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 (6 page)
"Do you really think so?"
"I really think so. Meg's great in a crisis like this. She empathizes."
"Quelle dommage," Meg said to John Paul in a kindly tone. She dug into her tote and produced a Kleenex. "Et vous, the mƒitre!" She patted the chef on the back."
AQuill suspected that even Meg's French, which was excellent, wasn't up to the voluble harangue that followed this expression of sympathy. The institute, Quill gathered, had never appreciated the genius of him, Jean Paul, the master. She, Meg, had obviously not been informed of the specialities of the house which had been prepared for her. But Linda, the manager. What a stupid! She tripped over her own boot laces, that one! She, Meg, a chef of the highest repute, although a woman (Quill mentally crossed her fingers at that one - but Meg merely continued to nod sympathetically) and a petite of the highest beauty (Meg smiled briefly) could jamais jamais! Understand the indiginities that he was forced to suffer daily. The power failed all the time. Linda forgot to pay people. He, himself, worked for a mere pittance. He would sell this place! For a sou! For less than half a sou!
"Can he?" asked Quill.
"Can he what?"
"Sell the Institute."
"He owns some stock," said Linda doubtfully, "and some holding company owns the rest. I suppose he'd have to, if the holding company sold out. Why? Do you understand all of that gibberish?"
"Some of it," said Quill. "Meg's more fluent. She's the one who spent a year in Paris."
"He'll start on me, next," said Linda gloomily. "He always does. What's he saying now?"
Quill turned her back on Jean Paul, who had started on Linda's ancestry in a villainous tirade. "He's just hollering," she said firmly. "I think we should make a diplomatic exit. Meg will bring him around."
They left quietly, shutting the door softly behind them. For a moment, Quill watched them through the glass. Jean Paul waved his arms frantically over his head, jabbed his finger three times into the air, and scowled ferociously. Meg nodded, shook her head in what appeared to be sorrowful agreement, then took a small pastry knife from the knife block and carefully cut a piece from a pale pile of souffl‚.
"The Grand Marnier," said Linda, in a worshipful way.
Meg chewed the souffl‚ slowly, carefully. Jean Paul leaned forward in eager attention, a basset hound on point. She nodded, murmuring. Jean Paul broke into a weak smile that grew broader as Meg continued.
"What'd she say?" Linda asked.
"I think her first word was almond. Then she said `have you ever tried... ` something something. I'm not good at lip reading."
Linda shrugged. "Chefs. Go figure. At least he's stopped crying. I hate it when they cry. Listen, how about some lunch?"
"I'd love it," said Quill.
"Good. I have a phone call to return. From Verger Taylor, if you can believe it! Anyway, we came through Le Nozze on our way up. You remember? I'll meet you there."
Quill followed her to the top of the stairs. "Do you have much to do with Verger Taylor/"
"Me? No. His wife - ex-wife, that is - is very interested in the Institute. Well, you know that, of course, because she's the one who got you here." She cast a harried look over her shoulder. Meg and Jen Paul were seated opposite one another, both nodding, both talking a mile a minute. "And thank goodness you are here, no matter what Mr. Taylor says. I haven't seen Jean Paul this relaxed for weeks."
"Linda, we had a rather unpleasant visit from Verger Taylor last night... "
Linda clutched her arm. "Hang on a second."
Jean Paul rose to his full height, grabbed a saucepan from the hanging brackets, and whacked it several times against the marble pastry top. He flung the pan across the room, gestured widely, and laughed. Meg smiled agreeably.
"See that?" Linda said proudly. "He's going to have a very good day." A pale smile crossed her face. `You just take any empty table at Le Nozze. The m itre d' today is Greg. I think. I may have forgotten to post the schedule. I think I did forget to post the schedule. Well, someone will be there. I hope. Just tell him I'm joining you."
"Okay. But Linda, I do want tot talk to you about Taylor. How much of a threat is he... "
"And I want to talk to you about your lecture! Fundamentals of Innkeeping. The board of directors told me last week that I needed a few pointers. I mean, an institute isn't all that much like an inn, but Mrs. Goldwyn says that management is management." She tripped over a box of canning jars that had been left in the hallway corner, righted herself, and looked at her watch. "My gosh! It's after twelve. I've got to return that phone call. See you in a few minutes. We'll talk then, I promise." She took off down the stairs at a run. Quill hoped she didn't fall down a rabbit hole.
Quill clattered down the stairs after her and entered Le Nozze from the STUDENTS ONLY door. It really was a very attractive restaurant, she thought. I had some of the qualities of the dining rooms in Proven‡al with dark wood wainscoting and terrazzo floors. The regency-style chairs were upholstered in a satiny dark green-, yell-, and cream-striped fabric. But it had a nice, south Florida touch, too. Some really good pieces of sculptured glass - a dolphin, a miniature sloop, a narwhale - stood ion the waist-high wooden room dividers.
Quill introduced herself to Bruce, the mƒitre d (he knew Greg was supposed to be on, but no one had posted a schedule), who bowed and seated her at a window overlooking the grounds. The only other occupied table was several feet away. Quill nodded to the two well-preserved ladies sitting over wine and opened the menu.
-4-
Quill read the menu with professional interest. The dishes were varied, the prices quite reasonable. She'd try the wild mushrooms in pastry. It was a simple dish, and a good test of the saucier. She looked up for Bruce and blinked. Two ladies at the next table were watching her with unabashed interest. "That shade of Hey Sailor Red hair dye won't last in this Florida sunshine," said the widow with the metallic gold shoes and matching handbag. "Waste of money. Cheap looking, too."
"It's natural, Bea. And don't shout so. She'll hear you." The widow in the lavender, pink, and mauve silk jogging suit took a sip of her white wine, set the glass firmly on the dining table, and rolled her eyes at Quill.
Both of the ladies discussing her hair were over forty-five - how far over Quill couldn't tell. Plastic surgery, alpha-hydroxy treatments, and laser resurfacing tended to homogenize people's ages in Palm Beach. She did know they were widows: Both of them had wedding bands with Ritz-sized diamonds on their right ring fingers.
"I don't shout, Birdie," said Bea. "You've accused me of shouting ever since you got that damn miniaturized hearing aid and you're just showing off."
Quill mentally added twenty years to the ladies' ages.
"Pardon me, Bea?" asked Birdie sweetly. "You're mumbling again." She caught Quill's eye, smiled widely, and called out, "Are you here for the classes?"
Startled at being directly addressed, Quill bent forward. "Excuse me?"
"Margaret Quilliam's cooking classes," said Bea with satisfaction. "We've been waiting months to learn from her."
"Since mid-September, Bea," said Birdie. "Six weeks. We've been waiting six weeks, which is long enough, for goodness' sake. When you're our age, you never know if you've got another six weeks."
"Chef Quilliam's my sister.
"You sister!" Bea waved her arms excitedly. The thick gold bracelets on her arms collided with a dull thud. Real gold, then. Quill decided that Bea must be wearing something in the aggregate of fifty thousand dollars around her neck and wrists and in her ears. "May we join you? We'd love to hear what it's like living with a famous chef."
Birdie, who was plump, wriggled out of her chair, pattered to Quill's table and sat down without waiting to hear her demurral through. Bea, rather more deliberately, gathered her gold-trimmed tote bag, gold-rimmed sunglasses and glass of wine. "You don't mind, do you? It's just that there's so little to do here! We're just dying for conversation other than our own."
"Of course not. Please." Quill indicated the empty space next to her with a generous wave of her arm.
Bea deposited her tote bag under the table and sat down. "Bea Gollinge," she said, "and this is my friend BirdieMcIntyre. We're two-thirds of the Lunch Bunch."
"Two-thirds?"
"Selma Goldwyn isn't here." Bea leaned forward. "She had a little fix-me-up scheduled this morning."
"Face peel," Birdie said succinctly. "Upper lip."
"Absolutely refuses to touch the laser," Bea added. "Selma's always been a conservative."
"Which is ridiculous," said Birdie, "because the laser's so much safer. And who are you?"
Somewhat taken aback, Quill introduced herself.
"I demand to know what your secret is," Birdie said. "Tell!"
Quill had few secrets and sometimes thought herself the more boring for it.
"You're looking puzzled. She's looking puzzled, Bea."
"For staying so slim," Bea explained. "I mean - your sister. That marvelous, marvelous food. How can you eat it and not gain weight? Or do you turn it down?"
"I usually don't have time to sit and eat when Meg's in the kitchen. We have a small hotel in addition to our restaurant and that keeps me fairly busy."
"I should think so." Bea dived under the table, remerged with her tote bag, and took a compact from it. The compact was covered with diamonds. Quill wondered if they were real. My first husband was a restaurateur and it ate his life. He spent more time in the kitchen than with me. And had a lot more fun there, too. I don't' know where we found the time to have three kids."
Quill murmured polite wonderment.
"And five grandchildren," said Bea. Her hand dived into the tote once more and reemerged with a fistful of photographs.
"Not now, Bea." Birdie took the picture from her friend's hand and shoved them firmly back into the tote. "And your husband?"
"Oh, I'm not married."
"But engaged to be." Bea took her left hand. "Quarter caret. Nice. What's he in?"
"In? You mean what does he do? He used to be chief of detectives with the Manhattan homicide squad. He's a private investigator now. For a short time, he ws the sheriff in Hemlock Falls. That's where Meg and I are from."
"A detective!" said Birdie. "How exciting. Does he look like Travis McGee?"
Quill smiled. "I think he's better-looking than Travis McGee."
"And he's with you now, dear?"
"He's coming Thursday, for a long weekend."
"I see Mrs. McIntyre and Mrs. Gollinge have been entertaining you." Linda Longstreet settled opposite Quill with a sigh. She was paler than ever, and she shivered in the chill of the air conditioning. "You've been introduced? Mrs. Gollinge and Mrs. McIntyre are on our board of directors, Quill."
"We've gotten most of her life history," said Bea. "And we'll get the rest if you give us half a chance. How are you, Linda? I see that Chef Quilliam must have arrived, since her sister's here in the restaurant."
"Oh, were you among the audience waiting this morning?" asked Quill. "I'm so sorry we missed the souffl‚s. I hadn't drive I-95 before, you see, and it was all my fault."
"You drove the freeway?' Bea said. "My dear, say nomore. Say no more. What an awful experience for you. Bruce! Bring Ms. Quilliam some wine."
"I really think I should eat something first," said Quill.
"Nonsense," Bea said briskly. "Birdie, slice her some of our bread, No, no, you just sit there, my dear."
Birdie bounced up and over to her table, grabbed the bread, and bounced back again. Bruce came over with a chilled bottle wrapped in a napkin. Quill sat rather helplessly and watched. She nibbled at the bread, sipped at the wine, and decided to remain quiet.
Bea tapped her forefinger briskly on the tabletop. "And how are things going, Linda? Everything straightened out after that little contretemps with the plumbing this morning?"
"Well, the plumbing's fixed, but the electrical system's on the fritz again." She picked up the menu, set it down, tapped her fingers against the water glass, then signaled for the headwaiter.
"You don't look fine," said Birdie. "you look worried."
"Harassed," added Bea. "But then, you always looked harassed, Linda dear. You need to slow down. Is Chef Jean Paul throwing hissy fits again? Is that what's got you all in a fidget?" She twinkled at Quill. "Linda's the world's best customer for Maalox, aren't you, dear? I'm so glad I own stock in pharmaceuticals."
"Yes. I mean, no, Jean Paul's fine. I just checked. He and your sister" - she glanced nervously at Quill - "are getting along like a house afire. They're hanging the rabbit."
"The rabbit?" Quill frowned. "Oh. For the potted rabbit."
"Yes."
"Did she cry? Meg always cries when she has to hang the rabbit."
"They both cried," said Linda, "and Chef Jean Paul said a little prayer."
"Well, it's dead, isn't it?" asked Bea. "I mean, it's not as though she has to...." she made a sharp twisting motion with both hands.
"Humanely killed," said Linda absently. "And we are very careful where we buy our stock from. They're in nice, airy cages... "
"I," said Bea firmly, "am having vegetarian today. What about you, Birdie?"
"Absolutely."
Bruce , smooth and quiet, in the best tradition of headwaiters all over the world, appeared silently at Linda's elbow. She jerked her head up at him. "Oh. There you are. Would you take the orders, Greg?"
"Bruce," eh corrected.
She rose to her feet, dropping her napkin. "I just... Quill, would you mind very much if Mrs. Gollinge and Mrs. McIntyre showed you around? I've just gotten some... I mean, I have quite q bit of work to do. And I've got to find Mrs. Taylor."
"You returned Mr. Taylor's call, didn't you?" said Quill. `Linda, I think I should tell you... "
"Dear Verger," Bea said. "How is he? I'm doing so nicely since we added the Taylor Towers to my portfolio."
Quill bit her lip. Whatever threats Verger Taylor had delivered to Linda over the phone, it was unlikely that she'd unburden herself in front of two members of the board of directors.
"You go right ahead, dear." Birdie patted her hand.
Linda , after further apologies interspersed with nervous flutters, almost ran out of the restaurant.
"Excitable," said Bea. "Of course, if she's talked with Verger today..." she shook her head.
"Terrible man." Birdie opened the menu. "I have simply got to lose another three pounds before the banquet, Bea. I'll never get into that gold lame if I don't."
"Nobody can lose three pounds in four days," Bea said. "And I was thinking that you might want to go back to Saks and take a look at the lavender velvet, anyway."
"I really think so. Meg's great in a crisis like this. She empathizes."
"Quelle dommage," Meg said to John Paul in a kindly tone. She dug into her tote and produced a Kleenex. "Et vous, the mƒitre!" She patted the chef on the back."
AQuill suspected that even Meg's French, which was excellent, wasn't up to the voluble harangue that followed this expression of sympathy. The institute, Quill gathered, had never appreciated the genius of him, Jean Paul, the master. She, Meg, had obviously not been informed of the specialities of the house which had been prepared for her. But Linda, the manager. What a stupid! She tripped over her own boot laces, that one! She, Meg, a chef of the highest repute, although a woman (Quill mentally crossed her fingers at that one - but Meg merely continued to nod sympathetically) and a petite of the highest beauty (Meg smiled briefly) could jamais jamais! Understand the indiginities that he was forced to suffer daily. The power failed all the time. Linda forgot to pay people. He, himself, worked for a mere pittance. He would sell this place! For a sou! For less than half a sou!
"Can he?" asked Quill.
"Can he what?"
"Sell the Institute."
"He owns some stock," said Linda doubtfully, "and some holding company owns the rest. I suppose he'd have to, if the holding company sold out. Why? Do you understand all of that gibberish?"
"Some of it," said Quill. "Meg's more fluent. She's the one who spent a year in Paris."
"He'll start on me, next," said Linda gloomily. "He always does. What's he saying now?"
Quill turned her back on Jean Paul, who had started on Linda's ancestry in a villainous tirade. "He's just hollering," she said firmly. "I think we should make a diplomatic exit. Meg will bring him around."
They left quietly, shutting the door softly behind them. For a moment, Quill watched them through the glass. Jean Paul waved his arms frantically over his head, jabbed his finger three times into the air, and scowled ferociously. Meg nodded, shook her head in what appeared to be sorrowful agreement, then took a small pastry knife from the knife block and carefully cut a piece from a pale pile of souffl‚.
"The Grand Marnier," said Linda, in a worshipful way.
Meg chewed the souffl‚ slowly, carefully. Jean Paul leaned forward in eager attention, a basset hound on point. She nodded, murmuring. Jean Paul broke into a weak smile that grew broader as Meg continued.
"What'd she say?" Linda asked.
"I think her first word was almond. Then she said `have you ever tried... ` something something. I'm not good at lip reading."
Linda shrugged. "Chefs. Go figure. At least he's stopped crying. I hate it when they cry. Listen, how about some lunch?"
"I'd love it," said Quill.
"Good. I have a phone call to return. From Verger Taylor, if you can believe it! Anyway, we came through Le Nozze on our way up. You remember? I'll meet you there."
Quill followed her to the top of the stairs. "Do you have much to do with Verger Taylor/"
"Me? No. His wife - ex-wife, that is - is very interested in the Institute. Well, you know that, of course, because she's the one who got you here." She cast a harried look over her shoulder. Meg and Jen Paul were seated opposite one another, both nodding, both talking a mile a minute. "And thank goodness you are here, no matter what Mr. Taylor says. I haven't seen Jean Paul this relaxed for weeks."
"Linda, we had a rather unpleasant visit from Verger Taylor last night... "
Linda clutched her arm. "Hang on a second."
Jean Paul rose to his full height, grabbed a saucepan from the hanging brackets, and whacked it several times against the marble pastry top. He flung the pan across the room, gestured widely, and laughed. Meg smiled agreeably.
"See that?" Linda said proudly. "He's going to have a very good day." A pale smile crossed her face. `You just take any empty table at Le Nozze. The m itre d' today is Greg. I think. I may have forgotten to post the schedule. I think I did forget to post the schedule. Well, someone will be there. I hope. Just tell him I'm joining you."
"Okay. But Linda, I do want tot talk to you about Taylor. How much of a threat is he... "
"And I want to talk to you about your lecture! Fundamentals of Innkeeping. The board of directors told me last week that I needed a few pointers. I mean, an institute isn't all that much like an inn, but Mrs. Goldwyn says that management is management." She tripped over a box of canning jars that had been left in the hallway corner, righted herself, and looked at her watch. "My gosh! It's after twelve. I've got to return that phone call. See you in a few minutes. We'll talk then, I promise." She took off down the stairs at a run. Quill hoped she didn't fall down a rabbit hole.
Quill clattered down the stairs after her and entered Le Nozze from the STUDENTS ONLY door. It really was a very attractive restaurant, she thought. I had some of the qualities of the dining rooms in Proven‡al with dark wood wainscoting and terrazzo floors. The regency-style chairs were upholstered in a satiny dark green-, yell-, and cream-striped fabric. But it had a nice, south Florida touch, too. Some really good pieces of sculptured glass - a dolphin, a miniature sloop, a narwhale - stood ion the waist-high wooden room dividers.
Quill introduced herself to Bruce, the mƒitre d (he knew Greg was supposed to be on, but no one had posted a schedule), who bowed and seated her at a window overlooking the grounds. The only other occupied table was several feet away. Quill nodded to the two well-preserved ladies sitting over wine and opened the menu.
-4-
Quill read the menu with professional interest. The dishes were varied, the prices quite reasonable. She'd try the wild mushrooms in pastry. It was a simple dish, and a good test of the saucier. She looked up for Bruce and blinked. Two ladies at the next table were watching her with unabashed interest. "That shade of Hey Sailor Red hair dye won't last in this Florida sunshine," said the widow with the metallic gold shoes and matching handbag. "Waste of money. Cheap looking, too."
"It's natural, Bea. And don't shout so. She'll hear you." The widow in the lavender, pink, and mauve silk jogging suit took a sip of her white wine, set the glass firmly on the dining table, and rolled her eyes at Quill.
Both of the ladies discussing her hair were over forty-five - how far over Quill couldn't tell. Plastic surgery, alpha-hydroxy treatments, and laser resurfacing tended to homogenize people's ages in Palm Beach. She did know they were widows: Both of them had wedding bands with Ritz-sized diamonds on their right ring fingers.
"I don't shout, Birdie," said Bea. "You've accused me of shouting ever since you got that damn miniaturized hearing aid and you're just showing off."
Quill mentally added twenty years to the ladies' ages.
"Pardon me, Bea?" asked Birdie sweetly. "You're mumbling again." She caught Quill's eye, smiled widely, and called out, "Are you here for the classes?"
Startled at being directly addressed, Quill bent forward. "Excuse me?"
"Margaret Quilliam's cooking classes," said Bea with satisfaction. "We've been waiting months to learn from her."
"Since mid-September, Bea," said Birdie. "Six weeks. We've been waiting six weeks, which is long enough, for goodness' sake. When you're our age, you never know if you've got another six weeks."
"Chef Quilliam's my sister.
"You sister!" Bea waved her arms excitedly. The thick gold bracelets on her arms collided with a dull thud. Real gold, then. Quill decided that Bea must be wearing something in the aggregate of fifty thousand dollars around her neck and wrists and in her ears. "May we join you? We'd love to hear what it's like living with a famous chef."
Birdie, who was plump, wriggled out of her chair, pattered to Quill's table and sat down without waiting to hear her demurral through. Bea, rather more deliberately, gathered her gold-trimmed tote bag, gold-rimmed sunglasses and glass of wine. "You don't mind, do you? It's just that there's so little to do here! We're just dying for conversation other than our own."
"Of course not. Please." Quill indicated the empty space next to her with a generous wave of her arm.
Bea deposited her tote bag under the table and sat down. "Bea Gollinge," she said, "and this is my friend BirdieMcIntyre. We're two-thirds of the Lunch Bunch."
"Two-thirds?"
"Selma Goldwyn isn't here." Bea leaned forward. "She had a little fix-me-up scheduled this morning."
"Face peel," Birdie said succinctly. "Upper lip."
"Absolutely refuses to touch the laser," Bea added. "Selma's always been a conservative."
"Which is ridiculous," said Birdie, "because the laser's so much safer. And who are you?"
Somewhat taken aback, Quill introduced herself.
"I demand to know what your secret is," Birdie said. "Tell!"
Quill had few secrets and sometimes thought herself the more boring for it.
"You're looking puzzled. She's looking puzzled, Bea."
"For staying so slim," Bea explained. "I mean - your sister. That marvelous, marvelous food. How can you eat it and not gain weight? Or do you turn it down?"
"I usually don't have time to sit and eat when Meg's in the kitchen. We have a small hotel in addition to our restaurant and that keeps me fairly busy."
"I should think so." Bea dived under the table, remerged with her tote bag, and took a compact from it. The compact was covered with diamonds. Quill wondered if they were real. My first husband was a restaurateur and it ate his life. He spent more time in the kitchen than with me. And had a lot more fun there, too. I don't' know where we found the time to have three kids."
Quill murmured polite wonderment.
"And five grandchildren," said Bea. Her hand dived into the tote once more and reemerged with a fistful of photographs.
"Not now, Bea." Birdie took the picture from her friend's hand and shoved them firmly back into the tote. "And your husband?"
"Oh, I'm not married."
"But engaged to be." Bea took her left hand. "Quarter caret. Nice. What's he in?"
"In? You mean what does he do? He used to be chief of detectives with the Manhattan homicide squad. He's a private investigator now. For a short time, he ws the sheriff in Hemlock Falls. That's where Meg and I are from."
"A detective!" said Birdie. "How exciting. Does he look like Travis McGee?"
Quill smiled. "I think he's better-looking than Travis McGee."
"And he's with you now, dear?"
"He's coming Thursday, for a long weekend."
"I see Mrs. McIntyre and Mrs. Gollinge have been entertaining you." Linda Longstreet settled opposite Quill with a sigh. She was paler than ever, and she shivered in the chill of the air conditioning. "You've been introduced? Mrs. Gollinge and Mrs. McIntyre are on our board of directors, Quill."
"We've gotten most of her life history," said Bea. "And we'll get the rest if you give us half a chance. How are you, Linda? I see that Chef Quilliam must have arrived, since her sister's here in the restaurant."
"Oh, were you among the audience waiting this morning?" asked Quill. "I'm so sorry we missed the souffl‚s. I hadn't drive I-95 before, you see, and it was all my fault."
"You drove the freeway?' Bea said. "My dear, say nomore. Say no more. What an awful experience for you. Bruce! Bring Ms. Quilliam some wine."
"I really think I should eat something first," said Quill.
"Nonsense," Bea said briskly. "Birdie, slice her some of our bread, No, no, you just sit there, my dear."
Birdie bounced up and over to her table, grabbed the bread, and bounced back again. Bruce came over with a chilled bottle wrapped in a napkin. Quill sat rather helplessly and watched. She nibbled at the bread, sipped at the wine, and decided to remain quiet.
Bea tapped her forefinger briskly on the tabletop. "And how are things going, Linda? Everything straightened out after that little contretemps with the plumbing this morning?"
"Well, the plumbing's fixed, but the electrical system's on the fritz again." She picked up the menu, set it down, tapped her fingers against the water glass, then signaled for the headwaiter.
"You don't look fine," said Birdie. "you look worried."
"Harassed," added Bea. "But then, you always looked harassed, Linda dear. You need to slow down. Is Chef Jean Paul throwing hissy fits again? Is that what's got you all in a fidget?" She twinkled at Quill. "Linda's the world's best customer for Maalox, aren't you, dear? I'm so glad I own stock in pharmaceuticals."
"Yes. I mean, no, Jean Paul's fine. I just checked. He and your sister" - she glanced nervously at Quill - "are getting along like a house afire. They're hanging the rabbit."
"The rabbit?" Quill frowned. "Oh. For the potted rabbit."
"Yes."
"Did she cry? Meg always cries when she has to hang the rabbit."
"They both cried," said Linda, "and Chef Jean Paul said a little prayer."
"Well, it's dead, isn't it?" asked Bea. "I mean, it's not as though she has to...." she made a sharp twisting motion with both hands.
"Humanely killed," said Linda absently. "And we are very careful where we buy our stock from. They're in nice, airy cages... "
"I," said Bea firmly, "am having vegetarian today. What about you, Birdie?"
"Absolutely."
Bruce , smooth and quiet, in the best tradition of headwaiters all over the world, appeared silently at Linda's elbow. She jerked her head up at him. "Oh. There you are. Would you take the orders, Greg?"
"Bruce," eh corrected.
She rose to her feet, dropping her napkin. "I just... Quill, would you mind very much if Mrs. Gollinge and Mrs. McIntyre showed you around? I've just gotten some... I mean, I have quite q bit of work to do. And I've got to find Mrs. Taylor."
"You returned Mr. Taylor's call, didn't you?" said Quill. `Linda, I think I should tell you... "
"Dear Verger," Bea said. "How is he? I'm doing so nicely since we added the Taylor Towers to my portfolio."
Quill bit her lip. Whatever threats Verger Taylor had delivered to Linda over the phone, it was unlikely that she'd unburden herself in front of two members of the board of directors.
"You go right ahead, dear." Birdie patted her hand.
Linda , after further apologies interspersed with nervous flutters, almost ran out of the restaurant.
"Excitable," said Bea. "Of course, if she's talked with Verger today..." she shook her head.
"Terrible man." Birdie opened the menu. "I have simply got to lose another three pounds before the banquet, Bea. I'll never get into that gold lame if I don't."
"Nobody can lose three pounds in four days," Bea said. "And I was thinking that you might want to go back to Saks and take a look at the lavender velvet, anyway."
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