Murder under the Palms [antikvár]

The feeling struck when they turnéd into an alleyway leading off the shopping mecca of Worth Avenue, and intensified when the alleyway led them past the cloistered terraces of the old Spanish-colonial-style clubhouse of the exclusive Everglades Club. By the time they turnéd again, onto the narrow Street lined with the columnar trunks of royal palms that overlooked the Everglades' palm-fringed golf course and caught their first glimpse of the neighborhood of Spanish-colonial homes, Charlotte Graham had begun to experience that wonderfully buoyant sensation that occurs when fantasy takes its place in the seat of reason. When they swung open the ornate black wrought-iron gate that led to the house, she was already starting to fali in love, and by the time they emerged from the walk lined with tall ficus hedges in front of which stood terra-cotta planters of lemon trees heavy with fruit, and into a courtyard that only barely managed to keep the jungle at bay, and looked up at the tower from any of whose spiraling Windows Rapunzel might have let her down her golden tresses, Charlotte was fully in love.