Weep No More My Lady (33 page)

The wet suit was cumbersome. When this was over, he'd get rid of all this equipment. Just in case anyone questioned Elizabeth's death, it wouldn't be wise to have any visible reminder that he was an expert
scuba diver. Ted, of course, should remember. But in all these months it hadn't crossed Ted's mind that he had the special ability to mimic him. Ted—so stupid, so naive. “I tried to phone you; I remember that distinctly. “And so Ted had become his impeccable alibi. Until that nosy bitch Alvirah Meehan kept after him. “Let me hear you imitate Ted's voice. Just once. Please. Say anything at all.” He'd wanted to throttle her, but then had had to wait until yesterday when he went ahead of her to treatment room C, waited in the closet for her, the hypodermic needle in his hand. Too bad she didn't know she'd sampled his gift for mimicry when she thought she was listening to the Baron.

The wet suit was on. He strapped the tank to his back, turned off the lights and waited. It still chilled him to realize that last night he'd been within seconds of opening the door and confronting Ted. Ted had wanted to talk everything through. “I'm beginning to think you're my only real friend,” he'd said.

He opened the door a crack and listened. There was no one in sight, no sound of footsteps. The fog was gathering, and it would be easy to slip behind the trees until he reached the pool. He had to get there before her, be waiting and when she swam past, grab the whistle before she could get it to her lips.

He slipped out, his footsteps noiseless as he cut across the path, avoiding the areas where the lanterns sent out beams of light. If only he'd been able to finish this on Monday night
 . . . 
but Ted had been standing near the pool watching Elizabeth.

Ted always in the way. Always the one with money and looks, always the one the girls flocked around. He'd forced himself to accept it, to make himself useful to Ted, first in college, then in the office: the gofer, the tenacious assistant. He'd had tonight his way up until the executive-plane accident had instantly made him Ted's right hand, and then when Ted lost Kathy and Teddy, he'd been able to take over the reins of the company. . . .

Until Leila.

His loins ached remembering Leila. How it had felt to make love to her. Until he'd brought her here and she'd met Ted. And discarded him, like garbage tossed into a bin.

He had watched those slim arms slide around Ted's neck, that wanton body snuggling against Ted, had helplessly walked away not
able to bear the sight of them together, planning revenge, waiting for the time.

And he'd found it with the play. He'd had to prove investing in the play was a mistake. It was already clear that Ted was beginning to ease him out. And it was his chance to destroy Leila. The exquisite pleasure of sending those letters, of watching her fall apart. She'd even shown them to him as she received them. He'd warned her to burn them, to hide them from Ted and Elizabeth.” Ted's getting awfully sick of your jealousy, and if you tell Elizabeth how upset you are, she'll quit her play to be with you. That could ruin her career.”

Grateful for his advice, Leila had agreed.” But tell me,” she'd begged.” Is it true, Bulldog? Is there someone else?” His elaborate protests had had the effect he wanted. She'd believed the letters.

He hadn't worried about those last two. He'd thought all that unopened mail had been thrown out. But it hadn't mattered. Cheryl burned one, and he had taken the other one from Sammy. Everything was at last working for him. On Saturday he would become chairman and president of Winters Enterprises.

He was at the pool.

He slipped into the dark water and swam to the shallow end. Elizabeth always dived into the deepest area. That night in Elaine's he'd known the time had come to kill Leila. Everyone would believe it was a suicide. He'd let himself in through one of the guest suites on the upper floor of the duplex and listened to them quarrel, listened when Ted stormed out, and then the idea had come to mimic Ted's voice to make Elizabeth think Ted was with Leila just before she died.

He heard the sound of footsteps on the path. She was coming. Soon he would be safe. In those weeks after Leila's death, he'd thought he had lost. Ted hadn't fallen apart. He'd turned to Elizabeth. The death had been considered an accident. Until that unbelievable stroke of luck when that crazy woman had come forward and said she had seen Ted struggling with Leila. And Elizabeth had become the chief witness.

It was destined to be this way. Now the Baron and Syd had become material witnesses against Ted. The Baron wouldn't be able to deny that he had heard Ted struggling with Leila. Syd had seen Ted on the
street. Even Ted himself must have glimpsed them on the terrace and because he was drunk and it was dark, relived that episode with his father.

The footsteps were getting closer. He allowed himself to sink to the bottom of the pool. She was so sure of herself, so clever. Waiting for him to come, anxious for him to attack her, ready to outswim him while she blew the whistle and called for help. She wouldn't get the chance.

It was ten o'clock, and there was a difference in the atmosphere of the Spa. Many of the bungalows were already dark, and Elizabeth wondered how many people had actually checked out. The talk-show host was gone; the Countess and her friends must have left before dinner, the tennis player and his girlfriend had not been in the dining room.

Evening fog had settled in, heavy, penetrating, enveloping. Even the Japanese lanterns along the path seemed hooded.

She dropped her robe by the side of the pool and looked carefully into the water. It was absolutely still. There was no one here yet.

She felt for the whistle around her neck. All she would need was to be able to put her lips to it. A blast from this whistle would bring help.

She dived in. The water felt clammy tonight. Or was it because she was afraid? I can outswim anyone, she reassured herself. I had to take this chance. It's the only way. Would the bait be taken?

Voices.
Alvirah Meehan had been persistent on that subject. That persistence might have cost her her life. That was what she had been trying to tell them. She'd known it wasn't Helmut's voice.

She'd reached the north end of the pool; she flipped over and began to backstroke.
Voices.
It was her identification of Ted's voice that had placed him in that room with Leila a few minutes before her death.

The night Leila died, Craig had claimed to be in his apartment watching a television show when Ted tried to call him. No one had questioned that
Craig
was home. Ted had been
his
alibi.

Voices.

Craig wanted Ted to be convicted. Ted was about to turn over the running of Winters Enterprises to him.

When she asked Craig about changing the message on his recorder, had she frightened him enough to force him into an overt attack?

Elizabeth began a freestyle breaststroke. From beneath her, arms encircled her, pinning her own arms to her sides. Her startled gasp caused her to swallow a mouthful of water. Choking furiously, she felt herself being dragged to the bottom of the pool. She began to beat with her heels, but they slipped off the heavy rubber wet suit of her assailant. With a desperate burst of strength, she dug her elbows deep into the ribs of her captor. For an instant the grip relaxed, and she began to rise to the surface. Just as her face emerged, as she managed to gulp one breath of air and fumble for the whistle, the arms enclosed her again, and she slipped downward, through the dark waters of the pool.

“AFTER KATHY AND TEDDY DIED, I WENT TO PIECES.” IT was as if Ted were talking to himself, not Scott. The car raced past the gate to Pebble Beach without stopping. The roaring siren shattered the peace of the surroundings; the headlights opened only a few feet of visibility in the deepening fog.

“Craig took over running the whole business. He liked it. There were times when he'd answer and say he was me. Imitate my voice. I finally told him to cut it out. Then he met Leila first. I took her away. The reason I was so busy those months before Leila died, I was starting to reorganize. I intended to de-emphasize his job; split his responsibilities with two other men. He knew what was happening.

“And he's the one who hired the detective to follow that first witness; the detective who was so conveniently there to make sure the new witness didn't get away.”

*   *   *

They were on the grounds of the Spa. Scott drove the car across the lawn and stopped in front of Elizabeth's bungalow. The maid rushed from her station. Ted was banging on the door. “Where is Elizabeth?”

“I don't know,” the maid said, her voice faltering. “She gave me a letter. She didn't say she was going out.”

“Let me see the letter.”

“I don't think—”

“Give me the letter.”

Scott read the note to Vicky, ripped open the letter addressed to him and began to read.

“Where is she?” Ted demanded.

“Oh, God, that crazy kid . . . The pool,” Scott snapped, “the pool.”

The car smashed through hedges and flower beds and roared toward the north end of the property. Inside the bungalows, lights began to go on.

They reached the patio. The fender of the car caught the edge of an umbrella table, knocking it over. The car stopped at the edge of the pool. Scott left the headlights on, and they shone over the water. Waves of the gathering fog shimmered in the lights.

They peered down into the pool. “There's no one here,” Scott said. A terrible fear grabbed at him. Were they too late?

Ted was pointing at bubbles floating to the surface. “She's down there.” Kicking off his shoes, he dived into the pool. He touched bottom and came up. “Get help,” he yelled. He went down again and again.

Scott scrabbled in the glove compartment for his flashlight, grabbed it and saw a figure in a scubadiving outfit begin to climb the ladder out of the pool. Drawing his pistol, he rushed toward the ladder. In a swift, violent gesture, the scuba diver lunged forward and butted him. The gun fell from Scott's hand as he slammed backward onto the patio.

Ted resurfaced. He was holding a limp figure in his arms. He began to swim toward the ladder, and as Scott dazedly pulled himself to a sitting position, the scuba diver fell backward onto Ted, dragging him and Elizabeth under the surface.

Gasping for breath, Scott reached out a groping hand. His numbed fingers closed around his gun. Pointing it upward, he fired two shots, and was rewarded by the insistent sound of sirens racing toward him.

*   *   *

Ted desperately tried to hold on to Elizabeth with one arm as he pummeled his attacker with the other. His lungs were bursting; he was still groggy from the effects of the sodium pentothal; he felt himself losing consciousness. Futilely he tried to punch the thick rubber suit. His blows fell harmlessly on the solid, massive chest.

The oxygen mask. He had to pull it off. He let go of Elizabeth, trying with all his strength to push her toward the surface. For a moment, the grip on him relaxed. A hand stretched past him, reaching to drag Elizabeth back. It gave him the chance to grab at the face mask. But before he could pull it off, a vicious shove sent him reeling backward.

*   *   *

She had held her breath, forcing herself to resist inhaling. She made herself go limp. There was no way she could get away from him. Her only hope was that he would think she was unconscious and leave her. Even from the feel of the arms that pinned her she knew it was Craig. She had
forced him into the open—but now he would get away again.

She was slipping into unconsciousness. Hold on, she thought. No, it was
Leila
telling her to hold on.
Sparrow, this is what I've been trying to tell you. Don't let me down now. He thinks he's safe. You can do it, Sparrow.

She felt the arms begin to release her. She was drifting down, trying to resist the impulse to fight her way to the surface.
Wait, Sparrow, wait. Don't let him see you're still conscious.

And then she had felt someone grabbing her, pulling her up; other arms, arms that held her to him, cradled her. Ted.

She felt the night air on her face; gasped in one shuddering breath as, his arm around her neck, he dragged her along the top of the pool; heard his own breath, straining, choking, drowning out the sounds she was making.

And then she felt before she saw the heavy figure bear down on them and managed to pull in one great gulp of air before the water again covered her face.

Ted's arm tightened. She felt him flailing out. Craig was trying to kill both of them. Nothing mattered to Craig except to destroy them now. The water pressed against her eardrums. She could not fight Ted's grip. She felt the push as he tried to shove her toward the surface, felt Craig's grasp on her ankle and managed to kick it away.

On the surface she could see the cars pulling up, hear the shouts. Elizabeth gulped in air, once, twice, filled her lungs and then dived down, down to where Ted was fighting for his life. She knew where Craig was; the arc of her descent was directly over his head. He was squeezing Ted's neck. She reached both hands down. Lights were beaming over the water. She could see the silhouette of Craig's arms, the desperate struggle of Ted's body. She would have only one chance.

Now. She kicked—a sharp, cutting movement of her legs. She was directly over Craig. In a savage thrust, she managed to get her fingers under his face mask. He reached up, and she recoiled from the shove that made her head snap backward, but held on to the mask, held on until she had wrenched it away from his face.