Free Murder at the Spa by Stefanie Matteson

also one of her favorites on account of the magnificent view of the Adirondacks, which today glowed like amethysts against the deep blue sky. The decoration was opulent: rose-colored silk wallpaper, an exuberantly patterned carpet in a water lily design, leopard print upholstery. The wall space that wasn’t taken up by windows was hung with art. At first glance, Charlotte recognized works of Picasso, Matisse, and Braque, as well as a stunning Bonnard pastoral and a Renoir portrait. There was also sculpture—a streamlined Brancusi bird, an abstract Lipchitz figure, and, in a bronze and glass room divider, a collection of African masks.
    “Come in, come in,” said Paulina. She sat next to Anne-Marie on a Victorian couch upholstered in chartreuse velvet. She sat like a peasant on a milking stool, with her legs apart and her feet planted squarely on the floor. In her hand was a paring knife with which she was stabbing a slice of sausage. She was a tiny woman, less than five feet tall, but she had enormous presence. Her grand features—the strong jaw; the broad, high cheekbones; the small, slightly slanted eyes; the noble nose with its flaring nostrils—were set off by glossy blue-black hair that was pulled tightly back from her commanding forehead into a chignon at the nape of her neck. The result was stern, severe, majestic. She wore a loose caftan patterned in reds, oranges, and greens in which she looked like a gypsy fortune teller.
    “Good morning. I see you’ve met my confidential secretary.”
    “We’ve met before,” said Charlotte. She smiled at Jack.
    Like all Paulina’s male employees, he was handsome, with eyes so blue and eyelashes so curly that they might have been a china doll’s. Although he must have been in his mid-thirties, he had a boyish face that was marred only by the faint scars of a once-bad complexion and a tendency toward puffiness. But it was his manner that was the key to his success with Paulina. He was pleasant, polite, and efficient, but more importantly, he could be at the same time both independent and ingratiating, dashing and deferential. He wouldn’t let Paulina bully him, but nor was he insensitive to her demands. He was the perfect companion-escort-secretary for a forceful and difficult old lady.
    Jack escorted Charlotte to one of the chairs facing Paulina, a rococo Louis XV upholstered in a leopard print. As always, Charlotte found herself conscious of Paulina’s odor: a not-unpleasant old lady smell overlaid by the spicy fragrance of one of her own perfumes. In this case, the concert of smells also included the garlicky low note sounded by the sausage.
    “Eat, eat,” she bellowed. Like many elderly people who are slightly hard of hearing, she spoke too loudly. She offered the tip of the knife to Charlotte with a small neat hand embellished with a cabochon ruby that together with its showy gold setting was the size of a golf ball.
    “Thank you.”
    “Crackers?” she asked, offering Charlotte a box of soda crackers from the coffee table, one of several that were scattered around the room.
    Charlotte accepted gratefully. She was hungry after her meager breakfast and the Terrain Cure workout.
    “Anne-Marie?” said Paulina, offering her the sausage.
    “No thank you.”
    “I know, calories.” With a forefinger, she pressed the tail of a cloisonné turtle on the coffee table, producing a loud ring.
    Jack, who had disappeared into the adjoining office, reappeared.
    “Jack, get Anne-Marie some crudités. Carrots, celery—you know.”
    Jack accepted Paulina’s bullying with grace. She was like a willful spoiled child, but you couldn’t help being seduced by her youthful vitality. It was this quality of gameness that Charlotte admired in Paulina. At eighty, she was still curious, still looking for new challenges.
    Anne-Marie turned down the offer, explaining that she had to leave.
    “Get them anyway,” commanded Paulina. “Sonny’s coming. Then I want you to take Miss