"Got tickets to the Palm Beach airport, don't we?"
"Do you? I mean, you do? What about Andy? I thought he was coming with Myles."
"Ayuh. For Thursday. Unless we can't land because the hurricane took out the runway."
"If the hurricane comes, it won't be until the week- end. You're kidding, aren't you? You're coming to Florida with Myles?"
"I don't kid," said Doreen with some indignation. "Stoke's goin' to some newspaper convention in Rochester for a few days and John don't need me here, he says, so yeah, we got tickets. You tell Meg Doc Bishop is sorry, but Nadine's 'bout due and he may have to do a C-section. You got a pencil?"
"Well, yes, but..."
"We're coming in on Delta." She gave Quill the flight number and arrival time and then rang off at length, alluding darkly to the probable total of the long-distance charges for the call, the iffy state of the bank balance since Meg and Quill were off gallivanting and the inn was closed, and the outrageous state of American debt in general.
Quill hung up. The beep of an impatient taxi sounded. Meg called, " 'Bye." The front door slammed shut and Quill was left alone. "Hey!" she shouted. No answer. "Darn it!"
She went into the bathroom to shower and change. If Myles were here now, she could practice her approach to the hapless innocents at the Institute. You're not fired, you've been downsized. No. Right-sized. No. Face it - they were all going to be fired to make way for the chicken people. They were about to be deep fried. And Myles's advice would be to stay out of it. Completely.
"Well," she said aloud to the absent Meg. "Here's another fine mess you've got us in." She had a couple of alternatives; she could call Myles, exchange affectionate greetings, and diddle away another twenty minutes when she'd see him Thursday anyway. And he'd know something was up from the tone of her voice. Or, she could check the third bedroom on behalf of Doreen - except the daily maid service - silent, (as far as Quill could see - invisible) changed the sheets and towels daily, whether anyone had used them or not. Or she could get dressed and go to meet her own personal hurricane at the Florida Institute for Fire Food monthly management meeting.
The traffic. She brightened. If she took I-95, she might miss the meeting altogether.
"You're early," said Linda Longstreet, sounding delighted. "Mr. Taylor said you were going to join us this morning." Her delight was brief; she looked pale and as though she needed a good night's sleep.
"Traffic was great," said Quill glumly. "It said on the radio that a tractor trailer accident closed six west-bound lanes outside of Miami. Everyone else is stuck up there."
They were in one of the institute's classrooms. Logically, Quill knew that it was impossible for all sides of a rectangular building to face the sea, but this room - as did all the others she'd seen - had a splendid view of the ocean. The walls were painted a pale raspberry. The floor was made of dark mahogany, slightly sticky in the way such floors were. A set of daguerreotypes of Parisian caf‚s were arranged on one wall. The air was scented with garlic, burnt sugar, and baking bread. Quill much preferred that to the odors of fried chicken.
It was very cold. A banquet-sized table - at least eleven feet long - occupied the center of the room. Twelve chairs were pulled up to it, four on each long side and two at each end. A yellow pad and pencil had been placed in front of each chair.
"They'll all start coming in a few minutes," Linda said. "Sit anywhere you like."
"Who comes to these meetings?"
"Well, Chef Jean Paul, of course. He's the director. And each of the heads of the five other kitchens: des:. sects, entrees, breads, and so on. And me. And the board of directors, those of them that are here. This month we've got two of the five: Mrs. Gollinge, and Mrs. McIntyre."
The lights flickered and went out. "Oh, no," Linda wailed. "Not now, dammit. Please not now, with the board of directors here!"
The lights went back on.
"Birdie and Bea," Quill said.
"The Merry Widows," Linda said with a smile. "Plus Selma, of course, although she won't be here today. We're very lucky in our board."
"Eleven," said Quill. "That's eleven people. Who's the twelfth?"
"I assumed that Maitre Quilliam would be with you."
"Meg? I don't think so. She's in the middle of a class with the student chefs."
"That's right. I should have known that, because Chef Bruce, the man…ge … gare, was quite put out that he would miss seeing Meg teach. The others, I'm afraid, took the high road - you know how chefs can be - what could a rival teach you - and a woman! They're all frantic, of course, over the competition. Now, I wonder." She frowned. "Mr. Taylor said two guests would be here, I'm sure of it."
The door to the classroom swung open and Bea and Birdie marched in. Bea's track suit this morning was white and gold, with silver metal stars scattered across the breast of the jacket. Birdie wore a Chanel suit in a vibrant pink tweed with black velvet collar and cuffs. She had a long strand of pearls draped around her neck, and her eyeglasses hung from a lapis lazuli chain that reached the last button on the jacket. Quill began to get an inkling about the high level of the air conditioning allover southern Florida: How else could you wear expensive outfits in the heat?
"It's Quill!" Birdie said with warm pleasure. "How are you, dear?"
"I'm fine, thanks."
"Mrs. Gollinge, Mrs. McIntyre. Please sit down." Linda fluttered around them like a distressed bobwhite. "I was sorry to hear that Mrs. Goldwyn is indisposed. Is she feeling better?"
"Eyelashes," said Birdie. "She's getting them dyed this morning. And of course, with that face peel she had yesterday, she won't be fit to be seen for at least ten days, so as far as I'm concerned, she should have waited."
"Which means she'll miss the cooking courses," Bea sighed. "Poor Selma! But we're ready to roll. We've signed up for Meg's classes, did we tell you?"
"Yes, you did," Quill said. "There are twelve chairs here, Birdie," Bea said. "Are you and your sister going to join us, Quill?"
"I don't think that Meg is. I don't know who the twelfth is for."
"My two favorite widows!" Verger Taylor boomed. He walked into the classroom with an air both expectant and threatening. Ernst Kolsacker and a large man in a pin-striped suit were with him. The unknown man was well barbered, with a clean-shaven pink face, and a full head of recently clipped white hair. The suit must have been miserably hot in any temperature higher than sixty-five degrees. He was chewing gum.
Ernst was in his golf shirt and chinos. He gave Quill an impish smile. Both he and the suited man ranged themselves against the side of the wall.
"Verger?" Bea put her gold-trimmed glasses to her eyes, then let them fall again. "And Franklin. Quill? You've already met Ernst. This is Franklin Carmichael, Verger's lawyer." Her face closed in displeasure. "Frank? Are you chewing gum?"
He blushed. "Sorry. It's that nicotine gum. I'm trying to quit smoking." Both Verger and Franklin Carmichael seemed taken aback by this attack, which may, Quill thought to herself, have been Bea' s intention. Ernst gave her a large wink. Quill bit back a snort of laughter and sat down.