Murder Under the Palms (24 page)

Charlotte didn’t say a word. The woman certainly hadn’t lost her nose for a good story.

11

The country inn where they were to spend the night, Foxhollow Manor, had once been the summer retreat of a Providence industrialist and his family. A thirty-room Georgian manor built on a sixty-acre estate in the 1920s, it had been turned into an inn when the descendants of the original owner could no longer afford to keep it up. Now it was run by a hotel chain that made a specialty of inns catering to bridal parties and couples seeking a romantic weekend getaway. This inn also catered to equestrians, since the property included an elegant stable and miles of riding paths. Charlotte had booked a room there because it was the only available lodging that was located right in Hadfield, but she hadn’t overlooked the appeal of the complimentary bottle of champagne, the king-sized four-poster bed facing a working fireplace, and the “romantic brunch,” served in the room. (Though her imagination didn’t carry her quite so far as the candlelit bubble bath
à deux
, which was a special offering for the Valentine’s Day weekend). When she’d called to make the reservations early that morning, she’d been informed that there were only two rooms left: a luxury suite—the Thoroughbred Suite—and a smaller, connecting room, the Palomino Room. She’d reserved both, but she had a feeling they wouldn’t be needing the Palomino Room. At least, she
hoped
they wouldn’t be needing it.

They got to the room at four and, with their bottle of champagne, promptly settled into the two leather wing chairs that stood before the fireplace. The Thoroughbred Suite was decorated like an English club, with dark green paisley wallpaper and matching bedspread, an antique Oriental carpet, British hunting prints, and a brass hunting horn on the mantel. There was even a saddle and a pair of old riding boots standing in a corner, and a collection of books on the desk with titles such as
Lameness in the Horse, Productive Horse Husbandry
, and
Diseases of the Horse’s Foot
. The books seemed to Charlotte to be carrying the English country squire illusion just a little too far, but the room was pleasant and cozy nonetheless. The view was of a broad expanse of lawn that was now covered with snow. Behind the leafless trees at the far edge of the lawn, an orange sun was setting in an overcast violet sky. The light snow that had started falling earlier that afternoon had become heavier.

As she felt the warm glow from the champagne stealing over her, Charlotte was struck by the thought that they might be snowed in. The driveway leading to the inn was half a mile long, and couldn’t have been easy to plow. It wasn’t an unpleasant thought. As Eddie had said, “You’re never too old.”

“It seems unreal, doesn’t it?” she remarked, looking over at his handsome, tanned face in the chair next to hers. “We meet six days ago in Palm Beach, and here we are at a country inn in Connecticut on Valentine’s Day weekend.”

Eddie nodded. “With a nor’easter on the way.”

“Do you think so?” she asked.

“It looks that way to me. But what do I know? I’m from Pasadena. I haven’t experienced a snowstorm in years. Not counting airports, that is. Maybe we’ll be snowed in,” he speculated, and looking over at her, he added, “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Nor would I,” she agreed.

It was dinnertime before they got around to Jack McLean. Perhaps they hadn’t discussed him earlier because they were both still trying to make sense of the wild card they’d been dealt. Or perhaps it was because they’d been otherwise engaged. They were seated at a candlelit table in the dining room of the inn—more hunting prints and hunting horns—before a roaring fire, watching the snow fall through the French doors that led to a terrace overlooking the lawn. It was a gentle snow—there was no wind to rattle the windows—but it had that determined quality that’s so often a sign of a big storm: the flakes were big and they fell quickly and steadily. According to their attentive young waiter, the weatherman had predicted ten to twelve inches. It was their fourteenth storm of the season, he added. Charlotte had gone to Palm Beach to get away from the winter, and here she was in the middle of it again. But somehow she didn’t mind. Being with Eddie probably had more than a little to do with it. In any case, they wouldn’t have to deal with it for long. They were scheduled to return the next day. Eddie had to start rehearsing for the Big Band Hall of Fame Ball, which was only a week away, and his subsequent tour. The ball was the big annual fundraiser for the organization, which hoped to raise enough money to find a permanent home for their collection of Big Band memorabilia.

But until then, they had nothing to do but enjoy each other’s company and try to figure out what had happened in February of 1942 that had resulted in the murder of Paul Feder on a Florida beach fifty years later.

“So,” said Eddie once they were served their plates of ordinary old prime rib (the menu was a far cry from Château Albert), “Jack McLean was the Fox. I never would have thunk it was him.” He shook his head as he cut into his meat. “I still can’t believe it.”

“It’s disturbing,” Charlotte agreed. As an actor, she prided herself on being a judge of human character, and she never would have pegged McLean for a spy. But then, playing games with mirrors was the spy’s specialty. “Why can’t you believe it?” she asked, curious.

Eddie thought for a moment.

“Is it because of the social credentials, the Ivy League education, the impressive career?” Charlotte probed.

“I suppose that’s a lot of it, yes,” he said thoughtfully.

“There’s nothing about being a member of the establishment that precludes one’s being a spy,” she commented, thinking aloud. “Look at his namesake: Donald McLean. Part of the most devastating spy ring of the twentieth century. He was from the right background, but he still betrayed his legacy.”

“Betraying his legacy I can more or less understand,” Eddie said. “Even betraying his country. In either case, he would have been committing himself to an impersonal ideal. But to risk the lives of the men under his command …”

Charlotte nodded. As hard as it was for her to fathom, it must have been many times harder for a man who had looked up to McLean as a leader and then been critically injured as a result of his treachery.

“He sure pulled the wool over my eyes, and over the eyes of all the men under his command,” Eddie said bitterly. “We thought he was the next thing to God.” He gestured emphatically with his fork. “If it does turn out that he’s the Fox, I’m going to revel in the fact that I played a role in exposing him.”

Charlotte was surprised to see a glint of anger in his smiling eyes; she had never seen him angry before.

For a moment they sat, eating their dinners, soaking up the heat from the fireplace, watching the flakes come down through the snow-dusted windowpanes.

Then Charlotte said, “I want to go over this McLean business again, from start to finish. Tell me if I leave anything out or if I say anything that doesn’t sound right to you.”

Eddie nodded.

“Okay,” she began. “He’s from a distinguished family, has a privileged upbringing. He’s a childhood friend of Freddie Welland, who’s involved with the America First movement at Yale. Through Freddie, he meets Freddie’s Uncle Walter, an admirer of Hitler who heads a fascist organization called the Yankee Patriots. At some point, he’s recruited by the
Abwehr
, probably through Uncle Walter’s Nazi connections. The United States enters the war, and he joins the Navy. He’s assigned to oversee the conversion of the
Normandie
to a troopship, an assignment that is viewed by the
Abwehr
as a perfect setup for sabotage.”

“Sounds good to me,” Eddie said.

“Through his connection with Alex Koprosky, he becomes acquainted with two of the count’s young fascist protégés, and recruits them for Operation Golden Bird through a Bund leader in New York. He arranges for them to work for the carpet company that’s been hired to lay the linoleum in the Grand Salon.”

“I’ll bet that’s why he never ordered security checks on the employees of the subcontractors,” Eddie interjected.

“Good point,” Charlotte said, and then continued. “He supplies his operatives with an incendiary device and sets up the conditions for the fire, namely the stack of burlap-covered life jackets stored near the welders who are taking down the metal light stanchions.”

“What he didn’t count on,” Eddie said, “was the young Navy lieutenant who just happened to be sitting at the piano that afternoon, dreaming of his ladylove.”

Charlotte smiled. “The war goes on. McLean has a change of heart and renounces his previous fascist associations. Writes them off to youthful folly, as Jeannie did her attendance at SDS meetings during her college days. Or maybe he just sees the handwriting on the wall.”

“That seems more likely to me,” Eddie offered. “Who wants to stay on the losing team if you can switch sides without anyone ever knowing?”

Charlotte nodded. “He goes on to a distinguished career, and his previous fascist associations become a potential source of embarrassment, to say nothing of his role in Operation Golden Bird. The past is buried, until one day he gets wind of the fact that someone has visited Roehrer and is asking questions.”

“How would he have gotten wind of that?” Eddie asked.

“Maybe through Roehrer himself. Roehrer said he didn’t know who the Fox was, but maybe he was lying.”

“I doubt it. That’s how intelligence organizations protect their members—by insulating one level from the next.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “We don’t know how he found out. If there is some sort of reinvestigation of the
Normandie
fire going on, it could even be that the authorities questioned McLean himself. In any case, he decides that Federov has to be eliminated to prevent his exposure.”

“Even if Federov didn’t know his identity?”

“If the authorities could prove that a sabotage plot existed, then they could carry the investigation further. Perhaps they could even find out about McLean through
Abwehr
records. But if they can’t prove there was a sabotage plot, then there would be no investigation to carry forward.”

Eddie nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll buy it.”

“By a twist of fate, Federov and McLean both end up in the same town. When McLean finds out that questions are being asked, he decides to kill Federov and picks the preservation association’s benefit as the place to do it.”

Eddie interrupted. “Two questions,” he said. “One: how would McLean have found out that Federov and Feder were one and the same? And two: why would he have killed Feder? Why not kill the person who was looking into the fire, and nip the investigation in the bud?”

“The answer to number one is, I don’t know. The answer to number two might be that he didn’t want to call attention to himself. If an investigator was killed, the authorities conducting the investigation might have come looking for him. Whereas Feder was once removed, so to speak.”

Eddie nodded.

“To continue,” she said. “Seeing Feder head out to the beach, he follows him and waits for a convenient moment to stab him. Having learned from the newspaper, or from Lydia, how valuable the cigarette case is, he takes it in order to make it look like a jewel theft.”

“How long would you estimate he was out there?” Eddie asked.

“I have to admit that my attention was elsewhere,” she replied with a smile. “But I’d guess twenty to thirty minutes. We could check with Maureen. She would have the statements from him and from the other guests.”

“In any case, long enough to do the job.”

“Yes,” Charlotte agreed, then shrugged. “End of story,” she said. “At least, what we know of it. Are we ready to take it to the police?”

“I don’t see why not.”

They landed at West Palm Beach International Airport late the next afternoon. The predicted storm had fizzled out. In New England parlance, it was just a duster. Only four inches of snow had fallen, much to their disappointment, since their room had been very comfortable (and they had needed only the one). As they drove back to Palm Beach along Okeechobee Boulevard, Charlotte was struck by the contrast between the snow and cold of the small, pristine New England village and the tropical climate and glitzy atmosphere of Florida’s Gold Coast. It was like seeing a movie in color on a large screen after watching it in black and white on a tiny television set. Or maybe it was just being back in Palm Beach with Eddie. In any case, when they drove across the arched stone bridge that connected the island to the mainland, she had the feeling that they were entering a fairy-tale city. It was an impression that was enhanced by the sight that met them on the other side of the bridge: a wide boulevard lined by four rows of columnar royal palms, with a median of boxwood-edged flower gardens filled with colorful plantings of impatiens and geraniums. Such was the effect of this magnificent approach that she half expected to be greeted by a a trumpet fanfare.

As they drove down Royal Palm Way, Charlotte realized that she felt happier and more youthful than she had in years. She wondered what was going to happen now. Were she and Eddie really as compatible as they seemed? Was she ready for a full-fledged relationship or even marriage—her fifth? On the one hand, her mind was racing with questions like these. On the other, she didn’t much care. She had reached the point in life where
now
was what mattered. Because the next day, the next week, the next year, either or both of them might not be around. Maybe this was what Ponce de Leon had discovered when he’d come to Florida seeking the fountain of youth, and Mizner and Singer after him. That only by coming to terms with death can you really find life.

She dropped Eddie off at the Breakers, where he would be meeting with his band to start rehearsals, and then proceeded on to the police station. She found Maureen in her office, showed her the copy of
The Yankee Patriot
, and told her the whole story.

“This is great,” Maureen said when Charlotte had finished, relieved to have a new angle to pursue. “We weren’t getting anywhere with the jewelry angle. We’ve leaned on every fence in Florida. We’ve called in every IOU from our street contacts.” She set the copy of
The Yankee Patriot
aside.