Tiffany halted her forward rush and frowned. 'My God! It's so humid in here I can't breathe! The air conditioner must have broken down again. You'd think that for what I paid for this place...' She hurried down the hall, squeaking a little in her agitation. 'I'm so sorry, sorry, sorry that you two arrived to this sauna. Oh, that damn ol' Luis. He's supposed to check on the place every single week, but if you're not here to climb right up his backside...'
Quill, hurrying after her, nearly knocked her over when Tiffany stopped abruptly at the edge of the living room.
'The windows are open,' Tiffany said accusingly.
'Well, yes,' Quill admitted. 'I opened them. This air's so lovely after our winter that...'
'But your hair! The leather couches!'
'Surely not,' said Quill. 'We're in Florida, and it seems a shame to...'
'Ugh! Ugh-ugh-ugh!' Tiffany ran past Meg and closed the French doors with a firm and determined air. 'There. That will help enormously. We'll just give it a minute to cool down. Goodness!' She sat down on the leather couch, crossed her legs and took a cigarette case from her purse. She patted the sofa. 'Come and sit by me, both of you.'
Quill sat opposite her on a leather chair. Meg settled at the kitchen island.
'How was your flight?' Tiffany lit the cigarette with what looked like a diamond-encrusted lighter, dropped the lighter with a clatter on the marble end table, and inhaled deeply.
Quill took a deep breath. 'It was fine. But our reception here was a little odd.'
Tiffany cocked her head and eyed Quill though a cloud of cigarette smoke. 'Was Luis rude to you?'
'We didn't meet Luis. But someone left us a videotape of an unpleasant interview with Mr. Taylor.'
'Which one?' Tiffany tapped her cigarette into a cloisonne bowl on the coffee table. 'If it was the 60 Minutes one, then it was somebody on my side. Mike Wallace gave Verge a great going-over.'
'It was an interview with Bernie Waters.'
'Oh. Then that was Verger himself. Done at the home office in Chicago, right? Beating his chest. Trying to scare you off, I suppose. He didn't, did he?'
'Why is he so angry?' Quill asked.
'Why is Verger anything? He's an asshole, that's why.'
Meg knocked her bare heel rhythmically against the leg of the bar stool, a frown on her face. Tiffany turned and looked at her. Meg had changed into the newest addition to her T-shirt collection as soon as she'd arrived in Florida: IT'S MS. BITCH TO YOU. 'Love the message, darling. I'd like to send one to Verge. Well.' Tiffany exhaled, stubbed out her cigarette, and settled back onto the couch. 'Let's see how you two look.' She ran her cornflower- blue eyes over Quill, stopping at her hair. She raised an eyebrow. 'I didn't even give you a chance to tidy up,' she said with extravagant self-accusation. 'And Dr. Bob will be here any moment. You go on ahead and fix it. Don't mind me.'
Meg raised her eyebrows. 'Dr. Bob? You mean this Dr. Bittern in charge of your charity?'
'Yes. He's dying to meet both of you.'
'I'm dying to meet him,' Meg said darkly.
Quill ignored these warning signals from Meg and dabbed at her hair. Maybe she should have worn it up. Tiffany was wearing hers up and the humidity hadn't so much as plastered wisps around her perfect little ears. Maybe she was one of those glamorous, voluptuous blondes who refused to sweat. Maybe all the collagen in her face had migrated and plugged her sweat glands up. She was also one of those blondes who could wear anything with flair, and Quill, who was too slender, felt lanky in her cotton skirt and espadrilles. 'I am not going to change a thing,' she announced to no one in particular.
'Dr. Bob?' said Meg, her gray eyes boring into Tiffany's blue ones. 'About this Dr. Bob? Is he a real shrink, or what? Does he have anything to do with why Verger Taylor's trying to run us out of town?'
'You chefs,' said Tiffany. 'So dramatic. Come and sit here, sweetie. It hurts my neck to turn around. But before you do, be a darling, Meg, and fix me one of your famous gin and tonics.'
'I'm not famous for making gin and tonics,' said Meg succinctly. She beat a furious tattoo against the chair leg.
'Stop thumping, Meg,' Quill said. 'It's driving me nuts.'
Meg continued thumping. Quill thought she recognized the rhythm to 'Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road.' Meg gave the chair leg a final, ominous thud and slid from the stool. She swayed slightly on her feet. 'I'm a famous cook. A famous cook who wants to know about this Dr. Bob's qualifications.'
'Little squiffy, darling, are we?' Tiffany said coolly. 'Enjoying my liquor?'
Meg drew a deep breath. Tiffany obviously hadn't understood the attitude implicit in Meg's T-shirt motto, but she was about to understand it clearly now.
Quill sprang up from the couch. 'I'll make the drink. Sit down, Meg. Tiffany, please. You left the most wonderful cheese and crackers for us. Let me get you some.'
Meg wandered to the leather chair facing the couch and curled up cross-legged. She eyed Tiffany owlishly. Tiffany pulled a jewel-encrusted compact out of her purse and examined her face critically in the little glass mirror. Quill, fuzzy on how much of each should go into a gin and tonic, poured substantial amounts of both into a glass, filled it with ice, and set it in front of their hostess.
'Thank you, sweetie.' She returned the compact to her purse with a snap. 'I haven't had a chance to talk with either one of you for ages, just ages. Did you hear what Verger tried to pull on me last week? About the beach house in Cannes? Can you believe that bastard refuses to let me use it? I mean, I'm allowed in May. May! What in God's name do you find in Cannes in May? Tourists!'
