Murder at the Spa (18 page)

“I now pronounce you testate,” said Mr. Bates. With that, he shook Paulina’s hand and put the official copy away in his briefcase.

The deed was done.

Paulina held the black notebook out to Jack. “Jack, please put this back in the cabinet.” Reaching into her bosom, she withdrew the key. “One more thing. We need a new spa director. I’ve decided to make the director of the men’s baths—The Italian One with the Muscles—acting spa director.”

“Jerry D’Angelo?”

“Yes. The guests like him. I like him. A nice family man. A former policeman—that can come in handy. Tell him it’s only temporary, but we’ll see how it works out. We’ll have to find another medical director too. Start looking around. Did My Mistake get his walking papers yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Make sure he gets them on Monday. I want him out,” she said as Jack headed toward the glass vitrine. “And while you’ve got that unlocked, get out a couple of jars of caviar. And then get some crackers and a couple of bottles of champagne from the kitchen. We’re going to have a celebration.”

Displayed on the lighted glass shelves of the vitrine was an improbable collection of articles: only in an apartment of Paulina’s would one find a Lalique vase, a horned black African fetish, and a replica of the Statue of Liberty intermingled with a dozen cans of gourmet food.

“It’s safer there,” Paulina explained as she noticed Charlotte eyeing the jars of blanched asparagus and cans of pâté de foie gras. “If I didn’t lock it up these freeloaders would eat me out of house and home.”

Unlocking the cabinet, Jack replaced the notebook on a shelf next to a jade bowl and withdrew two jars of beluga caviar.

Gravel Gertie would have been envious.

Paulina then turned to Leon: “Now that I’ve made you my heir, there’s something I want you to do.
Get married!
I want you to pass the business along to your children. There are lots of nice girls out there looking for rich husbands. Forty-eight, and still a bachelor!”

“Yes, Aunt Paulina,” said Leon.

“Good.” Business concluded, Paulina switched to the subject of movies. Movies were her favorite form of relaxation, she said. She often went to Times Square to catch the latest releases. With the blanket draped around her shoulders and her hair in a braid, she looked like an Indian squaw in a B-grade western. She was curious about the makeup used in Charlotte’s most recent movie, in which she was made to look as if she’d aged dramatically.

But before Charlotte could reply, Jack appeared at the door in the company of a tall, distinguished-looking man in an immaculately tailored suit. He had a round, balding head and a dark, handsome face. He was introduced as Dr. Aldo Castelli, Paulina’s personal physician.

“Good morning, Doctor,” said Paulina. She waved an arm at the assembly in her room. “We’re having a celebration.”

“I see,” said Dr. Castelli. Nodding hello to the group, he crossed the room and took a seat on the edge of the bed. Taking Paulina’s hand in his, he raised it to his lips. “I am very happy to see that
la bella signora
is feeling better.” He spoke with a smooth Italian accent.

Paulina, whose various personalities ranged from raging termagant to shrewd businesswoman to benevolent empress, now revealed still another side of her character: the flirtatious coquette. “Much better,” she replied, batting her heavily mascaraed eyelashes, “Thanks to you, Doctor.”

“No, madam,” protested Dr. Castelli, “it is the patient who does the work of healing.” His expression took on a look of concern. “I’m very pleased that you’re feeling up to entertaining. But I want to make certain you’re completely well. I’d like you to undergo a complete battery of tests.”

Paulina gave him an uncooperative look. It was clear she didn’t want to take the time to have a physical exam.

“Besides,” he added, “I’ve come all the way up from New York to take care of you. We want to make the trip worthwhile, do we not?”

Dr. Castelli was a shrewd student of patient psychology. If flattery didn’t convince Paulina, getting her money’s worth surely would.

He took her hand in his. “Will you do this for me?”

She capitulated. “Whatever you say, Doctor.”

“Thank you, madam,” he said with a little bow. “I’ve already taken the liberty of making an appointment for you at High Rock Hospital. Will this afternoon be all right?”

“Yes, yes,” she replied, impatient with the specifics. “Now, Doctor,” she said, “will you join us for some champagne?”

Charlotte had been hoping for a few minutes alone with Paulina. Now that she was feeling better, Charlotte felt an obligation to fill her in on Art’s death and on what she’d discovered about the radium story. But it was obvious that her opportunity wouldn’t come today.

Jack had reappeared with the caviar and the champagne, which he was now pouring. As he handed her a glass, Charlotte decided she would leave the task of informing Paulina of Art’s death up to him, since he seemed to make a specialty of breaking unpleasant news.

“What are we celebrating?” asked Dr. Castelli.

“I have disinherited my son,” Paulina announced.

The doctor frowned. “I am afraid, signora, that I do not consider such a matter a cause for celebration, if only because the rift with your son has caused you such anguish.” He smiled. “But I am always happy to drink to the continued good health of one of my most glamorous patients.”

Paulina grinned.

“You may not consider it a cause for celebration, Dr. Castelli, but I do,” said Leon. He raised his glass in a toast. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” said Paulina.

Following her bath that afternoon, Charlotte headed over to the Health Pavilion for an herbal wrap. She remembered Adele’s comment that it had made her feel as if she were being buried alive, and wondered what she was in for. But she found it to be, if not a quasi-mystical experience, a delightful one. After being anointed with a sweet-smelling herbal lotion, she was wrapped, mummylike, in warm linen sheets and ordered to rest while the herbs penetrated her skin. And so she had, to the sweet strains of a Mozart concerto. After an hour, the therapist had returned to unwrap her. To her amazement, she had emerged from her linen cocoon with skin as smooth and silky as a newborn’s.

She was changing when her ears were assailed by a twangy, high-pitched voice with an unmistakable West Texas drawl: “Charlotte!” it shrieked. It was Mary Jane Jacoby, also known as M.J., the wife of the producer of several of Charlotte’s movies. M.J. was not one of Charlotte’s favorite people. She was the kind of person who offended by virtue of her sheer stupidity. She simply didn’t have brains enough to be tactful. And if not by virtue of her stupidity, by virtue of her insufferable good humor. Never had Charlotte known her to complain, to suffer, to regret: she faced the world with the mindless good cheer of the mental defective.

Turning, Charlotte saw M.J. gliding across the locker room. Or rather, an apparition of M.J.: her chin was locked in place by an elastic chin strap and her round, childlike face was covered by the spa’s Black Gold mud pack, the chief ingredient of which was purportedly the same mineral-rich Dead Sea mud that had been prized by Cleopatra (but which Charlotte suspected came from Paulina’s Long Island City factory). Only M.J.’s vacant baby-blue eyes and her large, expertly capped teeth showed through the black goo.

“How are ya, honey?” She gripped Charlotte by the shoulders and pecked the air on either side of her face in a Hollywood embrace. In her chin strap and spa-issue white terry-cloth robe and turban, she looked like a swami with a toothache. Or rather, a swami with a toothache who had been playing with matches. On her hands, she wore large, pink, bandagelike mittens.

“Fine,” replied Charlotte. “M.J., what are those on your hands?”

“Electric warming mits, honey.” She raised her forearms to display the battery packs strapped to her wrists. “They help the moisturizer penetrate the skin. I usually wear ’em just at night, but I figure I might as well wear ’em as much as I can while I’m here.”

“I see,” said Charlotte, raising an eyebrow.

She suddenly remembered that it was because of people like M.J. that she had always avoided spas. M.J., in fact, could be called a spa groupie: she was one of those rich women with nothing better to do than traipse around from one expensive spa to another in search of eternal youth.

“Now don’t you go makin’ fun of me, Charlotte Graham,” M.J. chided. “When you get to be our age, you need all the help you can get. Speakin’ of which, you never told me you were gettin’ the treatments. I should have known. No one could look as good as you do and not be gettin’ some help.”

“What treatments?”

“Cell therapy.” M.J. stared at her in disbelief. “You mean, you’re not here for the treatments?”

Charlotte shook her head.

“Well, I declare. I thought that’s why everybody came here. Of course, this is nice, but why should I travel three thousand miles when I have a whole bunch of spas right at home in California. I’m talkin’ about cell therapy, honey. Youth, rejuvenation.” She rotated her hips. “Sex-u-al vigor.”

Charlotte played dumb. “I thought cell therapy was only available in Switzerland.”

“Oh, no. You can get the treatments right here. Dr. Sperry gives ’em.” She lowered her voice. “It’s cheaper here too. Of course, it’s all on the q.t.—the U.S. hasn’t approved cell therapy yet. When it comes to anything healthy, you can count on us bein’ way behind the rest of the world …”

“If it’s illegal, how does he get away with it?”

“He only takes patients who’ve been personally referred. That way he can be pretty sure they’re not goin’ to give him trouble. But listen, honey, there’s absolutely nothin’ wrong with it. They’ve been using cells for years in Europe. And it works: that’s why I look so young.” She laughed.

Preserved, was more like it. M.J.’s face had been lifted so many times that it looked as if it would rupture if she assumed any expression other than her perennial ear-to-ear smile.

“If you’re interested, I can ask Dr. Sperry to take you on.”

“Actually, I was just on my way up to see him for my checkup.”

“Why, that’s perfect. I’ll just call upstairs right this very minute and tell him you’re a good friend of mine.”

“Thanks.”

“Believe me, you won’t regret it. I feel a million times better since I started. Irwin does too; it’s done wonders for our sex life.” She gave Charlotte a dig in the ribs. “Maybe it’ll spice yours up a little too.”

“I doubt that,” said Charlotte dryly.

“Oh, I forgot,” said M.J., raising a mittened hand to her lips. “You got rid of Jack Lundstrom, didn’t you?”

Unfortunately, the chin strap wasn’t enough to stop M.J.’s wagging tongue. “I think it was the other way around,” she replied.

M.J. was referring to Charlotte’s fourth husband, who had divorced her a few years before. He was a successful businessman who had expanded the family manufacturing company into a multinational conglomerate. She’d always thought she’d find happiness with a man whose achievements matched hers, but in a different field. But it hadn’t worked out. He hadn’t wanted to be Mr. Charlotte Graham. He had wanted someone to decorate his houses and serve as his hostess. But they had parted amicably and remained friends.

M.J. giggled. “That’s right. These men—none of ’em can stand livin’ in a woman’s limelight. I’m sorry, honey, but you go through ’em so fast I can’t keep up with you.”

In fact, Charlotte had been married for ten years to her second husband, and would probably be married to him still if he hadn’t died of a heart attack when she was in her late thirties. Her first marriage, to a hometown boy, had fallen apart when she went to Hollywood. And her third, to one of her leading men, had simply been a mistake. After losing Will, she’d been lonely; he was handsome and charming. He was also a drunkard and a womanizer, but she wasn’t going to waste her time explaining that to M.J.

“Anyway, the treatments will get you geared up for the next one. Listen, honey, just because we’re almost old enough to collect social security doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy a little roll in the hay once in a while.”

Charlotte had to smile.

9

M.J. might have had her failings, but she could pull the right strings. On her word, Charlotte was sitting in Sperry’s office a few minutes later listening to his pitch on cell therapy. It was true she had taken advantage of M.J.’s connections, but she figured the end justified the means. She wasn’t sure what she stood to gain from talking with Sperry, but he seemed as good a place to start as any. Frannie’s offhand remark that it was Sperry who had been responsible for Adele’s death was the only lead she had to go on, and a pretty slim one at that. Yes, Adele could have died of an allergic reaction. In fact, the chances of an adverse reaction were probably greater for someone who was taking drugs. But that didn’t explain why Art had died. Nor did it explain the position of the feet. On the other hand, the fact that Sperry was among the first on the scene in both cases raised her suspicions. It reminded her of the popular wisdom that you can always find the arsonist at the scene of the fire. It was also Sperry who had first attributed Adele’s death to drowning subsequent to a drug overdose.

As she listened, she wondered how to approach the subject of allergic reaction without tipping him off. At least she didn’t dread this meeting the way she might have earlier in the week. Five days of mutually disagreeable spa checkups (Sperry wasn’t accustomed to being rebuffed by patients who objected to his constant stream of unctuous flattery) had finally led to a bilateral agreement: she would let down her frosty guard in return for his acting more like the professional he purported to be.

As she expected, he began with “what cell therapy will do for you.” According to Sperry, cells were the panacea for all the ills to which the flesh is heir. He reeled off a list of complaints. Sex life slipping? Skin wrinkling? Flesh sagging? Memory failing? Going bald? Feeling blue? Nerves strained? Overweight? Tired out? Suffering from: insomnia, stomach upset, headaches, heart disease, high blood pressure, bowel irregularities, or too small a bosom? Name a condition or disease, and Sperry’s patent medicine would cure it. The only major condition he didn’t mention was cancer, and that was only because he was smart enough not to invite an investigation by the authorities. His pitch reminded her of that of the. European “monkey gland” doctors of the twenties who had implanted thin slices of chimp testicles into the testicles of their male patients. The treatment was supposed to restore youthfulness and renew sexual vigor. In her youth, she’d known several older actors whose putative virility was attributed to doctors who were members of the so-called “erector set.”