Weep No More, My Lady

  “We’ve got to talk,” Syd told her quietly.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Not here.”

  Cheryl shrugged. “Then later. Don’t look so sour, Syd. Breathe deeply. Get rid of poisonous thoughts.”

  “Don’t bother being cute with me. When we get back, I’ll come to your place.”

  “What is this about?” Cheryl clearly did not want to have the euphoric mood spoiled.

  Syd glanced over his shoulder. Alvirah was directly behind them. Syd could almost feel her breath on his neck.

  He gave Cheryl’s arm a warning pinch.

  * * *

  When they reached the road, Min continued to lead in the direction of the lone cypress tree, and Helmut began dropping back to chat with the hikers. “Good morning . . . Wonderful day . . . Try to pick up the pace . . . You’re doing marvelously.” His artificial cheerfulness grated on Syd. Leila had been right. The Baron was a toy soldier. Wind him up and he marches forward.

  Helmut stopped abreast of Cheryl. “I hope you two enjoyed your dinner last night.” His smile was dazzling and mechanical. Syd could not remember what he had eaten. “It was okay.”

  “Good.” Helmut dropped back to ask Alvirah Meehan how she was feeling.

  “Absolutely fine.” Her voice was hard and strident. “You might say I’m as bright as a butterfly floating on a cloud.” Her noisy laugh sent a chill through Syd.

  Had even Alvirah Meehan caught on?

  Henry Bartlett was not feeling good about the world or his particular situation. When he was asked to take on the case of Ted Winters, he’d rearranged his calendar immediately. Few criminal lawyers would be too busy to represent a prominent multimillionaire. But there was an ongoing problem between him and Ted Winters. The definitive word was “chemistry,” and it was bad between them.

  As he grudgingly plodded on the forced march behind Min and the Baron, Henry admitted to himself that this place was luxurious, that the setting was beautiful, that under different circumstances he could come to appreciate the charms of the Monterey Peninsula and Cypress Point Spa. But now he was on a countdown. The trial of The People of the State of New York v. Andrew Edward Winters III would begin in exactly one week. Publicity was eminently desirable when you won a headline case; but unless Ted Winters started cooperating, this case would not be won.

  Min was picking up the pace. Henry quickened his footsteps. He hadn’t missed the appreciative glances of the fiftyish ash-blonde who was with the Countess. Under different circumstances he’d check that out. But not now.

  Craig was marching at a solid, steady pace behind him. Henry still couldn’t put his finger on what made Craig Babcock tick. On the one hand he’d talked about Pop’s deli on the Lower East Side. On the other, he was clearly the hatchet man for Ted Winters. It was a pity that it was too late for him to testify that he and Ted had been on the phone when that so-called eyewitness claimed she saw Ted. That thought reminded Henry of what he wanted to ask Craig.

  “What’s with the investigator on Sally Ross?”

  “I put three investigators on her—two for background, one to shadow her.”

  “It should have been done months ago.”

  “I agree. Ted’s first lawyer didn’t think it was necessary.”

  They were leaving the path that exited the Spa grounds and proceeding onto the road that led to the Lone Cypress.

  “How did you arrange to get reports?”

  “The head guy will call me every morning, nine thirty New York time, six thirty here. I just spoke to him. Nothing too important to report yet. Pretty much what we know already. She’s been divorced a couple of times; she fights with her neighbors; she’s always accusing people of staring at her. She treats 911 like it’s her own personal hot line, always calling to report suspicious-looking characters.”

  “I could chew her up and spit her out on the stand,” Bartlett said. “Without Elizabeth Lange’s testimony, the prosecution would be flying on one wing. Incidentally, I want to know how good her eyesight is, if she needs glasses, what strength glasses, when they were changed last, and so on . . . everything about her vision.”

  “Good. I’ll phone it in.”

  For a few minutes they walked in silence. The morning was silvery bright; the sun was absorbing the dew from the leaves and bushes; the road was quiet, with only an occasional car passing; the narrow bridge that led to the Lone Cypress was empty.

  Bartlett glanced over his shoulder. “I’d hoped to see Ted holding hands with Cheryl.”

  “He always jogs in the morning. Maybe he was holding hands with her all night.”

  “I hope so. Your friend Syd doesn’t look happy.”

  “The rumor is Syd’s broke. He was riding high with Leila as a client. He’d sign her up for a picture and part of the deal was they’d use a couple of his other clients somewhere else. That’s how he kept Cheryl working. Without Leila and with all the money he lost in that play, he’s got problems. He’d love to put the arm on Ted right now. I won’t let him.”

  “He and Cheryl are the most important defense witnesses we have,” Henry snapped. “Maybe you’d better be more generous. In fact, I’m going to make that suggestion to Ted.”

  They had passed the Pebble Beach Lodge and were on the way back to the Spa. “We’ll get to work after breakfast,” Bartlett announced. “I’ve got to decide the strategy of this case and whether to put Ted on the stand. My guess is that he’ll make a lousy witness for himself; but no matter how much the judge instructs the jury, it makes a big psychological difference when a defendant won’t subject himself to questioning.”

  * * *

  Syd walked back to Cheryl’s bungalow with her. “Let’s make this short,” she said when the door closed behind them. “I want to shower, and I invited Ted for breakfast.” She pulled the sweat shirt over her head, stepped out of the sweat pants and reached for her robe. “What is it?”

  “Always practicing, aren’t you?” Syd snapped.

  “Save it for the dopes, honey. I’d rather wrestle with a tiger.” For a long minute he studied her. She had darkened her hair for the Amanda audition, and the effect was startling. The softer color had obliterated the brassy, cheap-at-the-core look she’d never quite conquered and had accentuated those marvelous eyes. Even in a terry-cloth robe she looked like someone with class. Inside, Syd knew, she was the same scheming little hooker he’d been dealing with for nearly two decades.

  Now she smiled dazzlingly at him. “Oh, Syd, let’s not fight. What do you want?”

  “I’ll be happy to make it brief. Why did you suggest that Leila might have committed suicide? Why would she have believed that Ted was involved with another woman?”

  “Proof.”

  “What kind of proof?”

  “A letter.” Quickly she explained. “I went up to see Min yesterday. They had the nerve to leave a bill here, when they know perfectly well I’m a draw for this place. They were inside, and I just happened to notice all that fan mail on Sammy’s desk, and when I looked around I saw this crazy letter. And I took it.”

  “You took it!”

  “Of course. Let me show it to you.” She hurried into her bedroom, brought it back, and leaning over his shoulder, read it with him.

  “Don’t you see? Ted must have been having a fling with someone else. But wouldn’t that make him glad to break up with Leila? And if he wants to say it was with me, that’s fine. I’ll back him up.”

  “You stupid bitch.”

  Cheryl straightened up and walked over to the other couch. She sat down, leaned forward and spoke precisely, as though she were addressing a not-very-bright child. “You don’t seem to realize that this letter is my chance to make Ted understand that I have his best interests at heart.”

  Syd walked over, grabbed the letter from Cheryl’s hand and shredded it. “Last night Bob Koenig phoned me to make sure there was nothing unfavorable that might come out about you. You know why, as of this minute, you have the inside track fo
r Amanda? Because Margo Dresher’s had more than her share of lousy publicity. What kind of publicity do you think you’d get if Leila’s fans find out you drove her to suicide with poison-pen letters?”

  “I didn’t write that letter.”

  “The hell you didn’t! How many people knew about that bracelet? I saw your eyes when Ted gave it to Leila. You were ready to stab her right then. Those rehearsals were closed. How many people knew Leila was having trouble with her lines? You knew. Why? Because I told you myself. You wrote that letter and others like it. How much time did it take you to cut and paste? I’m surprised you had the patience. How many more are there, and are they likely to show up?”

  Cheryl looked alarmed. “Syd, I swear to you I did not write that letter or any others. Syd, tell me about Bob Koenig.”

  Now it was Syd who, enunciating slowly, repeated the conversation. When he finished, Cheryl reached out her hand. “Got a match? You know I gave up smoking.”

  Syd watched as the shredded letter with its bizarre, uneven scraps of print curled and disappeared in the ashtray.

  Cheryl came over to him and put her arms around his neck. “I knew you were going to get that part for me, Syd. You’re right about getting rid of the letter. I think I should still testify at the trial. The publicity will be wonderful. But don’t you think my attitude should be shock that my very dearest friend was so distraught and depressed? Then I could explain how even those of us at the top have terrible periods of anxiety.”

  Her eyes opened wide; two tears ran down her cheeks. “I think Bob Koenig would like that approach, don’t you?”

  4

  “ELIZABETH!” MIN’S STARTLED VOICE MADE HER JUMP. “Is something wrong? Where is Sammy?”

  Min and Helmut were in matching jogging outfits; Min’s black hair was pulled regally into a chignon, but her makeup only partially masked the unfamiliar wrinkles around her eyes, the puffiness of her lids. The Baron seemed, as always, to be striking a pose, his legs slightly parted, his hands clasped behind his back, his head bent forward, his eyes puzzled and guileless.

  Briefly, Elizabeth told them what had happened. Sammy was missing; her bed had not been slept in.

  Min looked alarmed. “I came down at about six o’clock. The lights were on; the window was open; the copy machine was on. I was annoyed. I thought Sammy was getting careless.”

  “The copy machine was on! Then she did come back to the office last night.” Elizabeth darted across the room. “Did you look to see if the letter she wanted to copy is in the machine?”

  It was not there. But next to the copier Elizabeth found the plastic bag the letter had been wrapped in.

  Within fifteen minutes a search party had been quietly organized. Reluctantly, Elizabeth acceded to Min’s pleadings not to call the police immediately. “Sammy was very ill last year,” Min reminded her. “She had a slight stroke and was disoriented. It may have happened again. You know how she hates fuss. Let us try to find her first.”

  “I’ll give it until lunchtime,” Elizabeth said flatly, “and then I’m going to report her missing. For all we know, if she did have some kind of attack, she’s wandering on the beach somewhere.”

  “Minna gave Sammy a job out of pity,” Helmut snapped. “The essence of this place is privacy, seclusion. We have deputies swarming about and half the guests will pack up and go home.”

  Elizabeth felt red-hot anger, but it was Min who answered. “Too much has been concealed around here,” she said quietly. “We will delay calling the sheriff’s office for Sammy’s sake, not for ours.”

  Together they scooped the piled-up letters back into the bags. “This is Leila’s mail,” Elizabeth told them. She twisted the tops of the bags into intricate knots. “I’ll take these to my bungalow later.” She studied the knots and was satisfied no one could undo them without tearing the bags.

  “Then you’re planning to stay?” Helmut’s attempt to sound pleased did not come off.

  “At least until Sammy is found,” Elizabeth told him. “Now let’s get some help.”

  * * *

  The search party consisted of the oldest and most trusted employees: Nelly, the maid who had let her into Dora’s apartment; Jason, the chauffeur, the head gardener. They stood huddled at a respectful distance from Min’s desk waiting for instructions.

  It was Elizabeth who addressed them. “To protect Miss Samuels’ privacy, we don’t want anyone to suspect that there is a problem.” Crisply she divided their responsibilities. “Nelly, check the empty bungalows. Ask the other maids if they’ve seen Dora. Be casual. Jason, you contact the cab companies. Find out if anyone made a pickup here between nine o’clock last night and seven this morning.” She nodded to the gardener. “I want every inch of the grounds searched.” She turned to Min and the Baron. “Min, you go through the house and the women’s spa. Helmut, see if she’s anywhere in the clinic. I’m going around the neighborhood.”

  She looked at the clock. “Remember, noon is the deadline for finding her.”

  As she headed for the gates, Elizabeth realized it had not been for Min and Helmut that she had made the concession, but because she knew that for Sammy it was already too late.

  5

  TED FLATLY REFUSED TO BEGIN WORKING ON HIS DEFENSE until he’d spent an hour in the gym. When Bartlett and Craig arrived at his bungalow, he had just finished breakfast and was wearing a blue sport shirt and white shorts. Looking at him, Henry Bartlett could understand why women like Cheryl threw themselves at him, why a superstar like Leila LaSalle had been head over heels in love with him. Ted had that indefinable combination of looks and brains and charm which attracted men and women alike.

  Over the years Bartlett had defended the rich and the powerful. The experience had left him cynical. No man is a hero to his valet. Or to his lawyer. It gave Bartlett a certain sense of power of his own to get guilty defendants acquitted, to shape a defense on loopholes in the law. His clients were grateful to him and paid his huge fees with alacrity.

  Ted Winters was one of a kind. He treated Bartlett with contempt. He was the devil’s advocate of his own defense strategy. He did not pick up the hints Bartlett threw to him, the hints which ethically Bartlett could not bluntly state. Now he said, “You start planning my defense, Henry. I’m going to the gym for an hour. And then I might just take a swim. And possibly jog again. By the time I get back, I’d like to see exactly what your line of defense is and see if I can live with it. I assume you understand that I have no intention of saying, Yes, perhaps, maybe I did stumble back upstairs?”

  “Teddy, I . . .”

  Ted stood up. He pushed the breakfast tray aside. His posture was menacing as he stared at the older man. “Let me explain something. Teddy is the name of a two-year-old boy. I’ll describe him for you. He was what my grandmother used to call a towhead . . . very, very blond. He was a tough little guy who walked at nine months and spoke sentences at fifteen months. He was my son. His mother was a very sweet young woman who unfortunately could not get used to the idea she had married a very rich man. She refused to hire a housekeeper. She did her own marketing. She refused to have a chauffeur. She wouldn’t hear of driving an expensive automobile. Kathy lived in fear that folks from Iowa City would think she was getting uppity. One rainy night she was driving back from grocery shopping and—we think—a goddamn can of tomato soup rolled out of the bag and under her foot. And so she couldn’t stop at the stop sign, and a trailer truck plowed into that goddamn piece of tin she called a car. And she and that little boy, Teddy, died. That was eight years ago. Now have you got it straight that when you call me Teddy, I see a little blond kid who walked early and talked early and would be ten years old next month?”

  Ted’s eyes glistened. “Now you plan my defense. You’re being paid for it. I’m going to the gym. Craig, take your pick.”

  “I’ll work out with you.”

  They left the bungalow and started toward the men’s spa. “Where did you find him?” Ted asked. “For Ch
rist’s sake!”

  “Have a heart, Ted. He’s the best criminal lawyer in the country.”

  “No, he isn’t. And I’ll tell you why. Because he came in with a preconceived notion and he’s trying to mold me into the ideal defendant. And it’s phony.”

  The tennis player and his girlfriend were coming out of their bungalow. They greeted Ted warmly. “Missed you at Forest Hills last time,” the pro told Ted.

  “Next year for sure.”

  “We’re all rooting for you.” This time it was the pro’s girlfriend with her model’s smile flashing.

  Ted returned the smile. “Now, if I can just get you on the jury . . .” He raised his hand in a gesture of acknowledgment and walked on. The smile disappeared. “I wonder if they have celebrity tennis in Attica.”

  “You won’t have to give a damn one way or the other. It will have nothing to do with you.” Craig stopped. “Look, isn’t that Elizabeth?”

  They were almost directly in front of the main house. From across the vast lawn they watched as the slender figure ran down the steps of the veranda and turned toward the outer gates. There was no mistaking the honey-colored loop of hair twirled on the top of her head, the thrust of the chin, the innate grace of her movements. She was dabbing at her eyes, and as they watched, she pulled sunglasses from her pocket and put them on.

  “I thought she was going home this morning.” Ted’s voice was impersonal. “Something’s wrong.”

  “Do you want to see what it is?”

  “Obviously my presence would only upset her more. Why don’t you follow her? She doesn’t think you killed Leila.”

  “Ted, for God’s sake, knock it off! I’d put my hand in the fire for you and you know it, but being a punching bag isn’t going to make me function any better. And I fail to see how it helps you.”