It was a spell that was quietly working its magic on Charlotte, like “that old black magic” of the song the jazz combo was playing. She had sensed that the island was casting its spell on Eddie too. They had both worked hard all their lives and they had both reached the top, in part because they had outlasted everyone else. Were they ready now to sit back and quietly enjoy their place in the sun? Eddie had admitted to being a different person now. They wouldn’t have gotten along back then, he had implied. They had both been too driven. She thought back to those four short days on the Normandie: their lives had been all ahead of them then. For Eddie, a career as one of the most famous bandleaders of his day. For Charlotte, dozens of movies, four Oscars. And now it was all behind them. Or mostly behind them. Charlotte wasn’t ready to throw in the towel quite yet. Had Eddie also been implying that they would get along now? she wondered. She was unsettled at how easy it was for her to imagine that it was she and Eddie swirling around that dance floor.
She had left the party without really speaking to him again; he’d been too busy with his band. The band had played on, despite the corpse on the beach. Charlotte thought of those shoes: the elegant patent leather tuxedo pumps buried in the sand. Handmade by the looks of it, and Paul’s long, thin fingers. His noble profile, with its high-bridged nose, still so handsome even at his age. His elegant house, and his gracious manners. Most of all, his talent. A creative life that it had taken decades to nurture, obliterated in a second.
It made her sick.
6
She had dreamed that night of the Normandie. The ship was speeding through the misty gray waters of the North Atlantic, the threatening silhouette of the Bremen lurking off her port side. The Bremen’s immense red flag rippled in the breeze, a black swastika circled in white at its center. René had been in the dream. One by one, he’d summoned the passengers into a small stateroom, but instead of being interviewed by the police, they’d been individually fitted for life vests. Clamping a row of pins between his lips, he had fussed and fretted over every detail of the fit, like an overbearing French couturier. Then they had all assembled on the deck to model their vests. One by one they’d pranced down the promenade, twisting and turning like fashion models on a Paris runway. Dede was there, and Lydia, and the couple from the preservation association. Charlotte had been asked to be the mistress of ceremonies, but she found herself in the unfamiliar position of being at a loss for words. Despite the customized fittings, all the life vests looked the same to her. Except for Marianne’s. Her life vest was enormous: it pushed up under her pointed chin and reached down almost to her knees. It was so thick at the sides that her arms stood almost straight out. With her straight black bangs and blunt-cut hairstyle, she looked like a five-year-old in an overstuffed Halloween pumpkin costume.
Usually Charlotte didn’t remember her dreams, but she’d awakened that morning with this one fresh in her memory. She was sitting at the small table in the bay window of her sitting room, pondering its significance and dining on a breakfast of a boiled egg and toast with marmalade when she was interrupted by the ring of the telephone.
It was Connie Smith.
“I need to see you,” she announced without even bothering to say hello. Her voice had an hysterical edge.
“Where are you?” Charlotte asked.
“At the front desk.”
A few minutes later her distraught friend was sitting on the other side of the table, telling her story. It seemed that the police had come by the Smiths’ house a short while before and asked that Marianne accompany them to the police station for questioning.
Which hardly meant that Marianne was about to be charged with murder, but Connie didn’t know that. Charlotte poured her a cup of coffee from the pot on her breakfast tray.
“They also talked to her late last night, but this time they seemed more serious,” Connie said. “Charlotte, you have connections with the police,” she went on, referring to past episodes in which Charlotte had helped in murder investigations. “Can’t you do something?” she pleaded.
“What’s Marianne’s account of what happened?”
“She admits to arguing with Paul. She even admits to scratching his face, which is when she thinks she dropped the minaudière, but she denies murdering him. It was just as Spalding said: she climbed back up the steps to our cabana and headed home. She said he was smoking a cigarette when she left him.”
“Why didn’t she go back to Villa Normandie?” Despite Spalding’s explanation, this struck Charlotte as the most puzzling aspect of Marianne’s behavior. It seemed to her that the designer of the jewelry collection would have wanted to be present at its debut.
“She said she was plotting,” Connie replied as she added cream and sugar to her coffee.
“Plotting?”
“Knowing that her relationship with Paul was over, she was trying to figure out how to divvy up the business to her advantage.”
For Marianne not to return because she was upset over a quarrel was a scenario that Charlotte found hard to accept, but for her not to return because she was trying to make sure she got the best of a business deal—now that made sense. “Have you called your lawyer?” she asked.
“Marianne insisted on her own lawyer. But he’s in New York. He won’t be able to get down here until tomorrow. I was hoping you could smooth things over. I’m worried,” Connie said. “Especially after … you know.”
“You know” was the murder in Newport, four years earlier, of Shawn Hendrickson, one of Marianne’s boyfriends. Marianne had also been a suspect in that case. Charlotte had been called to the rescue then as well and had succeeded in identifying the real culprit.
Tears had welled up in Connie’s cornflower-blue eyes.
“Okay, I’ll go down there and see what’s going on,” Charlotte agreed. She swallowed the last of her coffee and set down her cup. “But if I get the sense that Marianne’s in real trouble, I want you to call your lawyer. Pronto.”
Connie nodded.
Charlotte looked over at the clock on the desk. It was 9:15. “What time did they come by for her?”
“It was only about half an hour ago. I’m sure she’s still there.” Connie had stood up to leave. “Please call me the minute you find out anything. I’m not going out. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
Charlotte nodded as she escorted Connie to the door. So that’s what the dream had been all about, she thought as she closed the door behind Connie. The oversized life vest no longer seemed as silly as it had.
Marianne was going to need it.
As Charlotte drove to the police station a short while later in her rental car, it was in a state of—not amusement exactly; more like anticipation. Since she’d been a teenager, Marianne had been causing scenes, shocking the bourgeoisie, and getting into tight squeezes. Scandals, love affairs, arrests—you name it. For all his apparent disapproval, her stuffy stepfather harbored a morbid fascination with Marianne’s antics, and Charlotte had to admit that she did as well. For those who played by the rules, there was a thrill attendant to being an observer of Marianne: it was like watching an adventurous cat that’s fallen off a tree limb. You know that the cat is ultimately going to land on its feet, but it’s the contortions it has to go through to achieve that end that provide the entertainment. Marianne would land on her feet. She always had; she always would. She had succeeded in skirting scandal her entire life. The question was, what was she going to do next? “With Marianne, you never know,” was a constant refrain of the Smiths.
The police station was located a short distance from Charlotte’s hotel in an elegant, relatively new Spanish-style building across from the town hall. The building overlooked a park that occupied the center of the road behind the town hall, and which featured a long reflecting pool and a spectacular fountain into which four galloping steeds, forefeet upraised, spouted water.
It would have fit in beautifully at the palace of Versailles.
Though the elegant architecture of the p
olice station matched that of the rest of the town, the quality of service was a letdown. There weren’t any tanned, handsome young men to park Charlotte’s car. What was the place coming to? she wondered as she drove around in search of an elusive parking space. She had found a spot at last, and was collecting her things when the blue leather box in her tote bag caught her eye. She stared at the box for a few seconds before it dawned on her. As was usually the case at this hour of the morning, her conscious brain had yet to kick into full gear.
It was Marianne’s life vest. Of course, it didn’t look like a life vest. It looked like a rectangular, gold-tooled, blue leather box: the box that held the necklace that she was supposed to return to Feder Jewelers by noon. But its contents provided Charlotte with the answer to the question of how to get Marianne out of her latest predicament.
The lobby of the police station was cool and serene. Stepping up to the dispatcher’s window, Charlotte asked for Detective White. The dispatcher telephoned upstairs, and a moment later, an elevator door opened and Maureen emerged. As before, her thick, honey-colored hair was done up in a braid that hung down almost to her waist. Except for the fact that she was a little overweight—chunky would be a better word—her wholesome good looks would easily have qualified her as a model for a shampoo or skin-cream ad.
They exchanged greetings. Then Charlotte said, “I understand you’re holding Marianne Montgomery for questioning. Her mother told me that you picked her up at the Smiths’ house earlier this morning.” She tried to sound collegial rather than threatening.
Maureen nodded warily, waiting for Charlotte to go on.
“I can understand why you would want to question her more thoroughly, given the circumstantial evidence,” Charlotte continued, alluding to the scratch marks on Paul’s face and the minaudière.
Maureen nodded again.
“But I thought of another avenue of inquiry that might be worthwhile looking into.”
Maureen perked up at attention.
“May I see her?” Charlotte asked.
“She’s upstairs,” Maureen said, turning back to the elevator.
A moment later, they had arrived at an interrogation room, where Marianne was sitting in a tan plastic chair with her chin down and her arms folded. She had that stubborn that’s-my-story-and-I’m-sticking-to-it look about her. A uniformed policeman sat at one side of the room, keeping guard.
“Miss Graham is here to see you,” Maureen announced, taking a seat behind the desk. “She says she has some information that might help you.”
Marianne looked up at Charlotte with an expression that was as close to gratitude as her hardened face would ever allow.
Since there were no other chairs in the small room, Charlotte stood near the door. “Tell Detective White about the Normandie collection,” she said.
Marianne looked up again, puzzled.
“How it came about, and so on,” Charlotte added.
Marianne explained the genesis of the idea and the Normandie theme of the collection. She also mentioned that it was her first venture into jewelry design. Then she stopped, unsure of what else Charlotte wanted.
“And the purpose of the party last night was to introduce the jewelry?” Charlotte prompted.
Marianne nodded. “Some of the guests were asked to model pieces from the collection. After dinner, there was a show. Which I was unable to attend,” she added, looking defiantly at the detective.
“And what was the most valuable piece in the collection?”
Marianne’s sulking face broke into a grin as the aim of Charlotte’s line of questioning dawned on her. As Charlotte had suspected, she had been too rattled to think of this angle for herself.
“It was a diamond and ruby necklace based on a Cartier design from the 1930s that was modeled by Miss Graham,” Marianne replied. “It’s valued at half a million dollars.”
“And the second most valuable piece?”
Marianne proceeded to don her safety vest. “It was a gold cigarette case inset with diamonds valued at two hundred thousand dollars.”
“And who was to display the cigarette case?”
“Paul Feder,” she replied with a look of triumph.
“Do you know if he was carrying the cigarette case when he went out to the beach?” Charlotte asked.
Marianne nodded. “When I was climbing the stairs back up to our cabana, I turned around to look at him. He was standing there, smoking a cigarette.”
“We found a cigarette butt,” Maureen offered. “It was his brand.”
Charlotte turned to the detective. “Did you take an inventory of the items that were found on the victim’s person?”
“We always do that right away,” she replied. “The last thing we want is for a relative to claim that the police stole something.”
“And did it include a gold-enameled cigarette case?”
Maureen shook her head and then turned to Marianne. “You’re sure he had it on him when you left him?”
Marianne nodded again.
“For what it’s worth, I saw him take a cigarette out of the case earlier in the evening as well,” offered Charlotte. “When I first arrived, about an hour before he was murdered.”
Maureen thought for a minute. “Okay, let’s say for the sake of argument that the murder was committed by a jewel thief. How would he have known the case was that valuable? A diamond ring, I can see. But a cigarette case isn’t something that you usually think of as being worth that much.”
“Maybe he read the newspaper,” Marianne suggested. “There was an article on the Normandie collection on the Style page of the Palm Beach Daily News last week. It included a photo layout of the most important items from the collection, including the cigarette case.”
“Did it give prices?” Maureen asked.
“Yes,” Marianne said. “It also mentioned that the jewelry would be shown at a benefit dinner at Villa Normandie.”
Maureen rolled her eyes. “Talk about asking for trouble.”
It was an easy scenario to imagine, Charlotte thought. The jewel thief hiding in the undergrowth, waiting for a bejeweled party guest to wander out for a breath of fresh air. He sees Paul light up, remembers the cigarette case from the article, and boom—that’s it.
“Did any of the other guests see anyone or anything?” Charlotte asked Maureen.
“Zilch,” The detective replied. “Which isn’t surprising, considering the fact that you can’t see the crime scene from the cabana. None of the other guests actually went down to the beach.”
“Any other recent jewel thefts?”
“We had an incident last year in which a couple was robbed when they were walking home after a party, but no one was hurt.” She looked pointedly at Marianne. “Nor had they advertised what jewels they would be wearing.”
“We realized there was a risk of theft. We arranged to have security guards at the party,” Marianne said defensively. “But we didn’t realize that the guests would be wandering out to the beach,” she added with a sigh.
“Did you solve that case?” Charlotte asked.
Maureen shook her head.
Maureen dismissed Marianne, but she asked Charlotte to remain behind.
She wasn’t convinced, she confided after Marianne had flounced out in triumph. It wasn’t that she thought Marianne had done it, but that she didn’t think a jewel thief had. First, it was unlikely that the typical jewel thief would read the Palm Beach Daily News, which was aimed at the social community. Second, even if he were the sophisticated kind of thief who studied the social pages, it was unlikely that he would have been able to identify the cigarette case at night, especially if he was hiding in the undergrowth some distance away. He would have had to be standing right on top of the victim to identify the case, and even then it would have been difficult. It was far more likely, Maureen thought, that the murder had been committed for some other reason, and that the perpetrator had stolen the cigarette case in order to make it look as if the murder had occ
urred during the course of a jewel theft. Or, if the murder had really occurred during the course of a jewel theft, that the murderer had known Paul would be carrying one of the most valuable pieces in the collection and had followed him out to the beach expressly for the purpose of robbing him. In either case, the perpetrator would have had to be an insider: someone who knew that Paul would be at the party, and that he would be carrying the cigarette case.
They were still sitting in the interrogation room, Maureen behind the desk and Charlotte in the chair that had been vacated by the uniformed policeman, whom the detective had dismissed.
Maureen continued. “I’m just a girl from da Bronx. I don’t know a minaudière from a minivan. But you travel in these social circles. And you’ve had experience in detective work.”
Charlotte nodded.
“I’m not asking you to do any active investigating,” she said as she handed Charlotte her card. “But if you see or hear anything that raises your suspicions, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call.”
“I’ll be glad to,” Charlotte said.
The funeral was on Wednesday at Bethesda-by-the-Sea Episcopal Church, an elegant turn-of-the century gray stone Gothic building with a soaring bell tower set in the center of a perfectly manicured green lawn. It looked as if it belonged in Greenwich rather than Palm Beach. It was the Smiths’ church and the most socially prominent house of worship in Palm Beach. It was only a few blocks from Charlotte’s hotel (if she had been asked to assign a Manhattan address to it, she would have called it East Sixty-seventh) and she declined Connie and Spalding’s offer to drive her there. Though cool by Florida standards, it was a gorgeous morning, and she preferred to walk. She arrived a few minutes early, and, following a sign through a cloister surrounding a courtyard with a velvety green lawn, wandered out to a charming meditation garden at the rear of the church grounds. She was strolling among the English-style flower beds, looking at the colorful plantings lining a reflecting pool, when a familiar figure entered the garden. It was Dede, looking stunning in a fitted black suit. Her hair was done up in a French twist topped by a fetching black pillbox hat with a black veil.
Murder Under the Palms Page 9
