Weep No More My Lady (27 page)

His inspection of the premises was relatively brief. The medicine chest in the bathroom Alvirah used contained only over-the-counter drugs—maximum-strength Bufferin, Allerest, a nasal spray, ajar of Vicks VapoRub, Ben-Gay.
A nice lady whose nasal passages get stuffed up at night and who probably has a few twinges of arthritis.

It seemed to him that the Baron was disappointed. Under Scott's careful scrutiny, he insisted on opening all the bottles, spilling out the contents, examining them to see if any extra medication was mixed with the ordinary tablets and pills. Was it an act? How good an actor was the Toy Soldier?

Alvirah's closet revealed well-worn brushed flannel nightgowns side by side with expensive dresses and caftans, most of them carrying labels from Martha Park Avenue and Cypress Point Spa Boutique.

An incongruous note was the expensive Japanese recorder in the carry-on bag that was part of the Louis Vuitton matching luggage. Scott raised his eyes. Sophisticated, professional equipment! He wouldn't have expected it of Alvirah Meehan.

Elizabeth watched as he thumbed through the cassettes. Three of them were marked in numerical sequence. The rest were blank Scott shrugged, put them back and closed the bag. He left a few minutes later. Elizabeth walked with him to his car. On the ride over, she had not told him her
suspicion that Helmut might have written the play. She wanted to be sure first, to demand the truth from Helmut himself. It was still possible that Clayton Anderson existed, she told herself.

It was exactly six o'clock when Scott's car disappeared past the gates. It was getting cool. Elizabeth shoved her hands into her pockets and felt the sunburst pin. She had taken it off Alvirah's robe after the ambulance left. Obviously it had great sentimental value.

They had sent for Alvirah's husband. She would give the pin to him tomorrow.

TED RETURNED TO HIS BUNGALOW FROM TOWN AT SIX thirty P.M. He had come back the long way, through the Crocker Woodland, to the service entrance of the Spa. He hadn't missed the cars, half-hidden in the brush beside the road leading to the Cypress Point grounds. Reporters. Like dogs on a scent, following the lead that the
Globe
article suggested . . .

He peeled off his sweater. It had been too hot to wear—but on the other hand, at this time of year you could be surprised on the Peninsula. The winds could shift and become favorable or unfavorable at a moment's notice.

He drew the shades, switched on the lights and was startled to see the gleam of dark hair that rose over the back of the couch. It was Min. “It is important that I speak with you.” The tone was the same he'd always known. Warm and authoritative, a curious blend that at one time had inspired confidence. She was wearing a long, sleeveless jacket over some sort of glittery one-piece outfit.

Ted sat opposite her and lit a cigarette. “I gave these up years ago, but it's amazing how many bad habits you can take on again when you're faced with a lifetime in prison. So much for discipline. I'm not very presentable, Min—but then, I'm not used to having unexpected guests in quite this way.”

“Unexpected and uninvited.” Min's eyes swept over him. “You've been jogging?”

“No. I've been walking. Quite a long distance. It gives one time to think.”

“Your thoughts can't be very pleasant these days.”

“No. They're not.” Ted waited.

“May I have one of those?” Min indicated the pack of cigarettes he had tossed on the table.

Ted offered her one and lit it for her.

“I too gave them up, but in times of stress . . .” Min shrugged. “I gave up many things in my life while I was clawing my way up. Well, you know how it is . . . launching a model agency and trying to keep it going when there was no money coming in . . . marrying a sick old man and being his nurse, his mistress, his companion for five endless years . . . Oh, I thought I had reached a point of certain security. I thought I had earned it.”

“And you haven't?”

Min waved a hand. “It's lovely here, isn't it? This spot is ideal The Pacific at our feet, the magnificent coastline, the weather, the comfort and beauty of these accommodations, the unparalleled facilities of the Spa . . . Even Helmut's monstrosity of a Roman bath could be a stunning draw. Nobody else would be fool enough to try to build one; nobody else would have the flair to run it.”

No wonder she's here, Ted thought. She couldn't risk talking to me with Craig around.

It was as though Min read his mind. “I know what Craig would advise. But Ted,
you're
the entrepreneur, the daring businessman. You and I think alike. Helmut is utterly impractical—I know that; but he also has vision. What he needs, and has always needed, is the money to bring his dreams to fruition. Do you remember a conversation we had—the three of us—when your damn bulldog Craig wasn't around? We talked about your putting a Cypress Point Spa in all your new hotels. It's a fabulous idea. It would work.”

“Min, if I'm in prison, there won't
be
new hotels. We've stopped building since the indictment. You know that.”

“Then lend me money now.” Min's mask dropped.

“Ted, I am desperate. I will be bankrupt in weeks.
It need not be!
This place lost something in these past few years. Helmut has not been bringing in new guests. I think I know now why he's been in a terrible state. But it could change. Why do you think I brought Elizabeth here? To help
you.
”

“Min, you saw her reaction to me. If anything, you've made things worse.”

“I'm not sure about that. This afternoon I begged her to reconsider. I told her she would never forgive herself if she destroyed you.” Min crushed the cigarette into the ashtray. “Ted, I know what I'm saying. Elizabeth is in
love with you. She always has been. Make it work for you. It's not too late.” She grasped his arm.

He shook off her grip. “Min, you don't know what you're talking about.”

“I'm telling you what I
know.
It's something I sensed from the first time she laid eyes on you. Don't you know how difficult it was for her to be around you and Leila, wanting Leila to be happy, loving you both? She was torn in two. That's why she took that play before Leila died. It wasn't a role she wanted. Sammy talked to me about it. She saw it too. Ted, Elizabeth is fighting you because she feels guilty. She knows Leila goaded you beyond endurance.
Make it work for you!
And Ted, I beg you—
help me now!
Please! I beg you.”

With naked appeal she looked at him. He had been perspiring, and his dark brown hair was matted in ringlets and waves. A woman would kill for that head of hair, Min thought. His high cheekbones accentuated the narrow, perfectly shaped nose. His lips were even, his jaw just square enough to impart a look of strength to his face. His shirt was clinging to his body. His limbs were tanned and muscular. She wondered where he had been and realized he might not have heard yet about Alvirah Meehan. She did not want to talk about that now.

“Min, I can't go ahead with spas in hotels that won't be built if I go to prison. I can bail you out now, and I will. But let me ask you something has it ever occurred to you that Elizabeth might be
wrong,
might be mistaken about the time? Has it even occurred to you that I'm telling the truth, when I say I did
not
go back upstairs?”

Min's smile of relief turned to astonishment. “Ted, you can trust me. You can trust Helmut. He hasn't told a soul except me. . . . He never will tell a soul. . . . He
heard
you shouting at Leila. He
heard
her begging for her life.”

SHOULD SHE HAVE TOLD SCOTT WHAT SHE SUSPECTED about the Baron? Elizabeth wondered as she went into the welcome calm of her bungalow. Her senses absorbed the emerald-and-white color scheme. Splashy print on thick white carpeting. She could almost imagine there was a lingering hint of Joy mixed with the salty sea air.

Leila.

Red hair. Emerald eyes. The pale skin of the natural redhead. The billowing white satin pajamas that she'd been wearing when she died. Those yards of material must have floated around her as she fell.

My God. My God. Elizabeth slipped the double lock and huddled on the couch, her head in her hands, appalled at the vision of Leila, floating down through the night to her death. . . .

Helmut. Had he written
Merry-Go-Round?
If so, had he cleaned out Min's untouchable Swiss account to finance it? He would have been frantic when Leila said she was quitting the show. How frantic?

Alvirah Meehan. The ambulance attendants. The speck of blood on Alvirah's face. The incredulous tone when the paramedic spoke to Helmut: “What do you mean you hadn't started the injections? Who do you think you're kidding?”

Helmut's hands compressing Alvirah's chest . . . Helmut starting the intravenous . . . But Helmut must have been frantic hearing Alvirah talk about “a butterfly floating on a cloud.” Alvirah had seen a preview of the play. Leila had made the connection to Helmut. Had Alvirah Meehan made it as well?

She thought about Min's speech to her this afternoon, about Ted. She had virtually acknowledged Ted's guilt, then tried to persuade her that Leila had provoked him over and over again. Was that true?

Was Min right-that Leila would never want to see Ted behind bars for the rest of his life? And why did Min sound so positive about Ted's guilt?
Two days ago she'd been saying it must have been an accident.

Elizabeth locked her arms around her knees and laid her head on her hands.

“I don't know what to do,” she whispered to herself. She had never felt lonelier in her life.

*   *   *

At seven o'clock she heard the faint chimes that indicated “cocktail” hour had begun. She decided to have dinner served in the bungalow. It was impossible to envision going through the motions of socializing with any of those people, knowing that Sammy's body was in the morgue awaiting shipment to Ohio, that Alvirah Meehan was fighting for her life in Monterey Hospital. Two nights ago she had been at the table with Alvirah Meehan. Two nights ago Sammy had been in this room with her. Who would be next?

At quarter of eight Min called. “Elizabeth, everyone is inquiring about you. Are you all right?”

“Of course. I just need to be quiet.”

“You're sure you're not ill? You should know—Ted especially is very concerned.”

Hand it to Min. She never gives up.
“I'm really fine, Min. Would you have them send a tray? I'll take it a bit easy and go for a swim later. Don't worry about me.”

She hung up the phone. Walked around the room restlessly, already longing to be in the water.

“IN AQUA SANITAS,” the inscription read. For once Helmut was right. Water would soothe her, turn off her mind.

HE WAS REACHING FOR THE TANK WHEN THERE WAS A sharp knock on the door. Frantically he yanked the mask from his face and pulled his arms out of the cumbersome wet suit. He jammed the tank and the mask into the closet, then rushed into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

The knocking was repeated, an impatient staccato. He managed to get free of the suit, dropped it behind the couch and grabbed his robe.

Making his voice sound annoyed, he shouted,” All right, all right” and opened the door.

The door was pushed open.” What took you so long? We've got to talk.”

*   *   *

It was nearly ten o'clock when he was at last able to go to the pool. He reached it just in time to see Elizabeth walking down the path to her bungalow. In his hurry, he brushed against a chair at the edge of the patio. She turned around, and he barely had time to step back into the bushes.

Tomorrow night. There was still a chance to get to her here. If not, a different kind of accident would have to be arranged.

Like Alvirah Meehan, she had picked up the scent and was leading Scott Alshorne along the trail.

*   *   *

That scraping noise. It had been the sound of a chair grating against the patio tiles. The air had become cool but was very still. There was no breeze to set anything in motion. She'd turned quickly and for just an instant had thought she'd seen someone moving. But that was foolish. Why would anyone bother to stand in the shadows of the trees?

Even so, Elizabeth quickened her steps and was glad to be back in the
bungalow with the door locked. She phoned the hospital. There was no change in Mrs. Meehan's condition.

It took a long time to fall asleep. What was eluding her? Something that had been said, something she ought to have seized on. Finally she drifted off. . . .

*   *   *

She was searching for someone. . . . She was in an empty building with long, dark halls. . . . Her body was aching with need. . . . Her arms were outstretched. . . . What was that poem she'd read somewhere? “Is there yet one, oh eyes and lips remembered, who turns and reaches for me in the night?” She whispered it over and over. . . . She saw a staircase. . . . She hurried down it. . . . He was there. His back to her. She threw her arms around him. He turned and caught her and held her. His mouth was on hers. “Ted, I love you, I love you,” she said, over and over again. . . .

Somehow she managed to wake up. For the rest of the night, miserable and despairing, she lay numbly in the bed where Leila and Ted had so often slept together, determined not to sleep.

Not to dream.

QUOTE FOR THE DAY:
The power of beauty, I remember yet.