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, 'M?itre?'
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. 'M?itre?'
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.
'M?itre 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 m?itre!' 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.
