Weep No More My Lady (15 page)

As they were about to leave the table, Alvirah posed her final question: “Who was the most exciting guest you've ever had?”

Without hesitation, without even looking at each other, they answered “Leila LaSalle.”

For some reason, Elizabeth shivered.

*   *   *

Elizabeth did not linger for coffee or the musical program. As soon as she reached her bungalow, she phoned Sammy. There was no answer in her apartment. Puzzled, she dialed Sammy's office.

Sammy's voice had an excited urgency to it when she answered. “Elizabeth, I nearly fainted when Min told me you were here. No, I'm perfectly all right. I'll be right over.”

Ten minutes later, Elizabeth flung open the door of her bungalow and threw her arms around the frail, fiercely loyal woman who had shared with her the last years of Leila's life.

Sitting opposite each other on the matching sofas, they took each other's measure. Elizabeth was shocked to see how much Dora had changed. “I know,” Dora said with a wry smile. “I don't look that hot.”

“You don't look
well,
Sammy,” Elizabeth said. “How's it really going?”

Dora shrugged. “I still feel so guilty. You were away, and couldn't see the day-to-day change in Leila. When she came to visit me in the hospital,
I
could see it. Something was destroying her, but she wouldn't talk about it. I ought to have contacted you. I feel I let her down so terribly. And now it's as if I have to find out what happened. I can't let it rest until I do.”

Elizabeth felt tears begin to spill from her eyes.

“Now don't you dare get
me
started,” she said. “For the entire first year I had to carry dark glasses with me. I just never knew when I'd start crying. I used to call the glasses my grief equipment.”

She clasped her hands together. “Sammy, tell me. Is there
any
chance I'm wrong about Ted? I was
not
mistaken about the time, and if he pushed Leila off that terrace he has to pay for it. But is it possible he
was
trying to hold her? Why was she so upset? Why was she drinking? You heard her talk about how disgusted she was with people who drank too much. That night, a few minutes before she died, I was nasty to her. I tried to do what she used to do to Mama-shock her, make her see what she was doing to herself. Maybe if I'd been more sympathetic. Sammy, if I'd only asked her
why!
”

In a spontaneous gesture they moved together. Dora's thin arms encircled Elizabeth, felt the trembling in the slender young body and remembered the teenager who had so worshiped her big sister. “Oh, Sparrow,” she said, unthinkingly using Leila's name for Elizabeth, “what would Leila think about the two of us going on like this?”

“She'd say, ‘Quit moaning and do something about it.”' Elizabeth dabbed at her eyes and managed a smile.

“Exactly.” With quick, nervous movements, Dora smoothed the thin strands of hair that always wanted to slip out from her bun. “Let's backtrack. Had Leila started to act upset before you left on the tour?”

Elizabeth frowned as she tried to focus, to weed out extraneous memories. “It was just before I left that Leila's divorce had come through. She'd been with her accountant. It was the first time in years I'd seen her worried about money. She said something like ‘Sparrow, I've made an awful lot of loot, and honest to God, now I'm on thin ice.'

“I told her that two deadbeat husbands had put her in that bind, but I didn't consider being about to marry a multimillionaire like Ted being on thin ice. And she said something like ‘Ted really
does
love me, doesn't he?' I told her to, for God's sake, get off that line. I said, ‘You keep doubting him and you'll drive him away. He's
nuts
about you. Now go earn the four million bucks he just invested in you!'”

“What did she say?” Dora asked.

“She started to laugh—you know that big, gorgeous laugh of hers—and she said, ‘As usual, you're right, Sparrow.' She was terribly excited about the play.”

“And then when you were gone, and I was sick, and Ted was traveling, someone began a campaign to destroy her.” Dora reached into the pocket of her cardigan. “Today the letter I wrote you about was stolen from my desk. But just before you phoned I found
another
one in Leila's mail. She never got to read it either—it was still sealed—but it speaks for itself.”

Horrified, Elizabeth read and reread the uneven, carelessly pasted words:

Dora watched as Elizabeth's face turned stony pale.

“Leila hadn't seen this?” Elizabeth asked quietly.

“No, but she must have been receiving a series of them.”

“Who could have taken the other one today?”

Briefly Dora filled her in on the explosion over the expenses for the bathhouse and about Cheryl's unexpected arrival. “I know Cheryl was at my desk. She left her bill there. But so could anyone else have taken it.”

“This smacks of Cheryl's touch.” Elizabeth held the letter by the corer, loath to handle it. “I wonder if this can be traced.”

“Fingerprints?”

“That, and typeface has a code. Even knowing what magazines and newspapers these words were snipped from could be helpful. Wait a minute.” Elizabeth went into the bedroom and returned with a plastic bag. Carefully she slipped the anonymous note into it. “I'll find out where to send this to be analyzed.” She sat down again and folded her arms on her knees. “Sammy, do you remember exactly what the other letter said?”

“I think so.”

“Then write it down. Just a minute. There's paper in the desk.”

Dora wrote, crossed out, rewrote, finally handed the paper to Elizabeth. “That's pretty close.”

Leila,

How many times do I have to write? Can't you get it straight that Ted is sick of you? His new girl is beautiful and
much
younger than you. I told you that the emerald necklace he gave her matches the bracelet he gave you. It cost twice as much and looks ten times better. I hear your play is lousy. You really should learn your lines. I'll write again soon.

Your friend.

This letter Elizabeth read and reread. “That bracelet, Sammy. When did Ted give it to Leila?”

“Sometime after Christmas. The anniversary of their first date, wasn't it? She had me put it in the safety-deposit box because she was starting rehearsals and knew she wouldn't be wearing it.”

“That's what I mean. How many people could have known about that
bracelet? Ted gave it to her at a dinner party. Who was there?”

“The usual people. Min. Helmut. Craig. Cheryl. Syd. Ted. You and I.”

“And the same group of people knew how much Ted put into the play. Remember, he didn't want it publicized. Sammy, have you finished going through the mail?”

“Besides the one I started this afternoon, there's one more large sack. It may have six or seven hundred letters in it.”

“Tomorrow morning I'm going to help you go through them. Sammy, think about who might have written these letters. Min and the Baron had nothing to do with the play; they had everything to gain by having Ted and Leila together here, with all the people they attracted. Syd had a million dollars in the play. Craig acted as though the four million Ted invested was out of his own pocket. He certainly wouldn't do anything to wreck the play's chances. But Cheryl never forgave Leila for taking Ted from her. She never forgave Leila for becoming a superstar. She knew Leila's vulnerabilities. And she would be the very one who'd want the letters back now.”

“What good are they to her?”

Elizabeth stood up slowly. She walked to the window and pushed back the curtain. The night was still brilliantly clear. “Because if some way they can be traced to her, they can ruin her career? How would the public feel if it learned that Leila had been driven to suicide by a woman she considered a friend?”

“Elizabeth, did you hear what you just said?”

Elizabeth turned. “Don't you think I'm right?”

“You have just conceded the fact that Leila might have committed suicide.”

Elizabeth gasped. She stumbled across the room, fell to her knees, and put her head on Sammy's lap. “Sammy, help me,” she pleaded. “I don't know what to believe anymore. I don't know what to do.”

IT WAS AT HENRY BARTLETT'S SUGGESTION THAT THEY went out for dinner and invited Cheryl and Syd to join them. When Ted protested that he did not want to get involved with Cheryl, Henry cut him off sharply. “Teddy, like it or not, you
are
involved with Cheryl. She and Syd Melnick can be very important witnesses for you.”

“I fail to see how.”

“If we don't admit that you may have gone back upstairs, we've got to prove that Elizabeth Lange was confused about the exact time of that phone conversation and we've got to make the jury believe that Leila may have committed suicide.”

“What about the eyewitness?”

“She saw a tree on the terrace moving. Her lively imagination decided it was you struggling with Leila. She's a nut case.”

They went to the Cannery. A chattering, happy end-of-summer crowd filled the popular restaurant; but Craig had phoned ahead, and there was a window table with a sweeping view of Monterey Harbor awaiting them. Cheryl slipped in beside Ted. Her hand rested on his knee. “This is like old times,” she whispered. She was wearing a lame halter and matching skin-tight pants. A buzz of excitement had followed her as she walked across the room.

In the months since he'd seen her, Cheryl had phoned him repeatedly but he'd never returned the calls. Now as her warm, restless fingers caressed his knee, Ted wondered if he was being a fool for not taking what was being offered to him. Cheryl would say anything he wanted that might help his defense. But at what price?

Syd, Bartlett and Craig were visibly relieved to be here instead of at the Spa. “Wait till you start eating,” Syd told Henry. “You'll know what seafood is all about.”

The waiter came. Bartlett ordered a Johnnie Walker Black Label. His champagne-toned linen jacket was an impeccable fit; his sport shirt in the exact champagne shade and cinnamon-colored trousers were obviously custom-made. His thick but meticulously barbered white hair contrasted handsomely with his unlined, tanned face. Ted imagined him by turn informing, wooing, scolding a jury. A grandstander. Obviously, it worked for him. But what percentage of the time? He started to order a vodka martini and changed it to a beer. This was no time to dull any of his faculties.

It was early for dinner, only seven o'clock. But he had insisted on that. Craig and Syd were having an animated conversation. Syd seemed almost cheerful. Testimony for sale, Ted thought. Make Leila sound like a maniacal drunk.
It could all backfire, kids, and if it does, I'm the one who pays.

Craig was asking Syd about his agency; was sympathizing with him over the money he'd lost in Leila's play. “We took a bath too,” he said. He looked over at Cheryl and smiled warmly. “And we think you were a hell of a good sport to try to save the ship, Cheryl.”

For God's sake, don't shovel it on!
Ted bit his lip to keep from shouting at Craig. But everyone else was smiling broadly. He was the alien in the group, the Unidentified Flying Object. He could sense the eyes of the other diners on this table, on him. He might as well have been able to overhear the
sotto voce
conversations. “His trial starts next week.” . . . “Do you think he did it?” . . . “With his money, he'll probably get off. They always do.”

Not necessarily.

Impatiently, Ted looked out at the bay. The harbor was filled with boats—large, small, sailing vessels, yachts. Whenever she could, his mother had brought him to visit here. It was the only place where she'd been happy.

“Ted's mother's family came from Monterey,” Craig was telling Henry Bartlett.

Again Ted experienced the wild irritation that Craig had begun to trigger in him. When had it started? In Hawaii? Before that?
Don't read my thoughts. Don't speak for me. I'm sick of it.
Leila used to ask him if he didn't get sick of having the Bulldog at his heels all the time. . . .

The drinks came. Bartlett took over the conversation. “As you know, you are all listed as potential defense witnesses for Teddy. Obviously you can testify to the scene at Elaine's. So can about two hundred other people.
But on the stand, I'd like you to help me paint for the jurors a more complete picture of Leila. You all know her public image. But you also know that she was a deeply insecure woman who had no faith in herself, who was haunted by a fear of failure.”

“A Marilyn Monroe defense,” Syd suggested. “With all the wild stories about Monroe's death, everyone has pretty well conceded that she committed suicide.”