Murder Under the Palms (22 page)

“I remember those ads,” Eddie said, raising his eyebrows.

“As fate would have it, the movie director Howard Weiss saw one of the bathing suit ads and invited me out to Hollywood for a screen test. And that was the beginning of my Hollywood career.”

“In other words, if you hadn’t been corrupted by the count, you would have led a respectable life as a Connecticut matron, and I never would have met you.”

“Basically, yes,” she said. She raised her glass: “Here’s to Count Alex Koprosky and his satyric depredations.”

The band had taken their places on the bandstand and had started to play. The song was “La Cumparsita.” It was a obviously a band that catered to the musical tastes of Charlotte and Eddie’s generation, For a moment, they watched as the couples drifted out to the dance floor. Then Eddie asked her to dance, and they followed Lydia and her tanned swain down the aisle between the tables.

If Lydia recognized Charlotte, she gave no indication of it.

The song was a tango. Charlotte had forgotten what a good dancer Eddie was, how beautifully they danced together. Doing the tango always made her feel as if they should be hangers-on at a baroque middle European hotel, awaiting the last train out before the tanks came rumbling down the boulevard. In other words, as if they were all alone, surrounded by a hostile world.

“I’m glad we met up, Charlotte,” Eddie whispered in her ear as he held her close. “I never thought I would feel this way again.”

“Nor did I,” she said, thinking that maybe her life was going to travel in gentle arabesques after all. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” she whispered back. “It’s February fourteenth.”

Eddie looked surprised. “And so it is,” he said.

Afterward, they took a walk on the moonlit beach. Though they had been up since dawn, neither of them was tired. Unlike the night that Paul had been murdered, which was the last time Charlotte had been on the beach, there wasn’t the stiff breeze that sometimes gave tropical nights an eerie feeling. Instead, the air was sweet and balmy, and the surf as gentle as a lake. They walked hand in hand down the beach, carrying their shoes, feeling the cool sand squish between their toes. From town they could hear strains of music from the cocktail lounges of the brightly lit hotels along the beach.

On their way back, Charlotte bent down to pick out a glistening shell from the center of a tangled mat of dark brown seaweed. Its bands circled the opalescent body like ringlets of fine, glossy brown curls.

“What kind of shell is it?” Eddie asked.

“It’s a tulip shell,” Charlotte said as she brushed off the sand. “It’s spiraled,” she added, tracing the pattern of the brown bands with her forefinger. “Always moving upward and onward, but always coming back to the same place.” She looked over at Eddie. “Kind of like us.”

Eddie pointed to the flat base of the cone-shaped shell. “If I understand you, you’re saying that we were here, and now”—he pointed to the tip of the cone—“we’re here.”

“That’s right. Fifty-three annual rotations later.” She touched a finger to the tip. “The peak.”

“I hope not,” Eddie said. “I think I’m good for a few more go-rounds.”

They arose early the next morning for their flight to Boston, and immediately upon landing set off for Hadfield in their rental car, stopping briefly at a sporting goods store along the way to buy some winter clothes for Eddie, who, coming from California, was ill-equipped for a northeastern winter. (Though Charlotte hadn’t brought any winter clothes to Florida, she at least had the suit and coat she had worn on the flight down.) Hadfield was located in the northeastern corner of Connecticut—“the quiet corner,” their map called it—about an hour and a half from Boston. The drive was lovely. It was a perfect February day: sunny and in the forties, with a cloudless blue sky. There had been a light snowfall the day before, and the snow-clad fields sparkled in the morning sun. Charlotte had forgotten how picture-postcard-perfect this part of Connecticut was. The rural country road that took them on the last leg of their journey wound its way past elegant old farmhouses and stately old barns—all of them prosperous-looking and picturesque. There was hardly a split level to be seen, much less any of the mobile homes that were a blight on many another rural landscape. But then, this corner of Connecticut only pretended to an agrarian economy: what appeared to be working farms had for generations been the elegant country retreats of wealthy families from Boston, Providence, and New York who preferred a quieter lifestyle than that offered by the more social summer resorts of Newport or Southampton.

Looking out at the snow-blanketed hills and fields, Charlotte felt an overwhelming sense of being home. As enamored as she was with the land of the lotus-eaters, it was this landscape that was part of her soul.

Once they left the highway, she found her sense of the geography coming back, and she pointed out various sights to Eddie: the pond where she used to ice skate, the house where the headmistress had lived, the office of the female physician who had tended to the students’ ailments. Just before entering Hadfield, they passed the boys’ prep school that had been their brother school. Unlike Miss Walker’s, it was still thriving. Seeing the ivy-covered walls, Charlotte was reminded of the formal mixers: the crystal bowls of fruit juice punch, the stern glances of the chaperones, and the boys themselves—gangly, pimply-faced, awkward. No wonder the high-living Alex had been so enticing.

They arrived at the outskirts of Hadfield five minutes later. One always knew when one had entered Hadfield by the stone walls lining the roads, most of which had been built by Italian stonemasons at the direction of Dorothy Welland’s father, whose summer estate had comprised several hundred acres at the center of town. Other summer residents had followed suit, with the resultant miles of stone walls giving the landscape of Hadfield a visual consistency and elegance that was lacking in the neighboring towns. A few minutes later, they passed the site of Miss Walker’s. A modern garden apartment complex now occupied the grounds, which was identified by a sign as “Hadfield Hills Apartments.” All that was left of the former school was a stone wall that had once enclosed a sunken rose garden.

Gazing out at the apartment buildings, Charlotte felt absolutely no sorrow at the loss of her school. If ever there was an institution that deserved to be consigned to oblivion, it was Miss Walker’s School for Girls.

A moment later, they pulled into the driveway of High Gate Fitness Camp, as the former High Gate Farm was now known.

The farm had been called High Gate because it stood on a ridge overlooking the rolling countryside, and because of the elegant white wooden gate in the stone wall that ran past the front door. In those days it had been one of the most picturesque farmsteads in a valley of picturesque farmsteads, and it remained so today. A parking lot had been added, but beyond that it looked much the same. After parking the car, they headed into the office, which was located in the count’s old hexagonal stone clubhouse. Entering, Charlotte was struck by how much smaller the clubhouse looked than it had years before to an impressionable teenaged girl. Smaller, and more ordinary. Of course it was an office now, but even the great arched stone fireplace that had been the centerpiece of so many of the count’s parties no longer looked as glamorous as it had then. With a roaring fire, the hunting trophies hanging on the walls, and the collection of antique guns and knives, the clubhouse had appeared to her then like a Hollywood movie set, and the count like a leading man on the silver screen. Little had she known what glamorous movie sets lay only a short distance in her future.

Approaching the front desk, Charlotte introduced herself to the receptionist as Mrs. Lundstrom, which had been her married name, and Eddie simply as Mr. Norwood. She was counting on the receptionist being young enough not to make the connection with Eddie Norwood, the famous bandleader. Though Charlotte was tolerant of the celebrity business—it was her bread and butter, after all—she didn’t want to be bothered with it now. After she explained that she was looking for the manager, the receptionist disappeared into an inner office and returned in the company of a man who introduced himself as Tony Pardo.

He was a short, stocky man with bulging biceps and a pleasant manner who listened patiently as Charlotte explained that they were seeking information about two young men who had been associates of the count, and then inquired if he could refer them to someone who had worked at the farm.

“I think your best bet would be Clara Johnstone,” he said. “She worked in the main house as a housekeeper for Dorothy and the count, but she took a motherly interest in those young men. She still lives in the same house.” He pointed down the road. “The third house down on the right—a red Cape.”

“Thank you very much,” said Charlotte. As she was turning to leave, she noticed that Pardo had leaned back against the edge of the desk and crossed his arms. She had forgotten: business couldn’t be dispensed with this quickly in rural Connecticut. She turned back. “How long have you lived here?” she asked.

“My wife and I bought the farm in ’75. We run it as a camp for kids in the summer and as a fitness center for adults during the rest of the year. It’s been rough going, but we’re making it. We never knew the count of course, but we hear stories.” He looked at Charlotte. “Did you know him?”

Charlotte nodded. “I was a student at Miss Walker’s.”

“One of those, eh?” he said with a smile.

She held up her hands in mock denial. “I wasn’t at the notorious skinny-dipping party, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“If you were, I wouldn’t hold it against you,” he said. “I’ll tell you one thing: there isn’t a woman of a certain age around here who doesn’t swoon when the count’s name comes up in conversation.” He laughed. “He must have been quite a guy.”

“He was,” Charlotte said, exchanging looks with Eddie. “At least to an impressionable girl of seventeen.”

“I’ll tell you another thing,” Tony went on, “that in spite of all his carryings-on, the people around here thought very highly of him. Everybody always thought he had been imprisoned unjustly. A lot of the local people even testified on his behalf, though it didn’t do him much good.”

“The country was still reeling from Pearl Harbor,” Charlotte explained. “People were convinced there were spies everywhere. The prosecution couldn’t see him for what he really was—an innocent dreamer. But that’s why everybody loved him. They loved him the way people love a poet or a balladeer.”

“Aren’t you gilding the lily a little, Charlotte?” Eddie asked.

“Maybe,” she said.

“It must have been something to see him driving those Pierce Arrows around town,” Tony continued. “Speaking of dreamers, did you know that he was going to make football the national sport of Russia?”

“This is after the Romanovs were restored to the throne?” Eddie said.

“Of course,” Tony replied. “With Count Aleksandr Koprosky installed as president of a new constitutional monarchy.”

“I didn’t know that, but it sounds like him,” Charlotte said. “I do know that he loved football. I once attended a Brown game with him. He thought the team played so well that he bought the goal post from the college.” She nodded at the far wall. “He used to have it standing right over there.”

They all looked over at the blank stone wall.

“He said he wanted it as a symbol of what a small, dedicated group could do,” she explained.

“As if restoring the Romanovs to the throne was on the same level as winning a football game,” said Eddie. “I’ll say he was a dreamer.”

“All that stuff was sold at auction before we came here, including the swastika banners,” Tony said. The phone had started to ring and he turned to pick it up. “Good luck with Clara,” he said over his shoulder.

They thanked him and headed out.

Clara Johnstone’s house was a small Cape Cod that must have dated back to the early 1800s. It stood sideways to the road, which was lined by a row of old sugar maples and a stone wall. A big old barn, connected to the house via a shed, stood at the back, and an English setter was chained to a woodpile in the yard. They parked in the driveway, which encircled a gnarled old apple tree, and walked up a flagstone path to the front door, setting off a chorus of barks from the dog. Since puffs of smoke could be seen coming out of the chimney, they assumed that Clara Johnstone was at home.

Their knock was answered by Mrs. Johnstone herself, a tall woman with blue eyes and hair as white as the fresh coat of snow covering her yard. Charlotte guessed her to be in her mid-eighties.

Charlotte had concocted an elaborate explanation for their visit, but it turned out that none was needed. At the mention of Tony’s name, Mrs. Johnstone escorted them into a comfortable parlor where a cast-iron wood stove was thumping away. The aroma of baking bread wafted in from the kitchen.

“We’re here to inquire about two young men who were associated with Count Koprosky,” Charlotte said as they sat down on a couch that was covered with a hand-knitted afghan throw. “We were wondering if you could identify them from their pictures and tell us a little bit about them.”

“I’ll do my best,” Mrs. Johnstone said cheerfully. “I knew most of them.” She lifted the reading glasses that hung from around her neck and set them on the bridge of her nose.

Opening her handbag, Charlotte withdrew the photo of Paul Feder wearing the swastika armbands, and handed it to her.

“Why, this one’s easy. That’s Paul Federov. He was … How shall I put it? The teacher’s pet, I guess you’d say. He was a favorite of the count’s. Which was a bit of a surprise, since they were so different. Paul was very quiet, artistic. But very devoted to the count.”

“Then the count would have been a kind of father figure?” Charlotte asked.

“Very much so,” Clara agreed.

Which might explain why Paul was drawn into the sabotage scheme. He might have thought that it was something the count would approve of. Charlotte handed Mrs. Johnstone the other photo and pointed to the young man whom they believed to be Wilhelm Roehrer. “And this one?”