Death Dines Out Page 3

  "Exactly. Charities are for people in need. And need occurs at all levels of society. At all levels of income. Do you have any idea how neglected women such as myself and my friends are? Do you realize the kind of abuse we've taken from people like Verger?"

  "Gee, no." Meg's own forehead wrinkled quite satisfactorily, which, Quill knew, frequently presaged an eruption quite as volcanic as Kiluea Iki's. "Unless your mother sold you to him at an early age, you had something to say about marrying him, didn't you? Plus, I can't say as I have a whole lot of sympathy for people who got the second-best Rolls in a settlement." She grabbed her head. "Aaagh! The bells!"

  Tiffany glowed. "It's Dr. Bob." She uncrossed her legs and got up gracefully. "You're sure you don't want to do something about your hair, Quill?"

  "Shall I get the door?" asked Quill politely.

  "He'll use his key." She cocked her head, listening. Quill heard the door open, then the click of shoes on the wooden floor. Tiffany extended her hands. "And here he is. Darling!"

  "My dear."

  -2-

  Quill had imagined Dr. Bittern as a slick, smooth Richard Gere look-alike. He wasn't. The doctor (psychologist? psychiatrist? osteopath?) was small and shaped like a fire hydrant. It was hard to tell how old he was. (Quill was discovering that in Palm Beach it was hard to decide how old anybody was. Florida seemed to be the appearance-surgery capital of the world.) Dr. Bittern had silvery white hair - very thick-wire rimmed glasses, and a small black goatee. He stopped several feet in front of Tiffany, crossed his hands on his paunch, and beamed at her with the smile of a happy baby.

  "Kiss, kiss," Tiffany cooed, pecking the air on either : side of his cheeks. "And here is our cook."

  "Chef," Meg corrected belligerently.

  "Meg, may I introduce Dr. Robert Bittern? And Dr. Bob, this is Sarah Quilliam, Meg's sister."

  He inclined his head and, to Quill's surprise, gave Meg her proper title. "Maitre Quilliam. An honor. And Ms. Quilliam? I have seen your art. It is wonderful."

  "Thank you - um - Dr. Bittern."

  He gestured toward the couch. "May I?"

  "Please," said Tiffany. "Please. Dr. Bob..." She fluttered down next to him. "I am so glad you're here! I was just trying to explain the importance of our work to the girls..."

  Meg made a noise like a steam kettle.

  Tiffany acknowledged the reaction with a vague smile and murmured, "Women, then, and I can't do it half so well as you. No, not a tenth so well as you. If you would?"

  "Perhaps a cup of tea, before we begin?" Dr. Bittern sat erect, his back several inches from the couch cushions. His voice was precise and his feet were tiny.

  "Meg?" Tiffany all but snapped her fingers.

  Quill looked at her sister. Meg looked back. For a moment, Meg's reaction hung in the balance. Suddenly she grinned, shook her head, and got up. "What kind would you like, Dr. Bittern? Black? Green?"

  He waved a perfectly manicured hand in the air. His hands were small, too. "Something peaceful. Scented. Not too strong."

  "Jasmine," said Meg. She walked behind the couch toward the kitchen, then turned and made a horrible face at Quill.

  Quill cleared her throat. "You were telling us about the charity, Dr. Bittern."

  "Excelsior," said Tiffany.

  "I beg your pardon?" Quill said. It had sounded like a sneeze.

  "Excelsior," said Dr. Bittern. "To indicate life's journey. One must move past the past. One must move onward, upward, to the pinnacle of experience."

  "Tennyson," said Meg, setting a cup of tea on the marble slab in front of Dr. Bittern. "Same guy who wrote about Lancelot cleaving the heads off his enemies. 'My strength is of the strength of ten, because my heart is pure.' Whack!" She drew her finger across her throat execution-style and wiggled her eyebrows.

  "That is a different poem, I believe," said Dr. Bittern gravely. "But yes, the name comes from the pen of that noble poet."

  "So you're not an illiterate phony anyhow." Meg settled cheerfully on the arm of Quill's chair. "What kind of phony are you?"

  "Hey!" said Tiffany. "Hey!"

  Quill shoved her elbow sharply into Meg's leg. "Meg was up all night," she lied, "with a particularly difficult recipe..."

  "No, I wasn't," said Meg. "But before I get involved with this thing I want to know what it's all about. If I'd known it was some screwy fund-raiser for a bunch of gold diggers, I would have stayed home."

  Dr. Bittern cocked his head with a faraway expression, as though he was listening to a strain of music only he could hear. He crossed his hands over his paunch- a gesture Quill was beginning to recognize as very characteristic - and beamed impartially at the three of them. "Ms. Quilliam' s objections are familiar to me - if somewhat infelicitously stated." He looked at Tiffany. "This is the sort of question we must anticipate from the press. I am, of course, prepared to answer."

  "Good," said Meg. "I am prepared to listen."

  A scuffling sound came from the patio outside. Quill turned her head. Three figures loomed against the glass. One of them was very tall. Quill had seen that face before - not fifteen minutes ago on the TV screen in the kitchen.

  "Oh my God!" Tiffany shrieked. "It's Verger!"

  The French door banged open. Verger Taylor stamped arrogantly into the room. With him were two young men. He came to a full stop and thrust his head forward. His fierce blue eyes raked over Meg and Quill, then rested on Dr. Bittern with the intensity of a mongoose after a snake. "You!" he said. He whirled on the balls of his feet. "Goddammit, Tiffany. I've had about enough of this. You're gonna cancel the whole goddamn thing - or you'll regret it. You got that?"

  "How did you get in here?" Tiffany hunched back into the couch. "Who let you in here? I had the locks changed! Luis? Was it Luis? I'll kill him!"

  "Not as much control as you thought you had, Tif? Told you it'd be different out there after being married to the Verbster." Taylor grinned nastily. He was tall - three or four inches over six feet - with the neck, shoulders, and belly of a defensive tackle who'd been benched too long. He was dressed in part of a three-piece suit in banker's gray; the vest hung open over a rumpled white shirt and his trousers belled over a low-slung belt. The suit coat was nowhere in evidence. He clutched a balled-up newspaper in one fist. "Verger Taylor," he grunted finally to Meg. "You this celebrity chef, or what?"

  Tiffany's voice rose several decibels. "Isn't that just like you, Verger? She is not an 'or what.' She is not a thing. She is a woman. This is Margaret Quilliam, Verger, one of the few female three-star chefs - "

  "Two star," Meg corrected with glum punctilio.

  " - whatever - in the country. And I will not, I repeat, will not have you demeaning her with your macho, sexist, piggish attitudes."

  Keeping his eyes on Meg, Verger swung his head rather like a bull that's been bitten in the ear. "What the hell, Tiffany."

  "What the hell yourself." She hissed like a snake. "And you look at me when you talk to me, you bastard."

  Verger's eyes flickered over Meg's dark head then took in her shorts and the newest in her T-shirt collection. He rolled his eyes, sighed, and shook his head. "It's taken Tif a while to get over the divorce, you see?" He gave Meg a grin meant to be complicit. "She's discovering what I told her - it's impossible to replace the Verbster. Lotta women'll tell you that." He hooked both thumbs through the buckle of his alligator belt and hitched up his trousers.

  Tiffany screamed, "If you're not out of here in two seconds, I'm calling the cops!"

  Verger sneered. "Ask for Captain Phillips. Old buddy of mine."

  Tiffany spat, "Tell me what you want, then, and get out." Her face crumpled. Her eyes teared. "Can't you just leave me alone? I'm having a nice, quiet time with my friends..."

  "Bullshit." His eyes flickered over Dr. Bittern. "Goddammit, Tiffany. This guy's a phony." His face reddened underneath the leather of a Florida tan. "I've warned you about this shitface before."

  "Goddammit yourself," said Tiffany icily. "You l
eave Dr. Bob alone. He's a far, far better man than you will ever be."

  Quill looked at Dr. Bittern, who seemed quite unperturbed by Verger's venom. Perhaps, like Sydney Carton, he was into self-sacrifice, but Quill doubted it.

  Tiffany squalled suddenly, "What are you doing here, anyhow? How did you get a goddamn key? This condo's mine. Get out of here. And take those two little bastards with you."

  "Who are these two guys?" Meg interrupted in an overly casual tone. "I know who you are - Verger Taylor. Anybody who watches CNN knows who you are. But who are they?"

  Verger swung his head; his head and shoulders moved together, as though his neck were nonexistent. He used his height and weight like a club, Quill thought. Not a nice guy at all. She moved closer to Meg. "Can I get anyone anything to drink?" she asked brightly. "Would you like some planter's punch, Mr. Taylor? And what about your friends?"

  "Those two aren't his friends," Tiffany said sulkily. "They're his sons. That's Corrigan" - she jerked her chin in the direction of a slight, blond boy of nineteen or so - "and the other one's Evan. And they're not staying long enough to have a drink."

  Evan resembled his father in height-but the paternal genetics stopped there. He was dark, probably in his mid-twenties, and casually elegant. His voice was a pleasant baritone. "Sorry to barge in like this, but Dad has a couple of questions." He clapped his hand on his father's shoulder. "Take five, Dad. We'll get this sorted out. And I think a drink's a good idea."

  "Yeah?" Verger's glower darkened.

  "I do." Evan smiled at Quill. "We just need to talk a little bit. You're Sarah Quilliam?"

  Quill 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?"