Weep No More My Lady (14 page)

At the door she turned back and looked over her shoulder. “Oh, by the way, Min, dear, I left my bill on Dora's desk. I'm sure it was just an oversight that one was left in my bungalow. I
know
you planned to have me as your guest, dear.”

Cheryl had left the bill on her desk.
Dora knew that meant she had gone through the mail. Cheryl was what she was. She had probably seen the letter to Leila.

Min looked at Helmut. Frustrated tears welled in her eyes. “She knows we're in a bad financial bind, and it would be just like her to tip the columnists off! Now we have another freebie—and don't think she won't use this place as a second home!” Despairingly, Min jammed the scattered bills and sketches back into the file.

Dora took it from her and replaced it in the file room. Her heart fluttering rapidly, she went back to the reception room. The letters to Leila were scattered on her desk; the poison-pen one was missing.

Dismayed, Dora tried to assess what harm that letter might do. Could it be used to blackmail Ted?
Or was whoever sent it anxious to have it back, just in case someone tried to trace it?

If only she hadn't been reading it when Min and Helmut came in! Dora sat down at her desk; only then did she notice that propped against her calendar was Cheryl's bill for her week at the Spa.

Scrawled across it Cheryl had written
Paid in full.

AT SIX THIRTY THE PHONE IN ELIZABETH'S BUNGALOW rang. It was Min. “Elizabeth, I want you to have dinner with Helmut and me tonight. Ted, his lawyer, Craig, Cheryl, Syd-they're all going out.” For a moment she sounded like the familiar Min, imperious, brooking no refusal. Then, before Elizabeth could answer, her tone softened. “Please, Elizabeth. You're going home in the morning. We have missed you.”

“Is this another one of your games, Min?”

“I was absolutely wrong to have forced that meeting last night. I can only ask you to forgive me.”

Min sounded weary, and Elizabeth felt reluctant sympathy. If Min chose to believe in Ted's innocence, so be it. Her scheme to throw them together had been outrageous, but that was Min's way.

“You're
certain
none of them will be in the dining room . . . ?”

“I am certain. Do join us, Elizabeth. You're leaving tomorrow. I've hardly seen you.”

It was totally out of character for Min to plead. This would be her only chance to visit with Min, and besides, Elizabeth was not sure she welcomed the prospect of a solitary dinner.

She had had a full afternoon at the Spa, including a loofah treatment, two stretch-exercise classes, a pedicure and manicure, and finally a yoga class. In the yoga class, she'd tried to free her mind, but no matter how much she concentrated, she could not obey the soothing suggestions of the instructor. Over and over, against her will, she kept hearing Ted's question:
If I did go back upstairs . . . Was I trying to save her?

“Elizabeth . . . ?”

Elizabeth gripped the phone and glanced around, drinking in the restful monochromatic color scheme of this expensive bungalow. “Leila green,” Min called it. Min had been sickeningly high-handed last night, but she
had certainly loved Leila. Elizabeth heard herself accepting the invitation.

*   *   *

The large bathroom included a step-in tub, whirlpool, stall shower and personal steam-room facility. She chose Leila's favorite way to wind down. Lying in the tub, she took advantage of both steam and whirlpool. Eyes closed, her head cushioned by a terry-cloth neck rest, she felt tension slip away under the soothing mist and churning water.

Again she marveled at the cost of this place. Min must be racing through the millions she'd inherited. She had noticed that that worry was shared by all the old-timers on the staff. Rita, the manicurist, had told her virtually the same story that she'd heard from the masseuse. “I tell you, Elizabeth,” she had complained, “Cypress Point just doesn't have the same excitement since Leila died. The celebrity followers are going to La Costa now. Sure you see some pretty big names, but the word is half of them aren't paying.”

After twenty minutes the steam automatically turned off. Reluctantly Elizabeth stood under a cold shower, then draped herself in a thick terry robe and twisted a towel around her hair. There was something else she had overlooked in her anger at finding Ted here. Min had genuinely loved Leila. Her anguish after Leila's death had not been faked. But Helmut? The hostile way he had looked at Leila's picture, his sly suggestion that Leila was losing her looks . . . What had
provoked
that venom? Surely not just the cracks about his being a “toy soldier” that Leila made at his expense? When he overheard them, he was always amused. She remembered the time he'd arrived for dinner at Leila's apartment wearing the tall, old-fashioned cap of a toy soldier.

“I was passing a costume shop, saw it in the window and couldn't resist,” he explained as they all applauded. Leila had laughed uproariously and kissed him. “You're a good sport, Your Lordship,” she said. . . .

Then what had triggered his anger? Elizabeth toweled her hair dry, brushed it back and caught it in a Psyche knot. As she applied makeup and touched her lips and cheeks with gloss, she could hear Leila's voice: “My God, Sparrow, you get better-looking all the time. I swear you were lucky Mama was having an affair with Senator Lange when you were conceived. You remember some of her other men. How would you like to have been Matt's kid?”

Last year she'd been in summer stock. When the show got to Kentucky, she'd gone to the leading newspaper in Louisville and searched for references to Everett Lange. His obituary notice was four years old at that time. It gave details of his family background, his education, his marriage to a socialite, his achievements in Congress. In his photograph, she had seen a masculine version of her own features. . . . Would her life have been different if she had known her father? She suppressed the thought.

It was a fact of life that everyone at Cypress Point Spa dressed for dinner. She decided to wear a white silk jersey tunic with a knotted cord belt and silver sandals. She wondered if Ted and the others had gone to the Cannery in Monterey. That used to be his favorite spot.

One night, three years ago, when Leila had to leave unexpectedly to shoot extra scenes, Ted had taken her to the Cannery. They had sat for hours talking, and he had told her about spending summers with his grandparents in Monterey, about his mother's suicide when he was twelve, about how much he had despised his father. And he told her about the automobile accident that took the lives of his wife and child. “I couldn't function,” he said. “For nearly two years I was a zombie. If it hadn't been for Craig, I'd have had to turn over executive control of my business to someone else. He functioned for me. He became my voice. He practically
was
me.”

The next day he told her, “You're too good a listener.”

She had known that he was uncomfortable about having revealed so much of himself to her.

She deliberately waited until the “cocktail” hour was nearly over before she left her bungalow. As she followed the path that led to the main house, she stopped to observe the scene on the veranda. The lighted main house, the well-dressed people standing in twos and threes, sipping their make-believe cocktails, talking, laughing, separating, forming into new social units.

She was acutely aware of the breathtaking clarity of the stars against the backdrop of the sky, the artfully placed lanterns that illuminated the path and accentuated the blossoms on the hedges, the placid slap of the Pacific as it washed against the shoreline; and behind the main house, the looming shadow of the bathhouse, its black marble exterior glistening in
the reflected light.

Where
did
she belong? Elizabeth wondered. When she was in Europe working, it had been easier to forget the sense of isolation, the alienation from every other human being that had become a fact of her existence. As soon as the movie was in the can, she rushed home, so sure that her apartment would be a haven, the familiarity of New York a welcoming comfort, but in ten minutes, she had been frantic to flee, had grasped at Min's invitation like a drowning woman. Now she was marking the hours until she could go back to New York, and the apartment. She felt as if she had no home.

Would the trial be a purge for her emotions? Would knowing that she had helped to bring about the punishment of Leila's murderer in some way release her, let her reach out to other people, start a new life for herself? “Excuse me.” A young couple were behind her. She recognized him as a top-seeded tennis player. How long had she been blocking their path?

“I'm sorry. I guess I'm woolgathering.” She stepped aside, and he and the young woman, whose hand was entwined in his, smiled indifferently and passed her. She followed them slowly to the end of the path, up the steps of the veranda. A waiter offered her a drink. She accepted it and quickly moved to the far railing. She had no small talk in her.

Min and Helmut were circulating among their guests with the practiced skill of veteran party givers. Min was triumphantly visible in a flowing yellow satin caftan and cascading diamond earrings. With a measure of surprise, Elizabeth realized that Min was really quite slim. It was her full breasts and overbearing manner that created the imposing illusion.

As always, Helmut was impeccable, in a navy silk jacket and light gray flannel slacks. He exuded charm as he bowed over hands, smiled, raised one perfectly arched eyebrow—the perfect gentleman.

But why did he hate Leila?

*   *   *

Tonight the dining rooms were decorated in peach: peach tablecloths and napkins, centerpieces of peach roses, Lenox china in a delicate peach-and-gold design. Min's table was set for four. As Elizabeth approached it, she saw the
maître d'
touch Min's arm and direct her to the phone on his desk.

When Min came back to the table, she was visibly annoyed. Nevertheless, her greeting seemed genuine. “Elizabeth, at last a little time to be with you. I had hoped to give both you and Sammy a happy surprise. Sammy returned early. She must have missed my note and didn't realize you were here. I invited her to join us at table, but she's just phoned to say she doesn't feel very well. I told her you were with us and she'll see you in your bungalow after dinner.”

“Is she ill?” Elizabeth asked anxiously.

“She had a long drive. Still, she ought to eat. I wish she had made the effort.” Min clearly wanted to dismiss any more discussion.

Elizabeth watched as, with a practiced eye, Min surveyed the surroundings. Woe to a waiter who did not have the proper demeanor, who rattled, or spilled, or brushed against the chair of a guest. The thought struck her that it was not like Min to invite Sammy to join her table. Was it possible that Min had guessed there was a special reason she had waited to see Sammy, and wanted to know what it was?

And was it possible that Sammy had shrewdly avoided that trap?

“I'm sorry I'm late.” Alvirah Meehan yanked out the chair before the waiter could help her. “The cosmetician did a special makeup after I got dressed,” she said, beaming. “How do you like it?”

Alvirah was wearing a scoop-necked beige caftan with intricate brown beading. It looked very expensive. “I bought this in the boutique,” she explained. “You have lovely things there. And I bought every single product the makeup woman suggested. She was so helpful.”

As Helmut came to the table, Elizabeth studied Min's face with amusement. One was
invited
to join Min and Helmut-something which Mrs. Meehan did not understand. Min could explain that and place her at another table. On the other hand, Mrs. Meehan was in the most expensive bungalow in the Spa; she was clearly buying everything in sight, and offending her could be very foolish. A strained smile tugged at the corners of Min's lips. “You look charming,” she told Alvirah. “Tomorrow I shall personally help you select other outfits.”

“That's very nice of you.” Alvirah fiddled with her sunburst pin and turned to Helmut. “Baron, I have to tell you I was re-reading your ad—you know, the one you have framed in the bungalows.”

“Yes?”

Elizabeth wondered if it was just her imagination that made Helmut suddenly seem wary.

“Well, let me tell you that everything you say about the place is true. Remember how the ad says, ‘At the end of a week here, you will feel as free and untroubled as a butterfly floating on a cloud'?”

“The ad reads something like that, yes.”

“But you wrote it—didn't you tell me that?”

“I had some input, I said. We have an agency.”

“Nonsense, Helmut. Mrs. Meehan obviously agrees with the text of the ad. Yes, Mrs. Meehan, my husband is very creative. He personally writes the daily greeting, and ten years ago when we converted the hotel into the Spa, he simply would not accept the advertising copy we were given, and rewrote it himself. That ad won many awards, which is why we have a framed copy in every bungalow.”

“It certainly made important people want to come here,” Alvirah told them. “How I wish I'd been a fly on the wall to listen to all of them. . . .” She beamed at Helmut. “Or a butterfly floating on a cloud.”

*   *   *

They were eating the low-calorie mousse when it dawned on Elizabeth how skillfully Mrs. Meehan had drawn out Helmut and Min. They had told her stories Elizabeth had never heard before: about an eccentric millionaire who had arrived on opening day on his bicycle, with his Rolls-Royce majestically trailing him, or about how a chartered plane had been sent from Arabia to pick up a fortune in jewels that one of a sheikh's four wives had left behind on a table near the pool. . . .