Murder Under the Palms by Stefanie Matteson Page A

and it seemed fitting to collect art from the Normandie because of the nautical theme of the house. From the egg cup, we went on to other silver, and then to glasses, porcelain, furniture, and finally to the art itself.”
    “It’s an obsession,” explained the admiral. “Lydia doesn’t know when to stop. She lives and breathes her Normandie collection.”
    As they continued to chat about Lydia’s collection, Charlotte noticed that the steward whom Lydia had sent to find Paul and Marianne had appeared at the door and was talking agitatedly with René. Then she saw René leave his post and wind his way through the tables in their direction.
    Arriving at their table a moment later, he leaned over to speak in Lydia’s ear. “May I speak with you for a moment in private, madam?”
    Excusing herself, Lydia left the table to talk privately with René in the nearby corner. When she returned to the table a moment later, her skin was the same platinum color as her hair. “Mr. Feder has been murdered,” she announced in a hushed tone.
    Paul Feder murdered! Charlotte couldn’t believe it.
    “He’s lying out on the beach right now—dead,” Lydia continued. “He was stabbed in the chest.” Her blue eyes widened as if she were looking at the gruesome sight. Then she started to cry.
    Charlotte wasn’t sure if she was crying out of grief for Paul or because his death meant that her party would be ruined.
    Lydia turned to the admiral. “Oh Jack, what are we going to do?”
    Across the table, Dede looked crushed. Her yellow-blue eyes welled with tears, which flowed silently down her lovely cheeks.
    “Nothing, at the moment,” Jack replied. “Get a grip on yourself, Lydia,” he told her sternly. “We don’t want a panic situation here.” He looked at everyone around the table, commanding them with his glance to keep calm. “We want to keep this a secret among ourselves for the moment.”
    Lydia sniffled a couple of times and regained her mask of social composure, while Dede blew her nose in a handkerchief provided by the gallant admiral, who seemed quite taken with the beautiful young woman seated at his side.
    “Has Mr. Dubord called the police?” the admiral asked.
    Lydia nodded. “He told them not to use their sirens, and he’s going to try to keep them downstairs for the time being. But he said he thought that at least some of the guests would have to be interviewed. He said he would try to get the police to wait until Mr. Norwood is playing.”
    Thank God for René, Charlotte thought. A lifetime of experience in damage control. She remembered an incident on board the Normandie in which an elderly woman at an adjoining table had fallen over face-first into her dinner plate, the apparent victim of a heart attack.
    With a nod from René, two members of the dining room staff had quietly come over, picked the woman up, chair and all, and discreetly whisked her out of the dining room. René hadn’t missed a beat: the incident had simply been erased.
    But a murder wasn’t as easy to erase.
    A group of waiters had fanned out over the dining room to remove the soup bowls. They were immediately followed by a second group, who served the fish course: Loire pike with clarified butter. It was a pity that Charlotte had suddenly lost her appetite.
    “Did you know him?” Eddie asked.
    Charlotte shook her head. “Not really. I just met him at a dinner party last night. He collaborated with my goddaughter, Marianne Montgomery, on the Normandie jewelry collection. Marianne is the daughter of my friend Connie,”—she nodded at Connie—“who used to be Connie Montgomery.”
    “The actress?” Eddie asked, looking over at Connie, who was talking with the president of the preservation association.
    “Yes,” Charlotte replied. She shifted her glance to Dede. “Dede is Marianne’s daughter and Connie’s granddaughter.”
    “I can see the resemblance,” Eddie said, looking from the lovely granddaughter to her lovely