Weep No More My Lady (34 page)

She held it while he groped for it, while his arms grabbed her body, while he tried to pull it from her, held it until she felt him being pulled away from her, held it until, lungs bursting, she found herself being hauled to the surface, still in his grasp.

She could breathe at last. She choked in great gulping sobs as Ted finally relinquished his grip on Craig to the policemen who surrounded them in the water. Then, like two figures drawn by an irresistible magnetic force, she and Ted drifted to each other, and clinging together made their way to the ladder at the end of the pool. . . .

QUOTE FOR THE DAY:
For love and beauty and delight. There is no death nor change.

—SHELLEY

DEAR SPA GUESTS,

Some of you will be leaving us today. Remember, our only concern has been you, your well-being, your health, your beauty. Go into the world knowing that you have been loved and cared for here at Cypress Point Spa, that we are longing for your return. Soon our magnificent Roman bathhouse will be completed. It will be the unparalleled and consummate experience. There will be separate hours for the women and men except between four and six, when we shall enjoy mixed bathing in the European fashion, a very special delight indeed.

Hurry back for another retreat into pampering and health-awareness in the serene atmosphere of Cypress Point Spa.

Baron and Baroness Helmut von Schreiber

THE MORNING DAWNED CLEAR AND BRIGHT. THE EARLY-morning fog evaporated with the bright warmth of a glowing sun. Sea gulls and blackbirds swept high over the surf and returned to perch on the rocky dunes.

At Cypress Point Spa, the remaining guests followed their schedules. Water classes were held in the Olympic pool; masseurs kneaded muscles and pounded layers of fat; pampered bodies were wrapped in herbal-scented sheets; the business of beauty and luxury continued to function.

Scott had asked Min and Helmut, Syd and Cheryl, Elizabeth and Ted to meet him at eleven. They gathered in the music salon, the door closed, removed from the eyes and ears of the curious guests and staff. Elizabeth remembered the rest of the night as a blur: Ted holding her . . . someone wrapping the robe around her . . . Dr. Whitley ordering her to bed.

Ted knocked at the door of her bungalow at ten of eleven. They walked up the path together, hands entwined, not needing to say what was between them. Min and the Baron sat side by side. Min's face was weary but somehow more at peace, Elizabeth thought. There was something of the old Min in the steely determination in her eyes. The Baron, still so absolutely perfect in every hair on his head, his sport shirt resting on him with the ease of an ermine robe, his posture aloof, his assurance regained. For him too, the night had exorcised demons.

Cheryl's eyes moved restlessly toward Ted, narrowed when they found his face. With her sharp-tipped tongue she licked her lips like a cat about to pounce on a forbidden dish of cream.

Next to her, Syd lounged. There was something about him that had been missing: the casual confidence of success.

Ted sat beside her, his arm thrown over the back of her chair, his manner protective and watchful as though he feared she would slip away from him.

“I think we've come to the end of the road.” The fatigue in Scott's voice suggested that he had not spent the long hours of the night in bed. “Craig has retained Henry Bartlett, who urged him not to make a statement. However, when I read Elizabeth's letter to him, he admitted everything. “Let me read that letter to you now.” Scott pulled it from his pocket.

Dear Scott,

There is only one way I can prove what I suspect, and I'm about to do that now. It may not work, but if anything happens to me, I think it will be because Craig has decided I'm coming too close to the truth.

Tonight I practically accused Syd and the Baron of causing Leila's death. I hope that will be sufficient bait to make Craig feel secure in attempting to harm me. I believe it will happen at the pool. I think he was there the other night. I can only rely on the fact that I can outswim anyone, and if he tries to attack me, he will have exposed himself. If he succeeds, go after him—for me and for Leila.

By now you will have heard the tapes. Have you caught how upset he sounded when Alvirah Meehan was asking so many questions? He tried to cut Ted off when Ted said that Craig could fool people by imitating him.

I thought I heard Ted shout at Leila to put the phone down. I thought I heard her say,
“You're not falcon.”
But Leila was sobbing. That's why I misunderstood. Helmut was nearby. He heard her say,
“You're not Falcon.”
He heard accurately. I did not.

That tape of Alvirah Meehan in the treatment room. Listen carefully. That first voice. It sounds like the Baron, but there's something wrong. I think it was Craig imitating the Baron's voice.

Scott, there's no proof of any of this. The only proof will be obtained if Craig has found me too dangerous.

We'll see what happens. There is one thing I know and probably have always known in my heart. Ted is incapable of murder, and I don't care how many witnesses come forward to claim they saw him kill Leila.

Elizabeth

Scott put down the letter and looked sternly at Elizabeth. “I wish you had trusted me to help you. You almost lost your life.”

“It was the only way,” Elizabeth said. “But what did he do to Mrs. Meehan?”

“An insulin injection. As you know, during college he worked summers at the hospital in Hanover. He picked up a lot of medical knowledge those years. But initially the insulin wasn't meant for Alvirah Meehan.” Scott looked at Elizabeth. “He had become convinced you were dangerous. He had planned to find a way to do away with you in New York this week, before the trial. But when Ted decided to come here, Craig persuaded Min to invite you too. He persuaded her that you might back off from testifying against Ted once you saw him. What he wanted was a chance to arrange an accident. Alvirah Meehan became a threat. He already had the means to get rid of her.” Scott stood up. “And now I'm going home.”

At the door he paused. “Just one last observation I'd like to make. You, Baron, and you, Syd, were willing to obstruct justice when you thought Ted was guilty. By taking the law into your own hands, you did him no favors and may indirectly have been responsible for Sammy's death and Mrs. Meehan's attack.”

Min jumped up. “If they had come forward last year, Ted might very well have been persuaded to plead guilty. Ted should be grateful to them.”

“Are
you
grateful, Min?” Cheryl asked. “I gather the Baron
did
write the play. You not only married nobility, a doctor, an interior designer, but also an author. You must be thrilled-and broke.”

“I married a Renaissance man,” Min told her. “The Baron will resume a full schedule of operations at the clinic. Ted has promised us a loan. All will be well”

Helmut kissed her hand. Again Elizabeth was reminded of a little boy smiling up at his mother. Min sees him now for what he is, she thought. He'd be lost without her. It cost her a million dollars to find that out, but maybe she'll decide it was worth it.

“Incidentally,” Scott added, “Mrs. Meehan is going to make it. We can thank Dr. von Schreiber's emergency treatment for that.” Ted and Elizabeth followed him out. “Try to put it behind you,” Scott told them. “I have a hunch things are going to be a lot better for you two from now on.”

“They already are.” Ted's voice was firm.

THE NOON SUN WAS HIGH OVERHEAD. THE BREEZE WAS coming gently from the Pacific, bringing the scent of the sea. Even the azaleas that had been crushed by the patrol cars seemed to be trying to struggle back. The cypress trees, grotesque in the night, seemed familiar and comforting under the splendid sunshine.

Together Elizabeth and Ted watched Scott drive away, then turned to face each other. “It really is over,” Ted said. “Elizabeth, I'm just starting to realize it. I can breathe again. I'm not going to wake up in the middle of the night and wonder about living in a cell, about losing everything in life I value. I want to get to work again. I want . . .” His arms went around her. “I want you.”

Go ahead, Sparrow. This time it's right. No dilly-dallying. Do as I tell you. You're perfect for each other.

Elizabeth smiled up at Ted. She put her hands on his face and brought his lips to hers.

She could almost hear Leila singing again, as she had so long ago, “Weep no more, my lady. . . .”

POCKET BOOKS
PROUDLY PRESENTS

YOU BELONG TO ME

Mary Higgins Clark

The following is a preview of
You Belong to Me. . . .

He had played this same game before and had anticipated this time out it would be something of a letdown. It came as a pleasant surprise then to find that it gave him even more of a thrill.

He had boarded the ship in Perth, Australia, only yesterday, planning to sail as far as Kobe, but he had found her immediately, so the extra ports would not be necessary. She had been seated at a window table in the liner's paneled dining room, a discreetly elegant space typical of the
Gabrielle.
The luxury cruise ship was the perfect size for his purposes, and in fact he always traveled on smaller ships, always chose a segment of a deluxe world tour.

He was cautious by nature, although in truth there was little likelihood of his being recognized by previous shipmates. He had become a master at altering his appearance, a talent he had discovered during his college drama club fling at acting.

As he studied Regina Clausen, he decided that she could use a makeover. She was one of those fortyish women who could have been quite attractive if she only knew how to dress, how to present herself. She was wearing an expensive-looking ice-blue dinner suit that would have been stunning on a blonde, but it did nothing for her very pale complexion, making her look washed out and wan. And her light brown hair, her natural and not unflattering color, was so stiffly set that even from across the wide room it seemed to age her, and even to date her, as though she were a suburban matron from the fifties.

Of course he knew who she was. He had seen Clausen in action at a stockholders' meeting only a few months ago, and he had also watched her on CNBC in her capacity as a stock research analyst. Certainly in those venues she had come across as forceful and very sure of herself.

That was why, when he had spotted her sitting wistfully and alone at the table, and later had witnessed her tremulous, almost girlish pleasure when one of the male hosts asked her to dance, he knew right away how easy it was going to be.

He raised his glass, and with the faintest movement in her direction, offered a silent toast.

Your prayers have been answered, Regina,
he promised.
From now on, you belong to me.

Three years later

Barring a blizzard or something bordering on a hurricane, Dr. Susan Chandler walked to work from her brownstone apartment in Greenwich Village to her office in the turn-of-the-century building in SoHo. A clinical psychologist, she had a thriving private practice and at the same time had established something of a public persona as host of a popular radio program,
Ask Dr. Susan,
that aired each weekday.

The early morning air on this October day was crisp and breezy, and she was glad she had opted for a long-sleeved, turtleneck sweater under her suit jacket.

Her shoulder-length dark blond hair, still damp from the shower, was windblown, causing her to regret not wearing a scarf. She remembered her grandmother's long-ago admonishment, “Don't ever go out with a wet head; you'll catch your death of cold,” then realized that she seemed to think about Gran Susie a lot these days. But then, her grandmother had been raised in Greenwich Village, and Susan sometimes wondered if her spirit wasn't hovering nearby.

She stopped for a light at the corner of Mercer and Houston. It was only seven-thirty, and the streets weren't crowded yet. In another hour they would be teeming with Monday morning, back-to-work New Yorkers.

Thank God the weekend's over, Susan said to herself fervently. She had spent most of Saturday and Sunday in Rye with her mother, who had been in low spirits—understandably so, Susan thought, since Sunday would
have been her fortieth wedding anniversary. Then, not helping the general situation, Susan had had an unfortunate encounter with her older sister, Dee, who was visiting from California.

Sunday afternoon, before coming back to the city, she had made a courtesy call to her father's palatial home in nearby Bedford Hills, where he and his second wife, Binky, were throwing a cocktail party. Susan suspected that the timing of the party was Binky's doing. “We had our first date four years ago today,” she had gushed.

I dearly love both my parents, Susan thought as she reached her office building, but there are times when I want to tell them to please, grow up.

Susan was usually the first to arrive on the top floor, but as she passed the law offices of her old friend and mentor, Nedda Harding, she was startled to see that the lights in the reception area and hallway were already on. She knew Nedda had to be the early bird.

She shook her head ruefully as she opened the outer door—which should have been locked-walked down the hallway past the still-dark offices of Nedda's junior partners and clerks, then stopped at the open door leading to Nedda's office, and smiled. As usual, Nedda was concentrating so intensely that she was not even aware that Susan was standing there.

Nedda was frozen in her usual work pose, her left elbow on the desk, forehead resting on her palm, and her right hand poised to turn the pages of the thick file that was spread out before her. Nedda's short-clipped silver hair was already rumpled, her half glasses were slipping down her nose, and her solid body gave the impression of being ready to leap up and run. One of the most respected defense attorneys in New York, her somewhat grandmotherly appearance offered little indication of the cleverness and aggressive energy she brought to her work, never more apparent than when she cross-examined a witness in court.