Murder Under the Palms (3 page)

The year before, Dede had suggested to her mother that she collaborate with Paul on an art deco jewelry collection to be previewed at a dinner dance at Lydia Collins’ home, which was called Villa Normandie. The party, at which prominent guests would display the jewelry, would have a
Normandie
theme and would be a fundraiser for the preservation association.

The idea had been a big success. In a town in which social life revolved around charity functions, the quest was for a novel idea. Apparently, the combination of the
Normandie
theme and the jewelry collection debut was just the ticket to appeal to jaded Palm Beach socialites. The party was to take the form of a captain’s dinner that had been held on the 100th sailing of the
Normandie
, which had taken place in the summer of 1938.

“How are the plans coming, my dear?” asked Connie of her granddaughter, who was the assistant to Lydia Collins, chairman of the benefit.

“Fine,” said Dede. “A few last minute glitches, which is to be expected. But we’ve sold out all three hundred tickets at five hundred dollars apiece. We expect to net about a hundred thousand dollars, which is good since we need the money desperately. We’ve been having a serious budget shortfall.”

“To put it euphemistically,” said Paul. “Without this benefit, Dede wouldn’t be getting her next paycheck.”

“Paul is the treasurer of the association,” Dede explained. “And he’s on the board of the Palm Beach Civic Association, as well.” She looked over at him fondly. “He’s known around town as Mr. Palm Beach.”

Paul smiled. “It’s good for business.”

“Speaking of business,” said Marianne, “I think we should look at the collection now.” She turned to Paul. “How much time do we have before dinner?”

He checked his watch. “About twenty minutes,” he replied, then rose and led his guests to a heavy Spanish-style side table on which half a dozen jewelry boxes were set out. “I’ve taken the liberty of choosing the pieces that each of you will wear. But I can assure you that only the finest pieces will be modeled by those present.”

“Oh, what fun!” said Connie, clapping her hands in anticipation. She gazed eagerly at the assortment of various-sized boxes on the table. They were made of lapis-blue calfskin with the words “Feder Jewelers, Fine Jewelry Since 1924, Paris, New York, Palm Beach” embossed in gold lettering on the lid, along with a family crest.

Paul picked up one of the boxes and held it out in front of Connie. “For Madame,” he said as he opened it. Resting on the white satin lining was a magnificent bracelet of diamonds and sapphires set in a chevron design, with earrings to match.

Connie removed the earrings she was wearing and clipped on the new pair. “They’re gorgeous,” she said as she admired the earrings in a gilded mirror that hung over the table. Then she fastened the bracelet around her wrist, and held it up to the mirror.

The blue of the sapphires perfectly matched her eyes.

“Do you like them?” Marianne asked.

Connie leaned over and kissed her daughter. “You’ve done it again, my dear. I’m so proud of you.”

Marianne stood by with arms folded, assessing the effect of her creations on Connie’s image in the mirror. “It helps to have someone in mind to design the jewelry for,” she said graciously.

“You designed these for me?” Connie asked, and her daughter nodded.

“And for Monsieur …” Paul said. He opened a small box to reveal a diamond-and-jet pinkie ring, also in an art deco design. He slid the ring on Spalding’s finger. “This collection is unusual in that there are almost as many items for the gentleman as there are for the lady,” he explained.

“That’s Paul’s doing,” Marianne commented.

“Very nice,” said Spalding, holding out his hand to admire the ring. “Do we get to keep these as party favors?”

Paul smiled and shook his head. “They’re due back in the shop by noon on Monday. I’m afraid that I’ll have to ask you to sign a memo to that effect—a mere formality. But you’re welcome to buy it. It’s only”—he checked the price tag in the box—“twenty-two thousand dollars.”

“I don’t think so,” said Spalding, who despite his affluence came from the kind of old Yankee stock that didn’t believe in pretentious displays of wealth. He didn’t even drive a new model automobile.

Dede stood looking on, the dog at her side.

“Next,” said Paul, turning to her. Picking up another box from the table, he opened it to reveal a delicate diamond choker, which he proceeded to fasten around the smooth, tanned skin of her exquisitely long neck. No one could have shown such a necklace off to better effect.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, turning to admire it in the mirror.

Though everyone else made admiring comments, Charlotte noticed that the young woman’s mother refrained from saying anything. Which she supposed was better than her earlier, sarcastic remarks.

“Now I will show you what Marianne and I will carry,” Paul said, turning back to the table. “First, for Marianne.” Picking up the largest of the boxes, he removed a small, colorfully enameled pocketbook. The inside was divided into compartments for lipstick, mirror, and comb.

“How lovely,” Charlotte said.

“And relatively inexpensive,” he added.

“It’s called a
minaudière
,” Marianne explained. “It has compartments for everything a lady might need for an evening out.”

“And for yourself?” Charlotte asked Paul.

“I have the honor of carrying the second most expensive piece in the collection,” he replied. “But if I may say so, Marianne, it is the most beautiful item in an absolutely stunning collection.”

Marianne nodded in acknowledgment of the compliment.

Reaching into his pocket, Paul pulled out the diamond-inlaid gold case from which he had offered Charlotte a cigarette earlier in the evening.

“How much is that worth?” Spalding asked.

“About two hundred thousand,” he replied. Opening it, he offered Charlotte another cigarette, which she declined. “But well worth every penny. Not since Fabergé has there been such workmanship, if I do say so myself.”

“And what’s the most expensive piece?” asked Spalding, who, though much too polite to ever say so, was clearly astonished that anyone would pay so much for something as frivolous as a cigarette case.

“This,” Paul said, picking up the remaining box. “Five hundred thousand. But it’s not the most unique—that honor belongs to my cigarette case. This is actually a copy of a piece that was designed by Cartier in the 1930s. They gave us permission to reproduce it.”

“Little did we know when we planned to include it that we would have the ideal model,” Marianne said.

Paul smiled and turned to Charlotte.

“
Moi
?” she said, clapping a hand to her chest. Having only arrived at the last minute, she hadn’t expected to be included at all.

“Yes,” said Paul. Standing before her, he slowly opened the lid.

Charlotte gasped. Inside was a replica of the necklace she had worn in the film,
The Normandie Affair
, which had been shot on the ocean liner in 1939.

“The original is on display at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs in Paris, as I’m sure you know,” Paul said.

Charlotte nodded. The necklace had been on loan from Cartier, which had displayed it at the 1939 New York World’s Fair. They had also lent it to her when she received the Oscar for her role in the film.

“Let’s hope that no one steals it tomorrow night,” said Paul, referring to the movie plot, in which the necklace is stolen by an enterprising jewel thief with whom Charlotte falls in love.

“I hope not,” Charlotte said.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured her, “there are going to be security guards there. If you don’t mind, we’d very much like to photograph you wearing the necklace,” he continued. “It would be wonderful publicity to have the actress who wore these jewels in the movie wearing them again at our party.”

“I’m afraid I look a little different now,” Charlotte remarked. She had been twenty then, younger than Dede was now. Young, and still so innocent. Though she had already made two films, it was her role in
The Normandie Affair
that would make her a star.

“Not much, if I may be so bold as to comment,” Paul said as he fastened the necklace around her neck.

“Thank you,” she replied. Though she was not without wrinkles, her skin was well preserved, and she considered the fact that time had treated her face so well as one of the great benisons of her life.

The necklace was of a flexible openwork geometric design of diamonds in various cuts mounted in platinum and accented with cabochon rubies. From the center hung a single cabochon ruby the size of a small hen’s egg. There was also a diamond and ruby bracelet to match.

“I remember this necklace very well,” said Connie, who had met Charlotte earlier in 1939, just after they had both arrived in Hollywood. She looked over at Charlotte. “It brings back memories.”

“It certainly does,” said Charlotte as she gazed at her reflection in the gilded mirror.

Though the passage to Europe had been memorable enough for a twenty-year old—it had been her first ocean voyage—it was the passage back that was the stuff of Charlotte’s memories. It had been her own private
Normandie
affair. She was married; he was married. And despite their youth—he was only a few years older than she—both marriages were already on the rocks. Her marriage to her hometown sweetheart had started to fall apart when she’d gone to Hollywood the previous year, and by the summer of 1939 was as good as dead. He had been separated for a year, but was planning to go back to his wife to give the marriage one last try. His name was Eddie Norwood, and he was a piano player with the ship’s orchestra: the George Thurmond Orchestra. Their affair had lasted four glorious days, days that she would remember for the rest of her life. Four days, twelve hours, and twenty-eight minutes, to be precise. It was the first time she had really been in love, and there was to be only one other real love in her life, though she had been married four times and had had more lovers than she cared to admit to. It might have lasted longer, had the war not intervened. Instead, it had ended up being “just one of those fabulous flings.” “Just One of Those Things” had had been their song. She remembered now how he had played it for her on the baby grand piano in the Café-Grill as the sun rose in the east on their first morning out. They had been up all night. She had been wearing the Carrier necklace, which she would be returning to New York for display at The World’s Fair. After they arrived home she never saw him again, though their paths had crossed, like ships in the night, many times. He had just been starting out then, as had she, but he had gone on to become one of the most famous bandleaders of popular music history. She’d once read that he had sold over a hundred million records. For a time it seemed as if he was everywhere: he had hosted his own radio show, and later his own television show; he had starred in several dance band movies; he had arranged the music for many of Hollywood’s best-known movies, including some of Charlotte’s own; and his All-American Band had played every major hotel, theatre, and ballroom in the country, to say nothing of the White House and Buckingham Palace.

Their lives had been like two arcs whose trajectories occupy the same plane in space and time but never intersect. Charlotte had often felt that fate must have been conspiring to keep them apart, so unlikely was it that their paths never crossed again.

And if they had? Would she still have felt that spark? Or was she past the point of feeling sparks anymore? She turned to Paul, her fingers raised to the cool, smooth ruby. In retrospect, the necklace seemed to have a magical quality, like an amulet. It was with this necklace that all that was good in her life—romance, fame, wealth—had begun. “May we keep our jewels on?” she asked, reluctant to relinquish the necklace that had set loose such a flood of memories.

“Of course,” he replied with a gracious smile. “The necklace is yours until Monday at noon.” He turned to Connie and Spalding. “The same is true for you. The point of fine jewelry is to enjoy it.”

“We certainly will,” said Connie enthusiastically.

The swinging door to the kitchen opened, carrying with it the aroma of fine cuisine. A young man in a starched white jacket appeared, no doubt from one of the many companies that catered Palm Beach’s private parties.

“Dinner is served,” he announced, and proceeded to shepherd the guests in the direction of the dining room.

If Charlotte was already in love with Château en Espagne, she fell for it even harder once she saw the dining room. Like the rest of the house, it was simple almost to the point of being austere. But its severity was relieved by the rich paneling, which Paul said Mizner had imported from a Spanish monastery. The dining room table had also been designed by Mizner, in his heavy antique Spanish style, with sling-back chairs of rich Spanish leather, Wrought-iron candelabra stood in the center of the table, no doubt another product of the Mizner workshops, and the French doors opened on to a terrace lush with tropical foliage, including an orange tree whose fruits hung like gum-drops from the branches. Charlotte was surprised that she was so drawn to this style of house. It was quite masculine, and much more restrained than she was accustomed to. But she had found that the older she got, the more she wanted to strip away the excess. Elegant simplicity was her credo. She was way beyond chintz and knickknacks. It was her theory that this impulse to shed belongings that tended to overcome people in later life was a consequence of the accumulation of experience. If one went according to the premise that there was a finite amount of
stuff
with which the human mind could cope, then it became necessary to shed baggage as one accumulated more experience, and exterior baggage was easier to shed than the interior kind.

The table was set with handsome Spanish stoneware, whose rustic style matched the mood of the room. The meal, which was quickly and efficiently served by white-jacketed waiters, was simple but delicious: a perfectly cooked filet of beef, with fresh vegetables, green salad, and crusty focaccia.