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 m?itre 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.
