“She was in love with you,” Henry continued. “When she realized that for you it was simply a flirtation, she turned on you. She took advantage of that wacko’s crazy accusation to destroy you. I’m telling you, Teddy, we may be able to make this stick.”
Ted tore the paper in half. “Apparently, my job is to be the devil’s advocate. Let’s suppose your scenario is true. Elizabeth was in love with me. But let’s carry it one step further. Suppose I had come to realize that life with Leila would be a succession of constant ups and downs, of tantrums, of an insecurity that resulted in jealous accusations every time I spoke pleasantly to another woman. Suppose I’d come to realize that Leila was an actress first, last and always, that she didn’t want a child. Suppose I’d realized that in Elizabeth I had found something I’d been looking for all my life.”
Ted slammed his fist on the table. “Don’t you know that you have just given me the very best reason in the world for killing Leila? Because do you think that Elizabeth would have looked at me twice while her sister was alive?” He pushed back his chair with a vehemence that caused it to topple over. “Why don’t you two play golf or go for a swim or do anything that makes you feel good? Don’t waste your time here. I don’t plan to.”
Bartlett’s face turned crimson. “I’ve had enough,” he snapped. “Listen, Mr. Winters, you may know how to run hotels, but you don’t know a damn thing about what goes on in a criminal courtroom. You hired me to keep you out of prison, but I can’t do it alone. What’s more, I don’t intend to. Either you start cooperating with me or get yourself another lawyer.”
“Calm down, Henry,” Craig said.
“No, I won’t calm down. I don’t need this case. I can possibly win it, but not the way it’s going now.” He pointed at Ted. “If you are so sure that any defense I raise won’t work, why don’t you pleabargain right now? I might get you a maximum of seven to ten years. Is that what you want? Say so. Or else sit down at that table.”
Ted picked up the chair he had knocked over. “Let’s get to work,” he said tonelessly. “I probably owe you an apology. I realize you’re the best in your field, but I guess you can understand how trapped I feel Do you really think there is a chance for an acquittal?”
“I’ve gotten acquittals in cases as rough as this,” Bartlett told him. “What you don’t seem to fathom,” he added, “is that being guilty has nothing to do with the verdict.”
6
SOMEHOW MIN MANAGED TO GET THROUGH THE REST OF the morning. She was too busy fielding phone calls from the media to even think of the scene in the office between Elizabeth and Ted’s lawyer. They had all left immediately after the blowup: Bartlett and Elizabeth furious, Craig distressed, Scott grim-faced. Helmut had escaped to the clinic. He had known she wanted to talk to him. He had avoided her this morning as he’d avoided her last night, when after telling her that he’d heard Ted attacking Leila, he’d locked himself in his study.
Who in hell had tipped off the press that Elizabeth and Ted were here? She answered the persistent inquiries with her standard reply: “We never release the names of our guests.” She was told that both Elizabeth and Ted had been spotted in Carmel. “No comment.”
Any other time she’d have loved the publicity. But now? She was asked if there was anything unusual about her secretary’s death. “Certainly not.”
At noon she told the operator to hold all calls and went to the women’s spa. She was relieved to see that the atmosphere there was normal. There seemed to be no more talk about Sammy’s death. She made it a point to chat with the guests lunching around the pool. Alvirah Meehan was there. She had spotted Scott’s car and tried to pepper Min with questions about his presence.
When Min got back to the main house she went directly up to the apartment. Helmut was sitting on the couch, sipping a cup of tea. His face was a sickly gray. “Ah, Minna.” He attempted a smile.
She did not return it. “We have got to talk,” she told him abruptly. “What is the real reason you went to Leila’s apartment that night? Were you having an affair with her? Tell me the truth!”
The cup rattled in the saucer as he put it down. “An affair! Minna, I hated that woman!”
Min watched as his face blotched and his hands clenched. “Do you think I was amused at the way she ridiculed me? An affair with her?” He slammed his fist on the cocktail table. “Minna, you are the only woman in my life. There has never been another woman since I met you. I swear that to you.”
“Liar!” Min rushed over to him, bent down and grabbed his lapels. “Look at me. I tell you, look at me. Stop the phony aristocratic crap and the dramatics. You were dazzled by Leila. What man wasn’t? Every time you looked at her, you raped her with your eyes. You were all like that, the pack of you. Ted. Syd. Even that clod, Craig. But you were the worst. Love. Hate. It’s all one. And in your entire life, you’ve never put yourself out for anyone. I want the truth. Why did you go to her that night?” She released him, suddenly drained and exhausted.
He jumped to his feet. His hand brushed the teacup and it tipped over, sending splatters of tea onto the table and carpet. “Minna, this is impossible. I will not have you treating me like a germ under a microscope.” Disdainfully he glanced at the mess. “Send for someone to clean this up,” he ordered. “I have to get to the clinic. Mrs. Meehan is due for her collagen injections this afternoon.” His tone became sarcastic. “Take heart, my dear. As you know, that’s another outrageous fee in the till.”
“I saw that dreary woman an hour ago,” Min said. “You’ve made yet another conquest. She was gushing about how talented you are and how you are going to make her feel like a butterfly floating on a cloud. If I hear that idiotic expression from her once more . . .” She broke off. Helmut’s knees had begun to sag. She grabbed him before he could fall. “Tell me what is wrong!” she shrieked. “Tell me what you’ve done!”
7
WHEN SHE LEFT MIN’S OFFICE, ELIZABETH RUSHED BACK to her bungalow, furious at herself for allowing Bartlett to goad her. He would say anything, do anything to discredit her testimony, and she was playing into his hands.
To distract herself, she opened the script of Leila’s play. But the words were a jumble. She could not focus on them.
Was there the ring of truth to Bartlett’s accusations? Had Ted deliberately sought her out?
She thumbed through the script restlessly, deciding to read it later. Then her glance fell on one of Leila’s marginal notes. Shocked, she sank down on the couch and turned back to the first page.
Merry-Go-Round A comedy by Clayton Anderson.
She read the play through rapidly, then sat for a long time totally absorbed in her thoughts. Finally she reached for a pen and pad and began rereading slowly, making her own notations.
At two thirty she laid the pen down. Pages of the pad were filled with her jottings. She became aware that she had skipped lunch, that her head ached dully. Some of Leila’s markings in the margin had been almost indecipherable, but eventually she’d made them all out.
Clayton Anderson. The playwright of Merry-Go-Round. The wealthy college professor who had invested one million dollars of his own money in the play, but whose true identity was known to no one. Who was he? He had known Leila intimately.
She phoned the main house. The operator told her that Baroness von Schreiber was in her apartment but was not to be disturbed. “I’ll be right there,” Elizabeth told her crisply. “Tell the Baroness I have to see her.”
Min was in bed. She did look ill. There was no bravado, no bossiness in her demeanor or voice. “Well, Elizabeth?”
She’s afraid of me, Elizabeth thought. With a rush of her old affection she sat by the bed. “Min, why did you bring me here?”
Min shrugged. “Because believe it or not, I was worried about you, because I love you.”
“I believe that. And the other reason?”
“Because I am appalled at the idea that Ted may spend the rest of his life in prison. Sometimes people do
terrible things in anger, because they are out of control, things they might never do if they were not goaded beyond their ability to stop themselves. I believe that happened. I know that happened to Ted.”
“What do you mean you know that happened?”
“Nothing . . . nothing.” Min closed her eyes. “Elizabeth, you do what you must. But I warn you. You will have to live with destroying Ted for the rest of your life. Someday you will again face Leila. I think she will not thank you. You know how she was after she had been utterly outrageous. Contrite. Loving. Generous. All of it.”
“Min, isn’t there another reason why you want Ted to be acquitted? It has to do with this place, doesn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that just before Leila died, Ted was considering putting a Cypress Point Spa in all his new hotels. What happened to that plan?”
“Ted has not gone ahead with plans for new hotels since his indictment.”
“Exactly. So there are a couple of reasons why you want Ted acquitted. Min, who is Clayton Anderson?”
“I have no idea. Elizabeth, I am very tired. Perhaps we can talk later.”
“Min, come on. You’re not that tired.” The sharper tone in her voice made Min open her eyes and pull herself up on the pillows. I was right, Elizabeth thought. She’s not so much sick as afraid. “Min, I just read and re-read that play Leila was in. I saw it with all of you that last preview, but I didn’t pay attention to it. I was too worried about Leila. Min, someone who knew Leila inside and out wrote that play. That’s why it was so perfect for her. Someone even used Helmut’s expressions in it—’a butterfly floating on a cloud.’ Leila noticed it too. She had a notation in the margin: ‘Tell the Baron someone is stealing his thunder.’ Min . . .”
They stared at each other as the same thought struck them. “Helmut wrote the ads for this place,” Elizabeth whispered. “He writes the daily bulletins. Maybe there is no wealthy college professor. Min, did Helmut write the play?”
“I . . . don’t . . . know.” Min struggled out of bed. She was wearing a loose caftan that suddenly seemed too large, as if she were shriveling inside it. “Elizabeth, will you excuse me? I have to make a call to Switzerland.”
8
WITH AN UNFAMILIAR SENSE OF WORRY, ALVIRAH WALKED reluctantly down the hedged path that led to treatment room C. The instructions the nurse had given her were re-confirmed by the note that had been on her breakfast tray this morning. The note was friendly and reassuring, but even so, now that the time had come, Alvirah still felt squeamish.
To ensure absolute privacy, the note said, patients entered the treatment rooms by the individual outside doors. Alvirah was to go to treatment room C at three P.M. and settle herself on the table. In view of the fact that Mrs. Meehan had an aversion to needles, she would be given a special-strength Valium and allowed to rest until three thirty, at which time Dr. von Schreiber would perform the treatment. She would continue to rest for an additional half-hour to allow the Valium to wear off.
* * *
The flowering hedges were over six feet high, and walking between them made her feel like a young girl in a bower. The day had become really warm, but in here the hedges held moisture, and the azaleas made her think of her own azalea plants in front of the house. They’d been really pretty last spring.
She was at the treatment-room door. It was painted a pale blue, and a tiny gold C confirmed that she was in the right place. Hesitantly, she turned the handle and went in.
The room looked like a lady’s boudoir. It had flowered wallpaper and a pale green carpet, a little dressing table and a love seat. The treatment table was made up like a bed, with sheets that matched the wallpaper, a pale pink comforter and a lace-edged pillow. On the closet door was a gilt-framed mirror with beveled edges. Only the presence of a cabinet with medical supplies suggested the real purpose of the room, and even that was finished in white wood with leaded glass doors.
Alvirah removed her sandals and placed them, neatly, side by side under the table. She had a size nine foot and didn’t want the doctor tripping when he was giving the collagen injections. She lay down on the table, pulled up the comforter and closed her eyes.
They sprang open a moment later when the nurse came in. She was Regina Owens, the chief assistant, the one who had taken her medical history. “Don’t look so worried,” Miss Owens said. Alvirah liked her. She reminded her of one of the women whose houses she cleaned. She was about forty, with dark short hair, nice wide eyes and a pleasant smile.
She brought a glass of water and a couple of pills to Alvirah. “These will make you feel nice and drowsy, and you won’t even know you’re getting made gorgeous.”
Obediently Alvirah put them into her mouth and swallowed the water. “I feel like a baby,” she apologized.
“Not at all. You’d be amazed how many people are terrified of needles.” Miss Owens came behind her and began massaging her temples. “You are tense. Now, I’m going to put a nice, cool cloth over your eyes and you just let yourself drift off to sleep. The doctor and I will be back in about a half-hour. By then you probably won’t even know we’re here.”
Alvirah felt the strong fingers press against her temples. “That feels good,” she murmured
“I’ll bet it does.” For a few minutes Miss Owens continued to knead Alvirah’s forehead, the back of her neck. Alvirah felt herself drifting into a pleasantly dreamy state. Then a cool cloth was placed over her eyes. She barely heard the click of the door when Miss Owens tiptoed out.
There were so many thoughts running through her head, like loose threads that she couldn’t quite pull together.
A butterfly floating on a cloud . . .
She was beginning to remember why that seemed familiar. It was almost there.
“Can you hear me, Mrs. Meehan?”
She hadn’t realized that Baron von Schreiber had come in. His voice sounded low and a little hoarse. She hoped the microphone would pick it up. She wanted everything on record.
“Yes.” Her own voice sounded far away.
“Don’t be afraid. You’ll barely feel a pinprick.”
He was right. She felt hardly anything, just a tiny sensation like a mosquito bite. And to think, she’d been worried! She waited. The doctor had told her he’d be injecting the collagen in ten or twelve spots on each side of her mouth. What was he waiting for?
It was getting hard to breathe. She couldn’t breathe. “Help!” she cried, but the word wouldn’t come out. She opened her mouth, gasping desperately. She was slipping away. Her arms, her chest, nothing moved. Oh, God, help me, help me, she thought.
Then darkness overcame her as the door opened and Nurse Owens said briskly, “Well, here we are, Mrs. Meehan. All set for your beauty treatment?”
9
WHAT DOES IT PROVE? ELIZABETH ASKED HERSELF AS SHE walked from the main house along the path to the clinic. If Helmut wrote that play, he must be going through hell. The author had put one million dollars into the production. That was why Min was calling Switzerland. Her nest egg in a numbered account was a standing joke. “I’ll never be broke,” she had always bragged.
Min had wanted Ted acquitted so that she could license Cypress Point Spas in all his new hotels. Helmut had a much more compelling reason. If he was “Clayton Anderson,” he knew that even the nest egg was gone.
She would force him to tell her the truth, Elizabeth decided.
The foyer of the clinic was hushed and quiet, but the receptionist was not at her desk. From down the hall, Elizabeth heard running feet, raised voices. She hurried toward the sounds. Doors were open on the corridor as guests in the process of treatment peeked out. The room at the end of the hall was open. It was from there that the sounds were coming.
Room C. Dear God, that was where Mrs. Meehan was going to have the collagen treatment. There wasn’t anyone in the Spa who hadn’t heard about it. Had something gone wrong? Elizabeth almost collided with a nurse coming out of the room.
> “You can’t go in there!” The nurse was trembling.
Elizabeth pushed her aside.
Helmut was bent over the treatment table. He was compressing Alvirah Meehan’s chest. An oxygen mask was on Alvirah’s face. The noise of a respirator dominated the room. The coverlet had been pulled back; her robe was crumpled under her, the incongruous sunburst pin gleaming upward. As Elizabeth watched, too horrified to speak, a nurse handed Helmut a needle. He attached it to tubing and started an intravenous in Alvirah’s arm. A male nurse took over compressing her chest.
From the distance Elizabeth could hear the wail of an ambulance siren screeching through the gates of the Spa.
It was four fifteen when Scott was notified that Alvirah Meehan, the forty-million-dollar lottery winner, was in the Monterey Peninsula hospital, a possible victim of an attempted homicide. The deputy who phoned had responded to the emergency call and accompanied the ambulance to the Spa. The attendants suspected foul play, and the emergency-room doctor agreed with them. Dr. von Schreiber claimed that she had not yet received a collagen treatment; but a drop of blood on her face seemed to indicate a very recent injection.
Alvirah Meehan! Scott rubbed his hands over suddenly weary eyes. That woman was bright. He thought of her comments at dinner. She was like the child in the fable The Emperor’s New Clothes who says, “But he has no clothes on!”
Why would anyone want to hurt Alvirah Meehan? Scott had hoped she wouldn’t get caught up with charlatans trying to invest her money for her, but the thought that anyone might deliberately try to kill her was incredible. “I’ll be right there,” he said as he slammed down the phone.