Weep No More My Lady (16 page)

“Exactly.” Bartlett favored Syd with a friendly smile. “Now the question is motive. Syd, tell me about the play.”

Syd shrugged. “It was perfect for her. It could have been written about her. She loved the script. The rehearsals started like a cakewalk. I used to tell her we could open in a week. And then something happened. She came into the theater smashed at nine in the morning. After that it was all downhill.”

“Stage fright?”

“Lots of people get stage fright. Helen Hayes threw up before every performance. When Jimmy Stewart finished a movie, he was sure no one would ever ask him to be in another one. Leila threw up
and
worried. That's show biz.”

“That's just what I don't want to hear on the stand,” Henry said sharply. “I intend to paint the picture of a woman with a drinking problem who was experiencing severe depression.”

A teenager was standing over Cheryl. “Could I please have your autograph?” He plunked a menu in front of her.

“Of course.” Cheryl beamed and scrawled her signature.

“Is it true you're going to be Amanda in that new series?”

“Keep your fingers crossed. I think so.” Cheryl's eyes drank in the adolescent's homage.

“You'll be great. Thank you.”

“Now, if we just had a tape of this to send to Bob Koenig,” Syd said drily.

“When will you know?” Craig asked.

“Maybe in the next few days.”

Craig held up his glass. “To Amanda.”

Cheryl ignored him and turned to Ted. “Aren't you going to drink to that?”

He raised his glass. “Of course.” He meant it. The naked hope in her eyes was in an odd way touching. Leila had always overshadowed Cheryl. Why had they kept up the farce of friendship? Was it because Cheryl's endless quest to become bigger than Leila had been a challenge for Leila, a constant prod that she welcomed, that kept her on her mettle?

Cheryl must have seen something in his face, because her lips brushed his cheek. He did not pull away.

It was over coffee that Cheryl leaned her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands. The champagne she had drunk had clouded her eyes so that they now seemed to smolder with secret promises. Her voice was slightly blurred as she half-whispered to Bartlett, “Suppose Leila believed that Ted wanted to dump her for another woman? What would that do to help the suicide theory?”

“I was not involved with another woman,” Ted said flatly.

“Darling, this isn't True Confessions. You don't have to say a word,” Cheryl chided. “Henry, answer my question.”

“If we had
proof
that Ted was interested in someone else, and that Leila knew it, we give Leila a reason to be despondent. We damage the prosecutor's claim that Ted killed Leila because she rejected him. Are you telling me there was something going on between you and Ted before Leila died?” Bartlett asked hopefully.

“I'll answer that,” Ted snapped. “No!”

“You didn't listen,” Cheryl protested. “I said I may have proof that Leila
thought
Ted was ready to dump her for someone else.”

“Cheryl, I suggest you shut up. You don't know what you're talking about,” Syd told her. “Now let's get out of here. You've had too much to drink.”

“You're right,” Cheryl said amiably. “You're not often right, Syd, dear, but this time you are.”

“Just a minute,” Bartlett interrupted. “Cheryl, unless this is some sort of game, you'd better put your cards on the table. Anything that clarifies Leila's state of mind is vital to Ted's defense. What do you call ‘proof'?”

“Maybe something that wouldn't even interest you,” Cheryl said. “Let me sleep on it.”

Craig signaled for a check. “I have a feeling this conversation is a waste of time.”

It was nine thirty when the limousine dropped them at the Spa. “I want Ted to walk me to my place.” Now Cheryl's voice had an edge on it.

“I'll walk you,” Syd snapped.

“Ted will walk me,” Cheryl insisted.

She leaned against him as they went down the path toward her bungalow. Other guests were just beginning to leave the main house. “Wasn't it fun to be out together?” Cheryl murmured.

“Cheryl, is this ‘proof' talk one of your games?” Ted pushed the cloud of black hair away from her face.

“I like it when you touch my hair.” They were at her bungalow. “Come in, darling.”

“No. I'll say good night.”

She pulled his head down until their lips were barely apart. In the starlight her eyes blazed up at him. Had she faked the business of acting tight? he wondered. “Darling,” she whispered feverishly, “don't you understand that I'm the one who can help you walk out of that courtroom a free man?”

*   *   *

Craig and Bartlett said good night to Syd and made their way to their bungalows. Henry Bartlett was visibly satisfied. “Teddy looks as if he's finally getting the message. Having that little lady in his corner at the trial will be important. What do you think she meant by that mumbo jumbo about Ted being involved with another woman?”

“Wishful thinking. She probably wants to volunteer for the part.”

“I see. If he's smart, he'll accept.”

They reached Craig's bungalow. “I'd like to come in for a minute,” Bartlett told him. “It's a good chance to talk alone.” Inside the bungalow, he glanced around. “This is a different look.”

“It's Min's masculine, rustic effect,” Craig explained. “She didn't miss a trick—pine tables, wide-planked floors. The bed even has a cord spring. She automatically puts me in one of these units. I think she subconsciously views me as the simple type.”

“Are you?”

“I don't think so. And even though I lean to kingsize beds with box springs, this
is
a hell of a step up from Avenue B and Eighth Street, where my old man had a deli.”

Bartlett studied Craig carefully. “Bulldog” was an apt description for him, he decided. Sandy hair, neutral complexion, cheeks that would fold into jowls if he let himself put weight on. A solid citizen. A good person to have in your corner. “Ted is lucky to have you,” he said. “I don't think he appreciates it.”

“That's where you're wrong. Ted has to rely on me now to front for him in the business, and he resents it. To clarify that, he only
thinks
he resents me. The problem is, my very presence in his place is a symbol of the jam he's in.”

Craig went to the closet and pulled out a suitcase. “Like you, I carry my private supply.” He poured Courvoisier into two glasses, handed one of them to Bartlett and settled on the couch, leaning forward, turning his glass in his hand. “I'll give you the best example I can. My cousin was in an accident and flat on her back in the hospital for nearly a year. Her mother knocked herself out taking care of the kids. You want to know something? My cousin was jealous of her mother. She said her mother was enjoying her children and
she
should be the one with them. It's like that with Ted and me. The minute my cousin got out of the hospital, she was singing her mother's praises for the good job she did. When Ted is acquitted, things will be back to normal between us. And let me tell you, I'd a lot rather put up with his outbursts than be in his boots.”

Bartlett realized that he had been too quick to dismiss Craig Babcock as a glorified lackey. The problem, he told himself sourly, of being too cocky. He chose his response carefully. “I see your point, and I think you're quite perceptive.”

“Unexpectedly perceptive?” Craig asked with a half-smile.

Bartlett chose to ignore the bait. “I also am starting to feel somewhat better about this case. We might be able to put together a defense that will at least create reasonable doubt in a jury's mind. Did you take care of the investigative agency?”

“Yes. We've got two detectives finding out everything they can about the Ross woman. We've got another detective trailing her. Maybe that's overkill, but you never know.”

“Nothing that helps is overkill.” Bartlett moved to the door. “As you can certainly see, Ted Winters resents the hell out of me for probably the same reason he's jumping at
you.
We both want him to walk out of that courtroom a free man. One line of defense that I hadn't considered before
tonight is to convince the jury that shortly before Leila LaSalle died, he and Cheryl had gotten back together, and the money he put in the play was a kiss-off for Leila.”

Bartlett opened the door and glanced back over his shoulder. “Sleep on it, and come back to me in the morning with a game plan.”

He paused. “But we've got to prevail on
Teddy
to go along with us.”

*   *   *

When Syd reached his bungalow the message light on the phone was flashing. He sensed immediately that it was Bob Koenig. The president of World Motion Pictures was famed for his habit of placing after-hours calls. It could only mean that a decision had been made about Cheryl and the role of Amanda. He broke into a cold sweat.

With one hand he reached for a cigarette, with the other for the phone. As he barked “Syd Melnick,” he cradled the receiver against his shoulder and lit the cigarette.

“Glad you reached me tonight, Syd. I had a sixo'clock call in to you in the morning.”

“I'd have been awake. Who can sleep in this business?”

“I sleep like a top, myself. Syd, I've got a couple of questions.”

He had been sure that Cheryl had lost the part. Something about the flashing light had signaled doom.
But Bob had questions. No decision had been made.

He could visualize Bob at the other end of the line, leaning back in the leather swivel chair in his library at home. Bob hadn't gotten to be head of the studio by making sentimental decisions. Cheryl's test was great, Syd told himself hopefully. But then what? “Shoot,” he said, trying to sound relaxed.

“We're still battling it out between Cheryl and Margo Dresher. You know how tough it is to launch a series. Margo's a bigger name. Cheryl was good, damn good—probably better than Margo, even though I'll deny having said that. But Cheryl hasn't done anything big in years, and that fiasco on Broadway kept coming up at the meeting.”

The play. Once again the play. Leila's face drifted across Syd's mind. The way she'd screamed at him in Elaine's. He had wanted to bludgeon her then, to drown out that cynical, mocking voice forever. . . .

“That play was a vehicle for Leila. I take full blame for rushing Cheryl into it.”

“Syd, we've been through all that. I'm going to be absolutely candid with you. Last year, as all the columnists reported, Margo had a little drug problem. The public is getting damn sick of stars who spend half their lives in drug-rehab centers. I want it straight. Is there anything about Cheryl that could embarrass us, if we choose her?”

Syd gripped the phone. Cheryl had the inside track. A burst of hope made his pulse fluctuate wildly. Sweat poured from his palms. “Bob, I swear to you—”

“Everybody swears to me. Try telling me the truth instead. If I put myself on the line and decide on Cheryl, will it backfire on me? If it ever does, Syd, you're finished.”

“I swear. I swear on my mother's grave. . . .”

Syd hung up the phone, hunched over and put his face in his hands. Clammy perspiration broke over his entire body. Once again the golden ring was within his grasp.

Only this time it was Cheryl, not Leila, who could screw it up for him. . . .

WHEN SHE LEFT ELIZABETH, DORA CARRIED THE PLASTIC-wrapped anonymous letter in the pocket of her cardigan. They had decided that she would make a copy of the letter on the office machine, and in the morning Elizabeth would take the original to the sheriffs office in Salinas.

Scott Alshorne, the county sheriff, was a regular dinner guest at the Spa. He'd been friendly with Min's first husband and was always discreetly helpful when a problem, like missing jewelry, arose. Leila had adored him.

“Poison-pen letters aren't the same as missing jewelry,” Dora warned Elizabeth.

“I know, but Scott can tell us where to send the letter for analysis, or if I should just give it to the district attorney's office in New York. Anyway, I want a copy myself.”

“Then let me make it tonight. Tomorrow, when Min is around, we can't risk having her reading it.”

As Dora was leaving, Elizabeth wrapped her in her arms. “You don't believe Ted is guilty, do you, Sammy?”

“Of calculated murder? No, I simply can't believe that. And if he was interested in another woman, there was no motive for him to kill Leila.”

*   *   *

Dora had to go back to the office anyhow. She'd left mail scattered on the desk and the unsearched plastic bags on the floor of the reception room. Min would have a fit if she saw them.

Her dinner tray was still on a table near her desk, almost untouched. Funny how little appetite she had these days. Seventy-one really wasn't that old. It was just that between the operation and losing Leila, there was a spark gone, the old zest that Leila had always teased her about.

The copy machine was camouflaged by a walnut cabinet. She opened the top of the cabinet and turned on the machine, took the letter from her pocket and slipped it free of the plastic bag, carefully touching it only by
the edges. Her movements were quick. There was always the worry that Min might take it into her head to come down to the office. Helmut was undoubtedly locked in his study. He was an insomniac and read late into the night.

She happened to glance out the half-open window. Just the sound of the Pacific—its truculent roar—and the smell of the salty breeze were invigorating. She did not mind the rush of cool air that caused her to shiver. But what had caught her attention?