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Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Saturday, August 29, 1987
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Sunday, August 30
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Monday, August 31
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Tuesday, September 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 03
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Wednesday, September 2
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Thursday, September 3
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Friday, September 4
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
For my grand children . . .
Elizabeth Higgins Clark
and
Andrew Warren Clark
the two “Dirdrews”
With love, amusement and delight.
Acknowledgments
Stillwatch, an earlier novel, was set in Washington, D.C. Special thanks are in order for the good friends who assisted me in my attempt to give that book an authentic Washington flavor.
Mrs. Frances Humphrey Howard, sister of the late Vice-President Hubert H. Humphrey, generously shared her vast knowledge of life in the nation’s capital with me. She and her network of friends were always readily available to answer my questions about everything from protocol to the inner workings of Congress.
John and Catherine Keeley assisted me in creating the Cable Network background and planning the crucial travel times and routes. William Jackman, vice-president of the Air Transport Association of America, lent his expertise to guide me in the technical aspects of a vital airline investigation.
Abiding thanks to my editor, Michael V. Korda, whose perception and understanding make it a challenge and a pleasure to embark on the long road between story concept and completed novel.
Finally, my love and gratitude to my agent, Pat Myrer, who before her retirement helped me to plan this new book and christened it with the title Weep No More, My Lady.
Saturday,
August 29, 1987
1
PAN AMERICAN FLIGHT 111 FROM ROME BEGAN TO CIRCLE on its final approach to Kennedy Airport. Elizabeth pressed her forehead against the glass, drinking in the brilliance of the sun gleaming on the ocean, the distant outline of the Manhattan skyscrapers. This was the moment she had once loved at the end of a trip, the sense of coming home. But today she passionately wanted to be able to stay on the plane, to go wherever its next destination might be.
“It’s a lovely sight, isn’t it?” When she’d boarded the plane, the grandmotherly-looking woman next to her had smiled pleasantly and opened her book. Elizabeth had been relieved; the last thing she’d wanted was a seven-hour conversation with a stranger. But now it was all right. They’d be landing in a few minutes. She agreed that it was a lovely sight.
“This was my third trip to Italy,” her seatmate continued. “But it’s the last time I’ll go in August. Tourists all over the place. And so terribly hot. What countries did you visit?”
The plane banked and began its descent. Elizabeth decided it was just as easy to give a direct answer as to be noncommittal. “I’m an actress. I was working on a film in Venice.”
“How exciting. My first impression was that you reminded me a little of Candy Bergen. You’re just about as tall as she is and have the same lovely blond hair and blue-gray eyes. Should I know your name?”
“Not at all.”
There was a faint bump as the plane landed on the runway and began taxiing. To deter any more questions, Elizabeth made a business of pulling her carry-on bag from under the seat and checking its contents. If Leila were here, she thought, there wouldn’t be any question about identifying her. Everyone recognized Leila LaSalle. But Leila would have been in first class, not coach.
Would have been. After all these months, it was time the reality of her death set in.
A newsstand just beyond the Customs enclosure had stacks of the early-afternoon edition of the Globe. She couldn’t help seeing the headline: TRIAL BEGINS SEPTEMBER 8. The lead read: “A visibly angry Judge Michael Harris scathingly denied further postponements in the murder trial of multimillionaire Ted Winters.” The rest of the front page was filled with a blowup of Ted’s face. There was a stunned bitterness in his eyes, a rigid set to his mouth. It was a picture snapped after he’d learned that the grand jury had indicted him for the murder of his fiancée, Leila LaSalle.
* * *
As the cab sped toward the city, Elizabeth read the story—a rehash of the details of Leila’s death and the evidence against Ted. Pictures of Leila were splashed over the next three pages of the paper: Leila at a premiere, with her first husband; Leila on safari, with her second husband; Leila with Ted; Leila accepting her Oscar—stock publicity shots. One of them caught Elizabeth’s eye. In it, Leila had a hint of softness in her smile, a suggestion of vulnerability that contrasted with the arrogant tilt of her chin, the mocking expression in her eyes. Half the young girls in America had imitated that expression, copied Leila’s way of tossing her hair back, of smiling over her shoulder. . . .
“Here we are, lady.”
Startled, Elizabeth looked up. The cab had stopped in front of the Hamilton Arms, at Fifty-seventh Street and Park Avenue. The paper slid off her lap. She forced herself to try to sound calm. “I’m so sorry. I gave you the wrong address. I want to go to Eleventh and Fifth.”
“I already turned off the meter.”
“Then start a new fare.” Her hands shook as she fumbled for her wallet. She sensed the doorman was approaching and did not raise her eyes. She did not want to be recognized. Unthinkingly she had given Leila’s address. This was the building where Ted had murdered Leila. Here, in a drunken rage, he had pushed her off the terrace of her apartment.
Elizabeth began to shiver uncontrollably at the image she could not banish from her mind: Leila’s beautiful body, wrapped in the white satin pajamas, her long red hair cascading behind her, plummeting forty stories to the concrete courtyard.
And always the questions. . . . Was she conscious? How much did she realize?
How awful those last seconds must have been for her!
If I had stayed with her, Elizabeth thought, it never would have happened. . . .
2
AFTER A TWO-MONTH ABSENCE, THE APARTMENT FELT close and stuffy. But as soon as she opened the windows, a breeze blew in, carrying the peculiarly satisfying combination of scents that was so specially New York: the pungent aura of the small Indian restaurant around the corner, a hint of the flowers from the terrace across the street, the acrid smell of fumes from the Fifth Avenue buses, a suggestion of sea air from the Hudson River. For a few minutes Elizabeth breathed deeply and felt herself begin to unwind. Now that she was here, it was good to be home. The job in Italy had been another escape, another temporary respite. But never out of her mind was the realization that eventually she would have to go to court, as a prosecution witness against Ted.
She unpacked quickly and placed her plants in the sink. It was clear that the superintendent’s wife had not honored her promise to water them regularly. After plucking away the dead leaves, she turned to the mail that was stacked on the dining-room table. Rapidly she skimmed through it, tossing out ads and coupons, separating personal letters from bills. She smiled eagerly at the beautiful handwriting on one envelope and the precise return address in the upper corner: Miss Dora Samuels, Cypress Point Spa, Pebble Beach, California. Sammy. But before she read that one, Elizabeth reluctantly opened the business-size envelope with the return address OFFICE OF THE DSTRICT ATTORNEY.
The letter was brief. It was a confirmation that she would phone Assistant District Attorney William Murphy upon her return on August 29 and make an appointment to review her testimony.
Even reading the newspaper and giving Leila’s address to the cabbie had not prepared her for the shock of this official notice. Her mouth went dry. The walls seemed to close in around her. The hours she had testified at the grand jury hearings flashed through her mind. The time she had fainted on the stand after being shown the pictures of Leila’s body. Oh, God, she thought, it was starting all over again. . . .
The phone rang. Her “Hello” was barely audible.
“Elizabeth,” a voice boomed. “How are you? You’re on my mind.”
It was Min von Schreiber! Of all people! Elizabeth instantly felt wearier. Min had given Leila her first modeling job, and now she was married to an Austrian baron and owned the glamorous Cypress Point Spa in Pebble Beach, California. She was an old and dear friend; but Elizabeth didn’t feel up to her today. Still, Min was one of the people Elizabeth could never say no to.
Elizabeth tried to sound cheerful. “I’m fine, Min. A little tired, maybe. I just got home a few minutes ago.”
“Don’t unpack. You’re coming to the Spa tomorrow morning. There’s a ticket waiting at the American Airlines counter. The usual flight. Jason will pick you up at the airport in San Francisco.”
“Min, I can’t.”
“As my guest.”
Elizabeth almost laughed. Leila had always said those were the three hardest words for Min to utter. “But, Min—”
“No ‘buts.’ When I saw you in Venice you looked too thin. That damn trial will be hell. So come. You need rest. You need pampering.”
Elizabeth could see Min, her raven-black hair coiled around her head, always assuming in her imperious way that what she wanted was automatically granted. After more futile protests in which she listed all the reasons why she should not come, could not, she heard herself agreeing to Min’s plans. “Tomorrow, then. It will be good to see you, Min.” She was smiling when she put the receiver down.
Three thousand miles away, Minna von Schreiber waited for the connection to break, then immediately began to dial another number. When she reached her party, she whispered, “You were right. It was easy. She agreed to come. Don’t forget to act surprised when you see her.”
Her husband entered the room as she was talking. He waited until the call was completed, then burst out, “You did invite her, then?”
Min looked up, defiantly. “Yes, I did.”
Helmut von Schreiber frowned. His china-blue eyes darkened. “After all my warnings? Minna, Elizabeth could pull this house of cards down around our ears. By the end of the week, you will regret that invitation as you have never regretted anything in your life.”
Elizabeth decided to get her call to the district attorney over with immediately. William Murphy was obviously glad to hear from her. “Miss Lange, I just started to sweat you out.”
“I told you I’d be back today. I wouldn’t have expected to find you in on Saturday.”
“There’s a lot of work. We definitely go to trial on September eighth.”
“I read that.”
“I’ll need to review your testimony with you so it will be fresh in your mind.”
“It’s never not been in my mind,” Elizabeth said.
“I understand. But I have to discuss the kind of questions the defense attorney will ask you. I suggest you come in on Monday for several hours and then let’s plan to have long sessions next weekend. You will be around?”
“I’m leaving tomorrow morning,” she told him. “Can’t we talk about everything on Friday?”
She was dismayed at the answer. “I’d rather have one preliminary meeting. It’s only three o’clock. You could be down here in a cab in fifteen minutes.”
Reluctantly she agreed. Glancing at Sammy’s letter, she decided to wait until she came back to read it. At least it would be something to look forward to. Showering quickly, she twisted her hair into a topknot and put on a blue cotton jumpsuit and sandals.
Half an hour later, she was sitting across from the assistant district attorney in his crowded office. The furniture consisted of his desk, three chairs and a row of battleship-gray steel files. There were expandable cardboard files piled on his desk, on the floor and on top of the metal cabinets. William Murphy seemed unaware of the messiness of his work space—or else, Elizabeth thought, he had finally come to terms with what could not be changed.
A balding, chubby-faced man in his late thirties with a strong New York accent, Murphy conveyed an impression of keen intelligence and driving energy. After the grand jury hearings, he had told her that her testimony was the main reason Ted had been indicted. She knew he considered that high praise.
Now he opened a thick file: The People of the State of New York v. Andrew Edward Winters III. “I know how hard this is for you,” he said. “You’re going to be forced to relive your sister’s death, and with that all the pain you experienced. And you’re going to testify against a man you liked and trusted.”
“Ted killed Leila; the man I knew doesn’t exist.”
“There are no ‘ifs’ in this case. He deprived your sister of her life; it’s my job—with your help—to see that he’s deprived of his freedom. The trial will be a terrible ordeal for you, but I promise that once it’s over it will be easier to get on with your own life. After you are sworn, you will be asked to state your name. I know ‘Lange’ is your stage name. Be sure to tell the jury your legal name is LaSalle. Let’s review your testimony again.
“You will be asked if you lived with your sister.”
“No, when I left college I got my own apartment.”
“Are your parents living?”
“No, my mother died three years after Leila and I came to New York, and I never knew my father.”
“Now let’s review again your testimony, starting with the day before the murder.”
“I had been out of town for three months with a stock company. . . . I got in on Friday night, March twenty-eighth, just in time to catch the last preview of Leila’s play.”
“How did you find your sister?”
“She was obviously under a terrible strain; she kept forgetting her lines. Her performance was a shambles. Between acts I went to her dressing room. She never drank anything but a little wine, and yet she was drinking straight Scot
ch. I took it from her and poured it down the sink.”
“How did she respond?”
“She was furious. She was a totally different person. She had never been a big drinker, but she was suddenly drinking a lot. . . . Ted came into the dressing room. She shouted at both of us to get out.”
“Were you surprised by her behavior?”
“I think it would be more accurate to say that I was shocked.”
“Did you discuss it with Winters?”
“He seemed bewildered. He’d been away a lot too.”
“On business?”
“Yes. I suppose so. . . .”
“The play went badly?”
“It was a disaster. Leila refused to come out for a curtain call. When it was over we went on to Elaine’s.”
“Who do you mean by ‘we’?”
“Leila . . . Ted and Craig . . . myself . . . Syd and Cheryl . . . Baron and Baroness von Schreiber. We were all close friends.”
“You will be asked to identify these people for the jury.”
“Syd Melnick was Leila’s agent. Cheryl Manning is a well-known actress. Baron and Baroness von Schreiber own Cypress Point Spa in California. Min—the Baroness—used to have a model agency in New York. She gave Leila her first job. Ted Winters—everyone knows who he is, and he was Leila’s fiancé. Craig Babcock is Ted’s assistant. He’s executive vice-president of Winters Enterprises.”
“What happened at Elaine’s?”
“There was a dreadful scene. Someone yelled to Leila that he’d heard her play was a turkey. She went wild. She shouted, ‘You bet it’s a turkey, but I’m wringing its neck. You hear that, everybody? I quit!’ Then she fired Syd Melnick. She told him he had only stuck her in the play because he wanted his percentage—that for the last couple of years he’d been putting her in anything he could because he needed the money.” Elizabeth bit her lip. “You have to understand this wasn’t the real Leila. Oh, sure, she could get uptight when she was in a new play. She was a star. A perfectionist. But she never behaved like that.”
“What did you do?”
“We all tried to calm her down. But it only made her worse. When Ted tried to reason with her, she took off her engagement ring and threw it across the room.”