Death Dines Out by Claudia Bishop Page A

Red hair dye won't last in this Florida sunshine," said the widow with the metallic gold shoes and matching handbag. "Waste of money. Cheap looking, too."

"It's natural, Bea. And don't shout so. She'll hear you." The widow in the lavender, pink, and mauve silk jogging suit took a sip of her white wine, set the glass firmly on the dining table, and rolled her eyes at Quill.

Both of the ladies discussing her hair were over forty-five - how far over Quill couldn't tell. Plastic surgery, alpha-hydroxy treatments, and laser resurfacing tended to homogenize people's ages in Palm Beach. She did know they were widows: Both of them had wedding bands with Ritz-sized diamonds on their right ring fingers.

"I don't shout, Birdie," said Bea. "You've accused me of shouting ever since you got that damn miniaturized hearing aid and you're just showing off."

Quill mentally added twenty years to the ladies' ages.

"Pardon me, Bea?" asked Birdie sweetly. "You're mumbling again." She caught Quill's eye, smiled widely, and called out, "Are you here for the classes?"

Startled at being directly addressed, Quill bent forward. "Excuse me?"

"Margaret Quilliam's cooking classes," said Bea with satisfaction. "We've been waiting months to learn from her."

"Since mid-September, Bea," said Birdie. "Six weeks. We've been waiting six weeks, which is long enough, for goodness' sake. When you're our age, you never know if you've got another six weeks."

"Chef Quilliam's my sister.

"You sister!" Bea waved her arms excitedly. The thick gold bracelets on her arms collided with a dull thud. Real gold, then. Quill decided that Bea must be wearing something in the aggregate of fifty thousand dollars around her neck and wrists and in her ears. "May we join you? We'd love to hear what it's like living with a famous chef."

Birdie, who was plump, wriggled out of her chair, pattered to Quill's table and sat down without waiting to hear her demurral through. Bea, rather more deliberately, gathered her gold-trimmed tote bag, gold-rimmed sunglasses and glass of wine. "You don't mind, do you? It's just that there's so little to do here! We're just dying for conversation other than our own."

"Of course not. Please." Quill indicated the empty space next to her with a generous wave of her arm.

Bea deposited her tote bag under the table and sat down. "Bea Gollinge," she said, "and this is my friend BirdieMcIntyre. We're two-thirds of the Lunch Bunch."

"Two-thirds?"

"Selma Goldwyn isn't here." Bea leaned forward. "She had a little fix-me-up scheduled this morning."

"Face peel," Birdie said succinctly. "Upper lip."

"Absolutely refuses to touch the laser," Bea added. "Selma's always been a conservative."

"Which is ridiculous," said Birdie, "because the laser's so much safer. And who are you?"

Somewhat taken aback, Quill introduced herself.

"I demand to know what your secret is," Birdie said. "Tell!"

Quill had few secrets and sometimes thought herself the more boring for it.

"You're looking puzzled. She's looking puzzled, Bea."

"For staying so slim," Bea explained. "I mean - your sister. That marvelous, marvelous food. How can you eat it and not gain weight? Or do you turn it down?"

"I usually don't have time to sit and eat when Meg's in the kitchen. We have a small hotel in addition to our restaurant and that keeps me fairly busy."

"I should think so." Bea dived under the table, remerged with her tote bag, and took a compact from it. The compact was covered with diamonds. Quill wondered if they were real. My first husband was a restaurateur and it ate his life. He spent more time in the kitchen than with me. And had a lot more fun there, too. I don't' know where we found the time to have three kids."

Quill murmured polite wonderment.

"And five grandchildren," said Bea. Her hand dived into the tote once more and reemerged with a fistful of photographs.

"Not now, Bea." Birdie took the picture from her friend's hand and shoved them firmly back into the tote.