Weep No More My Lady (18 page)

It had been made from New York.

SHEER FATIGUE MADE ELIZABETH FALL INTO SLEEP; BUT IT was a restless sleep, filled with dreams. Leila was standing in front of stacks of fan mail; Leila was reading the letters to her, Leila was crying. “I can't trust anyone . . . I can't trust anyone.”

In the morning, there was no question in her mind of going on the walk. She showered, pulled her hair into a topknot, slipped on her jogging suit and after waiting just long enough for the hikers to be on their way, headed for the main house. She knew Sammy was always at her desk by a few minutes after seven.

It was a shock to find the usually impeccable receptionist's office cluttered with stacks of mail on and around Dora's desk. A large sheet of paper with the ominous words
See me
and signed by Min clearly revealed that Min had seen the mess.

How unlike Sammy! Never once in all the years she'd known her had Sammy left her desk cluttered. It was unthinkable she'd have chanced leaving it this way in the reception area. It was a surefire way of bringing on one of Min's famous rages.

But suppose she was ill? Quickly Elizabeth hurried down the stairs to the foyer of the main house and rushed to the stairway leading to the staff wing. Dora had an apartment on the second floor. She knocked briskly at the door, but there was no answer. The sound of a vacuum came from around the corner. The maid, Nelly, was a longtime employee who had been here when Elizabeth was working as an instructor. It was easy to get her to open Sammy's door. With a growing sense of panic, Elizabeth walked through the pleasant rooms: the sitting room in shades of lime green and white, with Sammy's carefully tended plants on the windowsills and tabletops; the single bed primly neat, with Sammy's Bible on the night table.

Nelly pointed to the bed. “She didn't sleep here last night, Miss Lange. And look!” Nelly walked to the window. “Her car's in the parking lot. Do you suppose she felt sick and sent for a cab or something to go to the hospital? That would be just like Miss Samuels. You know how independent she is.”

But there was no record of a Dora Samuels' having signed herself into the community hospital. With growing apprehension, Elizabeth waited for Min to come back from the morning walk. In an effort to keep her mind from the fearful worry that something had happened to Sammy, she began to scan the fan mail. Where was the unsigned letter Dora had planned to copy?

Was she still carrying it?

AT FIVE OF SEVEN, SYD WALKED UP THE PATH TO JOIN THE others for the morning hike. Cheryl could read him like a book. He'd have to be careful. Bob wasn't making his final decision until this afternoon. If it weren't for that damn play, it would be in the bag now.

“You hear that, everybody? I quit!”

And you wiped me out, you bitch, he thought. He managed to twist his face into the contortion of a smile. The Greenwich, Connecticut, set were there, all turned out for the morning hike, every hair in place, flawless skin, manicured hands. Pretty clear none of
them
had ever hung by their fingernails waiting for a call, ever clawed their way up in a cutthroat business, ever had someone throw them into the financial gutter with the toss of a head.

It would be a perfect Pebble Beach day. The sun was already warming the cool morning air, the faint smell of salt from the Pacific mingled with the fragrance of the flowering trees that surrounded the main house. Syd remembered the tenement in Brooklyn where he'd been raised. The Dodgers had been in Brooklyn then. Maybe they should have stayed there. Maybe
he
should have stayed there too.

Min and the Baron came out onto the veranda. Syd was immediately aware of how drawn Min looked. Her expression was frozen on her face, the way people get when they've witnessed an accident and cannot believe what they've seen.
How much had she guessed?
He did not glance at Helmut but instead turned his head to watch Cheryl and Ted coming up the path. Syd could read Ted's mind. He'd always felt guilty about dumping Cheryl for Leila, but it was obvious he didn't want to pick up with her again. Obvious to everyone except Cheryl.

What in hell had she meant with that dumb remark about “proof” that Ted was innocent? What was she up to now?

“Good morning, Mr. Melnick.” He turned to see Alvirah Meehan beaming up at him. “Why don't we just walk together?” she asked. “I know how disappointed you must be that Margo Dresher is probably going to be Amanda in the series. I'm telling you, they're making a terrible mistake.”

Syd did not realize how hard he had grasped her arm until he saw her flinch. “Sorry, Mrs. Meehan, but you don't know what you're talking about.”

Too late, Alvirah realized that only the insiders had that tip—the reporter from the
Globe
who was her contact for her article had told her to study Cheryl Manning's reaction when she got the news. She'd made a bad slip. “Oh, am I wrong?” she asked. “Maybe it's just that my husband was saying that he read it's neck and neck between Cheryl and Margo Dresher.”

Syd made his voice confidential. “Mrs. Meehan, do me a favor, won't you? Don't talk about that to anyone. It isn't true, and you can imagine how it would upset Miss Manning.”

Cheryl had her hand on Ted's arm. Whatever she had been saying, she had him laughing. She was a hell of a good actress—but not good enough to keep her cool if she lost the Amanda role. And she'd turn on him like an alley cat. Then, as Syd watched, Ted raised his hand in a careless salute and started jogging toward the front gate.

“Good morning, everyone,” Min boomed in a hollow attempt at her usual vigor. “Let us be on our way. Remember, a brisk pace and deep breathing, please.”

Alvirah stepped back as Cheryl caught up with them. They fell into line on the walkway that led to the woods. Scanning the clusters of people ahead, Syd picked out Craig walking with the lawyer, Henry Bartlett. The Countess and her entourage were directly behind them. The tennis pro and his girlfriend were holding hands. The talk-show host was with his date for the week, a twenty-year-old model. The various other guests in twos and threes were unfamiliar.

When Leila made this place her hangout, she put it on the map, Syd thought. You never knew when you'd find her here. Min needs a new superstar. He had noticed the way all eyes drank in Ted as he jogged away. Ted was a superstar.

Cheryl was clearly in a buoyant mood. Her dark hair exploded around her face. Her coal-black brows arced above the huge amber eyes. Her
petulant mouth was carved into a seductive smile. She began to hum “That Old Feeling.” Her breasts were high and pointed under her jogging suit. No one else could make a jogging suit look like a second coat of skin.

“We've got to talk,” Syd told her quietly.

“Go ahead.”

“Not here.”

Cheryl shrugged. “Then later. Don't look so sour, Syd. Breathe deeply. Get rid of poisonous thoughts.”

“Don't bother being cute with me. When we get back, I'll come to your place.”

“What is this about?” Cheryl clearly did not want to have the euphoric mood spoiled.

Syd glanced over his shoulder. Alvirah was directly behind them. Syd could almost feel her breath on his neck.

He gave Cheryl's arm a warning pinch.

*   *   *

When they reached the road, Min continued to lead in the direction of the lone cypress tree, and Helmut began dropping back to chat with the hikers. “Good morning . . . Wonderful day . . . Try to pick up the pace . . . You're doing marvelously.” His artificial cheerfulness grated on Syd. Leila had been right. The Baron was a toy soldier. Wind him up and he marches forward.

Helmut stopped abreast of Cheryl. “I hope you two enjoyed your dinner last night.” His smile was dazzling and mechanical. Syd could not remember what he had eaten. “It was okay.”

“Good.” Helmut dropped back to ask Alvirah Meehan how she was feeling.

“Absolutely fine.” Her voice was hard and strident. “You might say I'm as bright as a butterfly floating on a cloud.” Her noisy laugh sent a chill through Syd.

Had even Alvirah Meehan caught on?

Henry Bartlett was not feeling good about the world or his particular situation. When he was asked to take on the case of Ted Winters, he'd rearranged his calendar immediately. Few criminal lawyers would be too busy to represent a prominent multimillionaire. But there was an ongoing problem between him and Ted Winters. The definitive word was “chemistry,” and it was bad between them.

As he grudgingly plodded on the forced march behind Min and the Baron, Henry admitted to himself that this place was luxurious, that the setting was beautiful, that under different circumstances he could come to appreciate the charms of the Monterey Peninsula and Cypress Point Spa. But now he was on a countdown. The trial of
The People of the State of New York
v.
Andrew Edward Winters III
would begin in exactly one week. Publicity was eminently desirable when you won a headline case; but unless Ted Winters started cooperating, this case would not be won.

Min was picking up the pace. Henry quickened his footsteps. He hadn't missed the appreciative glances of the fiftyish ash-blonde who was with the Countess. Under different circumstances he'd check that out. But not now.

Craig was marching at a solid, steady pace behind him. Henry still couldn't put his finger on what made Craig Babcock tick. On the one hand he'd talked about Pop's deli on the Lower East Side. On the other, he was clearly the hatchet man for Ted Winters. It was a pity that it was too late for him to testify that he and Ted had been on the phone when that so-called eyewitness claimed she saw Ted. That thought reminded Henry of what he wanted to ask Craig.

“What's with the investigator on Sally Ross?”

“I put
three
investigators on her—two for background, one to shadow her.”

“It should have been done months ago.”

“I agree. Ted's first lawyer didn't think it was necessary.”

They were leaving the path that exited the Spa grounds and proceeding onto the road that led to the Lone Cypress.

“How did you arrange to get reports?”

“The head guy will call me every morning, nine thirty New York time, six thirty here. I just spoke to him. Nothing too important to report yet. Pretty much what we know already. She's been divorced a couple of times; she fights with her neighbors; she's always accusing people of staring at her. She treats 911 like it's her own personal hot line, always calling to report suspicious-looking characters.”

“I could chew her up and spit her out on the stand,” Bartlett said. “Without Elizabeth Lange's testimony, the prosecution would be flying on one wing. Incidentally, I want to know how good her eyesight is, if she needs glasses, what strength glasses, when they were changed last, and so on . . . everything about her vision.”

“Good. I'll phone it in.”

For a few minutes they walked in silence. The morning was silvery bright; the sun was absorbing the dew from the leaves and bushes; the road was quiet, with only an occasional car passing; the narrow bridge that led to the Lone Cypress was empty.

Bartlett glanced over his shoulder. “I'd hoped to see Ted holding hands with Cheryl.”

“He always jogs in the morning. Maybe he was holding hands with her all night.”

“I hope so. Your friend Syd doesn't look happy.”

“The rumor is Syd's broke. He was riding high with Leila as a client. He'd sign her up for a picture and part of the deal was they'd use a couple of his other clients somewhere else. That's how he kept Cheryl working. Without Leila and with all the money he lost in that play, he's got problems. He'd love to put the arm on Ted right now. I won't let him.”

“He and Cheryl are the most important defense witnesses we have,” Henry snapped. “Maybe you'd better be more generous. In fact, I'm going to make that suggestion to Ted.”

They had passed the Pebble Beach Lodge and were on the way back to the Spa. “We'll get to work after breakfast,” Bartlett announced. “I've got to decide the strategy of this case and whether to put Ted on the stand. My guess is that he'll make a lousy witness for himself; but no matter how much the judge instructs the jury, it makes a big psychological difference when a defendant won't subject himself to questioning.”

*   *   *

Syd walked back to Cheryl's bungalow with her. “Let's make this short,” she said when the door closed behind them. “I want to shower, and I invited Ted for breakfast.” She pulled the sweat shirt over her head, stepped out of the sweat pants and reached for her robe. “What
is
it?”

“Always practicing, aren't you?” Syd snapped.

“Save it for the dopes, honey. I'd rather wrestle with a tiger.” For a long minute he studied her. She had darkened her hair for the Amanda audition, and the effect was startling. The softer color had obliterated the brassy, cheap-at-the-core look she'd never quite conquered and had accentuated those marvelous eyes. Even in a terry-cloth robe she looked like someone with class. Inside, Syd knew, she was the same scheming little hooker he'd been dealing with for nearly two decades.

Now she smiled dazzlingly at him. “Oh, Syd, let's not fight. What do you want?”

“I'll be happy to make it brief. Why did you suggest that Leila might have committed suicide? Why would she have believed that Ted was involved with another woman?”

“Proof.”

“What kind of proof?”

“A letter.” Quickly she explained. “I went up to see Min yesterday. They had the nerve to leave a bill here, when they know perfectly well I'm a draw for this place. They were inside, and I just happened to notice all that fan mail on Sammy's desk, and when I looked around I saw this crazy letter. And I took it.”