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."