Murder Under the Palms by Stefanie Matteson Page B

grandmother.
    Dede looked up briefly and then back down at her plate. She was picking at her fish and biting her lip to keep from crying.
    “Do you have any idea why he might have been killed?” Eddie asked.
    Charlotte shook her head, though her glance shifted involuntarily to the empty place at the table marked with a card on which the name Ms. Marianne Montgomery was written in hand-lettered calligraphy.

5
    The fact that a murder had occurred just a few hundred feet away did not stop the party, though a damper had been put on the festivities at the captain’s table by the absence of their hostess, who had been summoned by the police. The waiters cleared away the fish course and served the entrée, le caneton à l’orange . Led by the president of the historic association, the guests at their table, who had been instructed by Lydia to behave as if nothing had happened, carried on a stiff and uncomfortable conversation about the quality of the food aboard the Normandie and how this evening’s meal compared. As the only guests present who had been passengers aboard the ship, Charlotte and Eddie answered questions about the wines, the cheeses, and the pastries. As if they had been paying close attention to the food , Charlotte thought. Though Eddie was obliging enough with his answers, Charlotte’s mind was elsewhere. She was eager to question Dede, who sat silently across the table in her white satin sheath and diamond choker, picking at her food and occasionally sniffling into the admiral’s handkerchief. What had happened at the beach that caused her to return with such red and swollen eyes? Had Marianne confronted Paul and her daughter with her suspicions?
    Fifteen minutes later, Lydia returned on René’s arm. She looked quite composed for a hostess at whose party a murder had just taken place, but Charlotte had already pegged her for a cool customer. After resuming her seat, she flashed a wooden smile and then asked how they were enjoying the food.
    René had moved around the table and now leaned over to whisper in Charlotte’s ear. “The police would like to see you next, Miss Graham.” Then he graciously pulled out Charlotte’s chair and offered her his arm.
    Charlotte was not surprised at the ease with which René was handling the situation. “Remember the storm on the westbound crossing in August, 1939?” she asked as they threaded their way among the tables. She was thinking of how he had raced around making sure everything was secure.
    “Very well. I remember everything about that crossing. Including making my first acquaintance with a beautiful young American movie star. Are you implying that a murder at a dinner party is nothing by comparison?”
    “I guess that’s what I was thinking,” she admitted.
    “I think you’re right. At least I don’t have to cater to seasick passengers,” he said.
    “The man who can handle anything,” Charlotte said as they began their descent of the stairs.
    René smiled.
    “I wonder why the police want to talk with me before the other guests?” she asked as he led her past the room where they had talked earlier in the evening.
    “I think you’ll find that your reputation has preceded you,” René replied.
    René delivered her to the door of the library and then returned upstairs to resume the job of damage control. Opening the door, Charlotte found herself in a book-lined room in which a young woman with thick, dark blond hair done up in a French braid sat behind a desk crafted of blond wood in the same moderne style as much of the other furniture in the house. She was broad in the shoulder and big in the bust: not overweight, but definitely stocky. She was also very pretty, with a wide face, large hazel eyes, and a glowing complexion. She wore a short-sleeved blue denim blouse and gold hoop earrings. Beside her, an older policeman wearing the brown shirt and khaki Bermuda shorts that comprised the uniform of the Palm Beach police sat on a loveseat holding