The drinks and a silver bowl of macadamia nuts were served by Hopkins, moving as if in a trance.
Qwilleran asked, "How was your card game Wednesday night?" "Not too excruciating, although I could manage nicely without the camomile tea and caraway seed cake. The Countess was my partner. Considering that she acts like a ghost of the 1920s, she's a killer at the bridge table." "Who else was there?" Amber asked.
"Winnie Wingfoot and that pushy Randy Jupiter. He probably bribed Ferdie to include him," Courtney said with a curled lip.
"I think Randy has a lot of personality," Amber said in his defense.
"Too much personality. I don't trust that kind. And he jogs." "You're such a snob, Court." "Courtney, please!" "At least Randy is friendly and alive," she persisted. "Most of the people in this building are half dead." The host said, "That reminds me, guess who died today?" "Okay, twenty questions," Amber said. "Was it a man?" "No." "Then it was a woman. Did she wear a hearing aid?" "No." "Was she in her eighties?" "No." "In her seventies?" "No. You'll never guess, Amber." "Did she live on Seven?" "No." "Did she break her hip last year?" "Give up, Amber. Give up! You'll never guess," said Courtney. "According to Madame Defarge - who sits behind her bulletproof window, knitting and counting bodies - it was Elpidia that they carried out." "What!" cried Amber.
"Who's Elpidia?" Qwilleran asked.
"The Countess's personal maid," she said.
"What happened, Courtney?" "They say it was food poisoning, but I think it was an O.D. Being personal maid to the Countess would drive anyone to pills." Qwilleran said, "I never saw the maid or the housekeeper." "The maid was kind of weird, but the housekeeper's nice," Amber informed him. "She's Ferdie's mother. She has her own apartment on Two, but Ferdie lives in." "She commutes daily to Twelve, where she bakes her famous caraway seed cake," Courtney added. "Incidentally, I've asked Winnie to drop in for a drink before she goes out for the evening... Have you met Winnie, Qwill? May I call you Qwill?" "By all means... I haven't met Ms. Wingfoot but I've seen her. A beautiful girl!" "When I look at Winnie," Amber said, "I want to go home and take an O.D. myself." The door knocker resounded, and Qwilleran's pulse quickened. He smoothed his moustache and jumped to his feet as Hopkins admitted the satin-clad model. She glided into the room, glittering and dragging a fur jacket.
"Winnie, my angel," said the host, "this is Qwill Qwilleran, who is going to buy the Casablanca." "Not true," said Qwilleran, taking the hand that was extended languidly in his direction.
"Our paths have crossed," said Winnie. "In the car park, under inauspicious circumstances. I trust your difficulties were satisfactorily resolved." "Thanks to your prompt assistance, Ms. Wingfoot." "Winifred," she corrected him.
"Would you like a margarita, angel?" the host asked.
"It would pleasure me immensely." She sat on the army cot next to Qwilleran, who was aware of a heady scent and long silky legs.
"The weather turned out to be quite pleasant today," he said, knowing that it was a dumb remark.
"Quite revivifying," she said.
"Did you buy Isabelle's piano?" Courtney asked her. "She told me you were looking at it." "I have it under consideration." "Do you play?" Qwilleran inquired.
"'Yes, rather well," she replied, bestowing a sultry glance on his moustache.
Courtney said, "Mrs. Button died this week, and Madame Defarge says there's going to be a tag sale. I hope it's true. I have my sights on a small Rubens Peale." Hopkins materialized from the dark end of the room with a tray of margaritas.
Amber said, "Isabelle has adopted a cat, and I may have to break down and get one myself. I had another mouse last night." "If you would clean up your apartment, Amberina dear," said Courtney, "you would solve your problem. The little things are incubating in those eighty-four shopping bags... When is the Bessinger estate going to be liquidated, Qwill?" "I have no idea. I'm just subletting while I work on a book about the Casablanca." Courtney explained to Winnie, "Qwill is a noted journalist." "How delicious!" she said.
"I'm hoping to interview old-timers who remember something about the early days. Any recommendations?" "Mrs. Jasper!" said Courtney and Amber in unison. "She did housework in the Casablanca way back when," Amber said, "and she can tell you all kinds of stories." Winnie, upon finishing her drink, uncrossed her incredible legs and rose, saying, "I regret I must wrench myself away from this stimulating group, but I have a dinner date." As the host escorted her to the door, Qwilleran remarked quietly to Amber, "I imagine she has no trouble getting dinner dates." "I'm in the wrong business," she whispered. Courtney lighted candles at the dark end of the room, where planks were laid across columns of concrete blocks to form a long narrow table. "Hopkins, tell Cook we wish to serve now," he said.
The seats were upended orange crates, each with a velvet cushion weighted at the four comers with tassels.
"Watch out for splinters," Amber warned Qwilleran.
For a table centerpiece white carnations were arranged with weeds from the parking lot. Pewter service plates and goblets were set on the bare boards, and there were four tall pewter candlesticks.
"Where did you steal these?" Amber asked, and Courtney reproved her with a withering glance.
The soup course was cream of watercress, followed by crabcakes with shitake mushrooms, baby beets in an orange glaze, and wild rice. A salad of artichoke hearts and sprouts was served on Lalique plates as a separate course, and the meal ended with a chocolate souffl‚. Not bad, Qwilleran thought, for a crate-and-block environment.
Amber said to him, "Every year on the Fourth of July Courtney gives a party on the roof with picnic baskets full of chicken and wine and cherry tarts. The roof is a super place to watch the fireworks." "How do you get up there?" "There's a stairway from Fourteen. The door says No Admittance, but it's never locked. It's a nice place to sun in the summer." Qwilleran said, "As an expert on the Casablanca scene, perhaps you could answer some questions, Courtney.
How come Rupert never seems to do any work? He just hangs around." " Actually he's a security guard," said the host, " and he has an arsenal under that ill-fitting jacket." "How about this guy Yazbro on Four?" "He's a furniture mover with one claim to fame: Ross's body landed on his car, and he got his name in the paper.
Sha!l we have coffee in the lounge area? And would we all like to hear some Noel Coward?" He moved toward a stack of strawberry crates containing cassettes and compact discs.
"Play the tape of your own show, Courtney," said Amber. She turned to Qwilleran. "He's producing an original musical called The Casablanca Cathouse, and the opening number is a blast!" "I'm doing the book and lyrics, but I haven't found a composer yet," said the impresario. "Keestra is doing the choreography. You may have heard, Qwill, about Keestra Hedrog and her Gut Dancers. She lives in 14-B." "Are they belly dancers? I've heard some strange bumps coming through the wall." "They're non-disciplinary, non-motivational interpreters of basic sensibilities," Courtney explained patronizingly.
"Play the opening number, Court," Amber urged.