Murder at the Spa (16 page)

“I’ll put these here so she can smell them,” said Jack, setting the vase on the bedside table next to an untouched lunch tray and an unopened bottle of High Rock water. “Mrs. Langenberg, Miss Graham is here to see you,” he announced formally. His soft voice carried an imploring note.

The only response was a twitch of the little finger on the rubied hand that still clutched her will to her breast.

Crossing over to the bed, Jack leaned over and whispered in Paulina’s ear. “Paulina?” he said. But she didn’t respond. He rejoined Charlotte at the door. “I was hoping she might respond to you. But I guess not.”

“At least she got undressed,” said Charlotte.

She was wearing a simple cotton duster. The red chemise she had worn to the fete was draped over a chair and a discarded girdle lay on the floor. The magnificent ruby necklace was heaped in an ashtray.

“No. I undressed her,” said Jack. He breathed a deep sigh.

“Has she eaten anything?”

Jack nodded at the untouched tray. “Nothing. I don’t think she’s had anything to drink either. I haven’t even seen her get up to go to the bathroom.”

Charlotte’s attention was drawn to the adjoining bathroom, which was linked to the bedroom by a closet overflowing with clothes. On a table beside the door stood a magnificent bouquet of roses—Paulina Langenberg roses.

“They’re from Elliot,” he said, following her gaze. “He might as well have saved his money. She doesn’t even know he sent them.”

Above the table hung a framed photograph of a young woman in an ostrich-plumed hat. Charlotte recognized the distinctive profile as that of Paulina. She could easily see why the Canadian women had been so impressed by her. To them, she must have seemed as exotic as a bird of paradise.

“She was very beautiful then.” He gazed lovingly at his employer. “For that matter, she’s very beautiful still.” Gesturing for Charlotte to precede him, he quietly left the room, closing the door gently behind him.

“What are you going to do?” whispered Charlotte.

“I don’t think there’s much I can do,” he said resignedly. “I think this is just one of her nervous crises, as she calls them.” He smiled. “If it is, she’ll get over it. She was like this after her husband died—she didn’t move a muscle for three days. After that, she got up and took the cure.”

“The cure?”

“A series of baths. That’s the pattern anyway.”

“Have you called a doctor?”

Jack nodded. “Her doctor in New York. He’s the only one she trusts.”

“Not Dr. Sperry?”

“No,” he said, giving her a pointed look. “She thinks he’s a quack. Her doctor is taking the train up tonight.”

They had reached the living room.

“Why does she think Dr. Sperry’s a quack?” asked Charlotte, her mind still toying with what Frannie had told her.

“First, would you like an iced tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Opening the sliding glass doors, Jack escorted her out to the terrace, and then retreated into the kitchen to make the iced tea.

Charlotte walked over to the railing. The view was stunning. She could look out in a direct line over the red awning, the phoenix fountain, and the gravel path that bisected the esplanade to the flag flying over the High Rock Pavilion, which lifted itself now and again with the breath of the rising wind. From the peak of the pavilion, the line continued straight as an arrow to the steps leading up to the spa quadrangle, and beyond the steps to the reflecting pool and the Hall of Springs, which stood against a backdrop of dark pines and smoky mountains. A leitmotiv of geometric shapes, echoed by the shadows created by the afternoon sun and accented by a procession of symmetrical arches and columns. Seldom had she known architecture to create such a feeling of restfulness and order, such a unity of form and function. Its formalism and regularity stood in stark contrast to the chaotic world that lay outside its borders. Or rather, she thought with irony, the chaotic world that had once lain outside its borders.

After a few minutes, Jack returned with a tray, which he set down on a patio table shaded by a red canvas awning and surrounded by flowering shrubs and plants in terra-cotta pots. Charlotte could easily see why this terrace had made the High Rock penthouse one of Paulina’s favorite residences. Jack handed her an iced tea and took a seat. “Why does Paulina consider Sperry a quack. Well, for one thing, he’s not a doctor: he claims to have a British medical degree, but all he’s actually got is a mail-order degree from some homeopathic institute in India that’s long since gone under. For another …” He paused. “Have you ever heard of cell therapy?”

“Yes. Injections of sheep cells, or something—it’s supposed to make you young. I’m hoping you’re going to tell me it works,” she said lightly.

Jack gave her a skeptical look.

Charlotte smiled. In her day, she’d seen a host of rejuvenating crazes come and go: orgone boxes, chlorophyll tablets, grape cures, royal jelly—she was equally skeptical of them all. When it came to rejuvenation, she was in Paulina’s camp: what kept you young was hard work, work you love.

“Injections of cells from the embryos of pregnant sheep, to be precise. It’s a big thing with celebrities. I daresay you know someone who’s had the treatments.” He rattled off a list of names of famous writers, artists, politicians, members of royalty, and heads of state.

“I’ve heard of the treatments, yes,” said Charlotte.

“They’re given at a posh clinic in Switzerland. It’s on Lake Geneva. Anyway, the patients stay a week at a cost of something like six thousand dollars.” He paused. “Except that they no longer have to fly to Switzerland …”

Charlotte completed his sentence: “… because Dr. Sperry’s giving the treatments here.”

Jack nodded. “One difference. In Switzerland, they use fresh cells; he uses dried. He claims they’re only slightly less effective. They’re smuggled in through the Bahamas. They’re sent to a patient of his in the Bahamas who sends them to a patient of his in New York who sends them to High Rock.”

“So it’s not legal,” said Charlotte, knowing it wasn’t.

“No-o-o. It’s strictly a word-of-mouth operation. He got started in the U.K., where the laws are less stringent. When he came here, he started treating the Americans he’d been treating in London. What started as a favor turned into a full-fledged business. He calls his treatments Body Servicing.”

“I hear he had quite a reputation for that,” said Charlotte dryly.

Jack threw back his head and laughed. “Yes, he does.”

“Does Paulina know?”

“Of course. As you know, having been recently drafted into her intelligence service, she has her spies everywhere. That’s one of the reasons she brought in Elliot to replace him as spa director. She was planning to ease him out gradually. Now of course his departure will be more precipitant.”

First Frannie, now Jack. Charlotte decided to see what else she could find out about Dr. Sperry’s illegal operation.

There was a lapse in the conversation as they drank their iced tea. The sun had vanished. In the distance, the sky had turned a menacing gray, and dark clouds were massing over the mountains.

“Speaking of Paulina’s firing people. All the other secretaries I’ve known were fired within a few months, sometimes only a few weeks. I’m curious as to how you’ve managed to stick it out for four years.”

“I haven’t,” Jack replied. “I’ve been sent to publicity at least three times and banished to Siberia—that’s what we call the Houston office—twice. But she always takes me back, just like she does her son.”

“Is she going to take him back this time?”

“I don’t know. She’s threatened to disinherit him before, but she’s never done it. But she’s never asked me to call the estate lawyer before either. I had to cancel that. She’s obviously in no condition to see him.”

“Do you think she might forget the whole thing?”

“Maybe, maybe not. I just know that I better damned well have scheduled another appointment because if she still has it in for Elliot when she comes around, there’ll be hell to pay if I haven’t.”

“It must be a demanding job,” sympathized Charlotte.

“To be more precise, it’s a bitch. I’m on call twenty-four hours a day—usually. Over the past couple of days, I’ve had a little vacation. Or rather, it would be a vacation if I wasn’t worrying about her.”

“Why have you stayed?” she asked. But it was clear he thought a lot of his boss. If she could be imperious and domineering, she could also be merry and warm. And one could hardly expect a woman who had single-handedly built one of the world’s largest companies to be refined and demure.

“I don’t know,” Jack replied. He displayed the sole of a hand-sewn loafer, which was dotted with circles made up of concentric rings, like the rings of a tree. “If I have to have these shoes resoled one more time, there won’t be anything left of them.”

“So it’s not the pay.” The image of Jack as an oppressed laborer wasn’t very convincing anyway. He struck her as savvy enough to take every advantage of his position, holes in his shoes notwithstanding.

“No. It’s the glamour I guess. I’ve grown accustomed to it: the travel, the luxurious surroundings, the celebrities …” He gestured at her. “It’s pretty hard to give up, even if I’m nothing but a glorified lackey.”

Charlotte thought of the Matisse in his bedroom. Hard to give up, for someone with his refined tastes. She looked at him sympathetically. “I hope you’re going to have a queen to be a glorified lackey to.”

“That makes two of us,” he said, a look of concern crossing his handsome face.

A stiff wind had sprung up, turning it inhospitably cool. The flag, which had been flying desultorily over the pavilion, now stood straight out from its staff. It looked as if they were in for a sudden change of weather.

Thanking Jack for the tea, Charlotte said good-bye and left.

8

Charlotte held out her cup under the stream of water that spouted from the horn of a Triton at Ainsworth’s Favorite Spring. Sipping it, she found it tasted faintly briny, like Alka-Seltzer. Her brochure said it was recommended for stomach upset, as well as for hangovers.

Ainsworth’s Favorite was the fourth spring on her walking tour of the springs of High Rock Spa.

She had slept hard the night before and had awakened feeling dopey and lethargic. But Frannie had led her to expect that; it would be the second day before she would feel the invigorating effects of the shiatsu massage. Her mood was matched by the weather. The clouds that had been hanging over the mountains had moved in, cloaking the spa in a dank, dismal shroud of gray. She had managed to struggle through Terrain Cure, the lone member of C-group. But instead of taking exercise class, she had returned to the Vale of Springs for the walking tour. She felt as if she needed a walk to regain her balance, to put her thoughts back in order. She preferred to take her exercise in the form of walking anyway, its virtue being that you could both exercise and think at the same time. Instead of occupying your mind with the agony of aching ankles or searing lungs, you could throw it an old problem to chew on. More often than not, it would favor you with a solution.
Solvitur ambulando
, the medieval philosophers had called it: a problem that is solved by walking.

As she had expected, the recent deaths had retreated from their disquieting position at the forefront of her mind, which was now occupied by the simple task of locating the springs. In fact, her low spirits had given way to the sanguine expectancy of a child at a treasure hunt. The route of “A Walking Tour of the Springs of High Rock Spa,” as her brochure was called, followed the banks of Geyser Stream, on either side of which were located many of the springs. At intervals, the route crossed the stream over rustic footbridges from which one could look out over the rushing waters. From Ainsworth’s Favorite, she turned to the Elixir Spring, which issued from a twin fountain less than a yard away. Again, she filled her cup from the horn of the Triton. But the water of the Elixir Spring, which the brochure described as “a fine table water of high mineral content, lightly sparkling,” was sweet and clear. Despite the fact that the springs were located only a few feet from one another, their waters were totally different. It was one of the mysteries of the spa that each spring had its own taste, its own chemical composition, and its own therapeutic effects. The educated palate, the brochure said, could distinguish the waters of one from those of another.

Wary of the highly touted purgative effects of the mineral waters, Charlotte had drunk sparingly from the springs she had visited so far. But at the Elixir Spring, she drank deeply, prompted by the century-old claim that Elixir water gave “strength and courage to the mind.” They were virtues that present circumstances put her in need of. Continuing along the route, she came suddenly upon a spring that shot ten feet into the air from the center of a stone well in a picturesque glade. This was the Champion Spouter, another of High Rock’s famous spouting springs. At the hiss of the eruption, Charlotte felt a shiver run up her spine. It was easy to see why the ancients had been inspired to build temples at such springs: there was something faintly supernatural about waters that shot out of the ground of their own volition. She was struck by the similarity of the ancient Greek spas to their modern counterparts. The ancient Greeks had also sought to create an environment that was removed from the everyday world. In their cure, the sick took sanctuary in the temple for the night. In their dreams, they were visited by Asclepius, who prescribed drugs, baths, or diets. Miraculous cures were effected. The visitation from the God triggered the body’s disease-fighting resources—a concept that wasn’t all that different from Anne-Marie’s notion of creating an environment in which “our bad habits give us up.”

The next spring was the Old Red or Beauty Spring, which was recommended for the skin. It was mineral water from the Old Red Spring that was the chief ingredient in the Body Spa line. In fact, the water was probably pumped to the bottling plant from the cement block structure that stood nearby. The spring was covered by an ornate pavilion, evidence of its historical importance. For a hundred years, spa-goers had been visiting this spring for their rashes and complexions. On impulse, Charlotte splashed some water on her face. As Paulina was fond of saying, “Who knows? It might do some good.” Like the waters of High Rock Spring, the waters of the Old Red were high in magnesium. And radium: the Old Red was one of the springs that had been cited in the radium report. On the lintel of the pavilion were painted the now-ironic words: “Clear and transparent are these precious fonts as purest water of the pebbled brook.” Beneath the lintel, a sign warning of the radium danger recommended limiting consumption to one glass per week.