“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?”
He opened the attaché case and removed a notebook, which he passed over to Paulina. Charlotte noticed that his nails were neatly lacquered with clear nail polish. He also smelled strongly of Langenberg for Men, Paulina’s successful line of men’s cologne.
Paulina donned a pair of heavy black eyeglasses. “Just as I thought,” she said. “My wastrel son is ruining me. I hire the finest cuisine minceur chef on the continent. Now he wants to go back to Lyons. Why? Because my son is paying some California hippie almost as much to make tacos.”
Her diatribe was interrupted by a knock. “Entrez,” she said imperially.
The man in the photograph entered. By contrast with Leon, who had the fleshy appearance of the man who spends most of his time behind a desk, he was lean and fit. He was slight, with a pleasant, slightly sunburned face and a red beard going to gray. He was dressed in jeans and a cotton madras shirt.
The small group stared at him.
“I see you’ve been talking about me,” he said.
Paulina smiled sweetly. “We were just talking about what a good job you’re doing, my darling.” Her voice was like honey.
“Yeah, Ma,” he replied. He sat down in one of the leopard print chairs.
“This is Miss … My son, Elliot Langenberg.”
“Charlotte Graham,” said Charlotte. “Nice to meet you.”
Elliot nodded.
“My son is artistic,” Paulina announced. She pointed to the painting about which she had just asked Charlotte’s opinion. “That’s one of his.” She beamed with maternal pride. “Miss … thought it was very good.”
“Thank you,” said Elliot politely, giving her a look as if to say, “We both know this is a farce.” Which was no surprise, considering that all of Paulina’s guests were probably coerced into praising his work.
“Sonny,” said Paulina, “come here.” She patted the place beside her. “Look at this,” she said, pointing to a notation. “I’m paying some California hippie seven hundred a week to make tacos—only three hundred less than I pay one of France’s finest chefs. This is how you’re running my spa—by letting some hippie steal me blind? If it weren’t for Leon, I’d be ruined.”
Elliot, who had stood up to look at the notebook, shot Leon a look of overt hatred over his shoulder.
Charlotte was puzzled at his manner. He seemed at once both defiant and fearful, like a newly freed prisoner who is kept from standing up to his jailer out of sheer force of habit. He also seemed profoundly bored. He had clearly been over this ground before.
“Ma, haven’t you heard of California cuisine?”
“No, I haven’t heard of California cuisine,” she replied sardonically.
“Well, that’s what he’s cooking—a low-calorie version. People are tired of the same old continental stuff. Veal marsala, shrimp scampi, beef bourguignonne. They want something different.”
“Are you telling me I don’t know my customers? After sixty years in the business? I’ll tell you something—my customers don’t want health food. At least the ones with money don’t. And we don’t want the ones without.”
Elliot looked pained. “Ma, you’re eighty years old. You’re not in touch with what’s happening anymore. You’ll never attract a younger clientele if you keep offering the same old boring food.” He paused. “Pretty small potatoes. Haven’t you got something better to bitch about today?”
Paulina, thrown momentarily off balance, had no reply.
Elliot turned. “Then I’m going,” he said, taking a handful of carrot sticks. He headed toward the door.
“Eighty is right,” Paulina bellowed after him. “And I’ve never eaten a sprout in my life.” She pronounced is shprout.
The door slammed.
“Sprouts,” she snorted. “I’ll tell you how to live long. Hard work—that’s how. Work you love.” She turned to Leon. “Out,” she commanded. “I want to talk to …”—she hitched a thumb at Charlotte—“in private.”
Leon docilely packed up his attaché case and left.
After he had gone, Paulina continued: “I suppose I could leave the business to Leon.” She addressed Jack, who had shown Leon to the door: “I’ve thought of it, haven’t I, Jack?”
“Many times,” he replied.
“When I’m mad at Sonny, I always threaten to change my will. But I never do. What else can I do? Sonny’s my flesh and blood.” A sentimental smile stole across her stony mouth. “Besides, Leon’s smart, but he’s boring. For the beauty business, you need imagination. Good with money he isn’t, my Sonny. But at least he’s got some imagination.”
“I don’t think you have to worry,” said Charlotte. “It looks to me as if you’ve still got a lot of time to go, eighty or not.”
Paulina smiled. “Look.” She gripped the ridge of an ear, shaking the ornate gold hoop that hung from an earlobe stretched like a Buddha’s from decades of wearing heavy earrings. “I have big ears, like an elephant. That means I’ll live forever.” She paused to think, and then continued: “If Sonny had children, it would be different—someone to carry on. Feh!” She shook her head. “Married two times, and no children. Or even if Leon had children. But he’s forty-eight and he’s still a bachelor.” She continued on a cheerier note: “But maybe I shouldn’t give up hope. I hear Sonny has a new girlfriend. What’s her name, the health nut with the freckles?”
“Claire Kelly,” replied Jack.
“The one who teaches the exercise classes?” asked Charlotte.
“Yes,” replied Paulina. “Do you like her?”
“She’s a very good teacher.”
“Feh! Thick ankles. No chic. But she’ll probably be cheaper than the last one—the fashion model. That one cost an arm and a leg. This one with the freckles, she’s young. Maybe she’ll have a baby.” She waved an arm. “But forget that—let’s get down to business.”
“I was beginning to wonder when we’d get around to that.”
Paulina smiled. “I think you can help me.” Reaching over, she gently stroked Charlotte’s arm. “Jack, get the clipping.”
Jack fetched a newspaper clipping from a massive Louis XVI desk at the front of the room and handed it to Charlotte. It was from The New York Times and was dated Friday, June 8. The headline was, “High Rock Water Held Unsafe.” It read:
HIGH ROCK SPRINGS, N.Y.—The New York State Department of Health has reported that the waters of four springs at the Paulina Langenberg Spa at High Rock Springs c
ontain levels of radium that exceed federal safety limits.
In a report issued yesterday, the department of health warned consumers to limit consumption of water from the contaminated springs to one glass per week or less. Radium is known to cause cancer and other illnesses. The report recommended that signs be posted at the contaminated springs.
The report said the waters from the four springs contain up to 400 picocuries of radium per liter—about four times the recommended level. The springs are the Lincoln No. 3, the Lincoln No. 5, and the Lincoln No. 6, and the Old Red. The Lincoln waters are used for baths at the High Rock Spa.
The level of radium in water that is bottled and sold by High Rock Waters, Inc., however, was found to be below levels set by the United States Public Health Service for ordinary drinking water.
Gary A. Brant, chairman and chief executive officer of High Rock Waters, Inc., said the water is routinely tested and found “safe” for consumption. High Rock water is the country’s leading mineral water. Sales of High Rock water are expected to reach about $250 million this year, Mr. Brant said.
The report drew no conclusions concerning the effect on people who bathe in the radium-contaminated waters, but workers at the spa, which is leased from the state by Paulina Langenberg, Inc., a beauty products company, expressed concern that the report may frighten away spa customers.
The report may also have a negative effect on sales of a new line of Paulina Langenberg cosmetics, in which water from the Old Red Spring is a major ingredient. The new line, Body Spa, is scheduled to go on sale next week at cosmetics counters in department stores around the country.
Charlotte read no further. “Is this true?” she asked.
“It’s baloney,” replied Paulina.
“Then how did it get in the newspaper?”
“That’s what I want you to find out. It’s true, but it doesn’t mean anything. Yes, the waters have a little radium, but they’ve always had a little radium. This is nothing new. There’s a report issued every six months that says the same thing. The signs have been up for five years.”
“Then what difference does it make?”
“It makes a difference because it’s affecting business. It doesn’t matter that it’s baloney—people worry about it anyway. It’s affected business already. Our stock dropped seven points after this article came out. I’m not worried about the stock—it will recover; it already is …”
“I would hope so,” interjected Charlotte. “I’m a stockholder.” In fact, she was a very satisfied stockholder. Her Langenberg stock, which she had bought at Paulina’s urging years ago, had steadily appreciated—with the exception of a recession here and there—and had paid substantial dividends.
“You’re a stockholder!” Paulina gazed at her as if she were a long-lost cousin. “A stockholder, and you don’t use our products. Tsk tsk.” She went on: “I’m not worried about the stock. But I am worried about who did this. Maybe they’ll do something else. Someone is trying to sabotage my business.”
“Or High Rock Waters’s business.”
“Or High Rock Waters’s business. Actually it’s worse for him. People worry more about what they drink. I want you to find out who.”
“Do you have any ideas?”
Paulina shrugged. “I don’t know. But you have connections. You can find out who planted this article, can’t you?”
“I’ll do my best,” said Charlotte.
5
Charlotte had managed to miss her morning exercises the day before because of her meeting with Paulina, but today there was no getting out of them. As if Awake and Aware and Terrain Cure weren’t enough, she had dutifully suffered through Backs and Bellies and Absolutely Abdominals. But at Swing and Sway she had drawn the line. She had had enough. Besides, she had to be back at her room by noon to await a return call from Tom Plummer. Tom was the reporter who had written the book about the murder at the Morosco case. They had been good friends ever since. If anyone could find out who had planted the radium story, it was he. She had called him shortly after speaking with Paulina. She had been skeptical of Paulina’s implication that a story could be planted in a reputable newspaper like the Times. But Tom had disabused her of this naive notion: the techniques were just more sophisticated. It wasn’t merely a matter of sending out a press release or standing a reporter to lunch. It was cultivating connections, applying pressure in the right places.
Back at her room, Charlotte collapsed onto her bed. In a short while, she would have to start getting ready for the fete. It was a perfect day for it: cool and clear, with a light breeze that ruffled the waters of Geyser Lake. Standing up, she walked over to the balcony. Directly below was the red-and-white-striped canopy of the tent that had been set up the day before. From here, it looked like a giant trampoline; she had an odd impulse to jump. Waiters and busboys scurried in and out of the hotel, making last-minute preparations. Turning back to her room, she removed a bottle of High Rock water from the hospitality bar (not for the spa hotel the usual stock of liquor and soft drinks) and turned on the television. The big story on the local news was the radium controversy. The mayor was blustering about “the nut” who had leaked the radium story to the press. “Whoever did this is an enemy of our city,” he said. A voice over some old footage of the downtown explained that before Paulina Lagenberg took over the spa, High Rock Springs had been just another decaying upstate community. If the radium rumor were to have an adverse effect on spa business, it could mean a major economic setback for the community. Charlotte was reminded of the lines from Byron: “While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand; When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall.”
Next came an interview with a man named Regie Cobb who had been the spa’s chief of maintenance before retiring to a part-time job as driver of the jitney bus that ferried guests to and from town. Cobb was interviewed at the Lincoln No. 3 spring, which spouted from a fountain under a bus-stop-like kiosk. A dapper old fellow, he wore a straw boater and a striped shirt with a sleeve garter. The newscaster explained that Cobb had been stopping at the Lincoln No. 3 on his way to work every day for the last thirty-two years. The camera zoomed in on a sign that read: “This is a highly mineralized water that contains radium. Its continuing or excessive use may be harmful to your health.” From there, it panned to Regie taking a deep draught. “I’ve been drinkin’ this water every day for the last thirty-two years, and I’ve never been sick a day in my life,” he said. His grandmother, he added, had also drunk the waters and had lived to be ninety-six. “Of course,” he went on, “if she hadn’t drunk the waters, she mighta lived to be a hundred and ten.” With that, he bared his teeth in a broad smile as if he’d been standing in front of the cameras all his life. Charlotte wondered how many camera-shy locals the crew had interviewed before coming up with that snippet of footage.
But the main radium story wasn’t Regie Cobb. It was a mysterious “fleet-footed Mineral Man” who had been popping up around the city passing out literature extolling the virtues of the waters. The screen showed a man in a commedia dell’arte costume doing a pantomime in front of city hall.
The phone rang, and Charlotte switched off the news. It was Tom; he had talked with the reporter who wrote the story. The reporter had been assigned the story by his editor, who had gotten a tip from a friend. The friend just happened to work for one of the big public relations firms.
Charlotte asked if the firm had been representing the state.
Tom didn’t know, but he would try to find out and get back to her.
Charlotte hung up and began getting ready for the fete. Tom’s information wasn’t much help. The important thing was to find out who the client was. If the client was the state, it would dash Paulina’s sabotage theory. But if the client were someone else, Paulina could just be right.
From below, she could hear the murmur of conversation. The early arrivals had begun to cluster at the bar that had been set up on the terrace. A pianist at a white baby grand played Cole Porter. A few mi
nutes later, she was ready. She wore a tailored white linen dress with a white shawl collar. Her glossy black hair—once worn in a famous pageboy—was now pulled back into a chignon. Like Paulina, she chose a chignon for the sake of convenience and like Paulina, her hair was colored, but not as blue-black as Paulina’s. But where Paulina’s hair style was dramatic and sculptural, Charlotte’s was looser and more natural. With her soft, delicate features and her pale skin, the effect was both gracious and elegant.
She took the glass elevator down to the lobby. In the distance, the mountains stood out crisp and clear against the deep blue sky. Emerging at the rear of the hotel, she headed directly for the bar. It was odd how being denied alcohol made her want it all the more. At home, she often went a week or more without a drink; now she was craving one after only three days. Manhattan in hand (she hoped she wouldn’t bump into Anne-Marie), she stood back to survey the scene. At least a hundred people had already arrived, all looking very stylish: the men in navy blue blazers and white trousers, the women in flowery dresses and wide-brimmed hats. The press, which was present in full force, wore red carnations and name tags. In the center of the terrace stood a department store cosmetics counter, looking as out of place as a yacht stranded on a Kansas prairie. On it was displayed “the product”: bottles, boxes, and countertop display stands of the Body Spa line, all richly packaged in mint-green and silver. The counter was flanked by store easels displaying poster-sized replicas of the national ad: a close-up of the flawless face of Corinne, the Body Spa girl. Nearby, Paulina was posing with the lean and leggy Corinne herself, next to whom she looked like a potato dumpling. Paulina made an unlikely Queen of Beauty, but it was part of her genius that she put her dumpiness to work for her. “If she can make herself look glamorous, then I can too,” went the rationale of the millions of dumplingesque, middle-aged ladies who were the backbone of her business.
It seemed to Charlotte that the concept behind Body Spa line was equally inspired. If she hadn’t already owned Langenberg stock, she would have bought some, despite the radium rumor. The Body Spa line was aimed at a different market, one whose appetite for beauty products had yet to be fully exploited. While the regular line appealed to the wealthy, idle, older woman, the market for the Body Spa line was a fresh, active, younger woman. For the Body Spa woman, beauty was less an embellishment than a part of fitness and health. To promote the idea of its being modern and scientific, the product was being sold by beauty “consultants” whose mint-green lab coats gave them an aura of scientific authority. Another gimmick was the “computers” (basically just question and answer boards) that the consultants used to assess skin type.
Murder at the Spa Page 7