people, mostly. They sing stuff like 'Come to Me, My Melantonin Baby' and 'Prozac Lane' - instead of 'Primrose Lane,' you know? Here we are, just up these steps."
Quill followed Linda up a short flight of steps to a cool, green atrium. A large fountain splashed in the middle. An ice sculpture of a swan had been placed on the lip of the fountain. It dripped forlornly in the heat.
"That was the only casualty today," Linda said brightly.
Meg gave Quill a frantic look. Quill said, with determined good humor, "Linda, this building is lovely!"
"It is, isn't it?" said Linda, without looking around. "If I could just get some reliable electricians... We'll just go through here, through Le Nozze."
"So this is the institute's restaurant," said Meg.
They paused inside the door. The dining room was deserted at that hour, but preparations for lunch were under way. The tables had been set with yellow and blue pottery place settings. The clatter of pots and the smell of garlic came from the archway of a vast lighted room at the far end of the dining area. Quill got a quick impression of polished wood, French blue wallpaper, and tile floors. "It's great."
"It's cold," said Meg. "Is everything in Florida air conditioned?"
"Oh, yes. Basswood," said Linda. "The wainscotting, that is. And the striped wallpaper's from - oh, I can't remember." She halted, her hand on a door marked STUDENTS ONLY PLEASE. "Look, I'm afraid Jean Paul's in a bit of a snit."
"He is?" said Meg.
"Well, we wanted to surprise you. I mean, your reputation and all. So he had all of his fourth-level students - there's only six - prepare a sample of each of his souffl‚s. He's famous for his souffl‚s, you know."
"Souffl‚s," said Meg. "Oh, no."
"And they were timed you see, to be presented at precisely ten-ten, since he thought you would be here at ten o'clock and no chef, he said, is ever very late to meet another chef because it would be famously rude..."
"Wow," said Meg. "They all sank?"
Linda's expression was woeful. "They all sank. If you'd only been half an hour late, it would have been okay, because the clocks were all wonky from the power outage and it was really ten-thirty-five." She tipped sideways suddenly. Quill grabbed her before she could fall over. "Sorry. I forgot I was standing up. And he sent the audience home."
"He had an audience?"
"The Carpe Tedium people. I think I mentioned that before. They've been marvelous about fund-raising for the institute, and of course three of them are on the board of directors. Jean Paul wanted to give them the special honor of meeting you and eating his souffl‚s... Well." Linda took a deep breath and shoved open the door. "I guess we'd better face it."
"Oh, lord," Meg muttered. She shifted her tote over her shoulder. "You know, Linda, maybe if I called Jean Paul on the phone and gave him a chance to cool down..."
"Too late," said Linda. "He saw you pull into the parking lot. Through the kitchen window on the third floor. I think he's still there, in the charcuterie kitchen. But everyone else has left. It's just up these stairs, here." She turned and trotted up, puffing a little in agitation.
"There's something very anxiety-making about going up stairs to meet a cranky chef," Quill muttered. "You can't go too fast, because it's up. So you're going slowly, slowly to your doom. I'll just bet it isn't Jean Paul at the top of these stairs, it's Verge the Scourge himself, holding our mortgage in both hands, in pursuit of my fair white body."
"Shut up," Meg hissed. Then, as she followed Linda through a heavy, metal door, she said in an artificially hearty tone, "Mƒitre?"
The kitchen was empty. Long windows lined the out- side wall, giving a spectacular view of the ocean. Three large stainless steel bakery ovens banked the walls to the left of the windows; two heavy stainless-steel doors and several oak-faced storage bins lined the wall opposite. They'd entered though a door in the fourth wall. This wall was made entirely of glass, presumably so that an audience could look in and watch the professionals at work.
A large center island dominated the room. The shelving underneath contained pans of all kinds: narrow aluminum cradles used to make Parisian breads, Bundt pans, tiny tart tins. Saucepans of various sizes hung from brackets suspended over the marble-topped island. On the top of the island were a dozen or more deflated souffl‚s, like parachutes collapsed after an invasion of midget paratroopers.
"Oh, dear," Quill said.
"Chef Bernard?" Meg called.
"The bread closet," Linda said. "He ends up there at least once a week." She sat on one of the high stools lining the island and picked morosely at a puddle of chocolate. A spoonful dripped onto her cardigan.
"Well, where is the bread closet?" Meg asked briskly.
Linda pointed to a wooden door set between two double ovens. Meg shrugged, pulled a face at Quill, marched over to the door, and tapped lightly on it. "Mƒitre?"
The door swung open. Chef Jean Paul Bernard sat inside on a barrel labeled FLOUR. He was tall and thin, with the mournful eyes of one of the larger breeds of hounds. He had mutton chop whiskers and a toupee, both colored the coffee-brown particular to the French.
"Mƒitre Bernard," Meg said firmly, "permittez-moi je voudrais-vous presente ma soeur, Sarah et mois. Je la regretted.... "
"Vous la regretted!" Chef Jean Paul cried. "Je la regretted! C'est une catastrophe!" He bounded to the table, to cry. Large tears rolled down his face and into his whiskers. Quill was reminded of the Mock-Turtle in Lewis Carroll, and suppressed a giggle. The giggle didn't stay where it should have. She bit her lip hard, counted backwards from ten, and grabbed Linda Longstreet's arm, whispering, "Why don't we let them sort it out by themselves?"
"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 lives here. He's got an apartment over the Food Gallery."
"All left?" said Meg. "All who?"
"Well, there were the folks from Carpe Tedium..."
"From where?" asked Quill.
"It's a choral group. They rewrite songs from the forties for the nineties. Retired people, mostly. They sing stuff like 'Come to Me, My Melantonin Baby' and 'Prozac Lane' - instead of 'Primrose Lane,' you know? Here we are, just up these steps."
Quill followed Linda up a short flight of steps to a cool, green atrium. A large fountain splashed in the middle. An ice sculpture of a swan had been placed on the lip of the fountain. It dripped forlornly in the heat.
"That was the only casualty today," Linda said brightly.
Meg gave Quill a frantic look. Quill said, with determined good humor, "Linda, this building is lovely!"
"It is, isn't it?" said Linda, without looking around. "If I could just get some reliable electricians... We'll just go through here, through Le Nozze."
"So this is the institute's restaurant," said Meg.
They paused inside the door. The dining room was deserted at that hour, but preparations for lunch were under way. The tables had been set with yellow and blue pottery place settings. The clatter of pots and the smell of garlic came from the archway of a vast lighted room at the far end of the dining area. Quill got a quick impression of polished wood, French blue wallpaper, and tile floors. "It's great."
"It's cold," said Meg. "Is everything in Florida air conditioned?"
"Oh, yes. Basswood," said Linda. "The wainscotting, that is. And the striped wallpaper's from - oh, I can't remember." She halted, her hand on a door marked STUDENTS ONLY PLEASE. "Look, I'm afraid Jean Paul's in a bit of a snit."
"He is?" said Meg.
"Well, we wanted to surprise you. I mean, your reputation and all. So he had all of his fourth-level students - there's only six - prepare a sample of each of his souffl‚s. He's famous for his souffl‚s, you know."
"Souffl‚s," said Meg. "Oh, no."
"And they were timed you see, to be presented at precisely ten-ten, since he thought you would be here at ten o'clock and no chef, he said, is ever very late to meet another chef because it would be famously rude..."
"Wow," said Meg. "They all sank?"
Linda's expression was woeful. "They all sank. If you'd only been half an hour late, it would have been okay, because the clocks were all wonky from the power outage and it was really ten-thirty-five." She tipped sideways suddenly. Quill grabbed her before she could fall over. "Sorry. I forgot I was standing up. And he sent the audience home."
"He had an audience?"
"The Carpe Tedium people. I think I mentioned that before. They've been marvelous about fund-raising for the institute, and of course three of them are on the board of directors. Jean Paul wanted to give them the special honor of meeting you and eating his souffl‚s... Well." Linda took a deep breath and shoved open the door. "I guess we'd better face it."
"Oh, lord," Meg muttered. She shifted her tote over her shoulder. "You know, Linda, maybe if I called Jean Paul on the phone and gave him a chance to cool down..."
"Too late," said Linda. "He saw you pull into the parking lot. Through the kitchen window on the third floor. I think he's still there, in the charcuterie kitchen. But everyone else has left. It's just up these stairs, here." She turned and trotted up, puffing a little in agitation.
"There's something very anxiety-making about going up stairs to meet a cranky chef," Quill muttered. "You can't go too fast, because it's up. So you're going slowly, slowly to your doom. I'll just bet it isn't Jean Paul at the top of these stairs, it's Verge the Scourge himself, holding our mortgage in both hands, in pursuit of my fair white body."
"Shut up," Meg hissed. Then, as she followed Linda through a heavy, metal door, she said in an artificially hearty tone, "Mƒitre?"
The kitchen was empty. Long windows lined the out- side wall, giving a spectacular view of the ocean. Three large stainless steel bakery ovens banked the walls to the left of the windows; two heavy stainless-steel doors and several oak-faced storage bins lined the wall opposite. They'd entered though a door in the fourth wall. This wall was made entirely of glass, presumably so that an audience could look in and watch the professionals at work.
A large center island dominated the room. The shelving underneath contained pans of all kinds: narrow aluminum cradles used to make Parisian breads, Bundt pans, tiny tart tins. Saucepans of various sizes hung from brackets suspended over the marble-topped island. On the top of the island were a dozen or more deflated souffl‚s, like parachutes collapsed after an invasion of midget paratroopers.
"Oh, dear," Quill said.
"Chef Bernard?" Meg called.
"The bread closet," Linda said. "He ends up there at least once a week." She sat on one of the high stools lining the island and picked morosely at a puddle of chocolate. A spoonful dripped onto her cardigan.
"Well, where is the bread closet?" Meg asked briskly.
Linda pointed to a wooden door set between two double ovens. Meg shrugged, pulled a face at Quill, marched over to the door, and tapped lightly on it. "Mƒitre?"
The door swung open. Chef Jean Paul Bernard sat inside on a barrel labeled FLOUR. He was tall and thin, with the mournful eyes of one of the larger breeds of hounds. He had mutton chop whiskers and a toupee, both colored the coffee-brown particular to the French.
"Mƒitre Bernard," Meg said firmly, "permittez-moi je voudrais-vous presente ma soeur, Sarah et mois. Je la regretted.... "
"Vous la regretted!" Chef Jean Paul cried. "Je la regretted! C'est une catastrophe!" He bounded to the table, to cry. Large tears rolled down his face and into his whiskers. Quill was reminded of the Mock-Turtle in Lewis Carroll, and suppressed a giggle. The giggle didn't stay where it should have. She bit her lip hard, counted backwards from ten, and grabbed Linda Longstreet's arm, whispering, "Why don't we let them sort it out by themselves?"
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