Death Dines Out Read online

"Yes, Meg."

  "Any way you slice it, this is going to be a horrible week." Meg's expression was woeful.

  "The punch was definitely a mistake."

  "I don't mean that. I mean, you're right that I made them too strong. I had two, you know. But I'm paying for that." She burped woefully. "I'm suffering."

  "Mm," Quill said unsympathetically. "Our mistake was that we didn't ask enough questions about this charity. I don't like Tiffany Taylor. And I sure as heck don't like what we've heard of her ex-husband. We were dopes. Boobs. Greedy-guts. We've let ourselves be talked into disaster. We saw the chance for a nice, warm vacation at the worst time of the year. And we haven't been away from Hemlock Falls since we opened the Inn, so we temporarily lost our minds. It's going to be," she burped again and said hollowly, "a big, horrible mess. And it'll end in disaster. Did you see the article in the newspaper at the airport?"

  "Just the headlines. I was hoping you didn't see it."

  "I was hoping YOU didn't see it. 'Tiffany's Revenge'? That one? The one that said this charity for phobics was a bunch of hooey?"

  "It was a tabloid," Quill said hopefully. "You know what they're like. 'Dwarf Rapes Nun, Escapes in UFO.' They're full of baloney. So this isn't necessarily a bogus charity. I mean this Dr. Bittern. He's supposed to be a real psychiatrist, isn't he?"

  "Hah. Where did it say he was a psychiatrist? And if he is a psychiatrist, what if his degree's from the Arkansas School of Psychiatry and Plastics Recycling? Quill, forget the star. I want to go home."

  Quill sighed. There had been a tacit understanding between Tiffany and Quill that part of her own responsibilities were to see that her volatile sister survived pre- cooking nerves. "It's going to be fine. We'll ask Tiffany more details when she gets here." She squinted at the kitchen clock. The clock was made of stainless steel, with wrought iron hands that indicated the time of day in a very vague way, since there weren't any numbers. "What time is it, anyway?"

  Meg looked at her watch. "It's sometime after eight. And that's when she said she'd show up. Sometime after eight tonight. I hope it's a long sort of sometime; I don't feel all that terrific. I think I'll lie down for a bit. Everything's going sort of swimmy. And I'm hearing weird noises. Why in the heck did you force me to make those drinks?"

  "I did not force you to make those drinks. You insisted on making those drinks. Planter's punch, you said. Just the ticket to celebrate our arrival."

  "Rum punch."

  "Rum punch, then. And you shouldn't have gulped them down."

  "I was hot. And thirsty. And giddy. Do you hear bells, Quill? Or am I going clean out of my mind?"

  Quill listened. The scented air was filled with a sub- aural chiming that reminded her of expensive department stores. "It's the doorbell. It must be Tiffany. Stay right there."

  "They are making me cross. Very, very cross. Bells," Meg said glumly. "The ringing and the singing of the bells, bells, bells..."

  Quill left Meg to her Poe and went down the long corridor to the ornately carved front door. The hall was painted a soft, suffused peach. The recessed lighting in the ceiling made the air around the walls glow. Impressionist paintings from one of the minor schools hung at carefully selected intervals along the walls. Whoever had picked them had a good eye. Her hand on the doorknob, Quill stopped, astonished. The perennial garden at their Inn shone at her from the wall to the right of the front door. It was one of her own acrylics - part of a series she'd produced in a brief burst of activity four years ago. She remembered that particular piece well. Myles had sat with her in the garden. It had been a rare afternoon, peaceful and contented. Her agent in New York had asked for more.

  The key scraped in the lock and the door opened. "Darling Quill!" Tiffany cried. "Sorry to barge in. But you didn't answer me! I was beginning to think the plane had crashed! Do let me in, there's a sweetie. It's broiling out here."

  In the past three years, Tiffany Taylor's face had made the cover of major women's magazines in the United States and Europe. First because of her marriage to Verger Taylor (his third, her second) and then due to the divorce (spectacular and sordid). She was tall - well over five nine - with the Barbie-doll rounded slenderness that belonged to professional athletes with personal trainers - or women who could afford liposuction. She had a straight little nose, high cheekbones, and what the gossip columnists called a "Paris mouth," full-lipped and sullen. Her changing hair color was as notorious as the numbers of her plastic surgeries. Today's was white blonde.

  Tiffany was dressed in what Quill - having spent close to an hour waiting for her luggage in the crowded West Palm Beach airport - was already coming to recognize as The Palm Beach Outfit: hand-tailored khaki trousers, blue-striped shirt, navy blazer, and a three-hundred-dollar straw hat with a black grosgrain ribbon around the crown. The hat was hand-tailored, too, from a small shop in one of the arcades off Worth Avenue. Quill knew the price of the hat because Tiffany's secretary had included that information in one of the endless stream of memos.

  Tiffany halted her forward rush and frowned. "My God! It's so humid in here I can't breathe! The air conditioner must have broken down again. You'd think that for what I paid for this place..." She hurried down the hall, squeaking a little in her agitation. "I'm so sorry, sorry, sorry that you two arrived to this sauna. Oh, that damn ol' Luis. He's supposed to check on the place every single week, but if you're not here to climb right up his backside..."

  Quill, hurrying after her, nearly knocked her over when Tiffany stopped abruptly at the edge of the living room.

  "The windows are open," Tiffany said accusingly.

  "Well, yes," Quill admitted. "I opened them. This air's so lovely after our winter that..."

  "But your hair! The leather couches!"

  "Surely not," said Quill. "We're in Florida, and it seems a shame to..."

  "Ugh! Ugh-ugh-ugh!" Tiffany ran past Meg and closed the French doors with a firm and determined air. "There. That will help enormously. We'll just give it a minute to cool down. Goodness!" She sat down on the leather couch, crossed her legs and took a cigarette case from her purse. She patted the sofa. "Come and sit by me, both of you."

  Quill sat opposite her on a leather chair. Meg settled at the kitchen island.

  "How was your flight?" Tiffany lit the cigarette with what looked like a diamond-encrusted lighter, dropped the lighter with a clatter on the marble end table, and inhaled deeply.

  Quill took a deep breath. "It was fine. But our reception here was a little odd."

  Tiffany cocked her head and eyed Quill though a cloud of cigarette smoke. "Was Luis rude to you?"

  "We didn't meet Luis. But someone left us a videotape of an unpleasant interview with Mr. Taylor."

  "Which one?" Tiffany tapped her cigarette into a cloisonne bowl on the coffee table. "If it was the 60 Minutes one, then it was somebody on my side. Mike Wallace gave Verge a great going-over."

  "It was an interview with Bernie Waters."

  "Oh. Then that was Verger himself. Done at the home office in Chicago, right? Beating his chest. Trying to scare you off, I suppose. He didn't, did he?"

  "Why is he so angry?" Quill asked.

  "Why is Verger anything? He's an asshole, that's why."

  Meg knocked her bare heel rhythmically against the leg of the bar stool, a frown on her face. Tiffany turned and looked at her. Meg had changed into the newest addition to her T-shirt collection as soon as she'd arrived in Florida: IT'S MS. BITCH TO YOU. "Love the message, darling. I'd like to send one to Verge. Well." Tiffany exhaled, stubbed out her cigarette, and settled back onto the couch. "Let's see how you two look." She ran her cornflower-blue eyes over Quill, stopping at her hair. She raised an eyebrow. "I didn't even give you a chance to tidy up," she said with extravagant self-accusation. "And Dr. Bob will be here any moment. You go on ahead and fix it. Don't mind me."

  Meg raised her eyebrows. "Dr. Bob? You mean this Dr. Bittern in charge of your charity?"

  "Yes. He's dying to meet both of
you."

  "I'm dying to meet him," Meg said darkly.

  Quill ignored these warning signals from Meg and dabbed at her hair. Maybe she should have worn it up. Tiffany was wearing hers up and the humidity hadn't so much as plastered wisps around her perfect little ears. Maybe she was one of those glamorous, voluptuous blondes who refused to sweat. Maybe all the collagen in her face had migrated and plugged her sweat glands up. She was also one of those blondes who could wear anything with flair, and Quill, who was too slender, felt lanky in her cotton skirt and espadrilles. "I am not going to change a thing," she announced to no one in particular.

  "Dr. Bob?" said Meg, her gray eyes boring into Tiffany's blue ones. "About this Dr. Bob? Is he a real shrink, or what? Does he have anything to do with why Verger Taylor's trying to run us out of town?"

  "You chefs," said Tiffany. "So dramatic. Come and sit here, sweetie. It hurts my neck to turn around. But before you do, be a darling, Meg, and fix me one of your famous gin and tonics."

  "I'm not famous for making gin and tonics," said Meg succinctly. She beat a furious tattoo against the chair leg.

  "Stop thumping, Meg," Quill said. "It's driving me nuts."

  Meg continued thumping. Quill thought she recognized the rhythm to "Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road." Meg gave the chair leg a final, ominous thud and slid from the stool. She swayed slightly on her feet. "I'm a famous cook. A famous cook who wants to know about this Dr. Bob's qualifications."

  "Little squiffy, darling, are we?" Tiffany said coolly. "Enjoying my liquor?"

  Meg drew a deep breath. Tiffany obviously hadn't understood the attitude implicit in Meg's T-shirt motto, but she was about to understand it clearly now.

  Quill sprang up from the couch. "I'll make the drink. Sit down, Meg. Tiffany, please. You left the most wonderful cheese and crackers for us. Let me get you some."

  Meg wandered to the leather chair facing the couch and curled up cross-legged. She eyed Tiffany owlishly. Tiffany pulled a jewel-encrusted compact out of her purse and examined her face critically in the little glass mirror. Quill, fuzzy on how much of each should go into a gin and tonic, poured substantial amounts of both into a glass, filled it with ice, and set it in front of their hostess.

  "Thank you, sweetie." She returned the compact to her purse with a snap. "I haven't had a chance to talk with either one of you for ages, just ages. Did you hear what Verger tried to pull on me last week? About the beach house in Cannes? Can you believe that bastard refuses to let me use it? I mean, I'm allowed in May. May! What in God's name do you find in Cannes in May? Tourists!"

  "Hard luck," Meg said. "Now, to get back to this Dr. Bob - "

  "My dear!" Tiffany waved both hands distractedly. "My dear! If you knew what this divorce has done to me! I've been through tornadoes, blizzards, a tidal wave, a volcanic eruption, two hurricanes, a typhoon, and an earthquake that registered seven-point-one on the Richter scale. The divorce was worse. Far worse. If I didn't have this little affair coming up this week, I'd be in a rubber room somewhere. You two are saving my sanity. That's all I can say." She ran one scarlet-nailed hand through her champagne-colored hair and downed the gin and tonic with the other. "Verger was a bastard. Just a bastard. He was a bastard when we got engaged, a bastard on the honeymoon, and a super bastard in bed. Bastard, bastard, bastard." She looked vicious. "And the world's going to know just how much of a bastard. I've got them all lined up. All the wives of his so-called friends. They're all going to be here for the therapy sessions this week..." She caught Meg's astonished face and said crossly, "That's right there on the agenda. Right after your cooking classes or whatever. My secretary should have mailed you that weeks ago."

  She probably had. Quill, who hated going through mail, hadn't read anything but the maps, the airline tickets, and the check.

  "Anyhow. I've invited the press to sit in-in the interest of getting information to those poor ol' women who can't afford to come, of course..."

  "You've invited the press? To therapy sessions?" said Quill.

  "And why not?"

  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."