Murder at the Spa (28 page)

“November. They’re planning on getting married next month.”

“Next month. That doesn’t give us much time.” She rummaged around on her desk for a pencil. Then she retrieved a crumpled ball of paper from the wastebasket. “Such waste,” she said, carefully smoothing it out. “How many times do I have to tell you,” she chided Jack, “write on both sides!”

But Jack didn’t smile. “Excuse me,” he mumbled. Turning on his heel, he disappeared into the hallway.

Paulina started scribbling. The gears were in motion again. “Okay, we’ll have the wedding in New York. Where is he? I want him to take notes.” In irritation, she pressed the turtle buzzer. A dreamy look came over her face. “I wonder what they’re going to name him.”

“Claire didn’t say.”

“Maybe they’ll name him after Herbert,” she said, referring to Elliot’s father. She shook her head. “Tsk. Tsk. What are we going to do about her? All those freckles. Thick ankles. No chic. But she has potential. She has nice eyes, warm eyes. What do you think?”

“I think she’s very attractive,” said Charlotte.

“She just needs some makeup, that’s all. There are no plain women, only lazy ones. With a little makeup, she’ll be a beauty, my daughter-in-law.”

It was difficult for Paulina to understand that not wearing makeup was an expression of liberation. To her generation, it had been just the opposite.

Jack reappeared.

“Where have you been? I want you to take notes.”

Jack withdrew a notebook from his breast pocket.

“Okay. One: send her a jar of our freckle cream. Two: schedule her for a make-over at the New York salon. Three: schedule her for a picture at the photographer’s—the posh one on Park Avenue. Make-over first, picture second.” She paused, chewing thoughtfully on her glasses. “Those hippie skirts, ugh.” She screwed up her face in distaste. “We’ll have to get her some clothes. Get The Stylish One in the New York office to take her around.”

“Judy Dawson?” said Jack.

“Yes. Bonwit’s, Bloomingdale’s. She can charge everything to me.”

Jack nodded.

“Good. That takes care of her. Now where were we? Wedding arrangements. Next month. Check the date with Sonny. We’ll have the reception in Greenwich. A nice jazz band, tasteful, quiet. Celebrity Caterers can do it. They did such a nice job on the fete. What else?” she mused. “The engagement announcement. Call the
Times
. Tell them I want two columns on a Sunday. Like Anne-Marie.”

Jack made a notation.

“Only bigger. A double-decker headline at the top of the page. Threaten to cancel our advertising if we don’t get what we want.”

And so it went—invitations, wedding dress, menu, even the honeymoon, which Paulina decided the newlyweds should spend at her Paris apartment. If Claire had any illusions about her and Elliot leading a quiet life out of the glare of Paulina’s spotlight, they wouldn’t last long.

“Oh, and get Sonny on the phone,” Paulina said finally. “I want to talk to him. And get that girl up here. It’s time for bylines to be bylines.”

“Bygones, Aunt Paulina,” corrected Leon.

“Thank you, Leon,” she said cheerfully. “One more thing. Call The Lawyer with the Blond Wife. Tell him to get up here on the double.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Leon, a note of panic creeping into his voice.

“I’m going to change my will. I’m going to get my company back and I’m going to have a Langenberg to leave it to.”

“But …”

Paulina raised a bangled forearm to silence him. “Don’t worry, you’ll be well taken care of. You always wanted to be financial vice president. I’ll make you financial vice president. How’s that?”

Leon crossed his arms over his chest for a moment and pouted. Then he rose suddenly from his seat. “If you want to know, it stinks.” With that, he stalked out, slamming the door behind him.

Paulina shrugged. “If he doesn’t want it, he doesn’t have to take it. Jack, get out my will. I might as well start working on it right now. At my age, I might go any minute. I have to have everything in order.”

Jack headed in the direction of the bedroom.

“And call the bathhouse. Make an appointment for this afternoon. If I’m going to keep up with my grandson, I have to be fit.” She winked. “As my father used to say, ‘Your health comes first, you can always kill yourself later.’”

After a short nap, Charlotte headed over to the Bath Pavilion. Heavy gray clouds had moved in, bringing a steady rain. To avoid getting wet, she had jogged across the esplanade. Anne-Marie would have been proud of her. She took refuge in one of the pergolas that flanked the entrance of the spa while she waited for her breath to subside. It was a pleasant shelter, draped as it was by fragrant lavender clusters of wisteria. It was even lighted: so dreary was the weather that the photosensitive control for the lanterns hanging from the vaulted roof had been triggered. From this cozy niche, Charlotte had a fine view of the esplanade. The archway framed a picture of a wet green lawn bisected by a gravel path. Hurrying along the path was the upright figure of a little woman in a red rain cape. She was carrying a red umbrella of the kind given away as a gift-with-purchase at Langenberg cosmetics counters. She moved with quick little steps, her red bowler hat bouncing up and down.

Charlotte had often come across Paulina walking alone in the city just as she was now. It had always surprised her that someone as rich and famous as Paulina was not accompanied by bodyguards. She supposed the same might be said of herself. But she didn’t carry around a fortune in the form of rings, necklaces, brooches, and earrings. Even the ornaments on Paulina’s hats were often real jewels. Paulina’s attitude toward her jewelry was, “If I can’t wear it, what’s the point of having it?” Given her nonchalance, she had been very lucky. She had only been mugged once. The value of the jewelry that was stolen was never disclosed, but it was rumored to have been over a million dollars. Luckily, she wasn’t hurt. Nor had the incident persuaded her to change her ways: she had shrugged it off with her usual blithe disregard for bad fortune.

“Aha! Mrs. Stockholder,” said Paulina, reaching the pergola. She closed the umbrella and tucked it under her arm. “Are you having a bath too?”

Charlotte replied that she was.

“It’s a good afternoon for it,” said Paulina, looking up at the rain streaming off the roof. “Shall we walk over together?”

Charlotte said yes and rose from her seat.

As they strolled under the colonnades, Paulina chatted about her company’s future. She had witnessed what had happened to the competition after the deaths of the company founders. The Eye Shadow Man’s company had been taken over by a soap conglomerate that had sold it off piecemeal, while That Woman’s company had been convulsed by a power struggle that had led to its ruin; its products had met the ignominious fate of being sold in drugstores and five and dimes. Paulina had prospered from their misfortune. She now had no major competitors for the well-heeled carriage trade, although there were always ambitious upstarts trying to muscle in. But, she confessed, something had gone out of her life with the deaths of her competitors. Much as she had complained about their spying and their thefts of her ideas, she missed them. That’s why having a grandson was so important to her. With a Langenberg in the future, she had something to look forward to. And with it, the hope that what had happened to the other companies wouldn’t happen to hers.

Charlotte noted the contrast. A few hours earlier it had been, “If I die, it’s no big deal.” Now it was, “I have a grandson to look forward to.”

They had reached the Bath Pavilion. The reception desk was being manned by Frannie’s husband, Dana, who was leaning back reading a magazine, his sneakered feet propped up on the marble counter. At the sight of him, a look of outrage crossed Paulina’s face. Marching over to the counter, she rapped him over the shins with her umbrella. “Look sharp, young man,” she said.

Startled, Dana hastily removed his feet from the counter and scrambled to attention. “Mrs. Langenberg,” he said in his soft Carolina accent. “Miss Graham. I’m sorry. I didn’t see you. I was just filling in for the receptionist.”

“Filling in or not, you should look professional,” said Paulina.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Dana. “I’m sorry, ma’am. It won’t happen again.”

“It had better not. You might find yourself out of a job.” With that, she marched off toward the women’s wing. In the women’s lobby, she draped her cape over the arm of a waiting attendant and then took stock of her surroundings. Spotting a scrap of paper under a chair, she pointed to it with the tip of her umbrella. “Clean that up. We can’t have litter on the floor.”

Mrs. Murray, who was standing at attention, scurried down the hallway, returning a few seconds later with a dustpan and brush with which she quickly swept up the offending scrap of paper.

Charlotte took great pleasure in seeing her getting her comeuppance.

Paulina marched on down the corridor, on the lookout for the slightest breach of her lofty standards. The staff was lined up on either side like royal subjects for a procession of the queen.

Leaning on the handle of her umbrella, Paulina bent over to study the black-and-white-tiled floor, which shone like a mirror. “How long has it been since the floor was waxed?” she asked.

“Someone comes in every week,” replied Mrs. Murray.

“Then get someone else to do it or have it done more often. Do you see these scuff marks?” She pointed out a few barely visible scuff marks on the polished floor with the tip of her umbrella.

“Yes, Mrs. Langenberg.”

And so it went: dust balls, unemptied ashtrays, spotted mirrors—all came in for Paulina’s criticism. When she finally reached the VIP suite at the end of the hall, the staff seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief.

It was here that Charlotte and Paulina parted. Charlotte entered her bath cubicle and quickly undressed. She was looking forward to a long soak in the effervescent waters.

Hilda entered a few moments later. “Hello again,” she said. She smiled, revealing the wide gap between her large, protuberant front teeth.

Charlotte smiled back. She held no grudge against Hilda. She had only been doing her duty. As had Mrs. Murray for that matter.

Hilda kneeled down to draw the bath. “Do you think you’ll catch the person who killed that poor Mrs. Singer?” she asked coyly.

So she had figured out why Charlotte had been exploring in the basement. “I hope so,” replied Charlotte.

“You’d better catch him soon. Some of the guests have stopped signing up for baths. They’re afraid.” She then left to fetch a glass of water from the fountain. Returning a moment later, she handed Charlotte the glass and then tested the bath, which she pronounced ready.

Charlotte stepped in. The water fizzed like an uncorked bottle of champagne. Hilda adjusted the pillow behind her head and then floated the towel on the surface of the water in front of her face. “The temperature, is okay?” she asked, swirling a forearm in the bubbly waters.

Charlotte nodded.

After wishing Charlotte a pleasant bath, Hilda left to attend to her other clients, diminished in number though they were.

Charlotte settled back, tucking her feet into the toe hole. Her skin was sheathed in iridescent bubbles. She thought again about the Greeks and their sacred springs. It could be argued that the whole of Western religion could be traced back to these sacred springs, to say nothing of medicine, art, and music. By the Golden Age, the early Greek spring temples had grown into huge health resorts, centers for worship and entertainment. Her own craft could trace its origins to these ancient spas, where the first actors sang the praises of the gods. Later, huge outdoor amphitheaters had been built. Charlotte had once visited the amphitheater at Epidaurus, the birthplace of Asclepius. It was a marvel of ancient architecture: tier upon tier of limestone benches coiled into the lap of the mountainside like a giant serpent. Returning in the early morning, she had declaimed the closing lines of
Antigone
to the pale Peloponnesian dawn: “There is no happiness where there is no wisdom;/No wisdom but in submission to the gods./Big words are always punished,/And proud men in old age learn to be wise.” It was one of her most memorable moments.

She set the glass down and turned to rest her cheek against the curved edge of the tub, savoring the coolness of the porcelain. Soothed by the carbon dioxide, she drifted off to a Hellenic paradise of sacred olive groves and thyme-carpeted fields. If she were to imagine another life for herself—apart from Lillian Leonard’s—it wouldn’t be as Frannie’s desert hermit, but as an actress in ancient Greece, or rather an actor, since the actors had played both male and female roles.

The scream jerked her back to reality. “Ai-ai-ai!” It came again: a high-pitched wail that reverberated down the corridor like a Klaxon down a silent street. “Ai-ai-ai! Ai-ai-ai!” There was no mistaking the voice.

Charlotte jumped out of the tub and pulled on her robe. She had gotten up too quickly: for a moment, she had to steady herself on the back of the chair as a wave of dizziness overcame her, but it quickly passed.

“Ai-ai-ai!”

She ran out into the corridor. The door to the VIP suite stood open. Entering, she found Paulina sitting bolt upright in the tub, a towel draped over her head. Her knees were pulled up to protect her chest and her white-knuckled hands were gripping the sides of the tub for all she was worth.

Charlotte removed the towel. Paulina’s eyes were screwed shut. “Paulina, it’s Charlotte. Are you all right?”

Paulina opened her eyes. “Yes,” she said. Her head barely protruded from above the rim of the tub. Strands of long black hair had come unraveled from her chignon and mascara smeared her cheeks. “Where is everybody? Somebody tried to kill me.”

“Somebody tried to kill you?”

The tops of Paulina’s huge breasts, like those of some primitive fertility goddess, bobbed on the surface of the water. Suddenly conscious of her nakedness, she pulled the towel over herself. Charlotte noticed she was still wearing the sapphire ring. The motive wasn’t robbery.

“Yes. He went out that way.” She nodded toward the door. “Into the hall. He was going to kill me. Drown me. He was trying to hold my head underwater.”