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.