Murder Under the Palms

by Stefanie Matteson

  “That’s Wilhelm.” She paused. “His last name began with an R.”

  “Roehrer?” suggested Charlotte.

  “That’s it. He was very good friends with Paul, although he was a few years older. They came from the same neighborhood in New York. I could never warm to the boy, to tell you the truth.” She looked at the picture again. “And there’s Lady Astor,” she said with a smile of recognition.

  “Lady Astor?” said Charlotte, feigning ignorance.

  “The German shepherd,” said Mrs. Johnstone. She handed the photograph back to Charlotte, who returned it to her purse. “Paul and that dog were inseparable,” she continued. “He doted on her, and she on him. I wonder what ever happened to those boys?”

  Charlotte didn’t reply. Instead, she said, “We’re also trying to identify another man,” she continued. “He would have been acquainted with the two young men, but perhaps only remotely. We have a list of names. We were wondering if you would look it over to see if any of the names sound familiar.”

  “Anything I can do to help Tony,” Mrs. Johnstone said. “He and Pat have been so good to me. They even shovel me out in the winter.”

  The list that Charlotte withdrew from her purse had been cut from a thousand names to fewer than a hundred. The only names left were those of Navy and Coast Guard officers and managers from the Robins Dry Dock Company: the men who would have been in a position to give orders.

  Again Mrs. Johnstone donned her reading glasses.

  The only sounds were the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and the sound of melting snow dripping from the icicles that hung like a glistening fringe from the eaves above the windows.

  “I only recognize one name,” she said as she passed the list back. “But he wasn’t associated with the farm, although he did play golf with the count occasionally. He was associated more with the Welland family—that was the family of the count’s wife, Dorothy.”

  “And who was that?” Charlotte asked.

  “Jack McLean,” she replied.

  The decorated rear admiral a Nazi saboteur! For a moment, Charlotte was shocked speechless. Once she had regained her composure, she looked over at Eddie, who sat with his mouth hanging open.

  “They used to call him Big Jack McLean,” Mrs. Johnstone went on. “He had been a football star at Yale. He was very friendly with Freddie Welland, Dorothy’s brother. They spent their summers together in Hadfield as boys. He used to help Freddie’s uncle with that paper he put out.”

  “What paper was that?” Charlotte asked. Her mind was teeming with questions. Foremost among them was the question of how McLean had been recruited: one didn’t go from Ivy League football star to enemy agent just like that.

  “Let me think,” Mrs. Johnstone said. She took off her glasses and stared at the ceiling. “The Yankee Patriot,” she finally answered.

  “Do you know of anyone who could tell us more about Jack McLean and his association with the Welland family?” Charlotte asked, hastily adding, “Does the Welland family’s house even still exist?”

  Clara nodded. “It does. But it’s a monastery now: the Benedictines. The Welland descendants—what was left of them—moved away long ago. I’m afraid I couldn’t help you there. But you could check with Jeannie.”

  Jeannie Stavola was the president of the Hadfield Historical Society and a former Associated Press reporter from Boston who had moved to Hadfield with her writer husband when their children were born. She had straight, shoulder-length brown hair, parted in the center, and a round, earnest, old-fashioned kind of face. Starved for news she could dig into, Jeannie had turned her reportorial talents to the small town of Hadfield, and had made it her business to know everything that had transpired in Hadfield and vicinity since the town was settled in 1693. Since her big old Greek Revival house fronted directly on the village common, she had become the town’s major conduit for information. As she put it: “I often have the feeling that people have been tracing the same paths between houses for the last three hundred years.”

  They met her at the Hadfield Inn, an historic inn that also fronted directly on the common, catty-corner from Jeannie’s house and next door to a steepled Congregational Church that looked as if it belonged in a tourist brochure for New England. The inn had once served travelers on the major north-south and east-west stage routes. According to Jeannie, the fact that Hadfield was situated at the confluence of these routes had once made it the most prosperous rural village in Connecticut.

  The inn billed itself as the oldest continuously operated inn in the country, but since Charlotte had been a guest at half a dozen inns that made the identical claim, she was skeptical. Nevertheless it was very old, with a wide plank floor that had settled unevenly over the years, and a low ceiling lined with with hand-hewn beams.

  Jeannie told them what she knew about Big Jack McLean over club sandwiches and steaming cups of New England clam chowder.

  “He was a fascist!” she said. “They were all fascists. We had a regular little nest of them here. Of course, it was the count who took all the heat, but Koprosky was an innocent compared to the rest of them.”

  She spoke fast, with a staccato delivery. Charlotte had the impression of a wire machine tapping out its copy.

  “He was of the Virginia McLeans. One of the FFV’s.”

  “FFV’s?” said Charlotte.

  “First Families of Virginia.”

  Charlotte remembered his charming hint of a southern accent.

  “The McLeans made their summer home here because the family patriarch had rheumatism. Didn’t want anything to do with the damp air of any of those seaside places like Newport. Also, they had horses. They needed barns and fields. Newport isn’t very horsey. I understand that Jack McLean is now a decorated rear admiral. But we can all attest to the political lapses of our youth.” She smiled. “Spoken by a former member of the Students for a Democratic Society. Actually, I only attended a couple of meetings, but it once gave me a lot of status in some circles.”

  “Like the Weather Underground?” teased Charlotte.

  Ignoring her, Jeannie continued with her story: “Actually, it was Freddie Welland who dragged Jack McLean into fascist politics. Freddie had also gone to Yale, where he got in with the America Firsters. Yale was a hotbed of the America First movement,” she said.

  “I didn’t know that,” Charlotte commented.

  “Oh, yes,” Jeannie said. “The sons of all those rich Midwestern industrialists. But it was Freddie’s uncle Walter who was the real fascist. He was an eccentric. An elderly bachelor. He had a small round head, with a fuzzy growth of white hair. Like those professor characters on Sesame Street.”

  Charlotte had no idea who she was talking about. The world of children was terra incognita to her.

  “Anyway, Uncle Walter was a Roosevelt hater of the first order. The old traitor-to-his-class bit. He wouldn’t even use Roosevelt dimes. He put out a fascist newspaper called The Yankee Patriot.”

  “What did Yankees have to do with it?” Charlotte asked. As a diehard Yankee herself, she took umbrage at a fascist’s use of the term.

  “His idea was that the country had gone slack. What it needed was government by an elite who were representative of the old-fashioned Yankee virtues of self-sacrifice, hard work, and so on. Instead of National Socialism, he called his political philosophy Yankee-ism.”

  “He didn’t like the Nazi identification?” Charlotte asked.

  “Mezza, mezza,” said Jeannie, holding her hand out palm down and tilting it from side to side. “He thought the country needed a dictator like Hitler to whip it into shape, but he disassociated himself from the more distasteful aspects of Nazism—the anti-Semitism, the shock troops.”

  “A refined fascist,” Charlotte noted dryly.

  Jeannie nodded. “He was in good company: Yeats, Pound, Lawrence, Shaw. Anyway, his politics also grew out of the hallowed Yankee tradition of hating the British. In a sense, he was still fighting the War of In
dependence. If you can picture the Minutemen as storm troopers, you’ve got the basic idea.”

  “Did he have any actual connection with the Nazis?”

  “Oh, yes. He went to Germany in 1938 and was wined and dined by Hitler. Basically, he got the same sell as Lindbergh.”

  Charlotte nodded. One question answered, she thought. If McLean was the Fox, he could have hooked up with the Abwehr through Uncle Walter. “And what was Jack McLean’s connection with Uncle Walter?” she asked. “Clara Johnstone told us that he worked on Walter’s paper.”

  She nodded. “He was one of the editors. They printed it right here in Hadfield. The printing presses were in Uncle Walter’s barn. It had a pretty decent circulation too—thirty or forty thousand, if I remember right.”

  “And what about the count?” Charlotte pressed. “What was his relationship with the members of this little group?”

  “They all knew one another. Hadfield isn’t exactly a metropolis. I’m not sure how close Uncle Walter was to Koprosky. He probably considered the count to be kind of a joke, like all the older generation of Wellands. But I know Freddie and Jack socialized with him. They were closer to him in age.”

  “Socialized?” said Charlotte.

  “Played golf, mostly,” Jeannie explained. “The count was very into golf. They also hung out at his clubhouse.”

  Which would explain how McLean might have come into contact with Roehrer and Federov, Charlotte thought. “About this newspaper,” she continued. “Is there any way we could see it? Any old issues on file at the local library?”

  “That can be easily arranged. We have boxes of old issues at the historical society office. It’s on the other side of the common.” She signaled the waitress for the check, and within minutes they were crossing the common, which was dotted with stately old Dutch elms that had survived the blight.

  The historical society office was located in the old Town Hall, a jewel of Greek Revival architecture, complete with pediment and Ionic columns. After unlocking the front door, Jeannie led them through the unheated hall, which was lined with deacon’s benches, and still decorated for Christmas.

  “We have our annual Christmas pageant here every year,” Jeannie explained, nodding at the decorated stage. “Everyone in town participates. We all do whatever it is we feel like doing, and somehow it works out perfectly. Then we all go out to the common with lighted candles to sing Christmas carols.”

  “It must be lovely,” Charlotte said.

  “It is,” Jeannie agreed. She had led them to a small room at the back of the hall, which was filled with cardboard boxes. “This is just our temporary home, which is why it’s such a mess,” she said. “We’re going to move into the old library as soon as the new one’s finished.”

  After rummaging around among the boxes, she located the one she was looking for, slid it out, and opened it up. She handed Charlotte a sample issue of The Yankee Patriot.

  The term newspaper was misleading; it was more like a newsletter, but was nevertheless quite professionally produced. This issue described a rally for “Yankee patriots” that was to be held in Concord, Massachusetts, on July 4th. Charlotte read aloud from the story:

  “‘The Yankee Patriot Party is fighting to preserve true Americanism. To be a Yankee patriot is to be for the U.S.A. one hundred percent. This rally is our last chance to get together on a plan of action before our traitorous administration succeeds in selling out our noble country to the Bolsheviks.’”

  “What’s the date?” asked Eddie, who was standing by the door, looking uncomfortably cold in his new wind-breaker.

  “May, 1942,” she said.

  “Bad enough that they were spouting this claptrap in the thirties; even worse that they were still spouting it after the country had gone to war,” said Jeannie, who was riffling through the contents of the box.

  Charlotte checked the masthead on the inside column of the second page. The editor-in-chief was Walter Welland and the assistant editor was Frederick C. Welland. “There’s no mention here of Jack McLean, but he would already have joined the Navy. “Do you have any earlier issues?” she asked.

  “Let’s see if we can find one from the late thirties,” said Jeannie. Digging down to the bottom of the box, she produced an issue from 1938. “He’s listed here: ‘John W. McLean the third, Contributing Editor.’ There’s also an article by him on the front page,” she added, handing the issue to Charlotte.

  The article was well-written, and more moderate in tone than the article in the 1942 issue. Liberally sprinkled with quotes from Lindbergh and other America Firsters, it basically advocated that the Europeans fight it out for themselves. “May we keep this?” Charlotte asked.

  “Yes,” said Jeannie. “On one condition.”

  “What’s that?” Charlotte asked.

  “That you tell me what a famous American actress and a big bandleader are interested in Jack McLean for.” Jeannie’s cheeks dimpled in a smile.

  “Ah,” Charlotte said. “You’re on to us.”

  “You’d have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to be,” Jeannie said. “And not have watched any television for the last thirty years to boot. I was on to you from the moment I first saw you.”

  “Well then, the others we’ve talked to here must be deaf, dumb, and blind, because they hadn’t a clue.”

  Jeannie waved her hand dismissively. “They’re in their own little world,” she said. “With rare exceptions—Walter Welland being one of them—they’re not concerned with what happens outside the perimeters of Hadfield. But I’m from a different gene pool.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t tell you yet,” Charlotte replied, “but we promise that we’ll let you know why we’re looking into Jack McLean just as soon as we can. Can we still have the copy of The Yankee Patriot?”

  “I suppose so,” said Jeannie. “We only have about three hundred copies of each issue to preserve for posterity.” After replacing the box, she led Charlotte and Eddie out through the hall and then locked the door behind them. A light snow had started to fall. “Spies,” Jeannie said, as they headed back toward the common.

  “What?” asked Charlotte.

  “Spies,” she repeated. “I’m getting spy vibes.” She looked intently into Charlotte’s eyes. “I’m right, aren’t I?” Then she proceeded to jump up and down on the snowy sidewalk. “Oh goody, spies!” she exclaimed, arms flapping. “As you can see,” she added, “we’re a little starved for excitement around here.”

  Charlotte didn’t say a word. The woman certainly hadn’t lost her nose for a good story.

  11

  The country inn where they were to spend the night, Foxhollow Manor, had once been the summer retreat of a Providence industrialist and his family. A thirty-room Georgian manor built on a sixty-acre estate in the 1920s, it had been turned into an inn when the descendants of the original owner could no longer afford to keep it up. Now it was run by a hotel chain that made a specialty of inns catering to bridal parties and couples seeking a romantic weekend getaway. This inn also catered to equestrians, since the property included an elegant stable and miles of riding paths. Charlotte had booked a room there because it was the only available lodging that was located right in Hadfield, but she hadn’t overlooked the appeal of the complimentary bottle of champagne, the king-sized four-poster bed facing a working fireplace, and the “romantic brunch,” served in the room. (Though her imagination didn’t carry her quite so far as the candlelit bubble bath à deux, which was a special offering for the Valentine’s Day weekend). When she’d called to make the reservations early that morning, she’d been informed that there were only two rooms left: a luxury suite—the Thoroughbred Suite—and a smaller, connecting room, the Palomino Room. She’d reserved both, but she had a feeling they wouldn’t be needing the Palomino Room. At least, she hoped they wouldn’t be needing it.

  They got to the room at four and, with their bottle of champagne, promptly settled into the two leather wing chairs that stood before the f
ireplace. The Thoroughbred Suite was decorated like an English club, with dark green paisley wallpaper and matching bedspread, an antique Oriental carpet, British hunting prints, and a brass hunting horn on the mantel. There was even a saddle and a pair of old riding boots standing in a corner, and a collection of books on the desk with titles such as Lameness in the Horse, Productive Horse Husbandry, and Diseases of the Horse’s Foot. The books seemed to Charlotte to be carrying the English country squire illusion just a little too far, but the room was pleasant and cozy nonetheless. The view was of a broad expanse of lawn that was now covered with snow. Behind the leafless trees at the far edge of the lawn, an orange sun was setting in an overcast violet sky. The light snow that had started falling earlier that afternoon had become heavier.

  As she felt the warm glow from the champagne stealing over her, Charlotte was struck by the thought that they might be snowed in. The driveway leading to the inn was half a mile long, and couldn’t have been easy to plow. It wasn’t an unpleasant thought. As Eddie had said, “You’re never too old.”

  “It seems unreal, doesn’t it?” she remarked, looking over at his handsome, tanned face in the chair next to hers. “We meet six days ago in Palm Beach, and here we are at a country inn in Connecticut on Valentine’s Day weekend.”

  Eddie nodded. “With a nor’easter on the way.”

  “Do you think so?” she asked.

  “It looks that way to me. But what do I know? I’m from Pasadena. I haven’t experienced a snowstorm in years. Not counting airports, that is. Maybe we’ll be snowed in,” he speculated, and looking over at her, he added, “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Nor would I,” she agreed.

  It was dinnertime before they got around to Jack McLean. Perhaps they hadn’t discussed him earlier because they were both still trying to make sense of the wild card they’d been dealt. Or perhaps it was because they’d been otherwise engaged. They were seated at a candlelit table in the dining room of the inn—more hunting prints and hunting horns—before a roaring fire, watching the snow fall through the French doors that led to a terrace overlooking the lawn. It was a gentle snow—there was no wind to rattle the windows—but it had that determined quality that’s so often a sign of a big storm: the flakes were big and they fell quickly and steadily. According to their attentive young waiter, the weatherman had predicted ten to twelve inches. It was their fourteenth storm of the season, he added. Charlotte had gone to Palm Beach to get away from the winter, and here she was in the middle of it again. But somehow she didn’t mind. Being with Eddie probably had more than a little to do with it. In any case, they wouldn’t have to deal with it for long. They were scheduled to return the next day. Eddie had to start rehearsing for the Big Band Hall of Fame Ball, which was only a week away, and his subsequent tour. The ball was the big annual fundraiser for the organization, which hoped to raise enough money to find a permanent home for their collection of Big Band memorabilia.