"At seven and one-eighth." He blushed apologetically. "Sorry."
Verger cocked his head at Quill. "You two prepared to pay that out if the note's called? You think about it. Think about it hard."
Tiffany leaped to her feet. "You wait just a minute, Verger."
The door slammed and they were gone.
-3-
Meg hung up the phone with a sigh. Quill had opened the French doors to the morning air. Sun streamed across the floor. The view of the Atlantic was dreamlike. Little flags that indicated the presence of scuba divers bounced along the water side of the sea wall. Three fishing boats floated peacefully on the water beyond the buoys marking the channel entrance to the Port of Palm Beach. The Combers Beach Club was located on the west end of Palm Beach key. There were two stacks of three-story-high condominiums. Both stacks faced the Atlantic on the west and the channel on the north. Singer Island - Palm Beach's poorer cousin - lay straight across the channel. Quill, who'd placed a kitchen stool in front of the open French doors so that she could watch the water, wriggled her bare toes in the sunlight. "What does Howie say?"
Meg sipped coffee. Her dark hair was ruffled. She was still in her nightgown. Quill, who had been swimming in the heated pool, rubbed her face with a towel and looked with concern at her sister. After a moment, she got up, picked the stool up and carried it back to the island separating the kitchen from the living room.
"Well, he didn't like getting up this early."
"Did he give you an opinion?"
"He's a lawyer. He'll have to go to the office and look up the contract I signed. So I didn't get an opinion; I got an impression. But it's his impression that I'm stuck," She smiled. "I'm stuck unless I want to spend a whole pile of time in court. And Howie thinks I'd lose."
"What about Verger's threat to call in the mortgage?"
Meg tugged at her hair. "Howie will check with the bank. He says it'd be unusual, the bank selling just the one mortgage out. But it can be done."
"Good grief. Where the heck would we get three-hundred and fifty-three thousand dollars?"
"From another bank, of course. But Howie says that takes time, and that Taylor can force us to pay on demand. You know what this is like, Quill? Those old Victorian melodramas. 'I can't pay the rent.' 'You must pay the rent.' Jeez. What have I gotten us into?"
"We're both in it," said Quill cheerfully. "What do I you want to do?"
"Stick with it for the moment, I guess. Howie says it is much more likely that I'd get sued for breach of contract and lose than we'd forfeit the Inn. And the publicity would be awful for my career." She sighed. "Those people seem to spend their lives on the front pages anyway. Quill, I think they like the attention!"
"You could be right."
"You're not stuck, though, Why don't you go on home? I'll stay here."
"Okay."
"Quill!"
"Just kidding. Of course I'm not going to leave you to these hyenas."
"Evan didn't seem that much of a hyena," Meg said.
"He didn't, did he? And brother Corrigan looked okay. Maybe a little shy. Which marriage are they from?"
Meg shrugged. "Who knows? God, Quill. What a crew. It's almost as bad as the McIntosh wedding at the Inn. We got through that with only a couple of bodies."
"And we'll get through this. Body-free, unless Tiffany loses it altogether and shoots Verger. If she does, I'll be the first to testify in her defense. Evan seemed sympathetic. Maybe what I can do today while you're with chef whatsis is look him up and talk to him. Maybe he can keep Verger from burning the place down around our ears." She recalled Taylor's specific threat and added glumly, "Literally. Just let me get showered and dressed, and we'll go on to the culinary institute." She went down the hall to the bedroom that had been re- served for her use and rummaged through her suitcase. "What's on the agenda for today?"
"What?" Meg appeared at the door. They'd had an amiable squabble over who should take what bedroom. The master suite - which Meg had insisted on leaving to Quill - had a splendid view of the ocean. Oversized sliding glass doors led to a small stone patio circled by planters filled with impatiens, bougainvillea and gardenias. Beyond the patio, green lawn swept to the sea.
"I said, what's on the schedule for today?"
"Oh." Meg's face brightened. "It's not too bad, actually. I'm meeting with Maitre Jean Paul Bernard to go through the banquet menu and discuss the cooking classes. I've always wanted to meet him. His souffl‚s are outstanding. Just outstanding. And I heard through the grapevine that he's developed a variation on my marinade for potted rabbit that's incredible. He's amazing, Quill. It's his versatility that's so impressive. I mean - he's meats and desserts, which is a rare combination."
"But I meant more in the line of how I should dress. Florida casual? New York chic? Beach bum? What?"
"Well, we're touring the institute. And we're meeting Linda whosis..."
"Longstreet."
"Whatever. And she'll show us the facilities and go over the guest list, so I suppose you should wear whatever you want to wear. It's nothing very formal. I told them we'd be there at ten, but it's quite casual."
"What are you wearing?"
Meg glanced down at her nightshirt. It was the purple one with the puppy logo and the message IN DOG YEARS, I'M DEAD. "I don't know. All I brought were my T-shirts. And my tocque, of course."
Quill sighed. "One of us should look like we know what we're doing, I'll have to put on a suit."
"Poor Quillie. Are you sure you don't want to go home?" She grinned in response to the look on Quill's face, turned on her heel, and disappeared. Her voice floated down the hall, "Don't answer that. I'll be ready in ten minutes."
Quill pulled a cream linen suit from its hanger and found a black scoop-necked bodysuit to go with it. The humidity was doing violent things to her hair, and after a brief struggle with the mass of curls, she combed it out and scooped it on top of her head. She checked her briefcase to make sure she'd kept all of Tiffany's directions. By the time she emerged from the bedroom, Meg (dressed in black trousers and a T-shirt that read LOOK BUSY! JESUS IS COMING!) was wandering disconsolately around the living room. Quill recognized the attitude: precooking nerves.
"Have you got your menus?"
"Yes."
"And your chef's gear?"
Meg picked up her tote bag. It was packed with her knives, her hat, and her tunic. "Yes."
"Don't brood, We'll get through this. You'll be magnificent. Even if it is pearls before swine."
"I'm homesick."
"You can't be homesick. We've been here less than eighteen hours."
"Seems like years. What do we do now?"
Tiffany's New York-based secretary had sent a sheaf of instructions relating to the condo, the car, and their itinerary to the Inn three weeks before they'd left. Quill snapped open her briefcase, pulled out the memo, and referred to page three, which read:
Monday A.M. Car has been left for you with Luis, the concierge. His office is to the left of the parking lot as you exit number 110. It will take you fifteen minutes to get to the institute, depending on traffic.