Murder at the Spa (8 page)

“Come in, come in,” said Paulina. She sat next to Anne-Marie on a Victorian couch upholstered in chartreuse velvet. She sat like a peasant on a milking stool, with her legs apart and her feet planted squarely on the floor. In her hand was a paring knife with which she was stabbing a slice of sausage. She was a tiny woman, less than five feet tall, but she had enormous presence. Her grand features—the strong jaw; the broad, high cheekbones; the small, slightly slanted eyes; the noble nose with its flaring nostrils—were set off by glossy blue-black hair that was pulled tightly back from her commanding forehead into a chignon at the nape of her neck. The result was stern, severe, majestic. She wore a loose caftan patterned in reds, oranges, and greens in which she looked like a gypsy fortune teller.

“Good morning. I see you’ve met my confidential secretary.”

“We’ve met before,” said Charlotte. She smiled at Jack.

Like all Paulina’s male employees, he was handsome, with eyes so blue and eyelashes so curly that they might have been a china doll’s. Although he must have been in his mid-thirties, he had a boyish face that was marred only by the faint scars of a once-bad complexion and a tendency toward puffiness. But it was his manner that was the key to his success with Paulina. He was pleasant, polite, and efficient, but more importantly, he could be at the same time both independent and ingratiating, dashing and deferential. He wouldn’t let Paulina bully him, but nor was he insensitive to her demands. He was the perfect companion-escort-secretary for a forceful and difficult old lady.

Jack escorted Charlotte to one of the chairs facing Paulina, a rococo Louis XV upholstered in a leopard print. As always, Charlotte found herself conscious of Paulina’s odor: a not-unpleasant old lady smell overlaid by the spicy fragrance of one of her own perfumes. In this case, the concert of smells also included the garlicky low note sounded by the sausage.

“Eat, eat,” she bellowed. Like many elderly people who are slightly hard of hearing, she spoke too loudly. She offered the tip of the knife to Charlotte with a small neat hand embellished with a cabochon ruby that together with its showy gold setting was the size of a golf ball.

“Thank you.”

“Crackers?” she asked, offering Charlotte a box of soda crackers from the coffee table, one of several that were scattered around the room.

Charlotte accepted gratefully. She was hungry after her meager breakfast and the Terrain Cure workout.

“Anne-Marie?” said Paulina, offering her the sausage.

“No thank you.”

“I know, calories.” With a forefinger, she pressed the tail of a cloisonné turtle on the coffee table, producing a loud ring.

Jack, who had disappeared into the adjoining office, reappeared.

“Jack, get Anne-Marie some crudités. Carrots, celery—you know.”

Jack accepted Paulina’s bullying with grace. She was like a willful spoiled child, but you couldn’t help being seduced by her youthful vitality. It was this quality of gameness that Charlotte admired in Paulina. At eighty, she was still curious, still looking for new challenges.

Anne-Marie turned down the offer, explaining that she had to leave.

“Get them anyway,” commanded Paulina. “Sonny’s coming. Then I want you to take Miss …”—she hitched a thumb at Charlotte—“around.” She addressed Charlotte: “Will you excuse us while we talk shop for a few minutes?” Without waiting for a reply, she turned to Jack. “Show her the art.”

While Charlotte awaited Jack’s return, Paulina and Anne-Marie talked about the new Body Spa line, designed to appeal to a younger, more active woman than the other Langenberg lines. It appeared that Anne-Marie was responsible, if not for the original idea, then for its development and marketing.

Jack reappeared shortly with the crudités. He then proceeded to give Charlotte a brief tour of Paulina’s collection, about which he was gracious and knowledgeable. Charlotte had often visited Paulina’s New York apartment, where most of her collection was displayed. In fact, it was through Charlotte’s fourth husband, who was also an art collector, that she had become friendly with Paulina, although they had known each other for years. Charlotte’s husband collected on a modest scale, but Paulina was one of the great collectors of her generation—patron would be a better description, for she had been buying from artists like Braque and Léger before anyone had ever heard of Cubism. Likewise, she had been among the first to collect African art. Both turned out to be, like everything she put her hand on, good investments.

The tour ended back in the living room.

“How did you like it?” asked Paulina.

“Very impressive. I would have thought all your masterpieces were in New York, but it looks as if you have a few here as well.”

Paulina grinned. “Some of them aren’t so great, but I keep them because they remind me of the good old days, the days when you could still buy good art for cheap. Tell me, which one did you like the best?”

“The Matisse in Jack’s room,” replied Charlotte, referring to a stunning odalisque. It was a testimony to the scope of Paulina’s collection that a masterpiece worthy of a great museum was hanging in her secretary’s bedroom.

“It’s his favorite too. I bought it from Matisse in Nice. You wouldn’t believe what I paid for it. What do you think of that one?” She pointed to a large abstract hanging next to a Picasso drawing.

It was a pleasant enough painting, but it appeared to be the work of a talented amateur. “Very nice. Who’s the artist?”

Paulina looked smug. “A discovery of mine. In fact, you might call him my creation.” Her eyes twinkled. “You’ll meet him later. I knew you’d appreciate it. Most people can’t tell a good painting from a bad.”

Charlotte took the compliment with a grain of salt.

“We were talking about the poor woman who died. Did you meet her?”

“Only briefly.”

“Anne-Marie was just telling me that she was a drug addict. Drug overdose—it’s better. We can’t be blamed. After all, we can’t be babysitting our clients every last minute of the day.”

Anne-Marie had risen to leave.

“Before you go, I want to ask you something,” said Paulina. “Tell me”—she took Anne-Marie’s hand in hers—“are you interested in the Seltzer Boy?”

It was one of Paulina’s many idiosyncrasies that she couldn’t remember names. It wasn’t just her age; it had always been true. But she had nicknames for everyone. Charlotte guessed that the Seltzer Boy was the president of High Rock Waters, with whom Anne-Marie’s name had been linked in the gossip columns.

“The Seltzer Boy.” Anne-Marie smiled. “I like that. I’ll have to tell him. He’ll like it too. Yes, I am interested.”

“Aha,” said Paulina. She pounded her chest with her fist, rattling the gold beads that cascaded down her bosom. “I knew it. I know what’s going on.” She raised a red-lacquered fingernail to her cheekbone. “Nothing escapes these old eyes.” She smiled benevolently. “I’m very happy for you, my dear.”

“Thank you. I don’t know if anything will come of it—” She kissed Paulina good-bye on the cheek.

“It will, don’t worry. Paulina knows. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said as Anne-Marie headed toward the door.

Once Anne-Marie had left, she turned her attention back to Charlotte: “Tomorrow is our five-year anniversary,” she explained. “We’re having a lawn fete. A publicity stunt—you know. We’re going to launch our new line—the Body Spa line. Would you like to be our guest?”

“I’d be delighted.”

“Good. I’ll have Jack send you an official invitation.” She returned to the subject of Anne-Marie: “She deserves a good man.” She held a cracker between her thumb and forefinger, her little finger cocked. “After that creep she used to be married to.”

Charlotte thought it an apt description of Dr. Sperry.

“My Mistake, I call him. I should fire him. I should have fired him a long time ago. I’ve only kept him on as a favor to her.” A look of love crept into her sharp old eyes. “She’s like a daughter to me. My daughter—I should be so lucky. Then I wouldn’t have any problems. Such problems!” She waved the cracker in the air, bracelets jangling. “All my life, I’ve worked to build the business.” She popped the cracker into her mouth. “And now my health is giving out.” She pulled up her hem to display a knee swollen to the size of a cantelope. “My heart, my circulation … I’m not going to live forever.”

“I wouldn’t take any bets on it,” said Charlotte.

Paulina looked over at her with a twinkle in her eye. “I don’t do badly for an old bag, do I?” Leaning over, she picked up a black leather notebook from the coffee table. Pasted to the cover was a typed label reading: “The Last Will and Testament of Paulina L. Langenberg.” “But what am I going to do? Leave it all to my Sonny?” She tossed the notebook back on the table. “He’d ruin me in five minutes.
Après moi, le déluge
.” She pressed the turtle buzzer again. “Bring us some mineral water,” she yelled. “And don’t forget my vitamins.”

Her attention had switched to her guest’s appearance. “You look very chic,” she said admiringly. “You always wear neutral colors—very chic.” Sticking her neck out like a chicken, she peered into Charlotte’s face. “What do you use on your skin?” she asked.

“Paulina Langenberg,” Charlotte replied. “Crème Hungaria.”

Paulina grinned like a Cheshire cat. “I knew it. I can tell. Such good skin. See, it works. After all these years, it’s still my biggest seller. People wouldn’t keep using it if it didn’t work.” Sticking her neck out again, she scrutinized Charlotte’s face suspiciously. “And for lipstick?”

Charlotte confessed to using a product manufactured by That Woman.

“How
can
you?” Paulina moaned. Leaning over, she reached into a drawer and pulled out a lipstick in a distinctive mint green tube. “From our new line. You’ll like it.” She removed the cap and twisted the end to display the color. “It’s a good color for you.” She thrust it into Charlotte’s hand.

“Thank you,” said Charlotte, depositing it in her pocketbook. Every time she visited Paulina she went home with a new lipstick.

“The Body Spa line has over a hundred new products.” She pulled a mint green jar out of the drawer. “Every one contains mineral water.” She pointed to the silver label, which read: “Contains mineral water from the famous High Rock Spa.” “Mineral water is very high in magnesium. That’s why Hungarians have such beautiful skin—the waters of Budapest are very high in magnesium. Look!” She ran her fingers down an olive cheek that was remarkably free of wrinkles.

“Amazing,” said Charlotte, who was accustomed to being called upon to admire Paulina’s complexion. “I’ve never known a woman of your age with such a youthful complexion. But I didn’t know it was the mineral waters of Budapest that were responsible,” she teased. “I thought it was Crème Hungaria.”

“That too,” said Paulina, smiling. “I’m a good advertisement, no?”

The doorbell rang, and Jack went to answer it.

The man who entered was conservatively dressed in a navy blue pin-striped suit and was carrying a leather attaché case. He wore horn-rimmed eyeglasses in a fashionable shade of blond tortoise shell. “Good morning, Aunt Paulina,” he said. Coming over to the couch, he kissed Paulina on the cheek.

“Leon!” said Paulina, returning his kiss.

Charlotte noticed a family resemblance. He had Paulina’s olive complexion, prominent nose, and high forehead. But his face lacked the drama of Paulina’s, an impression that may have been fostered by a weak jaw, beneath which was blooming the beginning of a double chin.

Jack emerged from the kitchen with the mineral water and vitamins.

“Put it there,” said Paulina, gesturing toward the coffee table. Jack set the tray down and retreated into the office.

“Leon, I want you to meet someone very important … A movie star—one of the greatest. My nephew, Leon Wolfe.”

“Charlotte Graham,” proffered Charlotte, coming to Paulina’s rescue.

They exchanged greetings. Charlotte put his age at about fifty; his curly black hair had long ago receded from his prominent temples and he had a definite paunch. She noticed as he sat down that he wore bright purple socks—the only flamboyant note in his otherwise conservative attire.

“Do you want something to eat, Leon?” Paulina asked, her hand reaching out for the turtle buzzer.

Leon placed his hand over hers. “If I do, I’ll get it myself. You’re going to run Jack ragged. Besides, that thing drives me crazy.”

“Okay, okay,” said Paulina.

“Are you involved in the Langenberg business?” asked Charlotte.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Leon takes care of the money,” interjected Paulina. She downed her vitamins with a swig of mineral water. “I’d be lost without him.”

“That’s what she says, but she won’t make me an officer of the company,” said Leon. He spoke in teasing tones, but his words were barbed.

“I give him a job, I give him stock—now he wants to be an officer of the company. He wants everything yesterday,” Paulina complained. She turned to him. “You have to learn patience. You’ll get what you want—in time. You are my rock; I can rely on you. You’re not like that airhead of a son of mine.” She nodded at a photograph of a bearded man at the helm of a sailboat. “How many times have we bailed him out, Leon?” Shielding her eyes against the answer, she asked, “Where is it going to end?” She addressed Charlotte: “You wouldn’t believe what we’re paying his ex-wives. And not one of them loved him.” Her expression turned sympathetic. “Poor Sonny—all they were after was his money.
My
money,” she added, pointing at her bosom. “His low-life friends are even worse. When they’re not sponging off him, they’re getting him into trouble. Like that drug business last year.” She stabbed another slice of sausage. “How much did that end up costing us, Leon?”

“About fifty thousand as I recall.”

“Fifty thousand. Do you believe it? Fifty thousand to get him off. The year before that, it was the drunk driving charge.” She proceeded to recite a litany of scandals, business failures, and “cockeyed schemes” that her son had been involved in. “Now I give him a nice job—a much better job than managing the San Francisco salon—and he turns my spa into a hippie commune.” She turned to Leon. “How much are we paying that hippie in the kitchen?”