Murder at the Spa (29 page)

“Who?”

“I don’t know. I was dozing. A man, a strong man.”

“Will you be all right?”

Paulina nodded.

Charlotte ran out of the room. Outside the door, she bumped into Hilda, who had come running in response to the scream. “Someone’s tried to kill Mrs. Langenberg,” Charlotte explained.

Hilda’s penciled eyebrows flew up in alarm.

“Do you know where there’s a flashlight?”

Hilda nodded.

“Good. Go tell Mrs. Murray to call the police. Then get the flashlight and bring it back here to me. And hurry.”

Hilda galumphed off down the hallway, her slippers flapping.

Charlotte returned to her cubicle and quickly changed into her clothes. Then she headed back to the VIP suite. As she passed the door to the basement, she could feel the cool draft of the cellar air. It stood wide open.

Paulina had lifted herself out of the tub and was donning a terry-cloth robe. She looked pale, but composed. She was already knotting her chignon back in place. I’m all right,” she said, emerging from the inner chamber.

Hilda returned with the flashlight. A small crowd of curious guests was already gathering in the hall.

“Did you tell Mrs. Murray to call the police?”

Hilda nodded.

“Good. I’m going after Mrs. Langenberg’s assailant. You stay here with her until Mrs. Murray gets here. When Mrs. Murray gets here, call Mr. D’Angelo at the Health Pavilion and tell him what’s happened. Tell him that I’ve gone into the tunnels after the assailant. Have you got all that?”

Hilda nodded. “Miss Graham?”

“Yes?”

“Be careful.”

14

As Charlotte descended the basement stairs, she wondered if what she was doing was wise. What if the killer was armed? But she had to go after him. She had stood by once while a murderer had fled. Besides, he was probably far away by now. Almost ten minutes had elapsed since the attempt on Paulina’s life, enough for him to get halfway around the spa. The most she could hope for was a clue. She quickly reached the foot of the stairs. Which way to go? On instinct, she headed to her right—to the south. She had already explored the tunnels to the north with no results.

Switching on her flashlight, she opened the door. She could hear nothing. As she entered the tunnel, however, her attention was immediately captured by the appearance of the ground underfoot. Unlike the other tunnels, which were tracked if at all only by the long, narrow footprints that she suspected were the Mineral Man’s, the ground here bore evidence of recent traffic. She stooped to examine the tracks. None were clear enough to determine the size of the shoe, but she could distinguish two types—the waffle tread of a sneaker and the smooth print of a leather-soled shoe. Standing up, she shined the flashlight overhead. As she expected, the beam revealed two pipes, the steam pipe and the pipe that carried High Rock, water from the esplanade to the Pump Room. Although she hadn’t explored these tunnels, she felt as if she already knew the layout. She was becoming as familiar with the spa’s tunnels as she was with those of the IRT. In a few minutes, she reached the door to the basement of the southwest pergola. Here too there was evidence of recent traffic: the brass knob was polished to a dull sheen by frequent use.

The door was unusually heavy. To her surprise, she discovered that its inside surface was lined with lead. The reason became apparent when she directed the beam of the flashlight toward the room’s interior. It was the fallout shelter she had imagined only half seriously to exist, right down to the cache of canned vegetables. But it did make sense, she thought as she entered, the door closing with a dull thud behind her. A basement with a ready supply of fresh water made an ideal fallout shelter location. She shined the flashlight around the room. Sandbags to block the radiation stood against the walls. Some had ruptured, spilling sand over the damp ground. Against the sandbags stood stacks of metal shelving. One was devoted entirely to food. Aluminum canisters labeled flour, sugar, coffee, tea, and so on (there was even one for Ritz crackers) occupied one section. Another section held canned goods now pitted with rust: string beans, tomato soup, cranberry sauce. A second stack of shelving was devoted to household supplies, including a game of Scrabble and a first-aid kit. Still another held survival equipment: a hunting knife in a leather holster, a Geiger counter, several tanks of oxygen. Even a freezer. What had they planned on using for electricity? she wondered. In short, everything for the well-appointed fallout shelter except a rifle to shoot the poachers who hadn’t the foresight to build fallout shelters of their own. She felt a little like Carter must have felt on entering King Tut’s tomb: here were the remains of a civilization that now seemed almost as remote as that of ancient Egypt, a civilization that believed nuclear war was survivable.

For a few seconds she took it all in: it was both funny and horrifying, like a sick joke. Ritz crackers and Scrabble, my God. Rats she had expected, even a murderer, but not this. It was then she noticed the unusual smell: sweet, like vanilla. She looked down. At her side stood an orange crate that had been turned on its side. On top of it stood several bottles of High Rock water. Protruding from the necks were the burned remains of sticks of incense. She lifted one to her nose: vanilla. Other bottles of High Rock water held candles. Their labels were now obscured by incrustations of multicolored wax. In the center of the room stood a decrepit wicker rocker whose coat of hospital green paint identified its origin as the stack of cast-off furniture in the basement of the Bath Pavilion. The dishes scattered around had clearly been purloined from the spa’s dining rooms. It was clear that the former fallout shelter now served a different function, a function revealed by the tiny butts littering the sandy ground at her feet. Adaptive reuse, the planners called it. What had once been a fallout shelter was now a hideout for smoking dope.

She wanted to explore the fallout shelter, but she wanted to make sure first that no one was lurking on the other side. Crossing the room, she opened the door and shined her light into the darkness—nothing. But she did think she could hear the distant thud of footsteps. If they were those of Paulina’s assailant, he was already far away—not that she would know what to do if she caught up with him anyway. She turned back to the fallout shelter. A dusty stack of magazines on the ersatz coffee table caught her eye. On top was a pamphlet entitled: “Understanding Your Aura.” She wondered if it was the text for Frannie’s course. Opening it, she read: “There is a vast world of hidden vibrations beyond those that are measured by scientific instruments …” The frontispiece was a crude drawing of a figure framed by a fan of squiggly lines. Underneath the aura pamphlet was a collection of magazines from the fifties. Into her mind popped an absurd picture of fifties’ survivalists reading magazines and playing Scrabble until nuclear winter was over. She picked up a 1954 issue of the
Saturday Evening Post
. It was all fifties grimness: “Can Russia Trust Its Slave Armies?” and “Let’s Quit Talking Nonsense About the Cold War.” Those who romanticized the fifties as a halcyon era of innocence had forgotten the darker side of those quiet years.

As she leaned over to return the magazine to the pile, her attention was jerked back to the present. Sandwiched in among the magazines was a typed manuscript entitled: “
LIFE READING ON THE ENTITY BY THE NAME OF ADELE B
.
SINGER
. Born April 11, 1944 in Brooklyn, King’s County, N.Y. Date of Reading: June 9. Place of Reading: High Rock Springs, N.Y.” Charlotte scanned the first page. It was a brief medical history: height, weight, blood pressure, and so on. It also mentioned a history of alcoholism and drug abuse, repeated hospitalizations for drug overdoses, and two suicide attempts. That it had been culled from the spa’s medical records was clear from the fact that it included Adele’s biological age (noting that it was ten years older than her chronological age) and her assignment to C-group. Charlotte was puzzled: why was it called a “life reading,” why did it refer to Adele as an “entity,” and what on earth was it doing down here? She continued reading:

“The Instrument has isolated the vibration of the entity by the name of Adele B. Singer. According to the
akashic
records, the former appearances on the earth plane have been quite varied.” It appeared to be some sort of mystical reading of Adele’s past lives. She read on: “The entity has experienced previous incarnations in Ireland, Rome, Syria, Peru, and Atlantis.” The reading briefly described these earlier incarnations before moving on to the entity’s “last appearance on the earth plane,” in which it “took part in those journeyings from east to west” known as the Gold Rush. “In 1849,” the reading stated, “the entity was involved in selling strong spirits to miners in California. The sale of strong spirits often led to rowdiness and drunken behavior, which sometimes had tragic consequences. The entity’s experience of drug and alcohol abuse in its current incarnation is karmic retribution for its past. But although the entity sold strong spirits in its last incarnation, it was also one to whom many came for counsel. From this, it is evident that the entity possesses talent as a counselor. Because of the entity’s karmic past, its mission during its present sojourn on the earth plane is to aid people for whom karma has ordained a life of addiction. It was for this that the entity has returned to the earth plane in the present experience.”

Setting the document down, Charlotte took a deep breath. According to the Instrument, whoever he or she was (the reading had the smell of Frannie about it), Adele had been a barmaid in her last life. The Instrument had a vivid imagination anyway. Charlotte smiled as she imagined a tarted-up Adele passing mugs of beer, across a bar to a row of grizzled prospectors, their necks craned for a glimpse of her cleavage. From what she could gather, Adele was supposed to make up in this life for the sins of her customers in the last. She was reminded of the laws that held the host responsible if a drunken guest killed an innocent person in a car accident on the way home from a party. Except that Adele’s fate wasn’t a jail sentence, but a new life as an alcoholic in which she was not only supposed to cure herself but to help others as well. When it came to punishment, the law of karma had a vengeful quality to it. If a Roman matron laughs at the cripples, give her a gimpy leg; if a barmaid serves up strong spirits, turn her into a lush. No one could ever say the punishment (or rather the educational opportunity) didn’t fit the crime.

She continued reading: “The entity, however, has failed to progress in this life embodiment. Instead of taking advantage of the opportunity for karmic action, the entity has continued to accumulate negative karma. The decay of the physical envelope is a reflection of the entity’s spiritual degeneration. The entity has made minor progress in recent months, which is reflected in a slight improvement in the condition of the physical envelope, but there is still much room for improvement. The entity continues to poison the Temple of the Living God; it is a human pillbox.” A human pillbox? The Instrument also had a knack for the catchy phrase. She read on, expecting more of the same mystical chitchat, but what came next was far from chitchat. “In order to prevent further degeneration,” the reading said, “disincarnation is recommended.” Charlotte reread the sentence.
“Disincarnation is recommended.”
In other words, it was time to close the book on Adele. She felt the goose bumps rising on her forearms. Was the Instrument” predicting Adele’s death? Or was the Instrument
responsible
for Adele’s death? She read on: “On the other side, the etheric entity will experience a period of rest and reunion with the Supreme Source while it awaits the restoration of the soul in another body.

“The Instrument is losing its energy; it must now revitalize. If we perform right action, we will build good karma. Life is God: that which is constructive grows, that which is destructive deteriorates. We are born alone, we die alone. There is but one Source.”

Whew! The Instrument, whoever it was, was off its rocker. She was about to set the document down when the yellow beam of the flashlight caught a few handwritten words at the bottom of the page. She moved it closer. Printed in pencil in a small, neat hand were two phrases: “Disincarnation scheduled Monday, June 11. Mode of disincarnation: water.”

A wave of panic rushed over her, the same wave of panic that still occasionally hit her on the stage, that turned her legs to jelly and her voice to a feeble croak. She leaned her head back, gasping for breath. She felt as if a giant block of concrete were pressing down on her chest. Her stomach was revolving like a cement mixer; the vanilla scent was making her nauseous. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on breathing slowly and deeply until she felt the muscles in her chest relax and the wave of panic subside. Then, like a child going over its lessons, she slowly reviewed the significance of the document before her. It was a reading of the
akashic
records, the records that Frannie had described as a chronicle of everything that had happened, was happening, and would happen in the universe. The reading had been conducted by a person who described itself as the Instrument and who believed itself to be capable of tuning in to Adele’s vibration in the
akasha
(like tuning into a radio frequency, Frannie had said). The Instrument had received the message that the entity by the name of Adele Singer was recommended for disincarnation. For an early discharge, so to speak. Ergo: the Instrument had taken it upon itself to be the agent of Adele’s disincarnation.

Charlotte wasn’t sure her reasoning held, but no matter how she looked at it, she kept coming back to the same conclusion. Adele had died on June eleventh. The mode of her death was water. In which case, the Instrument who retreated to this basement hideaway to turn on and tune into the vibrations of the etheric universe was Adele’s murderer. Was the Instrument Frannie? Had she been speaking from specific knowledge when she said Adele was “living on borrowed time”? It was also Frannie who had said Adele would be better off starting over in another incarnation. Or was the Instrument one of Frannie’s disciples, someone who had taken the Other Lives/Other Selves course? In any case, it appeared that the Instrument thought it was helping Adele advance on her spiritual journey. A form of karmic mercy killing. Charlotte was reminded of the play
Arsenic and Old Lace
, in which she had once played one of the crazy Brewster sisters. The pious old maids made a practice of helping homeless old men along the path to Jesus with glassfuls of elderberry wine laced with arsenic. “Murdered! Certainly not!” says Abby of a man whose body they have just stuffed into a window seat. Her sister replies: “What we’ve been doing is a mercy.” Only the situation at High Rock wasn’t a comedy. Damn, all her theories about Sperry were now shot. That’s what she got for being so smug. For it could be said of Sperry with some certainty that he would make an unlikely Instrument. His interests clearly inclined toward the earthly plane.