Death Dines Out
Authors: Claudia Bishop
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Detectives, #Women Sleuths, #Sisters, #Detective and Mystery Stories; American, #Unknown, #Palm Beach (Fla.)
Claudia Bishop - Death Dines Out
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Vacationers at Palm Beach
Sarah "Quill" Quilliam-manager/owner, the Inn at Hemlock Falls
Margaret "Meg" Quilliam-her sister, a master chef
Tiffany Taylor-a wealthy patron of gourmet cooking
Verger Taylor-her ex-husband, fourth richest real estate developer in America
Corrigan and Evan Taylor-Verger's sons by his first marriage
Cressida Houghton-Verger's first wife
Ernst Kolsacker-Verger's business partner
Franklin Carmichael-Verger's lawyer
Luis Mendoza-caretaker/manager, The Combers Beach Club
Dr. Robert Bittern-Psychiatrist
The Florida Institute for Fine Food
Master Chef Jean Paul Bernard-directeur-general
Linda Longstreet-administrator
-various chefs, students, waiters, and waitresses
The Lunch Bunch
Birdie McIntyre-a widow
Selma Goldwyn-a widow
Beatrice Gollinge-a widow
The West Palm Beach Department of Police
Jerry Fairchild-chief of detectives
Trish-his partner
Ange Wisc-a policeman
PROLOGUE
The fourth day of the blizzard, Sarah Quilliam seriously considered unpacking her luggage. There was no way the Syracuse airport would open the next day. She and her sister, Meg, were going to miss their flight to Palm Beach. Snow piled high around the foundations of the Inn at Hemlock Falls. The waterfall in Hemlock Gorge had frozen to a small trickle, and the road to the Inn was drifted over.
There were no guests. The Inn was closed and would be closed for another week. The waiters, sous chefs, and receptionist had been sent home days before. The staff that remained was getting very, very irritable. There was nothing to do except squabble.
"You two might better have stayed home anyways," Doreen Muxworthy-Stoker said. Somewhere in her fifties - Doreen wasn't telling, and she never had filled out an employment application-she was the Inn's head housekeeper. They were all sitting around a table in the Inn's dining room: Doreen; Meg, the gourmet chef and Quill's partner; John Raintree, their business manager; and Quill herself.
Quill looked crossly at the snow whipping against the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Hemlock Gorge. "The storm' s due to break sometime tonight," she said. "I'll bet we'll make it out."
"Sure you will," John said easily. He was Quill's age, in his mid-thirties, and three-quarters Onondaga Indian. He'd been brought up in Hemlock Falls and was one of the few people Quill knew that loved cold weather.
"I'll bet we won't," Meg said gloomily. "Just think-somewhere a couple of hundred miles outside this lousy weather, the sun is shining, the roads are clear, and the air is warm. And we're stuck!" Meg had recently taken to collecting T-shirts emblazoned with mottoes, selecting sayings appropriate to her mood. Today's read RUNS WITH SCISSORS.
"You shouldna took the money," Doreen said. "You take the money, you're committed. You gotta go. Tolt the sheriff this morning he'd have to get the sled dogs out and take you."
"Myles isn't sheriff anymore, Doreen," Quill said. Doreen knew this very well. Davy Kiddermeister had taken over as Tompkins County sheriff when Myles went back to his job as a private investigator. Doreen just plain didn't like this change, so for her, it hadn't happened.
"You shoulda married the sheriff last year," Doreen continued stubbornly. "He woulda stayed home."
"We are getting married, Doreen," Quill said tartly. "Sometime soon. And it wouldn't have made any difference to his career choice anyway."
"You two had better get to Florida," John said. "Or I'm going to redo our business plan for this year, ditch the restaurant and hotel business, and go into charity work myself. How does the Hemlock Falls Charitable Institute for Victims of Cabin Fever sound?"
Tiffany Taylor, ex-wife of the fourth richest real estate developer in America, had succeeded in recruiting Meg and Quill to help with a week-long charity function in Palm Beach. From what Quill had gathered, the charity was for phobic women - and some of them had sounded in a pitiful state. Tiffany had alluded to suicide attempts.
The working conditions were ideal. Meg and Quill were booked first class to Palm Beach. Tiffany was putting them up at the Combers Beach Club, a luxury condo that had been part of her divorce settlement. Quill was obligated for one lecture - Fundamentals of Inn keeping - Meg for three cooking classes. For Meg, the real attraction had been the ball and banquet slated for the end of their week. She would cook one dish, and one dish only: potted rabbit. And Tiffany promised that the editors of L 'Aperitif, the gourmet magazine that awarded the highly prized ratings for America's chefs, would be there.
"There's no doubt," she'd told Meg with vigorous assurance, "that you'll get back that third star. None at all."
Meg, who'd lost the third star in an imbroglio several years ago, would walk on hot coals to get it back. The prospect of a week in the sun in the midst of a New York winter with light duties and a huge paycheck paled beside the chance to get her potted rabbit into the magazine editor's stomach.
The swinging doors leading to the kitchen opened and Myles came in. He was wearing a heavy parka. Snow sprinkled his dark hair. His face was red with cold. He bent down and rubbed his cheek against Quill's. "It's clearing to the east," he said. "The airport's open. Looks like you'll be able to go."
Meg grinned, jumped up from the table, and did a little dance. "Third star, here I come!"
-1-
Margaret Quilliam stretched out on the lounge chair facing the ocean and exhaled with exaggerated pleasure. "Bliss," she said. "Absolute bliss. It's ten degrees above zero in Hemlock Falls and here we are, cocooned in salty sea air precisely at body temperature. We couldn't have asked for more, Quill."
Quill contemplated the view in a contented frame of mind. They were lucky to be getting paid to live here for a week in this kind of luxury.
The Taylor charity had sounded worthy. An institute for phobics, Tiffany Taylor had said. The first of its kind and completely privately funded. Quill didn't recall precisely what type of phobics were the focus of the fund - but Tiffany had made them sound in desperate need of help.
Quill took a fourth - or was it fifth? - swallow of Meg's version of Planter's Punch, then wished she hadn't. She was dizzy. It couldn't be jet lag - Palm Beach was a four-hour flight from upstate New York. It must be the punch. She'd warned Meg about the punch. She set the drink carefully on the patio deck, then linked her hands behind her head - more to steady it than to relax. Her hair was damp and frizzy with the humidly. She patted futilely at it and closed her eyes. That was a mistake. She was dizzier than ever. She blinked and sat up. "What the heck did you put in that drink?"
"The punch?" Meg waved her glass in the air, beaming. The moon rose behind her, high and white among the palm trees. The ocean bumped gently against the shore in front of them. To Quill's left, the condominium pool shimmered aquamarine over the in-ground lights. Meg brought her drink close to one eye and, peering through the lucent pink, said, "Mango, orange, and pineapple juice. A touch of cranberry. Cherries, oranges, and mint."
Quill looked dubious. "No rum?"
"Of course there's rum." Meg was indignant. "The very best rum. Dark rum. Light rum. Coconut rum. Something called Island Very Strong Rum. Rum." Meg subsided, muttering, then resurfaced. "I know a swell song about rum. Want to hear it?"
"No."
"It goes like this." Meg cleared her throat and began to sing. She was thirty to Quill's thirty-four and for twenty-nine of those years (Meg's vocalizing had started early on) Quill had never known what drove her sister to sing. She was awful. Her voice wandered, gypsy-like, through the keys. Her tone was thin and buzzy, like a Dremel drill or a very large bee.
"Away, away with rum, by gum, it's the song of the Temperance Union. We never eat cookies if they contain rum."
"Meg."
"For one little bite turns a man to a bum..."
"Meg!"
"Now ever have seen you a sorrier disgra-a-a-ace... than a man in the gutter with crumbs on his face!"
"Be QUIET down there!" The voice, male, floated somewhere above them.
Meg peered fuzzily into the night sky. "Okey-dokey," she said.
Quill heard the distant thunk-bang! of a glass patio door. Tiffany Taylor had mentioned the crabby tenant on the third floor. She'd also mentioned the condo rule against renters. "Nobody'll mind," she'd said, ''as long as you're quiet. And you aren't renters, exactly. After all, I'm paying you." And she'd given that tinkling, artificial laugh. Ugh. Quill shook herself. "Time for a cup of coffee, Meg. Stay right there." She glanced upwards; there were no irate faces hanging over the third-floor balcony-at least not yet. "And don't sing a word."
"Where're you going?"
"To get coffee. And hide the rum." The handle of the French door to the inside was smooth and weighty in her hand. Everything about the condominium was like that: polished, substantial, the best of its kind. The bleached oak floors were like pale mirrors. In the living room, buttery leather couches formed a U facing the French doors. The occasional tables were marble set on intricately detailed gilt bases. The island dividing the living room from the kitchen was made of a single slab of whorled mahogany.
Quill crossed the hardwood floor to the kitchen, the surface cool against her bare feet. Neither one of them had expected much from the kitchen itself: Quill because she'd guessed that most very wealthy people in Palm Beach ate at restaurants, and their hostess Tiffany Taylor was among the wealthiest; Meg because she was a professional cook and never expected much of anything from other people's kitchens.
They'd been surprised. The appliances were restaurant quality, and the shelves were fully stocked. The Subzero refrigerator held eggs, cream, butter, yeast, vinegars, and essential vegetables like onions, carrots, celery, and fresh herbs. The pots and pans were mostly copper-harder to clean than stainless steel (which made them inefficient for professional cooks) and expensive (which made them impractical - neither Meg nor Quill would ever make enough money to be in the Palm Beach league). But the cookware came in the right variety of sizes - from saut‚ to stock pots. And the knives were superb.
Quill filled the kettle with spring water and set it on the gas stove. Coffee would be too stimulating; they had a full day scheduled for tomorrow and both of them should get a good night's sleep. Tea would be better. She bent down and opened one cabinet door after another: pasta machine, still in the box; cappuccino/espresso machine - the three-hundred-dollar kind - which looked unused; a Cuisinart. The cabinet under the microwave held tins of ground coffee, boxes of flavored teas..
.... and a videotape, labeled SARAH AND MARGARET QUILLIAM: PLEASE VIEW.
Quill set the videotape on the counter. They'd already received multiple faxes, print packages of the week's agenda, and too many phone calls about Meg's classes and Quill's lecture from Tiffany's underemployed secretary in New York. Whatever was on the tape - Tiffany at her Louis Quinze desk giving them wardrobe advice - Tiffany suggesting variations on Meg's potted rabbit recipe - Tiffany introducing Quill to the latest hairstyles - Quill didn't want to see it just yet. She sighed and set the tape on the countertop, then rummaged through the teas for something decaffeinated. She'd make the tea and then stick the tape in the VCR. She hoped the tape wasn't too long. And she really hoped that she hadn't made a mistake about this trip. "It's the charity," she said aloud. "I'm not so sure about this charity."
Meg, who'd wandered in from the patio, perched on one of the wrought iron chairs around the kitchen island. "It's for women with phobias, right?" She burped. She was looking a little green. She'd drunk two glasses of her own punch.
Quill took the kettle off the boiler and selected a packet of tea. Chamomile should settle them both; neither of them were used to rum. "I think so. Tiffany sort of slid over the specifics."
Meg picked up the videotape. "What's this?"
"Who knows? Tiffany's Travel Tips. But we'd better look at it before she gets here. There's a video player with that huge TV in the library."
Meg pointed to a small shelf near the corner window. "In the kitchen, too?" Quill walked to the small television set and peered at it. "By gum, you're right." Meg stretched across the counter, handed over the tape, and Quill slid it into place. She tapped the PLAY button and the screen sprang into life.
"It's that news show, Hot Tip," said Meg. "Yuck. That's one of the sleaziest..."
"Hush, Meg."
"And that guy's the creepy interviewer Bernie Waters... and that's... "
"Verger Taylor," said Quill. "Uh-oh."
"... exclusive interview with the most successful real estate entrepreneur of this or any other decade." Bernie Waters grinned whitely into the camera. "Verge - can I call you Verge? Tell us about this so-called charity that Tiffany's cooked up."
The camera zoomed in on Verger Taylor's heavy- featured face. Quill instantly mistrusted the sincere blue glow of his eyes.
"It's unfortunate, Bernie, the lengths to which my ex- wife has gone to embarrass me and destroy the good things I've worked for on behalf of the good people of Chicago."
"What good things?" Meg demanded. "If he's talking about the Taylor Towers, he can forget it. Architectural monstrosity is NOT the word! All that pink marble overlooking Lake Michigan? It's a womb with a view."
"Hush, Meg."
"My lawyers inform me that anyone, anyone participating in this fiasco may be liable for damages. And you know me, Bernie, I've been up and everybody was my best friend. When I was down... I was down so far I couldn't get arrested. I have taken it, and I suppose I'll have to take it in the future. But I'm not taking it now, not from this broad. Anyone dealing with the ex-Mrs. Taylor and that charity down in Palm Beach is going to have to answer to me and my lawyers."
The tape ended abruptly.
"Good grief," said Meg. "What the heck was that all about? And who do you suppose put the tape there?"
Quill drummed her fingers on the countertop. "Verger Taylor, of course."
Meg scowled. "It wasn't Verger Taylor. It was one of the other chefs cooking for the banquet Saturday night. Trying to scare me off."
"Don't be silly, Meg. Of course it was Verger Taylor. Who else would know that we'd be staying here at Tiffany's place? She didn't even want the people at the condo to know, since it's illegal to rent or something. Which reminds me. About your singing..."
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Vacationers at Palm Beach
Sarah "Quill" Quilliam-manager/owner, the Inn at Hemlock Falls
Margaret "Meg" Quilliam-her sister, a master chef
Tiffany Taylor-a wealthy patron of gourmet cooking
Verger Taylor-her ex-husband, fourth richest real estate developer in America
Corrigan and Evan Taylor-Verger's sons by his first marriage
Cressida Houghton-Verger's first wife
Ernst Kolsacker-Verger's business partner
Franklin Carmichael-Verger's lawyer
Luis Mendoza-caretaker/manager, The Combers Beach Club
Dr. Robert Bittern-Psychiatrist
The Florida Institute for Fine Food
Master Chef Jean Paul Bernard-directeur-general
Linda Longstreet-administrator
-various chefs, students, waiters, and waitresses
The Lunch Bunch
Birdie McIntyre-a widow
Selma Goldwyn-a widow
Beatrice Gollinge-a widow
The West Palm Beach Department of Police
Jerry Fairchild-chief of detectives
Trish-his partner
Ange Wisc-a policeman
PROLOGUE
The fourth day of the blizzard, Sarah Quilliam seriously considered unpacking her luggage. There was no way the Syracuse airport would open the next day. She and her sister, Meg, were going to miss their flight to Palm Beach. Snow piled high around the foundations of the Inn at Hemlock Falls. The waterfall in Hemlock Gorge had frozen to a small trickle, and the road to the Inn was drifted over.
There were no guests. The Inn was closed and would be closed for another week. The waiters, sous chefs, and receptionist had been sent home days before. The staff that remained was getting very, very irritable. There was nothing to do except squabble.
"You two might better have stayed home anyways," Doreen Muxworthy-Stoker said. Somewhere in her fifties - Doreen wasn't telling, and she never had filled out an employment application-she was the Inn's head housekeeper. They were all sitting around a table in the Inn's dining room: Doreen; Meg, the gourmet chef and Quill's partner; John Raintree, their business manager; and Quill herself.
Quill looked crossly at the snow whipping against the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Hemlock Gorge. "The storm' s due to break sometime tonight," she said. "I'll bet we'll make it out."
"Sure you will," John said easily. He was Quill's age, in his mid-thirties, and three-quarters Onondaga Indian. He'd been brought up in Hemlock Falls and was one of the few people Quill knew that loved cold weather.
"I'll bet we won't," Meg said gloomily. "Just think-somewhere a couple of hundred miles outside this lousy weather, the sun is shining, the roads are clear, and the air is warm. And we're stuck!" Meg had recently taken to collecting T-shirts emblazoned with mottoes, selecting sayings appropriate to her mood. Today's read RUNS WITH SCISSORS.
"You shouldna took the money," Doreen said. "You take the money, you're committed. You gotta go. Tolt the sheriff this morning he'd have to get the sled dogs out and take you."
"Myles isn't sheriff anymore, Doreen," Quill said. Doreen knew this very well. Davy Kiddermeister had taken over as Tompkins County sheriff when Myles went back to his job as a private investigator. Doreen just plain didn't like this change, so for her, it hadn't happened.
"You shoulda married the sheriff last year," Doreen continued stubbornly. "He woulda stayed home."
"We are getting married, Doreen," Quill said tartly. "Sometime soon. And it wouldn't have made any difference to his career choice anyway."
"You two had better get to Florida," John said. "Or I'm going to redo our business plan for this year, ditch the restaurant and hotel business, and go into charity work myself. How does the Hemlock Falls Charitable Institute for Victims of Cabin Fever sound?"
Tiffany Taylor, ex-wife of the fourth richest real estate developer in America, had succeeded in recruiting Meg and Quill to help with a week-long charity function in Palm Beach. From what Quill had gathered, the charity was for phobic women - and some of them had sounded in a pitiful state. Tiffany had alluded to suicide attempts.
The working conditions were ideal. Meg and Quill were booked first class to Palm Beach. Tiffany was putting them up at the Combers Beach Club, a luxury condo that had been part of her divorce settlement. Quill was obligated for one lecture - Fundamentals of Inn keeping - Meg for three cooking classes. For Meg, the real attraction had been the ball and banquet slated for the end of their week. She would cook one dish, and one dish only: potted rabbit. And Tiffany promised that the editors of L 'Aperitif, the gourmet magazine that awarded the highly prized ratings for America's chefs, would be there.
"There's no doubt," she'd told Meg with vigorous assurance, "that you'll get back that third star. None at all."
Meg, who'd lost the third star in an imbroglio several years ago, would walk on hot coals to get it back. The prospect of a week in the sun in the midst of a New York winter with light duties and a huge paycheck paled beside the chance to get her potted rabbit into the magazine editor's stomach.
The swinging doors leading to the kitchen opened and Myles came in. He was wearing a heavy parka. Snow sprinkled his dark hair. His face was red with cold. He bent down and rubbed his cheek against Quill's. "It's clearing to the east," he said. "The airport's open. Looks like you'll be able to go."
Meg grinned, jumped up from the table, and did a little dance. "Third star, here I come!"
-1-
Margaret Quilliam stretched out on the lounge chair facing the ocean and exhaled with exaggerated pleasure. "Bliss," she said. "Absolute bliss. It's ten degrees above zero in Hemlock Falls and here we are, cocooned in salty sea air precisely at body temperature. We couldn't have asked for more, Quill."
Quill contemplated the view in a contented frame of mind. They were lucky to be getting paid to live here for a week in this kind of luxury.
The Taylor charity had sounded worthy. An institute for phobics, Tiffany Taylor had said. The first of its kind and completely privately funded. Quill didn't recall precisely what type of phobics were the focus of the fund - but Tiffany had made them sound in desperate need of help.
Quill took a fourth - or was it fifth? - swallow of Meg's version of Planter's Punch, then wished she hadn't. She was dizzy. It couldn't be jet lag - Palm Beach was a four-hour flight from upstate New York. It must be the punch. She'd warned Meg about the punch. She set the drink carefully on the patio deck, then linked her hands behind her head - more to steady it than to relax. Her hair was damp and frizzy with the humidly. She patted futilely at it and closed her eyes. That was a mistake. She was dizzier than ever. She blinked and sat up. "What the heck did you put in that drink?"
"The punch?" Meg waved her glass in the air, beaming. The moon rose behind her, high and white among the palm trees. The ocean bumped gently against the shore in front of them. To Quill's left, the condominium pool shimmered aquamarine over the in-ground lights. Meg brought her drink close to one eye and, peering through the lucent pink, said, "Mango, orange, and pineapple juice. A touch of cranberry. Cherries, oranges, and mint."
Quill looked dubious. "No rum?"
"Of course there's rum." Meg was indignant. "The very best rum. Dark rum. Light rum. Coconut rum. Something called Island Very Strong Rum. Rum." Meg subsided, muttering, then resurfaced. "I know a swell song about rum. Want to hear it?"
"No."
"It goes like this." Meg cleared her throat and began to sing. She was thirty to Quill's thirty-four and for twenty-nine of those years (Meg's vocalizing had started early on) Quill had never known what drove her sister to sing. She was awful. Her voice wandered, gypsy-like, through the keys. Her tone was thin and buzzy, like a Dremel drill or a very large bee.
"Away, away with rum, by gum, it's the song of the Temperance Union. We never eat cookies if they contain rum."
"Meg."
"For one little bite turns a man to a bum..."
"Meg!"
"Now ever have seen you a sorrier disgra-a-a-ace... than a man in the gutter with crumbs on his face!"
"Be QUIET down there!" The voice, male, floated somewhere above them.
Meg peered fuzzily into the night sky. "Okey-dokey," she said.
Quill heard the distant thunk-bang! of a glass patio door. Tiffany Taylor had mentioned the crabby tenant on the third floor. She'd also mentioned the condo rule against renters. "Nobody'll mind," she'd said, ''as long as you're quiet. And you aren't renters, exactly. After all, I'm paying you." And she'd given that tinkling, artificial laugh. Ugh. Quill shook herself. "Time for a cup of coffee, Meg. Stay right there." She glanced upwards; there were no irate faces hanging over the third-floor balcony-at least not yet. "And don't sing a word."
"Where're you going?"
"To get coffee. And hide the rum." The handle of the French door to the inside was smooth and weighty in her hand. Everything about the condominium was like that: polished, substantial, the best of its kind. The bleached oak floors were like pale mirrors. In the living room, buttery leather couches formed a U facing the French doors. The occasional tables were marble set on intricately detailed gilt bases. The island dividing the living room from the kitchen was made of a single slab of whorled mahogany.
Quill crossed the hardwood floor to the kitchen, the surface cool against her bare feet. Neither one of them had expected much from the kitchen itself: Quill because she'd guessed that most very wealthy people in Palm Beach ate at restaurants, and their hostess Tiffany Taylor was among the wealthiest; Meg because she was a professional cook and never expected much of anything from other people's kitchens.
They'd been surprised. The appliances were restaurant quality, and the shelves were fully stocked. The Subzero refrigerator held eggs, cream, butter, yeast, vinegars, and essential vegetables like onions, carrots, celery, and fresh herbs. The pots and pans were mostly copper-harder to clean than stainless steel (which made them inefficient for professional cooks) and expensive (which made them impractical - neither Meg nor Quill would ever make enough money to be in the Palm Beach league). But the cookware came in the right variety of sizes - from saut‚ to stock pots. And the knives were superb.
Quill filled the kettle with spring water and set it on the gas stove. Coffee would be too stimulating; they had a full day scheduled for tomorrow and both of them should get a good night's sleep. Tea would be better. She bent down and opened one cabinet door after another: pasta machine, still in the box; cappuccino/espresso machine - the three-hundred-dollar kind - which looked unused; a Cuisinart. The cabinet under the microwave held tins of ground coffee, boxes of flavored teas..
.... and a videotape, labeled SARAH AND MARGARET QUILLIAM: PLEASE VIEW.
Quill set the videotape on the counter. They'd already received multiple faxes, print packages of the week's agenda, and too many phone calls about Meg's classes and Quill's lecture from Tiffany's underemployed secretary in New York. Whatever was on the tape - Tiffany at her Louis Quinze desk giving them wardrobe advice - Tiffany suggesting variations on Meg's potted rabbit recipe - Tiffany introducing Quill to the latest hairstyles - Quill didn't want to see it just yet. She sighed and set the tape on the countertop, then rummaged through the teas for something decaffeinated. She'd make the tea and then stick the tape in the VCR. She hoped the tape wasn't too long. And she really hoped that she hadn't made a mistake about this trip. "It's the charity," she said aloud. "I'm not so sure about this charity."
Meg, who'd wandered in from the patio, perched on one of the wrought iron chairs around the kitchen island. "It's for women with phobias, right?" She burped. She was looking a little green. She'd drunk two glasses of her own punch.
Quill took the kettle off the boiler and selected a packet of tea. Chamomile should settle them both; neither of them were used to rum. "I think so. Tiffany sort of slid over the specifics."
Meg picked up the videotape. "What's this?"
"Who knows? Tiffany's Travel Tips. But we'd better look at it before she gets here. There's a video player with that huge TV in the library."
Meg pointed to a small shelf near the corner window. "In the kitchen, too?" Quill walked to the small television set and peered at it. "By gum, you're right." Meg stretched across the counter, handed over the tape, and Quill slid it into place. She tapped the PLAY button and the screen sprang into life.
"It's that news show, Hot Tip," said Meg. "Yuck. That's one of the sleaziest..."
"Hush, Meg."
"And that guy's the creepy interviewer Bernie Waters... and that's... "
"Verger Taylor," said Quill. "Uh-oh."
"... exclusive interview with the most successful real estate entrepreneur of this or any other decade." Bernie Waters grinned whitely into the camera. "Verge - can I call you Verge? Tell us about this so-called charity that Tiffany's cooked up."
The camera zoomed in on Verger Taylor's heavy- featured face. Quill instantly mistrusted the sincere blue glow of his eyes.
"It's unfortunate, Bernie, the lengths to which my ex- wife has gone to embarrass me and destroy the good things I've worked for on behalf of the good people of Chicago."
"What good things?" Meg demanded. "If he's talking about the Taylor Towers, he can forget it. Architectural monstrosity is NOT the word! All that pink marble overlooking Lake Michigan? It's a womb with a view."
"Hush, Meg."
"My lawyers inform me that anyone, anyone participating in this fiasco may be liable for damages. And you know me, Bernie, I've been up and everybody was my best friend. When I was down... I was down so far I couldn't get arrested. I have taken it, and I suppose I'll have to take it in the future. But I'm not taking it now, not from this broad. Anyone dealing with the ex-Mrs. Taylor and that charity down in Palm Beach is going to have to answer to me and my lawyers."
The tape ended abruptly.
"Good grief," said Meg. "What the heck was that all about? And who do you suppose put the tape there?"
Quill drummed her fingers on the countertop. "Verger Taylor, of course."
Meg scowled. "It wasn't Verger Taylor. It was one of the other chefs cooking for the banquet Saturday night. Trying to scare me off."
"Don't be silly, Meg. Of course it was Verger Taylor. Who else would know that we'd be staying here at Tiffany's place? She didn't even want the people at the condo to know, since it's illegal to rent or something. Which reminds me. About your singing..."
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