Weep No More My Lady (5 page)

The clinic, a smaller edition of the main house, was at its right. A series of paths lined by high flowering hedges led to individual doorways. The treatment rooms were entered through these doors, and treatments were spaced far enough apart so that guests avoided encountering each other.

Then, as the limousine followed the curve of the driveway, Elizabeth gasped and leaned forward. Between the main house and the clinic, but placed well behind them, a huge new structure had come into view, its black marble exterior, accentuated by massive columns, making it loom like an ominous volcano about to erupt. Or like a mausoleum, Elizabeth thought.

“What's
that?”
Alvirah Meehan asked.

“It's a replica of a Roman bath. They had just broken ground for it
when I was here two years ago. Jason, is it open yet?”

“Not finished, Miss Lange. The construction just goes on and on.”

Leila had openly mocked the plans for the bathhouse. “Another of Helmut's grand schemes for separating Min from her money,” she said. “He won't be happy until Min is officially declared a shopping-bag lady.”

*   *   *

The car stopped at the steps of the main house. Jason leaped out and rushed to open the door. Alvirah Meehan struggled back into her shoes and, stooping awkwardly, hoisted herself from the seat. “It's like sitting on the floor,” she commented. “Oh, look, here comes Mrs. von Schreiber. I know her from her pictures. Or should I call her Baroness?”

Elizabeth did not answer. She stretched out her arms as Min descended the steps from the veranda, her gait rapid but stately. Leila had always compared Min in motion to the
Q.E. 2
steaming into harbor. Min was wearing a deceptively simple Adolfo print. Her luxurious dark hair was piled on her head in a swirling French knot. She pounced on Elizabeth and hugged her fiercely. “You're much too thin,” she hissed. “In a swimsuit I bet you look scrawny.” Another bear hug and Min turned her attention to Alvirah. “Mrs. Meehan. ‘The world's luckiest woman.' We are
enchanted
to have you!” She eyed Alvirah up and down. “In two weeks, the world will think you were born with a forty-million-dollar spoon in your mouth.”

Alvirah Meehan beamed. “That's the way I feel right now.”

“Elizabeth, you go up to the office. Helmut is waiting to see you. I'll escort Mrs. Meehan to her bungalow, then join you.”

Obediently Elizabeth went into the main house and walked through the cool marble-floored foyer, past the salon, the music room, the formal dining rooms and up the sweeping staircase that led to the private rooms. Min and her husband shared a suite of offices that overlooked the front and both sides of the property. From there Min could observe the movements of guests and staff as they went back and forth between the areas of activity. At dinner she was frequently known to admonish a guest. “You should have been in aerobics when I saw you reading in the garden” She also had an uncanny knack of noticing when an employee kept a guest waiting.

Elizabeth knocked softly on the door of the private office suite. When there was no answer she opened it. Like every room in Cypress Point Spa, the offices were furnished exquisitely. An abstract watercolor by Will
Moses hung on the wall over the oyster-colored couch. An Aubusson rug shimmered on the dark tile. The reception desk was authentic Louis XV, but there was no one seated there. She felt an immediate sense of sharp disappointment, but reminded herself that Sammy would be back tomorrow night.

Tentatively, she walked to the partially open door of the office Min and the Baron shared, then gasped in surprise. Baron Helmut von Schreiber was standing at the far wall, where pictures of Min's most famous clients were hung. Elizabeth's eyes followed him, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out.

It was Leila's portrait Helmut was studying, the one Leila had posed for the last time she was here. The vivid green of Leila's dress was unmistakable, the brilliant red hair that floated around her face, the way she was holding up a champagne glass as though offering a toast.

Helmut's hands were clasped tightly behind his back. Everything about his stance suggested tension.

Elizabeth did not want him to know that he had been observed. Swiftly she retraced her steps to the reception room, opened and closed the door with a loud thud, then called, “Anyone home?”

An instant later he rushed from the inner office. The change in his demeanor was dramatic, This was the gracious, urbane European she had always known, with the warm smile, the kiss on both cheeks, the murmured compliment. “Elizabeth, you grow more beautiful every day. So young, so fair, so divinely tall.”

“Tall, anyhow.” Elizabeth stepped back. “Let me look at you, Helmut.” She studied him carefully, observing that no trace of tension showed in his baby-blue eyes His smile was relaxed and natural His parted lips showed perfect white teeth. How had Leila described him?
“I swear, Sparrow, that guy makes me think of a toy soldier. Do you suppose Min winds him up in the morning? He may have decent ancestry, but I bet he never had more than a nickel behind him till he latched on to Min.”

Elizabeth had protested, “He's a plastic surgeon, and certainly he's knowledgeable about spas. The place is famous.”

“It may be famous, “Leila had retorted, “but it costs a bundle to run, and I'd bet my last dollar even those prices can't carry that overhead. Listen, Sparrow, I should know. I've married two freeloaders so far, right? Sure he treats Min like a queen, but he's putting that
tinted head on two-hundred-dollar pillowcases every night, and besides what she's spent on the Spa, Min's dumped a pile of dough into that broken-down castle of his in Austria”

Like everyone else, Helmut had seemed grief-stricken at Leila's death, but now Elizabeth wondered if that had only been an act.

“Well, tell me. Am I all right? You look so troubled. Perhaps you have found some wrinkles?” His laugh was low, well bred, amused.

She made herself smile up at him. “I think you look splendid,” she said. “Perhaps I'm just shocked to realize how long it's been since I've seen you.”

“Come.” He took her hand and led her to the grouping of Art Deco wicker furniture near the front windows. He grimaced as he sat down. “I keep trying to convince Minna that these objects were meant to be seen, not used. So tell me, how has it been for you?”

“Busy. Of course, that's the way I want it to be.”

“Why haven't you come to see us before this?”

Because in this place I knew I'd be seeing Leila everywhere I turned.
“I did see Min in Venice three months ago.”

“And also, the Spa holds too many memories for you, yes?”

“It holds memories. But I've missed you two. And I'm looking forward to seeing Sammy. How do you think she's feeling?”

“You know Sammy. She never complains. But my guess would be—not well. I don't think she's ever recovered, either from the surgery or from the shock of Leila's death. And she is past seventy now. No great age physiologically, but still . . .”

The outer door closed with a decided thump, and Min's voice preceded her entrance. “Helmut, wait until you see the lottery winner. You have your work cut out for you. We'll need to arrange interviews for her. She'll make this place sound like seventh heaven.”

She rushed across the room and embraced Elizabeth fiercely. “If you knew the nights I've lain awake worrying about you! How long can you stay?”

“Not very long. Just until Friday.”

“That's only five days!”

“I know, but the district attorney's office has to review my testimony.” Elizabeth realized how good it felt to have loving arms around her.

“What do they have to review?”

“The questions they'll be asking me at the trial. The questions Ted's lawyer will be asking me. I thought telling the simple truth would be enough, but apparently the defense will try to prove I'm mistaken about the time of the phone call.”

“Do
you
think you might be mistaken?” Min's lips were grazing her ear, her voice a suggestive stage whisper. Startled, Elizabeth pulled back from the embrace in time to see the warning frown on Helmut's face.

“Min, do you think if I had the slightest doubt—”

“All right,” Min said hastily. “We shouldn't talk about that now. So you have five days. You're going to be pampered; you're going to rest. I made out your schedule myself. You start with a facial and massage this afternoon.”

*   *   *

Elizabeth left them a few minutes later. The slanting rays of the sun danced on the beds of wildflowers along the path to the bungalow Min had assigned her. Somewhere in her subconscious she experienced a sense of calm observing the brilliant checkerblooms, the wood roses, the flowering currant hedges. But the momentary tranquillity could not mask the fact that behind the warm welcome and seeming concern, Min and Helmut were different.

They were angry and worried and hostile. And that hostility was directed at
her.

SYD MELNICK DID NOT FIND THE DRIVE FROM BEVERLY Hills to Pebble Beach enjoyable. For the entire four hours, Cheryl Manning sat like a stone, rigid and uncommunicative, in the seat beside him. For the first three hours she had not allowed him to put the top down on the convertible. She wasn't going to risk drying out her face and hair. It was only when they approached Carmel and she wanted to be recognized going through town that she'd permitted the change.

Occasionally during the long ride, Syd glanced over at her. There was no question she looked good. The blue-black hair exploding in a mass of tendrils around her face was sexy and exciting. She was thirty-six now, and what had once been a
gamin
quality had evolved into a sultry sophistication that became her well.
Dynasty
and
Dallas
were getting long in the tooth. Audiences eventually got restless. There was a definite move to say “Enough” to the steamy love affairs of women in their fifties. And in Amanda, Cheryl had finally found the role that could make her a superstar.

When that happened, Syd in turn would be a big-time agent again. An author was as good as his last book. An actor as bankable as his last picture. An agent needed megabucks deals to be considered topflight. It was again within his grasp to become a legend, the next Swifty Lazar. And
this
time, he told himself, he wouldn't screw it up at the casinos, or blow it on the horses.

He would know in a few days if Cheryl had the part. Just before they left, at Cheryl's insistence, he had phoned Bob Koenig at home. Twenty-five years ago, Bob, fresh out of college, and Syd, a studio gofer, had met on a Hollywood set and become friends. Now Bob was president of World Motion Pictures. He even
looked
the part of the new breed of studio head, with his rugged features and broad shoulders. Syd knew that
he himself could be typecast for the stereotypical Brooklynite, with his long, slightly mournful face, receding curly hair and slight paunch that even rigorous exercise didn't help. It was another thing he envied Bob Koenig for.

Today Bob had let his irritation show. “Look, Syd, don't call me at home on a Sunday to talk business again! Cheryl did a damn good test. We're still seeing other people. You'll hear one way or another in the next few days. And let me give you a tip. Sticking her in that play last year when Leila LaSalle died was a lousy judgment call, and it's a big part of the problem with choosing her. Calling me at home on Sunday is a lousy judgment call too.”

Syd's palms began to sweat at the memory of the conversation. Oblivious of the scenery, he pondered the fact that he had made the mistake of abusing a friendship. If he wasn't more careful, everyone he knew would be “in conference” when he phoned.

And Bob was right. He
had
made a terrible mistake, talking Cheryl into going into the play with only a few days' rehearsal. The critics had slaughtered her.

Cheryl had been standing next to him when he called Bob. She'd heard what Bob said about the play's being the reason she might not get the part. And of course,
that
triggered an explosion. Not the first one, nor the last.

That goddamn play! He'd believed in it enough to beg and borrow until he had a million dollars to invest in it! It could have been a smash hit. And then Leila had started boozing and trying to act as if the play were the problem. . . .

Anger parched Syd's throat. All he had done for that bitch, and she'd fired him in Elaine's in front of a roomful of show-business people, cursing him out at the top of her voice! And she knew how much he'd sunk into the play! He only hoped she'd been conscious enough to know what was happening before she hit the concrete!

They were driving through Carmel: crowds of tourists on the streets; the sun bright; everybody looking relaxed and happy. He took the long way and threaded along the busiest streets. He could hear people comment when they started to recognize Cheryl. Now, of course, she was smiling, little Miss Gracious! She needed an audience the way other people needed air and water.

They reached the gate to Pebble Beach. He paid the toll. They drove past Pebble Beach Lodge, the Crocker Woodland, to the gates of the Spa.

“Drop me off at my bungalow,” Cheryl snapped. “I don't want to bump into anybody until I get myself together.”

She turned to him and pulled off her sunglasses. Her extraordinary eyes blazed. “Syd, what are my chances of becoming Amanda?”

He answered the question as he had answered it a dozen times in the last week. “The best, baby,” he said sincerely. “The best.”

They'd better be, he told himself, or it was all over.