Death Dines Out hf-5

by Claudia Bishop

  "Oh. At this time of day it shouldn't be too bad."

  "It gets worse?" said Meg. "It can't possibly get worse."

  "Oh, sure it can get worse. But please, come in. We've all been waiting. And waiting." She bit nervously at a forefinger. "And of course the electrical power would decide to play tricks on us this morning... But now you're here and everything's going to be just fine. Just fine."

  "I'm really sorry," Quill said as they walked across the parking lot. "But we were trapped by an accident, and there was no way to call."

  "What's wrong with the electrical system?" Meg asked. "Are the ovens down? Are the refrigerators down?"

  Linda stopped in the middle of the lot. "It's not as bad as last week," she said reassuringly. "We didn't lose a thing. The food's just fine. I think." She looked around, bewildered, seemed to recall where she was, and headed toward the building again.

  "And this is just an introductory meeting, isn't it?" asked Meg. "I mean - you didn't have anyone waiting for us. Did you?"

  Linda stopped again. Quill had never seen anyone as easily distracted. "Well, they all left after the first hour, I'm afraid. Except for Chef Jean Paul. And he can't leave, you know, since he works here. And lives here. He's got an apartment over the Food Gallery."

  "All left?" said Meg. "All who?"

  "Well, there were the folks from Carpe Tedium..."

  "From where?" asked Quill.

  "It's a choral group. They rewrite songs from the forties for the nineties. Retired people, mostly. They sing stuff like 'Come to Me, My Melantonin Baby' and 'Prozac Lane' - instead of 'Primrose Lane,' you know? Here we are, just up these steps."

  Quill followed Linda up a short flight of steps to a cool, green atrium. A large fountain splashed in the middle. An ice sculpture of a swan had been placed on the lip of the fountain. It dripped forlornly in the heat.

  "That was the only casualty today," Linda said brightly.

  Meg gave Quill a frantic look. Quill said, with determined good humor, "Linda, this building is lovely!"

  "It is, isn't it?" said Linda, without looking around. "If I could just get some reliable electricians... We'll just go through here, through Le Nozze."

  "So this is the institute's restaurant," said Meg.

  They paused inside the door. The dining room was deserted at that hour, but preparations for lunch were under way. The tables had been set with yellow and blue pottery place settings. The clatter of pots and the smell of garlic came from the archway of a vast lighted room at the far end of the dining area. Quill got a quick impression of polished wood, French blue wallpaper, and tile floors. "It's great."

  "It's cold," said Meg. "Is everything in Florida air conditioned?"

  "Oh, yes. Basswood," said Linda. "The wainscotting, that is. And the striped wallpaper's from - oh, I can't remember." She halted, her hand on a door marked STUDENTS ONLY PLEASE. "Look, I'm afraid Jean Paul's in a bit of a snit."

  "He is?" said Meg.

  "Well, we wanted to surprise you. I mean, your reputation and all. So he had all of his fourth-level students - there's only six - prepare a sample of each of his souffl‚s. He's famous for his souffl‚s, you know."

  "Souffl‚s," said Meg. "Oh, no."

  "And they were timed you see, to be presented at precisely ten-ten, since he thought you would be here at ten o'clock and no chef, he said, is ever very late to meet another chef because it would be famously rude..."

  "Wow," said Meg. "They all sank?"

  Linda's expression was woeful. "They all sank. If you'd only been half an hour late, it would have been okay, because the clocks were all wonky from the power outage and it was really ten-thirty-five." She tipped sideways suddenly. Quill grabbed her before she could fall over. "Sorry. I forgot I was standing up. And he sent the audience home."

  "He had an audience?"

  "The Carpe Tedium people. I think I mentioned that before. They've been marvelous about fund-raising for the institute, and of course three of them are on the board of directors. Jean Paul wanted to give them the special honor of meeting you and eating his souffl‚s... Well." Linda took a deep breath and shoved open the door. "I guess we'd better face it."

  "Oh, lord," Meg muttered. She shifted her tote over her shoulder. "You know, Linda, maybe if I called Jean Paul on the phone and gave him a chance to cool down..."

  "Too late," said Linda. "He saw you pull into the parking lot. Through the kitchen window on the third floor. I think he's still there, in the charcuterie kitchen. But everyone else has left. It's just up these stairs, here." She turned and trotted up, puffing a little in agitation.

  "There's something very anxiety-making about going up stairs to meet a cranky chef," Quill muttered. "You can't go too fast, because it's up. So you're going slowly, slowly to your doom. I'll just bet it isn't Jean Paul at the top of these stairs, it's Verge the Scourge himself, holding our mortgage in both hands, in pursuit of my fair white body."

  "Shut up," Meg hissed. Then, as she followed Linda through a heavy, metal door, she said in an artificially hearty tone, "Mƒitre?"

  The kitchen was empty. Long windows lined the out- side wall, giving a spectacular view of the ocean. Three large stainless steel bakery ovens banked the walls to the left of the windows; two heavy stainless-steel doors and several oak-faced storage bins lined the wall opposite. They'd entered though a door in the fourth wall. This wall was made entirely of glass, presumably so that an audience could look in and watch the professionals at work.

  A large center island dominated the room. The shelving underneath contained pans of all kinds: narrow aluminum cradles used to make Parisian breads, Bundt pans, tiny tart tins. Saucepans of various sizes hung from brackets suspended over the marble-topped island. On the top of the island were a dozen or more deflated souffl‚s, like parachutes collapsed after an invasion of midget paratroopers.

  "Oh, dear," Quill said.

  "Chef Bernard?" Meg called.

  "The bread closet," Linda said. "He ends up there at least once a week." She sat on one of the high stools lining the island and picked morosely at a puddle of chocolate. A spoonful dripped onto her cardigan.

  "Well, where is the bread closet?" Meg asked briskly.

  Linda pointed to a wooden door set between two double ovens. Meg shrugged, pulled a face at Quill, marched over to the door, and tapped lightly on it. "Mƒitre?"

  The door swung open. Chef Jean Paul Bernard sat inside on a barrel labeled FLOUR. He was tall and thin, with the mournful eyes of one of the larger breeds of hounds. He had mutton chop whiskers and a toupee, both colored the coffee-brown particular to the French.

  "Mƒitre Bernard," Meg said firmly, "permittez-moi je voudrais-vous presente ma soeur, Sarah et mois. Je la regretted.... "

  "Vous la regretted!" Chef Jean Paul cried. "Je la regretted! C'est une catastrophe!" He bounded to the table, to cry. Large tears rolled down his face and into his whiskers. Quill was reminded of the Mock-Turtle in Lewis Carroll, and suppressed a giggle. The giggle didn't stay where it should have. She bit her lip hard, counted backwards from ten, and grabbed Linda Longstreet's arm, whispering, "Why don't we let them sort it out by themselves?"

  "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.