Weep No More My Lady (3 page)

“She loved to go out and stand and just look at the city. In any weather. I used to tell her to be careful . . . that railing wasn't very high. I thought she must have leaned over, she had been drinking; she fell. . . .”

She remembered: Together she and Ted had grieved. Hands entwined, they had wept at the memorial service. Later, he had held her when she could no longer control her racking sobs. “I know, Sparrow. I know,” he said, comforting her. On Ted's yacht they had sailed ten miles out to sea to scatter Leila's ashes.

And then, two weeks later, an eyewitness had come forth and sworn she had seen Ted push Leila off the terrace at nine thirty-one.

“Without your testimony, that witness, Sally Ross, could be destroyed by the defense,” she heard William Murphy saying. “As you know, she has a history of severe psychiatric problems. It's not good that she waited that length of time before coming forward with her story. The fact that her psychiatrist was out of town and she wanted to tell him first at least explains it somewhat.”

“Without my testimony it's her word against Ted's, and he denies going back up to Leila's apartment.” When she had heard about the eyewitness, she had been outraged. She had totally trusted Ted until this man, William Murphy, told her that Ted denied going back to Leila's apartment.

“You can swear that he was there, that they were quarreling, that the phone was slammed down at nine thirty. Sally Ross saw Leila pushed off the terrace at nine thirty-one. Ted's story that he left Leila's apartment at about ten after nine, went to his own apartment, made a phone call, then took a cab to Connecticut doesn't hold up. In addition to what you and that other woman testify, we also have a strong circumstantial case. The scratches on his face. His skin tissue under Leila's fingernails. The testimony of the cabbie that he was white as a sheet and trembling—he could hardly give directions to his place. And why the hell didn't he send for his own chauffeur to take him to Connecticut? Because he was in a panic, that's why! He can't come forward with proof of anyone he reached on the phone. He has a motive—Leila rejected him. But one thing you have to realize: the defense will harp on the fact that you and Ted Winters were so close after her death.”

“We were the two people who loved her best,” Elizabeth said quietly. “Or at least, I thought we were. Please, can I go now?”

“We'll leave it at that. You do look pretty beat. This is going to be a long trial, and it won't be pleasant. Try to relax next week. Have you decided where you'll be staying these next few days?”

“Yes. Baroness von Schreiber has invited me to be her guest at Cypress Point Spa.”

“I hope you're joking.”

Elizabeth stared at him. “Why would I joke about that?”

Murphy's eyes narrowed. His face flushed and his cheekbones suddenly became prominent. He seemed to be struggling not to raise his voice. “Miss Lange, I don't think you appreciate the seriousness of your position. Without you, the other witness would be annihilated by the defense. That means that your testimony is about to put one of the richest and most influential men in this country in prison for at least twenty years, and thirty if I can make Murder Two stick. If this were a Mafia case I'd have you hidden away in a hotel under an assumed name and with a police guard
until this trial is over. Baron and Baroness von Schreiber may be friends of yours, but they're also friends of Ted Winters' and are coming to New York to testify for him.
And you seriously propose to stay with them at this time?”

“I know that Min and the Baron are testifying as character witnesses for Ted,” Elizabeth said. “They don't think he's capable of murder. If I hadn't heard him with my own ears I wouldn't have believed it either. They're following their conscience. I'm following mine. We all do what we have to do.”

She was not prepared for the tirade Murphy let loose at her. His urgent, sometimes sarcastic words pounded in her ears. “There's something fishy about that invitation. You should see that for yourself. You claim the Von Schreibers loved your sister? Then ask yourself why the hell they're going to bat for her murderer. I insist you keep away from them, if not for my sake or your own neck then because you want justice for Leila.”

In the end, embarrassed at his obvious contempt for her naïveté, Elizabeth agreed to call off the trip, promised that instead she'd go to East Hampton and there either visit friends or stay in a hotel.

“Whether you're alone or with someone,
be careful,”
Murphy told her. Now that he had gotten his way, he attempted a smile; but it froze on his face, and the expression in his eyes was both grim and worried. “Never forget that without you as a witness, Ted Winters walks.”

*   *   *

Even with the oppressive mugginess, Elizabeth decided to walk home. She felt like one of those punching bags that were weighted with sand and flopped from side to side, unable to avoid the blows rained on them. She knew the district attorney was right. She should have refused Min's invitation. She decided she wouldn't contact anyone in the Hamptons. She'd check into a hotel and just lie on the beach quietly for the next few days.

Leila had always joked, “Sparrow, you'll never need a shrink. Put you in a bikini, dunk you in the briny and you're in heaven.” It was true. She remembered her delight in showing Leila her blue ribbons for swimming. Eight years ago, she'd been a runner-up for the Olympic team. For four summers she'd taught water aerobics at Cypress Point Spa.

Along the way she stopped to pick up groceries—just enough to have a salad for dinner and a quick breakfast. As she walked the last two blocks home she thought of how remote everything seemed—as if she were seeing her whole life before Leila's death through the far lens of a telescope.

Sammy's letter was on top of the mail on the dinette table. Elizabeth reached for the envelope and smiled at the exquisite handwriting. It so vividly brought Sammy to mind—the frail, birdlike figure; the wise eyes, owlish behind rimless glasses; the laceedged blouses and sensible cardigans. Sammy had answered Leila's ad for a part-time secretary ten years ago and within a week had become indispensable. After Leila's death, Min had hired her as a receptionist-secretary at the Spa.

Elizabeth decided to read the letter over dinner. It took only a few minutes to change into a light caftan, fix a salad and pour a glass of chilled chablis. Okay, Sammy, time for our visit, she thought as she slit the envelope.

The first page of the letter was predictable:

Dear Elizabeth

I hope this finds you well and as content as possible. Each day I seem to miss Leila more and can only imagine how you feel. I do think that after the trial is behind you, it will get better.

Working for Min has been good for me, although I think I will be giving it up soon. I really have never recovered from that operation.

Elizabeth turned the page, read a few lines; then, as her throat closed, pushed aside the salad.

As you know, I've continued to answer the letters from Leila's fans. There are still three large bags to finish. The reason I am writing is I have just found a very troubling anonymous letter. It is vicious and apparently was one in a series. Leila had not opened this one, but she must have seen its predecessors. Perhaps they would explain why she was so distraught those last weeks.

What is so terrible is that the letter I found was clearly written by someone who knew her well.

I had thought to enclose it in this envelope, but am not sure who is collecting your mail while you are away and would not want this seen by a stranger's eyes. Will you call me as soon as you return to New York? My love to you.

Sammy

With a growing sense of horror, Elizabeth read and reread Sammy's letter. Leila had been receiving unsigned
very troubling, vicious
letters from someone who knew her well. Sammy, who never exaggerated, thought they might explain Leila's emotional collapse. For all these months, Elizabeth had lain awake trying to understand what had driven Leila into hysteria. Poison-pen letters from someone who knew her well.
Who? Why?
Did Sammy have any inkling?

She grabbed the phone and dialed the office at the Spa. Let Sammy answer, she prayed. But it was Min who picked up the receiver. Sammy was away, she told Elizabeth. She was visiting her cousin somewhere near San Francisco and would be back Monday night. “You'll see her then.” Min's tone became curious. “You sound upset, Elizabeth. Is it something about Sammy that can't wait?”

It was the moment to tell Min that she was not coming. Elizabeth started to say, “Min, the district attorney . . .” Then she glanced down at Sammy's letter. The overwhelming need to see Sammy swept over her. It was the same kind of compulsion that had sent her rushing to Leila that last fateful night. She changed the sentence. “No hurry at all, Min. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Before she went to bed, she wrote a note to William Murphy with the address and phone number of the Spa. Then she tore it up. To hell with his warning. She wasn't a Mafia witness; she was going to visit old friends—people she loved and trusted, people who loved and cared about her. Let him think she was in East Hampton.

He had known for months that it would be necessary to kill Elizabeth. He had lived with the ever-present knowledge of the danger that she represented, and had planned to eliminate her in New York.

With the trial coming, her mind must be constantly reliving every
moment of those last days. Inevitably, she would realize what she already knew—the fact that would seal his fate.

There were ways to get rid of her at the Spa and make it seem to be an accident. Her death would cause less official suspicion in California than in New York. He thought about her and her habits, looking for a way.

He consulted his watch. It was midnight in New York Sweet dreams, Elizabeth, he thought.

Your time is running out.

QUOTE FOR THE DAY:
Where is the love, beauty and truth we seek?

—SHELLEY

GOOD MORNING, DEAR GUEST!

Welcome to another day of luxury at Cypress Point Spa.

Besides your personalized program, we are happy to tell you that there will be special makeup classes in the women's spa between 10 A.M. and 4 P.M. Why not fill in one of your free hours learning the enchanting secrets of the world's most beautiful women, as taught by Madame Renford of Beverly Hills?

Today's guest expert in the men's spa is famous bodybuilder Jack Richard, who will share his personal workout schedule at 4 P.M.

The musical program after dinner is a very special one. Cellist Fione Navaralla, one of the most acclaimed new artists in England, will play selections by Ludwig van Beethoven.

We hope all our guests will have a pleasant and pampered day. Remember, to be really beautiful we must keep our minds tranquil and free of distressing or troubling thoughts.

Baron and Baroness Helmut von Schreiber

MIN'S LONGTIME CHAUFFEUR, JASON, WAS WAITING AT the passenger gate, his silver-gray uniform gleaming in the sunny terminal. He was a small man with a trim, neat build, who had been a jockey in his youth. An accident had ended his racing career, and he had been working as a stable hand when Min hired him. Elizabeth knew that, like all of Min's people, he was intensely loyal to her. Now his leathery face broke into welcoming furrows as he saw her approach. “Miss Lange, it's good to have you back,” he said. She wondered if, like her, he was remembering that the last time she came to the Spa she had been with Leila.

She bent over to kiss him on the cheek. “Jason, will you cut that ‘Miss Lange' number? You'd think I was a paying guest or something.” She noticed the discreet card in his hand with the name Alvirah Meehan on it. “You're picking up someone else?”

“Just one. I thought she'd be out by now. First-class passengers usually are.”

Elizabeth reflected that few people economized on air fare when they could afford to pay a minimum of three thousand dollars a week at Cypress Point Spa. With Jason she studied the disembarking passengers. Jason held the card up prominently as several elegantly dressed women passed, but they ignored it. “Hope she didn't miss the flight,” he was murmuring as one final straggler came from the passageway. She was a bulky woman of about fifty-five with a large, sharp-featured face and thinning reddish-brown hair. The purple-and-pink print she was wearing was obviously expensive, but absolutely wrong for her. It bulged at the waist and thighs and hiked unevenly over her knees. Intuitively Elizabeth sensed that this lady was Mrs. Alvirah Meehan.

She spotted her name on the card and approached them eagerly, her smile delighted and relieved. Reaching out, she pumped Jason's hand vigorously. “Well, here I am,” she announced. “And boy, am I glad to see you! I was so afraid there'd be a foul-up and no one would meet me.”

“Oh, we never fail a guest.”

Elizabeth felt her lips twitch at Jason's bewildered expression. Clearly Mrs. Meehan was not the usual Cypress Point guest. “Ma'am, may I have your claim checks?”

“Oh, that's nice. I hate to wait for luggage. Sort of a pain in the neck at the end of a trip. Course, Willy and I usually go Greyhound, and the bags are right there, but even so . . . I don't have too much stuff. I was going to buy a lot, but my friend, May, said, ‘Alvirah, wait and see what other people are wearing. All these fancy places have shops. . . . You'll pay through the nose,' she said, ‘but at least you'll get the right thing, you know what I mean.'” She thrust her ticket envelope with the baggage stubs at Jason and turned to Elizabeth. “I'm Alvirah Meehan. Are you going to the Spa too? You sure don't look like you need to, honey!”