Death Dines Out Read Online Free Page B

appearance-surgery capital of the world.) Dr. Bittern had silvery white hair - very thick-wire rimmed glasses, and a small black goatee. He stopped several feet in front of Tiffany, crossed his hands on his paunch, and beamed at her with the smile of a happy baby.

"Kiss, kiss," Tiffany cooed, pecking the air on either : side of his cheeks. "And here is our cook."

"Chef," Meg corrected belligerently.

"Meg, may I introduce Dr. Robert Bittern? And Dr. Bob, this is Sarah Quilliam, Meg's sister."

He inclined his head and, to Quill's surprise, gave Meg her proper title. "Maitre Quilliam. An honor. And Ms. Quilliam? I have seen your art. It is wonderful."

"Thank you - um - Dr. Bittern."

He gestured toward the couch. "May I?"

"Please," said Tiffany. "Please. Dr. Bob..." She fluttered down next to him. "I am so glad you're here! I was just trying to explain the importance of our work to the girls..."

Meg made a noise like a steam kettle.

Tiffany acknowledged the reaction with a vague smile and murmured, "Women, then, and I can't do it half so well as you. No, not a tenth so well as you. If you would?"

"Perhaps a cup of tea, before we begin?" Dr. Bittern sat erect, his back several inches from the couch cushions. His voice was precise and his feet were tiny.

"Meg?" Tiffany all but snapped her fingers.

Quill looked at her sister. Meg looked back. For a moment, Meg's reaction hung in the balance. Suddenly she grinned, shook her head, and got up. "What kind would you like, Dr. Bittern? Black? Green?"

He waved a perfectly manicured hand in the air. His hands were small, too. "Something peaceful. Scented. Not too strong."

"Jasmine," said Meg. She walked behind the couch toward the kitchen, then turned and made a horrible face at Quill.

Quill cleared her throat. "You were telling us about the charity, Dr. Bittern."

"Excelsior," said Tiffany.

"I beg your pardon?" Quill said. It had sounded like a sneeze.

"Excelsior," said Dr. Bittern. "To indicate life's journey. One must move past the past. One must move onward, upward, to the pinnacle of experience."

"Tennyson," said Meg, setting a cup of tea on the marble slab in front of Dr. Bittern. "Same guy who wrote about Lancelot cleaving the heads off his enemies. 'My strength is of the strength of ten, because my heart is pure.' Whack!" She drew her finger across her throat execution-style and wiggled her eyebrows.

"That is a different poem, I believe," said Dr. Bittern gravely. "But yes, the name comes from the pen of that noble poet."

"So you're not an illiterate phony anyhow." Meg settled cheerfully on the arm of Quill's chair. "What kind of phony are you?"

"Hey!" said Tiffany. "Hey!"

Quill shoved her elbow sharply into Meg's leg. "Meg was up all night," she lied, "with a particularly difficult recipe..."

"No, I wasn't," said Meg. "But before I get involved with this thing I want to know what it's all about. If I'd known it was some screwy fund-raiser for a bunch of gold diggers, I would have stayed home."

Dr. Bittern cocked his head with a faraway expression, as though he was listening to a strain of music only he could hear. He crossed his hands over his paunch- a gesture Quill was beginning to recognize as very characteristic - and beamed impartially at the three of them. "Ms. Quilliam' s objections are familiar to me - if somewhat infelicitously stated." He looked at Tiffany. "This is the sort of question we must anticipate from the press. I am, of course, prepared to answer."

"Good," said Meg. "I am prepared to listen."

A scuffling sound came from the patio outside. Quill turned her head. Three figures loomed against the glass. One of them was very tall. Quill had seen that face before - not fifteen minutes ago on the TV screen in the kitchen.

"Oh my God!" Tiffany shrieked. "It's Verger!"

The French door banged open. Verger Taylor stamped arrogantly into the room. With him were two young men. He came to a full stop and thrust his head forward. His fierce blue