Death Dines Out Read Online Free PDF Page B

will all take a moment to calm ourselves."

Verger spat tobacco leaf on the floor.

In the midst of a charged silence, Quill took a bottle of Pouilly Fuisse and the wine cooler from the refrigerator. Dr. Bittern set wineglasses on a tray. He uncorked the bottle, set it on the tray, and carried it back to the living room. He set the tray on the coffee table, poured six glasses, upended the empty bottle in the cooler, and passed the glasses around. Meg refused with a curt shake of her head.

"There," he said. "We are set. Now." He sat down primly next to Tiffany. "What seems to be the chief trouble here? We will sort it out. You, Maitre Quilliam, thought that perhaps you would combine a nice vacation with some charitable work? And you, Quill, loyal to your sister, have accompanied her. You, Mr. Taylor, are afraid that this charitable work will in some way embarrass you?"

"Damn straight," Verger grunted. "Look at this damn thing." He waved the crumpled newspaper at them. "You know what this goddamn headline says? "Spurned Wife's Last Laugh!" This charity's a joke. Lemme tell you right here. Right now. Nobody laughs at me. Nobody."

"People have laughed at you for years, Verger," said Tiffany. "Years."

"We will not pursue this," Dr. Bittern said firmly. "What we will pursue is calm. Life is a journey. For those who are depressed, who are unenlightened, it is a downward journey. But for those whose eyes are on the stars..."

"Bullshit. My eye's on what's going on right in front of my nose." His gaze rested on his ex-wife. "You still going through with this?"

"You'll see who my friends are, Verger. You'll see. Everyone's coming this week. Simply everyone. You can't bully me anymore, Verger."

"Right. I wouldn't count on it, if I were you." Verger tossed his cigar in the sink. "Evan, Corrigan. We're going."

Evan shrugged, smiled at Quill, and joined his brother and father. Verger went to the French door, opened it, and turned back to confront them. His eyes reflected red in the light of the lamps. "I stopped by to tell you, Tiffany, that this shit's gotta stop, and Evan thought he could goddamn reason with you and look what happened. So listen up. I see one more newspaper article about your goddamn therapy club, I'm taking this condo, the Palm Beach house, the Westchester house, and I'm gonna goddamn burn them down. You got that?"

"You wouldn't dare. You wouldn't dare."

His teeth flashed white. "Try me, sweetie. Just try me." He swiveled heavily on his feet. "And as for you two. Quilliam, isn't it? I've checked out that cute little place you've got in New York. There's a nice fat mortgage on it - what was the balance, Evan?"

"Dad, I really don't think..."

Verger snapped his fingers. "Three-hundred-fifty-three thousand," said Corrigan.

"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.