Weep No More My Lady (25 page)

Henry Bartlett had been driven past irritation. “Listen, Mr. Winters. I wasn't hired to take on this case so that you could wipe your feet on me. It's the rest of your life; but it's also my professional reputation. If you can't or won't cooperate in your own defense, maybe it's not too late for you to get another attorney.” He shoved his files across the table and watched as papers spilled from them. “You insisted on coming here when it would have been much better to have ready access to my staff. You disappeared for a long walk yesterday when we were supposed to work. You were supposed to be here an hour ago and we're twiddling our thumbs waiting for you. You've blackballed one line of defense that might work. Now we have a decent shot at destroying Elizabeth Lange's credibility as a witness and you're not interested.”

Ted opened his eyes. Slowly he lowered his arms until they rested on the table. “Oh, but I
am
interested. Tell me about it.”

Bartlett chose to ignore the sarcasm. “Listen, we're going to be able to produce a facsimile of two letters Leila received that suggest you were
involved with someone else. Cheryl is one possibility as that someone else. We know she'd say anything. But there's a better way. You did try to coordinate your schedule with Elizabeth's—”

Ted interrupted him. “Elizabeth and I were very good friends. We liked each other. We enjoyed each other's company. If I had my choice of being in Chicago on Wednesday and Dallas on Friday or the other way around, and found that a good friend with whom I could enjoy a late supper and relax was in those same cities, yes, I would arrange my schedule to do that. So what?”

“Come off it, Ted. You did it half a dozen times in the same weeks that Leila started to fall apart—
when she was receiving those letters.
”

Ted shrugged.

“Ted, Henry is trying to plan your defense,” Craig snapped. “At least pay attention to him.”

Bartlett continued. “What we are trying to show you is this: Step One. Leila was receiving letters saying that you were involved with someone else. Step Two. Craig is witness to the fact that you synchronized your schedule with Elizabeth's. Step Three. In her own handwriting, Leila made the obvious connection between you two in her diary. Step Four. You had no reason to kill Leila if you were no longer interested in her. Step Five. What to you was a mild flirtation was very, very different to Elizabeth. She was head over heels in love with you.” Triumphantly Henry threw the copy of the
Globe
at Ted. “Look at that picture.”

Ted studied it. He remembered the moment at the end of the service when some fool had asked the organist to play “My Old Kentucky Home.” Leila had told him about singing that to Elizabeth when they took off for New York. Beside him, Elizabeth had gasped; then the tears that she'd held back flooded her face. He'd put his arms around her, turned her to him and whispered, “Don't, Sparrow.”

“She was in love with you,” Henry continued. “When she realized that for you it was simply a flirtation, she turned on you. She took advantage of that wacko's crazy accusation to destroy you. I'm telling you, Teddy, we may be able to make this stick.”

Ted tore the paper in half. “Apparently, my job is to be the devil's advocate. Let's suppose your scenario is true. Elizabeth was in love with me. But let's carry it one step further. Suppose I had come to realize that life with Leila would be a succession of constant ups and downs, of
tantrums, of an insecurity that resulted in jealous accusations every time I spoke pleasantly to another woman. Suppose I'd come to realize that Leila was an actress first, last and always, that she didn't want a child. Suppose I'd realized that in Elizabeth I had found something I'd been looking for all my life.”

Ted slammed his fist on the table. “Don't you know that you have just given me the very best reason in the world for killing Leila? Because do you think that Elizabeth would have looked at me twice while her sister was alive?” He pushed back his chair with a vehemence that caused it to topple over. “Why don't you two play golf or go for a swim or do anything that makes you feel good? Don't waste your time here.
I
don't plan to.”

Bartlett's face turned crimson. “I've had enough,” he snapped. “Listen,
Mr.
Winters, you may know how to run hotels, but you don't know a damn thing about what goes on in a criminal courtroom. You hired me to keep you out of prison, but I can't do it alone. What's more, I don't intend to. Either you start cooperating with me or get yourself another lawyer.”

“Calm down, Henry,” Craig said.

“No, I won't calm down. I don't need this case. I can
possibly
win it, but not the way it's going now.” He pointed at Ted. “If you are so sure that any defense I raise won't work, why don't you pleabargain right now? I might get you a maximum of seven to ten years. Is that what you want? Say so. Or else sit down at that table.”

Ted picked up the chair he had knocked over. “Let's get to work,” he said tonelessly. “I probably owe you an apology. I realize you're the best in your field, but I guess you can understand how trapped I feel Do you really think there
is
a chance for an acquittal?”

“I've gotten acquittals in cases as rough as this,” Bartlett told him. “What you don't seem to fathom,” he added, “is that being guilty has nothing to do with the verdict.”

SOMEHOW MIN MANAGED TO GET THROUGH THE REST OF the morning. She was too busy fielding phone calls from the media to even think of the scene in the office between Elizabeth and Ted's lawyer. They had all left immediately after the blowup: Bartlett and Elizabeth furious, Craig distressed, Scott grim-faced. Helmut had escaped to the clinic. He had known she wanted to talk to him. He had avoided her this morning as he'd avoided her last night, when after telling her that he'd heard Ted attacking Leila, he'd locked himself in his study.

Who in hell had tipped off the press that Elizabeth and Ted were here? She answered the persistent inquiries with her standard reply: “We never release the names of our guests.” She was told that both Elizabeth and Ted had been spotted in Carmel. “No comment.”

Any other time she'd have loved the publicity. But now? She was asked if there was anything unusual about her secretary's death. “Certainly not.”

At noon she told the operator to hold all calls and went to the women's spa. She was relieved to see that the atmosphere there was normal. There seemed to be no more talk about Sammy's death. She made it a point to chat with the guests lunching around the pool. Alvirah Meehan was there. She had spotted Scott's car and tried to pepper Min with questions about his presence.

When Min got back to the main house she went directly up to the apartment. Helmut was sitting on the couch, sipping a cup of tea. His face was a sickly gray. “Ah, Minna.” He attempted a smile.

She did not return it. “We have got to talk,” she told him abruptly. “What is the real reason you went to Leila's apartment that night? Were you having an affair with her? Tell me the truth!”

The cup rattled in the saucer as he put it down. “An affair! Minna, I hated that woman!”

Min watched as his face blotched and his hands clenched. “Do you think I was amused at the way she ridiculed me? An affair with her?” He slammed his fist on the cocktail table. “Minna, you are the only woman in my life. There has never been another woman since I met you. I swear that to you.”

“Liar!” Min rushed over to him, bent down and grabbed his lapels. “Look at me. I tell you, look at me. Stop the phony aristocratic crap and the dramatics. You were dazzled by Leila. What man wasn't? Every time you looked at her, you raped her with your eyes. You were all like that, the pack of you. Ted. Syd. Even that clod, Craig. But you were the worst. Love. Hate. It's all one. And in your entire life, you've never put yourself out for anyone. I want the truth.
Why did you go to her that night?
” She released him, suddenly drained and exhausted.

He jumped to his feet. His hand brushed the teacup and it tipped over, sending splatters of tea onto the table and carpet. “Minna, this is impossible. I will not have you treating me like a germ under a microscope.” Disdainfully he glanced at the mess. “Send for someone to clean this up,” he ordered. “
I
have to get to the clinic. Mrs. Meehan is due for her collagen injections this afternoon.” His tone became sarcastic. “Take heart, my dear. As you know, that's another outrageous fee in the till.”

“I saw that dreary woman an hour ago,” Min said. “You've made yet another conquest. She was gushing about how talented you are and how you are going to make her feel like a butterfly floating on a cloud. If I hear that idiotic expression from her once more . . .” She broke off. Helmut's knees had begun to sag. She grabbed him before he could fall. “Tell me what is wrong!” she shrieked. “Tell me what you've done!”

WHEN SHE LEFT MIN'S OFFICE, ELIZABETH RUSHED BACK to her bungalow, furious at herself for allowing Bartlett to goad her. He would say anything, do anything to discredit her testimony, and she was playing into his hands.

To distract herself, she opened the script of Leila's play. But the words were a jumble. She could not focus on them.

Was there the ring of truth to Bartlett's accusations? Had Ted deliberately sought her out?

She thumbed through the script restlessly, deciding to read it later. Then her glance fell on one of Leila's marginal notes. Shocked, she sank down on the couch and turned back to the first page.

Merry-Go-Round
A comedy by Clayton Anderson.

She read the play through rapidly, then sat for a long time totally absorbed in her thoughts. Finally she reached for a pen and pad and began rereading slowly, making her own notations.

At two thirty she laid the pen down. Pages of the pad were filled with her jottings. She became aware that she had skipped lunch, that her head ached dully. Some of Leila's markings in the margin had been almost indecipherable, but eventually she'd made them all out.

Clayton Anderson. The playwright of
Merry-Go-Round.
The wealthy college professor who had invested one million dollars of his own money in the play, but whose true identity was known to no one. Who was he? He had known Leila intimately.

She phoned the main house. The operator told her that Baroness von Schreiber was in her apartment but was not to be disturbed. “I'll be right there,” Elizabeth told her crisply. “Tell the Baroness I have to see her.”

Min was in bed. She did look ill. There was no bravado, no bossiness in her demeanor or voice. “Well, Elizabeth?”

She's afraid of me, Elizabeth thought. With a rush of her old affection
she sat by the bed. “Min, why did you bring me here?”

Min shrugged. “Because believe it or not, I was worried about you, because I love you.”

“I believe that. And the other reason?”

“Because I am appalled at the idea that Ted may spend the rest of his life in prison. Sometimes people do terrible things in anger, because they are out of control, things they might never do if they were not goaded beyond their ability to stop themselves. I believe that happened. I
know
that happened to Ted.”

“What do you mean you
know
that happened?”

“Nothing . . . nothing.” Min closed her eyes. “Elizabeth, you do what you must. But I warn you. You will have to live with destroying Ted for the rest of your life. Someday you will again face Leila. I think she will not thank you. You know how she was after she had been utterly outrageous. Contrite. Loving. Generous. All of it.”

“Min, isn't there another reason why you want Ted to be acquitted? It has to do with this place, doesn't it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that just before Leila died, Ted was considering putting a Cypress Point Spa in all his new hotels. What happened to that plan?”

“Ted has not gone ahead with plans for new hotels since his indictment.”

“Exactly. So there are a couple of reasons why you want Ted acquitted. Min, who is Clayton Anderson?”

“I have no idea. Elizabeth, I am very tired. Perhaps we can talk later.”

“Min, come on. You're not that tired.” The sharper tone in her voice made Min open her eyes and pull herself up on the pillows. I was right, Elizabeth thought. She's not so much sick as
afraid.
“Min, I just read and re-read that play Leila was in. I saw it with all of you that last preview, but I didn't pay attention to it. I was too worried about Leila. Min, someone who knew Leila inside and out wrote that play. That's why it was so perfect for her. Someone even used Helmut's expressions in it—'a butterfly floating on a cloud.' Leila noticed it too. She had a notation in the margin:
‘Tell the Baron someone is stealing his thunder.'
Min . . .”

They stared at each other as the same thought struck them. “Helmut wrote the ads for this place,” Elizabeth whispered. “He writes the daily bulletins. Maybe there
is
no wealthy college professor. Min, did Helmut write the play?”

“I . . . don't . . . know.” Min struggled out of bed. She was wearing a loose caftan that suddenly seemed too large, as if she were shriveling inside it. “Elizabeth, will you excuse me? I have to make a call to Switzerland.”

WITH AN UNFAMILIAR SENSE OF WORRY, ALVIRAH WALKED reluctantly down the hedged path that led to treatment room C. The instructions the nurse had given her were re-confirmed by the note that had been on her breakfast tray this morning. The note was friendly and reassuring, but even so, now that the time had come, Alvirah still felt squeamish.