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.
Over the meal, which included an excellent cabernet, they talked about the Normandie. Or rather, Normandie. The name of the ship had inspired much debate. Though it was named after the French province in which its home port was located, and therefore should have been La Normandie, it was a ship and therefore should have taken the masculine article (the names of ships being masculine in French), Le Normandie. The powers-that-be had settled on Normandie, with no article at all, but Charlotte had always thought of the Normandie as a she. Despite the ship’s size and power, she was every inch a female.
Charlotte was the only one among them who had actually sailed on the renowned luxury liner.
“What was she like?” Marianne asked.
“In my humble opinion, she was simply the most magnificent thing ever built by man,” Charlotte replied. Then she went on: “At the time, she was the biggest ocean liner ever built. If you can imagine the Chrysler Building turned on its side—that was how big she was. And the fastest. But she was much more than the biggest and the fastest. She was also the most beautiful, the most elegant, the most gracious. She was—”
“The world’s most perfect ship?” Spalding broke in. “That’s how a friend once described her to me.”
“Yes,” Charlotte agreed. “Perfection. A floating work of art. The greatest French artists were commissioned to design the artworks and the furnishings: Lalique, Dupas, Dunand. Each of the cabins was different and they were all exquisite.” She thought back to her own two-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath luxury suite—all highly polished woods, smooth upholstery, gleaming surfaces, and curved lines. There hadn’t been a rough edge in all five rooms. That was life aboard the Normandie: no rough edges.
“The French considered her the pride of France,” Spalding said. “So much money was spent on the ship that they called her ‘the floating debt.’”
“I didn’t know that, but I can understand why,” Charlotte said. “And the service! She had the largest crew of any passenger ship that ever sailed. The crew-to-passenger ratio was something like one-and-a-half to one.”
“When did you sail on her?” Paul asked.
“I was a passenger twice. The first time was the east-bound crossing in early August of 1939. That’s when we filmed The Normandie Affair. The shipboard part of it, that is; the rest was shot in Paris. I was a passenger again on the return crossing, which left Le Havre on August twenty-third, 1939.”
“I’m surprised you remember the exact date,” Marianne commented.
“It’s an easy date to remember. Unforgettable, in fact: the day after Germany and Russia stunned the world with the announcement of their nonaggression pact. France was mobilizing, Britain was preparing to blockade Germany, and the rumors were that Germany would invade Poland by that evening.”
“Which they actually did on September first,” Spalding put in.
“Yes. The ship was filled with people who were getting out while the getting was still good—German and Czech refugees, draft dodgers, Americans desperate to get home before war broke out. Everyone was very apprehensive. Then, the first morning out, the Bremen was spotted on our port side. The crew was certain that she was bird-dogging for a German sub.”
“The Lusitania all over again,” said Spalding.
Charlotte nodded. “We were all afraid that we’d be torpedoed. As the trip progressed, the mood turned from one of apprehension to one of near hysteria. The rumor on board was that war had broken out. Passengers were spotting illusory U-boats every five minutes, and every sighting resulted in a mad stampede for the life jackets.”
Charlotte paused while a young waiter refilled their wineglasses, and then continued with her tale:
“To avoid subs, the reserve boilers were brought on line, and the ship set a new zigzag course, which was supposedly the recommended strategy for avoiding a torpedo hit. We also followed a course that took us a hundred miles farther north than the ship had ever sailed before, which of course set everyone to worrying about hitting an iceberg.”
“What a trip!” said Marianne.
“It was exciting,” Charlotte agreed. “Radio communication was cut off for the entire trip for fear that a German sub would use the radio signal as a beacon; and when night fell, passengers were ordered to turn off the overhead lights in their cabins and draw their curtains,” she added, remembering the eerie mood of the long, hushed, dim corridors.
“Did you manage to lose the Bremen?” Spalding asked.
Charlotte nodded. “We left her behind during the night. But that didn’t stop the sub worries. For some reason, the officers were convinced there was a spy on board who was signaling our position to a sub, and they passed their theories on to the passengers.”
“That must have made for great passenger camaraderie,” said Spalding facetiously.
“Everybody was convinced the person next to them was a spy. I’ve never seen such paranoia.” In retrospect, Charlotte imagined that it was this charged atmosphere that had allowed two otherwise respectable married people to let down their guard. Neither of them thought they would live to see the next day.
“That was the Normandie’s last crossing,” Charlotte said. “But it wasn’t the last time I saw her,” she added, as she laid her knife and fork across her empty plate. The meal had been delicious.
“You saw her in New York, you mean?” Connie asked.
“Oh yes, I used to see her in New York,” Charlotte said. Unlike many other film stars, Charlotte had always made her home in New York, where the Normandie had been docked for safety during the early part of the war. “But the last time I saw her was on February ninth, 1942. Saw her alive, that is.”
“The day she burned,” Spalding commented.
Charlotte nodded. “After Pearl Harbor, the Normandie was seized along with the other French ships in U.S. ports. The Navy was converting her into a troopship when a fire broke out. The fire was extinguished, but so much water was pumped into her holds that she capsized in her slip. As I’m sure you all know.”
“But it’s fascinating to hear about it from someone who was there,” said Marianne, who sat at the opposite end of the table from Paul.
They had finished their dinners, and the waiters entered to clear the table for the dessert course. Once their places had been cleared, Paul offered Charlotte another cigarette from his exquisite case. There goes tomorrow’s ration, she thought as she helped herself to her fourth of the day.
“I remember that day as if it were yesterday,” she said as Paul lit her cigarette. “We all knew the Normandie was burning, of course. There was this acrid brown haze hanging over midtown. I had an appointment with a producer in Rockefeller Center that afternoon, and I could see the decks burning from his office window. Later on I went down to Pier eighty-eight to watch. The Navy had painted her hull in a camouflage design, and they had painted over her name. She had been renamed the U.S.S. Lafayette. But as the fire burned, the new paint blistered, revealing that wonderful red and black of the funnels and the gold lettering that spelled out her name.”
Charlotte paused, took a puff of her cigarette, and looked out at the darkening foliage, remembering that icy February afternoon. Then she turned back to her audience. “It was as if her soul were shining through that drab paint. She was like an elegant lady who’s still elegant, despite her age, despite the indignities that have been heaped upon her, despite the arrogance and stupidity that were determined to kill her.” It struck Charlotte that she might have been speaking about herself; no wonder she had felt such an affinity with the lovely ship. The only difference was that she was still forging on ahead, despite the indignities she had suffered over the course of her fifty years in Hollywood.
“Later that even
ing, I went out to dinner and a show. I was with Will,” she explained, naming the man who would become her second husband and who would die prematurely of a heart attack. She remembered how hard it had been to concentrate on the meal when the Normandie was burning just a few blocks away. “The show was Cole Porter’s Let’s Face It. At the Imperial.”
“With Danny Kaye and Nanette Fabray,” said Spalding. “‘Ace In the Hole.’” Pleasantly lubricated by the rum cocktails and the wine, he began to sing the popular tune from the show.
“Enough, darling,” said Connie, tapping him on the arm. “Charlotte’s telling us a story. Please go on, Charlotte.”
Spalding harrumphed and turned back to his wineglass.
Seated next to Charlotte, Dede was surreptitiously feeding bits of leftover filet to Lady Astor, who sat quietly under the table, thumping her tail.
“It was a bitterly cold night. Afterward, we walked down to Twelfth Avenue to watch. I’ll never forget the sight. The charred and broken-up hull, still steaming in places, the cascades of ice, all illuminated by the eerie glare of the floodlights. And the crowd! If I remember right, it was estimated at fifteen thousand. The fire had been under control since six-thirty, but the tugs and fireboats were still pouring water into her. Even an idiot could see that if they didn’t stop, she would keel over from the weight of the water.”
Charlotte’s audience sat spellbound by her tale of the death of the magnificent ship. The candles had burned down and flickered in the breeze that wafted in through the open French doors.
“Just after midnight, the admiral in charge ordered all hands to leave the ship. By that time she was listing seriously to port. The wonderful French-Line gangplanks had fallen into the water, and the hawsers that held her to the wharf had snapped and hung down from her sides like spaghetti. Will and I stood there and watched as she slowly tilted farther and farther over. With each lurch, there were these terrible groans and crashes as she began to break up. They were like the death rattles of a living thing. Then she slowly edged over, her great funnels coming to rest just inches above the water.”
Charlotte was surprised that tears had actually come to her eyes. She must be getting sentimental in her old age. Or maybe she’d just had too much to drink. “It was one of the most tragic events I’ve ever witnessed,” she continued. “She was like a magnificent beached whale that no one could help. I remember that as she came to rest in her slip, a wisp of smoke drifted over midtown, like the last breath of an expiring creature. She lay there on her side in the mud for eighteen months before they finally righted her and towed her to Brooklyn, where she was auctioned off for scrap.”
“I remember seeing her from the West Side Highway when I was on leave in the city,” said Spalding. “The police had erected a fence at the pierhead to prevent rubbernecking, but you could still see her. What impressed me was that vast expanse of her flank.” Addressing Charlotte, he asked, “What would you say her length was? Over a thousand feet?”
Charlotte nodded.
“And how pathetically useless those gigantic propellers looked sticking up above the surface of the water,” Spalding added.
“I always felt as if a part of my past had died with the Normandie,” Charlotte said. “A part of everyone’s past. It was the end of an era. Literally, because the advent of regular transatlantic flight put an end to the era of the grand ocean liners, and figuratively as well. I always saw the death of the Normandie as the end of American innocence.”
“I would think that most people would consider Pearl Harbor the end of American innocence,” Spalding submitted.
“Of course,” Charlotte concurred. “But I always linked the two events in my mind. Everyone thought it was sabotage, you see. Pearl Harbor in Hawaii, and, two months and two days later, the Normandie in New York. The press had been warning that she was a target. One reporter even slipped aboard without being challenged, to plant imaginary bombs and set imaginary fires.”
“The Germans took credit for it, didn’t they?” said Spalding.
“Yes,” Charlotte acknowledged. “But the conclusion of the investigation conducted by the New York District Attorney’s Office was that it was an accident. If I remember right, their wording was: ‘Carelessness has served the enemy with equal effectiveness.’”
There was silence for a few moments while everyone at the table pondered the sad fate of the Normandie. Then Dede stood up to leave, the diamond choker around her swanlike neck gleaming in the candlelight.
“I’m sorry I have to run,” she said. “But I have a few last-minute details to iron out with the bandleader. Thank you, Aunt Charlotte, for telling us about the Normandie. And thank you, Paul, for the wonderful dinner.”
“Who’s the band going to be?” asked Connie as the waiters served the dessert: a sinful-looking chocolate mousse cake. “Not Grant Martin again, I hope. People are tired of the same old boring dance band all the time.”
“No. At your suggestion, Nana, we’ve gotten someone different. We’re really lucky, in fact. We’re going to have a famous big-band leader who’s down here because he’s being inducted into the Big Band Hall of Fame at their annual ball, which is in two weeks.”
Connie turned to Charlotte. “The Big Band Hall of Fame is one of Palm Beach’s charities,” she explained. “They hold a ball to raise money for a Big Band Hall of Fame museum; it’s going to be in a beautiful old Mediterranean-style building at Palm Beach Community College in West Palm Beach.”
“Who is this bandleader?” Charlotte asked, wondering if the two separate trajectories might finally be about to intersect.
“Eddie Norwood,” Dede replied.
3
Charlotte was staying at the Brazilian Court, an old Mediterranean-style hotel built around a charming fountained courtyard, and located in a residential section of Palm Beach four blocks from the ocean. She had chosen to stay at a hotel rather than with Connie and Spalding in order to spare them the burden of her constant presence. Though Connie and Spalding’s house was large—in fact, it might have been called a mansion—she knew that if she had stayed there, they would have felt obligated to entertain her. A measure of privacy might have been provided by their guest house, Grace and Favour, but at the moment, it was occupied by Marianne, who like Charlotte, spent most of her time in New York. When Charlotte had asked Connie where she should stay, Connie had recommended the Brazilian Court, and Charlotte had been very pleased with the accommodations. The hotel had been a Palm Beach landmark since the twenties and had the charming, unpretentious feel of old Florida. She wasn’t the first movie star who had stayed there: the hotel had a reputation for discreetly pampering the rich and famous. She occupied a one-bedroom suite on the first floor whose stucco walls were painted lemon-yellow, and which was charmingly furnished with French provincial furniture painted a cheerful green and white. A bay window in her sitting room looked out over the courtyard through a thicket of jungly vegetation that left no doubt that she was a visitor to the tropics.
She had spent the day on nearby Worth Avenue, which rivaled Rodeo Drive’s reputation as the most expensive shopping street in the country. She had been trying to forget the subject that was uppermost in her mind: her anticipated meeting with Eddie that evening. Now she sat in one of the rattan chairs in her bedroom, looking at the gown that was spread out on her bed. It was the Fortuny gown that she had worn in the Grand Salon scene of The Normandie Affair and again on the return trip, the night she had met Eddie. Both times she had worn it with the Cartier necklace. For fifty-three years, the dress-had hung in its garment bag in the closet in the spare room of her Manhattan town house, a memento of those four short days just before the outbreak of the war. And now she would be wearing it again, to a dinner dance at a house filled with artworks from the Normandie at which Eddie Norwood would be leading the orchestra. Little had she known that she would be meeting Eddie again when she had unearthed the gown from her closet. Her instructions from Connie when she had called to invite Cha
rlotte for a visit had been to pack an evening gown that one might have worn to a gala dance on board the Normandie. Though she knew the plans for Eddie to play must have been made long in advance of Connie’s call, she nevertheless felt as if it was her decision to wear the Fortuny gown that had set in motion the series of events that would result in her reunion with the first man she had ever fallen in love with.
She had retrieved the necklace from the hotel safe on her way back from Worth Avenue and now laid it out on the bed above the neckline of the dress and draped the ensemble with the silver fox stole that she had also worn on that voyage. The effect was stunning: the deep red of the ruby pendant was a perfect complement to the faded rose of the delicately pleated dress. The gown was one of Fortuny’s Delphos designs, a long sheath of silk so fine that it had to be weighted down with tiny beads sewn into the hem. Fortuny had always been one of Charlotte’s favorite designers, and she had several other Fortuny gowns that she still wore from time to time. They were worth a fortune now, collector’s items. One advantage of a Fortuny gown was that the pleats were forgiving of extra pounds—not that Charlotte was overweight, but she wasn’t twenty years old anymore either.
Murder Under the Palms Page 3