Weep No More My Lady (22 page)

“Sheriff Alshorne. He just came back. He's talking to Elizabeth now.” Min bit her lip. “Please. We all know how sad we feel about losing Sammy, but I think it would be better if we do not discuss it during dinner.”

“Why does the sheriff want to talk to Elizabeth Lange?” Alvirah Meehan asked. “He doesn't think there's anything funny about Miss Samuels dying in that bathhouse, does he?”

Seven stony pairs of eyes discouraged further questions.

The soup was chilled peach and strawberry, a specialty of the Spa. Alvirah sipped hers contentedly. The
Globe
would be interested to learn that Ted Winters was very clearly concerned about Elizabeth.

She could hardly wait to meet the sheriff.

ELIZABETH STOOD AT THE WINDOW OF HER BUNGALOW and glanced at the main house just in time to see the guests drifting inside for dinner. She had insisted that Nelly leave: “You've had a long day, and I'm perfectly all right now.” She'd propped herself up in bed for the tea and toast, then showered quickly, hoping that the splashing cold water would clear her head. The sedative had left her groggy.

An off-white cable-knit sweater and tan stretch pants were her favorite comfortable clothes. Somehow, wearing them, her feet bare, her hair twisted up casually, she felt like herself.

The last of the guests had disappeared. But as she watched, she saw Scott cut across the lawn in her direction.

*   *   *

They sat across from each other, leaning slightly forward, anxious to communicate, wary of how to begin. Looking at Scott with his kind, questioning eyes made Elizabeth remember how Leila had once said, “He's the kind of guy I would have liked for a father.” Last night Sammy had suggested that they take the anonymous letter to him.

“I'm sorry I couldn't wait until the morning to see you,” Scott told her. “But there are too many things about Sammy's death that trouble me. From what I've learned so far, Sammy drove six hours from Napa Valley yesterday, arriving at about two o'clock. She wasn't due till late evening. She must have been pretty tired, but she didn't even stop to unpack. She went directly to the office. She claimed she wasn't feeling well and wouldn't come down to the dining room for dinner, but the maid tells me she had a tray in the office and was busily going through bags of mail. Then she came to visit you and left around nine thirty. Sammy should have been pretty beat by then, but she apparently went back to the office and turned on the copy machine. Why?”

Elizabeth got up and walked into the bedroom. From her suitcase she
took the letter from Sammy that had been waiting for her in New York. She showed it to Scott. “When I realized Ted was here I would have left immediately, but I had to wait and see Sammy about this.” She told him about the letter that had been taken from Sammy's office and showed him the transcript Sammy had made from memory. “This is pretty much the text of it.”

Her eyes filled as she looked at Sammy's graceful penmanship. “She found another poison-pen letter in one of those sacks last evening. She was going to make a copy for me, and we were planning to give the original to you. I've written it down as I remembered. We had hoped the original could be traced. The typeface for magazines is coded, isn't it?”

“Yes.” Scott read and re-read the transcripts of the letters. “Stinking business.”

“Somebody was systematically trying to destroy Leila,” Elizabeth said. “Somebody doesn't want those letters found. Somebody took one from Sammy's desk yesterday afternoon and perhaps the other one from Sammy's body last night.”

“Are you saying that you think Sammy may have been murdered?”

Elizabeth flinched, then looked directly at him. “I simply can't answer that. I do know that someone was worried enough about those letters to want them back. I do know that a series of those letters would have explained Leila's behavior. Those letters precipitated that quarrel with Ted, and those letters have something to do with Sammy's death. I swear this to you, Scott. I'm going to find out who wrote them. Maybe there's no criminal prosecution possible, but there has to be a way of making that person pay. It's someone who was very close to Leila, and I have my suspicions.”

Fifteen minutes later Scott left Elizabeth, the transcripts of both anonymous letters in his pocket. Elizabeth believed Cheryl had written those letters. It made sense. It was Cheryl's kind of trick. Before he went into the dining room, he walked around to the right side of the main house. Up there was the window where Sammy had stood when she turned on the copy machine. If someone had been on the steps of the bathhouse and signaled to her to come down. . . .

It was possible. But, of course, he told himself sadly, Sammy wouldn't have come down except for someone she knew. And trusted.

The others were halfway through the main course when he joined them.
The empty seat was between Craig and a woman who was introduced as Alvirah Meehan. Scott took the initiative in greeting Ted.
Presumption of innocence.
Ted had always had outstanding looks. It was no wonder that a woman would go to any extreme to separate him from another woman. Scott did not miss the way Cheryl constantly managed to touch Ted's hand, to brush her shoulder against his.

He helped himself to lamb chops from the silver tray the waiter was offering him.

“They're delicious,” Alvirah Meehan confided, her voice barely a whisper. “They'll never go broke in this place from the size of the portions, but I'm telling you when you're finished you feel as though you've had a big meal.”

Alvirah Meehan. Of course. He'd read in the
Monterey Review
about the forty-million-dollar lottery winner who was going to realize her fondest dream by coming to Cypress Point Spa. “Are you enjoying yourself, Mrs. Meehan?”

Alvirah beamed. “I sure am. Everyone has been just wonderful, and so friendly.” Her smile encompassed the entire table. Min and Helmut attempted to return it. “The treatments make you feel like a princess. The nutritionist said that in two weeks I should be able to lose five pounds and a couple of inches. Tomorrow I'm having collagen to get rid of the lines around my mouth. I'm scared of injections, but Baron von Schreiber will give me something for my nerves. I'll leave here a new woman feeling . . . like . . . like a butterfly floating on a cloud.” She pointed to Helmut. “The Baron wrote that. Isn't he a real author?”

Alvirah realized she was talking too much. It was just that she felt kind of guilty being an undercover reporter and wanted to say nice things about these people. But now she'd better be quiet and listen to see if the sheriff had anything to say about Dora Samuels' death. But, disappointingly, no one brought it up at all. It was only when they had just about finished the vanilla mousse that the sheriff asked, not quite casually, “You people will all be around here for the next few days? No one has plans to leave?”

“Our plans are undetermined,” Syd told him. “Cheryl may have to go back to Beverly Hills on short notice.”

“I think it would be better if she checks with me before she goes to Beverly Hills, or anywhere else,” Scott said pleasantly. “And by the way, Baron-those bags of Leila's fan mail. I'll be taking them with me.”

He put down the spoon he was holding and began to push back his chair. “It's funny,” he said, “but it's my guess that one of the people at this table, with the exception of Mrs. Meehan, may have been writing some pretty rotten letters to Leila LaSalle. I'm real anxious to find out who that might be.”

To Syd's dismay, Scott's now steely glance rested squarely on Cheryl.

IT WAS NEARLY TEN O'CLOCK BEFORE THEY WERE ALONE IN their apartment. Min had agonized all day about whether or not to confront Helmut with the proof that he had been in New York the night Leila died. To confront him was to force the admission that he had been involved with Leila. Not to confront him was to allow him to remain vulnerable. How stupid he had been not to destroy the record of the telephone call!

He went directly into his dressing room, and a few minutes later she heard the whirling of the Jacuzzi in his bathroom. When he came back, she was waiting in one of the deep armchairs near the bedroom fireplace. Impersonally, she studied him. His hair was combed as precisely as though he were leaving for a formal ball; his silk dressing gown was knotted by a silk cord; his military posture made him seem taller than his true height. Five feet ten inches was barely above the average for men these days.

He prepared a Scotch and soda for himself and, without asking, poured a sherry for her. “It's been a difficult day, Minna. You handled it well,” he said. Still she did not speak, and at last he seemed to sense that her silence was unusual. “This room is so restful,” he said. “Aren't you glad you let me have my head with this color scheme? And it suits you. Strong, beautiful colors for a strong and beautiful woman.”

“I would not consider peach a strong color.”

“It
becomes
strong when it is wedded with deep blue. Like me, Minna. I become strong because I am with you.”

“Then why this?” From the pocket of her robe she pulled out the telephone-credit-card bill and watched as his expression changed from bewilderment to fear. “Why did you lie to me? You were in New York that night. Were you with Leila? Had you gone to her?”

He sighed. “Minna, I'm glad you have found this. I wanted so much to tell you.”

“Tell me now. You were in love with Leila. You were having an affair with her.”

“No. I swear not.”

“You're lying.”

“Minna, I am telling the truth. I did go to her—as a friend-as a doctor. I got there at nine thirty. The door to her apartment was just barely open. I could hear Leila crying hysterically. Ted was shouting at her to put the phone down. She screamed back at him. The elevator was coming. I didn't want to be seen. You know the right angle the foyer takes. I went around that corner . . .”

Helmut sank to the floor at Min's feet. “Minna, it has been killing me not to tell you. Minna, Ted did push her. I heard her scream,
‘Don't. Don't.'
And then her shriek as she fell.”

Min paled. “Who got off the elevator? Did anyone see you?”

“I don't know. I ran down the fire stairs.” Then, as if his composure, his sense of order, had abandoned him, he leaned forward, his head in his hands, and began to cry.

QUOTE FOR THE DAY:
Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye.

—SHAKESPEARE

GOOD MORNING, TREASURED GUESTS.

Are you feeling a bit lazy this morning? Never mind. After a few days we all begin to unwind into delicious and refreshing slumber and think that maybe, just maybe this morning we shall lie abed.

No. No. We beckon to you. Join us in that wonderful and invigorating morning walk through our beautiful grounds and along the coast. You will be glad. Perhaps by now you have already learned the pleasure of meeting new friends, of revisiting old ones on our sun-bright journey.

A gentle reminder. All guests who swim in any of the pools alone
must
wear the regulation Spa whistle. It has never been needed, but it is a safety factor that we deem essential.

Look in the mirror. Isn't all the exercise and pampering starting to show? Aren't your eyes brighter? Isn't your skin firmer? Won't it be fun showing off the new you to your family and friends?

And a final thought. Whatever troubles you brought with you to the Spa should by now be completely forgotten.
Think
happy.

Baron and Baroness Helmut von Schreiber

ELIZABETH'S PHONE RANG AT SIX O'CLOCK. SLEEPILY SHE groped for it. Her eyelids were heavy and drooping. The aftereffects of the sedative made it impossible to think clearly.

It was William Murphy, the New York assistant district attorney. His opening words snapped her awake. “Miss Lange, I thought you wanted your sister's killer convicted.” Without waiting for her to answer, he rushed on: “Can you please explain to me why you are in the same spa with Ted Winters?”

Elizabeth pulled herself up and swung her feet onto the floor. “I didn't know he was going to be here. I haven't been near him.”

“That may be true, but the minute you saw him you should have been on the next plane home. Take a look at this morning's
Globe.
They've got a picture of you two in a clinch.”

“I was never—”

“It was at the memorial service, but the way you're looking at each other is open to interpretation. Get out of there
now!
And what's this about your sister's secretary?”

“She's the reason I can't leave here.” She told him about the letters, about Sammy's death. “I won't go near Ted,” she promised, “but I am staying here until Friday. That gives me two days to find the letter Dora was carrying or to figure out who took it from her.”

She would not change her mind, and finally Murphy hung up with a parting shot: “If your sister's killer walks, look to yourself for the reason.” He paused. “And I told you before:
Be carefull
”

*   *   *

She jogged into Carmel. The New York papers would be on the stands there. Once again it was a glorious late-summer day. Sleek limousines and
Mercedes convertibles followed each other on the road to the golf course. Other joggers waved at her amiably. Privacy hedges protected the estate homes from the curious eyes of the tourists, but in between, glimpses of the Pacific could be seen. A glorious day to be alive, Elizabeth thought, and she shuddered at the mental image of Sammy's body in the morgue.

Over coffee in a breakfast shop on Ocean Avenue, she read the
Globe.
Someone had snapped that picture at the end of the memorial service. She had started to weep. Ted was beside her. His arm had come around her and he'd turned her to him. She tried not to remember how it had felt to be in his arms.