Weep No More My Lady (23 page)

With a surge of heartsick contempt for herself, she laid money on the table and left the restaurant. On the way out she tossed the paper into a wastebasket. She wondered who at the Spa had tipped off the
Globe.
It could have been one of the staff. Min and Helmut were plagued with leaks. It could have been one of the guests who in exchange for personal publicity fed items to the columnists. It also could have been Cheryl.

When she got back to her bungalow, Scott was sitting on the porch waiting for her. “You're an early bird,” she told him.

There were circles under his eyes. “I didn't do much sleeping last night. Something about Sammy falling backward into that pool just doesn't sit right with me.”

Elizabeth winced as she thought of Sammy's bloodstained head.

“I'm sorry,” Scott told her.

“It's all right. I feel exactly the same way. Did you find any more of those letters in the mailbags?”

“No. I've got to ask you to go through Sammy's personal effects with me. I don't know what I'm looking for, but you might spot something I'd miss.”

“Give me ten minutes to shower and change.”

“You're sure it won't upset you too much?”

Elizabeth leaned against the porch railing and ran her hand through her hair. “If that letter had been found, I could believe Sammy might have had some sort of attack and wandered into the bathhouse. But with the letter gone . . . Scott, if someone pushed her or frightened her so that she backed away, that person is a murderer.”

The doors of the bungalows around them were opening. Men and women in identical ivory terrycloth robes headed for the spa buildings. “Treatments start in fifteen minutes,” Elizabeth said. “Massages and facials and steam baths and God knows what-all. Isn't it incredible to think that one of the people being pampered here today left Sammy to die in that god-awful mausoleum?”

*   *   *

Craig's early-morning call was from the private investigator, and it was obvious he was troubled. “Nothing more on Sally Ross,” he said, “but the word is that the burglar who was picked up in her building claims he has information about Leila LaSalle's death. He's trying to make a deal with the district attorney.”

“What
kind
of information? This might be the break we're looking for.”

“My contact doesn't get that feeling.”

“What's
that
supposed to mean?”

“The district attorney is happy. You have to conclude his case is stronger, not weaker.”

Craig phoned Bartlett and reported the conversation. “I'll put my office on it,” Bartlett said. “My people may be able to find out something. We'll have to sit tight until we find out what's up. In the meantime I intend to see Sheriff Alshorne. I want a full explanation of those ‘poison-pen' letters he talked about. You're
sure
Teddy wasn't involved with another woman, somebody he may be protecting? He doesn't seem to realize how much that could help his case. Maybe you might mention that to him.”

*   *   *

Syd was about to leave for the hike when his telephone rang. Something told him it would be Bob Koenig. He was wrong. For three endless minutes he pleaded with a loan shark for a little more time to pay the rest of his debts. “If Cheryl gets this part, I can borrow against my commissions,” he argued. “I swear she has the edge over Margo Dresher. . . . Koenig told me himself . . . I swear. . . .”

When he hung up the receiver, he sat on the edge of the bed trembling. He had no choice. He had to go to Ted and use what he knew to get the money he needed.

Time had run out.

There was something indefinably different about Sammy's apartment. Elizabeth felt it was as though her aura as well as her physical being had departed. Her plants had not been watered. Dead leaves rimmed the planters. “Min was in touch with Sammy's cousin about the funeral arrangements,” Scott explained.

“Where is her body now?”

“It will be picked up from the morgue tomorrow and shipped to Ohio for burial in the family plot.”

Elizabeth thought of the concrete dust that had smudged Sammy's skirt and cardigan. “Can I give you clothes for Sammy?” she asked. “Is it too late?”

“It's not too late.”

The last time she'd performed this service had been for Leila. Sammy had helped her select the dress in which Leila would be buried. “Remember, the casket won't be open,” Sammy had reminded her.

“It isn't that,” Elizabeth had said. “You know Leila. If she ever wore anything that didn't feel right, she was uncomfortable all evening even if everyone else thought she looked great. If there's such a thing as knowing . . .”

Sammy had understood. And together they had decided on the green chiffon-and-velvet gown Leila had worn the night she won the Oscar. They were the only two who had seen her in the casket. The undertaker had skillfully covered the bruises, had reconstructed the beautiful face, now curiously peaceful at last. For a time they had sat together reminiscing, Sammy, holding Elizabeth's hand, finally reminding her that it was time to allow the fans to file past the bier, that the funeral director needed time to close the casket and drape it in the floral blanket that Elizabeth and Ted had ordered.

Now, with Scott watching her, Elizabeth examined the closet. “The blue tie silk,” she murmured, “the one Leila gave her for her birthday two years ago. Sammy used to say that if she'd had clothes like this when she was young, her whole life might have been different.”

She packed a small overnight case containing underthings, stockings, shoes and the inexpensive pearl necklace Sammy always wore with her
“good dresses.” “At least that's one thing I know I can do for her,” she told Scott. “Now let's get about the business of finding what happened to her.”

Sammy's dresser drawers revealed only personal items. Her desk held her checkbook, daily memo pad, personal stationery. On a shelf of the closet, pushed back behind a stack of sweaters, they found a year-old appointment book and a bound copy of
Merry-Go-Round
by Clayton Anderson.

“Leila's play,” Elizabeth said. “I never did get to read it.” She opened the folder and flipped through the pages. “Look, it's her working script. She always made so many notes and changed lines so that they sounded right for her.”

Scott watched as Elizabeth ran her fingers over the ornate penmanship that dotted the margins of the pages. “Why don't you take that?” he asked.

“I'd like to.”

He opened the appointment book. The entries were in the same curlicued handwriting. “This was Leila's too.” There were no entries after March 31. On that page Leila had printed OPENING NIGHT! Scott flipped through the earlier pages. Most of them had the daily entry marked
Rehearsal
with a line drawn through.

There were appointments indicated for the hairdresser, for costume fittings, visit Sammy at Mount Sinai, send flowers, Sammy, publicity appearances. In the last six weeks, more and more of the extraneous appointments had been crossed out. There were also notations:
Sparrow, L.A.; Ted, Budapest; Sparrow, Montreal; Ted, Bonn. . . .
“She seems to have kept both your schedules right in front of her.”

“She did. So she'd know where to reach us.”

Scott stopped at one page. “You two were in the same city that night.” He turned the pages more slowly. “Actually, Ted seems to have shown up fairly regularly in the same cities where your play was booked.”

“Yes. We'd go out for supper after the performance and call Leila together.”

Scott scrutinized Elizabeth's face. For just an instant something else had come over it. Was it possible that Elizabeth had fallen in love with Ted and refused to face that fact? And if so, was it possible that a sense of guilt
was subconsciously demanding that Ted be punished for Leila's death, knowing that she would be punishing herself at the same time? It was a disquieting thought. He tried to dismiss it. “This appointment book probably doesn't have any bearing on the case, but I still think the district attorney in New York should have it,” he said.

“Why?”

“No particular reason. But it could be considered an exhibit.”

There was nothing more to be found in Sammy's apartment. “I've got a suggestion,” Scott told her. “Go over to the spa and follow whatever schedule you had planned. As I told you, there are no more anonymous letters in that fan mail. My boys went through everything in those bags last night. Our chance of finding out who sent them is remote. I'll talk to Cheryl, but she's pretty cagey. I don't think she'll give herself away.”

Together they walked down the long hall that led to the main house. “You haven't gone through Sammy's desk in the office, have you?” Scott asked.

“No.” Elizabeth realized how tightly she was gripping the script. Something was compelling her to read it. She'd only seen that one terrible performance. She'd heard it was a good vehicle for Leila. Now she wanted to judge for herself. Reluctantly she accompanied Scott to the office. That had become another place she wanted to avoid.

Helmut and Min were in their private office. The door was open. Henry Bartlett and Craig were with them. Bartlett lost no time in demanding an explanation for the anonymous letters. “They may very well contribute to my client's defense,” he told Scott. “We have a right to be fully briefed on them.”

Elizabeth watched Henry Bartlett as he absorbed Scott's explanation of the anonymous letters. His look grew intense. His face was all sharp planes; his eyes were hard. This was the man who would be cross-examining her in court. He looked like a predator watching for prey.

“Let me get this straight,” Bartlett said. “Miss Lange and Miss Samuels agreed that Leila LaSalle may have been profoundly upset by poison-pen letters suggesting that Ted Winters was involved with someone else? Those letters have now disappeared? On Monday night Miss Samuels wrote her impressions of the first letter? Miss Lange has transcribed the second
one? I want copies.”

“I see no reason why you can't have them,” Scott told him. He placed Leila's appointment book on Min's desk. “Oh, for the record, this is something else I'm sending on to New York,” he said. “It was Leila's calendar for the last three months of her life.”

Without asking for permission, Henry Bartlett reached for it. Elizabeth waited for Scott to protest, but he did not. Watching Bartlett thumb through Leila's personal daily diary, she felt an enormous sense of intrusion. What business had he? She threw an angry glance at Scott. He was looking at her impassively.

He's trying to prepare me for next week, she thought bleakly, and realized that maybe she should be grateful. Next week, all that Leila was would be laid out for twelve people to analyze; her own relationship with Leila, with Ted—nothing would be hidden, no privacy beyond violation. “I'll look through Sammy's desk,” she said abruptly.

She was still holding the script of the play. She laid it on Sammy's desk and quickly went through the drawers. There was absolutely nothing personal in them. Spa letterheads; Spa publicity folders; Spa follow-up memos; the usual office paraphernalia.

Min and the Baron had followed her out. She glanced up to see them standing in front of Sammy's desk. Both of them were staring at the leather-bound folder with the bold title
Merry-Go-Round
on the cover.

“Leila's play?” Min asked.

“Yes. Sammy kept Leila's copy. I'll take it now.”

Craig, Bartlett and the sheriff came out of the private office. Henry Bartlett was smiling—a self-satisfied, smug, chilly smile. “Miss Lange, you've been a great help to us today. But I think I should warn you that the jury won't take kindly to the fact that as a woman scorned, you put Ted Winters through this hellish nightmare.”

Elizabeth stood up, her lips white. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about the fact that in her own handwriting, your sister made the connection between you and Ted ‘happening' to be in the same city so often. I'm talking about the fact that someone else also made that connection and tried to warn her with those letters. I'm talking about the look on your face when Ted put his arms around you at the memorial
service. Surely you've seen this morning's paper? Apparently what may have been a mild flirtation for Ted was serious to you, and so when he dropped you, you discovered a way to take your revenge.”

“You filthy liar!” Elizabeth did not know she had thrown the copy of the play at Henry Bartlett until it struck him in the chest.

His expression was impassive, even pleased. Bending, he picked up the script and handed it back to her. “Do me a favor, young lady, and stage that kind of outburst in front of the jury next week,” he said. “They'll
exonerate
Ted.”

WHILE CRAIG AND BARTLETT WENT TO CONFRONT THE sheriff, Ted worked out with the Nautilus equipment in the men's spa. Each piece of equipment he used seemed to emphasize his own situation. The rowboat that went nowhere; the bicycle that no matter how furiously pedaled, stayed in place. On the surface he managed to exchange pleasantries with some of the other men in the gym—the head of the Chicago stock exchange, the president of Atlantic Banks, a retired admiral. He sensed in all of them a wariness: they didn't know what to say to him, didn't want to say “Good luck.” It was easier for them—and for him—when they got busy with the machines and concentrated on building muscles. Men in prison tended to get pretty soft. Not enough exercise. Boredom. Pallid skin. Ted studied his own tan. It wouldn't last long behind bars. He was supposed to meet Bartlett and Craig in his bungalow at ten o'clock. Instead, he went for a swim in the indoor pool. He'd have preferred the Olympic pool, but there was always the chance Elizabeth might be there. He didn't want to run into her.