Quill looked dubious. "No rum?"
"Of course there's rum." Meg was indignant. "The very best rum. Dark rum. Light rum. Coconut rum. Something called Island Very Strong Rum. Rum." Meg subsided, muttering, then resurfaced. "I know a swell song about rum. Want to hear it?"
"No."
"It goes like this." Meg cleared her throat and began to sing. She was thirty to Quill's thirty-four and for twenty-nine of those years (Meg's vocalizing had started early on) Quill had never known what drove her sister to sing. She was awful. Her voice wandered, gypsy-like, through the keys. Her tone was thin and buzzy, like a Dremel drill or a very large bee.
"Away, away with rum, by gum, it's the song of the Temperance Union. We never eat cookies if they contain rum."
"Meg."
"For one little bite turns a man to a bum..."
"Meg!"
"Now ever have seen you a sorrier disgra-a-a-ace... than a man in the gutter with crumbs on his face!"
"Be QUIET down there!" The voice, male, floated somewhere above them.
Meg peered fuzzily into the night sky. "Okey-dokey," she said.
Quill heard the distant thunk-bang! of a glass patio door. Tiffany Taylor had mentioned the crabby tenant on the third floor. She'd also mentioned the condo rule against renters. "Nobody'll mind," she'd said, ''as long as you're quiet. And you aren't renters, exactly. After all, I'm paying you." And she'd given that tinkling, artificial laugh. Ugh. Quill shook herself. "Time for a cup of coffee, Meg. Stay right there." She glanced upwards; there were no irate faces hanging over the third-floor balcony-at least not yet. "And don't sing a word."
"Where're you going?"
"To get coffee. And hide the rum." The handle of the French door to the inside was smooth and weighty in her hand. Everything about the condominium was like that: polished, substantial, the best of its kind. The bleached oak floors were like pale mirrors. In the living room, buttery leather couches formed a U facing the French doors. The occasional tables were marble set on intricately detailed gilt bases. The island dividing the living room from the kitchen was made of a single slab of whorled mahogany.
Quill crossed the hardwood floor to the kitchen, the surface cool against her bare feet. Neither one of them had expected much from the kitchen itself: Quill because she'd guessed that most very wealthy people in Palm Beach ate at restaurants, and their hostess Tiffany Taylor was among the wealthiest; Meg because she was a professional cook and never expected much of anything from other people's kitchens.
They'd been surprised. The appliances were restaurant quality, and the shelves were fully stocked. The Subzero refrigerator held eggs, cream, butter, yeast, vinegars, and essential vegetables like onions, carrots, celery, and fresh herbs. The pots and pans were mostly copper-harder to clean than stainless steel (which made them inefficient for professional cooks) and expensive (which made them impractical - neither Meg nor Quill would ever make enough money to be in the Palm Beach league). But the cookware came in the right variety of sizes - from saut‚ to stock pots. And the knives were superb.
Quill filled the kettle with spring water and set it on the gas stove. Coffee would be too stimulating; they had a full day scheduled for tomorrow and both of them should get a good night's sleep. Tea would be better. She bent down and opened one cabinet door after another: pasta machine, still in the box; cappuccino/espresso machine - the three-hundred-dollar kind - which looked unused; a Cuisinart. The cabinet under the microwave held tins of ground coffee, boxes of flavored teas..
.... and a videotape, labeled SARAH AND MARGARET QUILLIAM: PLEASE VIEW.
Quill set the videotape on the counter. They'd already received multiple faxes, print packages of the week's agenda, and too many phone calls about Meg's classes and Quill's lecture from Tiffany's underemployed secretary in New York. Whatever was on the tape - Tiffany at her Louis Quinze desk giving them wardrobe advice - Tiffany suggesting variations on Meg's potted rabbit recipe - Tiffany introducing Quill to the latest hairstyles - Quill didn't want to see it just yet. She sighed and set the tape on the countertop, then rummaged through the teas for something decaffeinated. She'd make the tea and then stick the tape in the VCR. She hoped the tape wasn't too long. And she really hoped that she hadn't made a mistake about this trip. "It's the charity," she said aloud. "I'm not so sure about this charity."
Meg, who'd wandered in from the patio, perched on one of the wrought iron chairs around the kitchen island. "It's for women with phobias, right?" She burped. She was looking a little green. She'd drunk two glasses of her own punch.
Quill took the kettle off the boiler and selected a packet of tea. Chamomile should settle them both; neither of them were used to rum. "I think so. Tiffany sort of slid over the specifics."
Meg picked up the videotape. "What's this?"
"Who knows? Tiffany's Travel Tips. But we'd better look at it before she gets here. There's a video player with that huge TV in the library."
Meg pointed to a small shelf near the corner window. "In the kitchen, too?" Quill walked to the small television set and peered at it. "By gum, you're right." Meg stretched across the counter, handed over the tape, and Quill slid it into place. She tapped the PLAY button and the screen sprang into life.
"It's that news show, Hot Tip," said Meg. "Yuck. That's one of the sleaziest..."
"Hush, Meg."
"And that guy's the creepy interviewer Bernie Waters... and that's... "
"Verger Taylor," said Quill. "Uh-oh."
"... exclusive interview with the most successful real estate entrepreneur of this or any other decade." Bernie Waters grinned whitely into the camera. "Verge - can I call you Verge? Tell us about this so-called charity that Tiffany's cooked up."
The camera zoomed in on Verger Taylor's heavy- featured face. Quill instantly mistrusted the sincere blue glow of his eyes.
"It's unfortunate, Bernie, the lengths to which my ex- wife has gone to embarrass me and destroy the good things I've worked for on behalf of the good people of Chicago."
"What good things?" Meg demanded. "If he's talking about the Taylor Towers, he can forget it. Architectural monstrosity is NOT the word! All that pink marble overlooking Lake Michigan? It's a womb with a view."
"Hush, Meg."
"My lawyers inform me that anyone, anyone participating in this fiasco may be liable for damages. And you know me, Bernie, I've been up and everybody was my best friend. When I was down... I was down so far I couldn't get arrested. I have taken it, and I suppose I'll have to take it in the future. But I'm not taking it now, not from this broad. Anyone dealing with the ex-Mrs. Taylor and that charity down in Palm Beach is going to have to answer to me and my lawyers."
The tape ended abruptly.
"Good grief," said Meg. "What the heck was that all about? And who do you suppose put the tape there?"
Quill drummed her fingers on the countertop. "Verger Taylor, of course."