Weep No More, My Lady

  The waiting room of the community hospital was open and pleasant, with greenery and an indoor pond, not unlike the lobby of a small hotel. He never saw it without remembering the hours he had sat here, when Jeanie was a patient . . .

  He was informed that the doctors were working on Mrs. Meehan, that Dr. Whitley would be available to see him shortly. Elizabeth came in while he was waiting.

  “How is she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “She shouldn’t have had those injections. She really was afraid. She had a heart attack, didn’t she?”

  “We don’t know yet. How did you get here?”

  “Min. We came in her car. She’s parking it now. Helmut rode in the ambulance with Mrs. Meehan. This can’t be happening.” Her voice rose. People in nearby chairs turned to stare at her.

  Scott forced her to sit on the sofa beside him. “Elizabeth, get hold of yourself. You only met Mrs. Meehan a few days ago. You can’t let yourself get this upset.”

  “Where’s Helmut?” Min’s voice, coming from behind them, was as flat as though there were no emotion left in her. She too seemed to be in a state of disbelief and shock. She came around the couch and sank into the chair facing them. “He must be so distraught . . .” She broke off. “Here he is.”

  To Scott’s practiced eye, the Baron looked as though he had seen a ghost. He was still wearing the exquisitely tailored blue smock that was his surgical costume. He sank heavily into the chair beside Min and groped for her hand. “She is in a coma. They say she had some sort of injection. Min, it is impossible, I swear to you, impossible.”

  “Stay here.” Scott’s look included the three of them. From the long corridor that led to the emergency area, he had seen the chief of the hospital beckon to him.

  * * *

  They spoke in the private office. “She was injected with something that brought on shock,” Dr. Whitley said flatly. He was a tall, lean sixty-three-year-old whose usual expression was affable and sympathetic. Now it was steely, and Scott remembered that his longtime friend had been an Army fighter pilot in World War II.

  “Will she live?”

  “Absolutely impossible to say. She’s in a coma which may become irreversible. She tried to say something before she went totally under.”

  “What was it?”

  “It sounded like ‘voy.’ That’s as much as she got out.”

  “That’s no help. What does the Baron have to say? Does he have any idea how this could have happened?”

  “We didn’t let him near her, Scott, frankly.”

  “I gather you don’t think much of the good doctor?”

  “I have no reason to doubt his medical capabilities. But there’s something about him that shouts ‘phony’ at me every time I see him. And if he didn’t inject Mrs. Meehan, then who the hell did?”

  Scott pushed back his chair. “That’s just what I intend to find out.”

  As he left the office, Whitley called him back. “Scott, something that might help us—could someone check Mrs. Meehan’s rooms and bring in any medication she may have been taking? Until we reach her husband and get her medical history, we don’t know what we may be dealing with.”

  “I’ll take care of it myself.”

  Elizabeth drove back to the Spa with Scott. On the way he told her about finding the shred of paper in Cheryl’s bungalow. “Then she did write those letters!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

  Scott shook his head. “I know it sounds crazy, and I know Cheryl can lie as easily as most of us can breathe, but I’ve been thinking about this all day, and my gut feeling is she’s telling the truth.”

  “What about Syd? Did you talk to him?”

  “Not yet. She’s bound to tell him she admitted that she stole the letter and that he tore it up. I decided to let him stew before I question him. That sometimes works. But I’m telling you, I’m inclined to believe her story.”

  “But if she didn’t write the letters, who did?”

  Scott shot a glance at her. “I don’t know.” He paused, then said, “What I mean is, I don’t know yet.”

  * * *

  Min and the Baron followed Scott’s car in her convertible. Min drove. “The only way I can help you is to know the truth,” she told her husband. “Did you do something to that woman?”

  The Baron lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. His china-blue eyes watered. The reddish tint in his hair seemed brassy under the late-afternoon sun. The top of the convertible was down. A cool land breeze had dispelled the last of the daytime warmth. A sense of autumn was in the air.

  “Minna, what crazy talk is that? I went into the room. She wasn’t breathing. I saved her life. What reason would I have to hurt her?”

  “Helmut, who is Clayton Anderson?”

  He dropped the cigarette. It fell on the leather seat beside him. Min reached over and picked it up. “You’d better not ruin this car. There won’t be a replacement. I repeat: Who is Clayton Anderson?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he whispered.

  “Oh, I think you do. Elizabeth came to see me. She read the play. That’s why you were so upset this morning, isn’t it? It wasn’t the appointment book. It was the play. Leila had made notes in the margin. She picked up that idiotic phrase you use in the ads. Elizabeth caught it too. So did Mrs. Meehan. She saw one of the previews. That’s why you tried to kill her, isn’t it? You were still hoping to conceal the fact you wrote that play.”

  “Minna, I am telling you—you are crazy! For all we know that woman was self-injecting.”

  “That’s nonsense. She talked constantly about her fear of needles.”

  “That could have been a cover-up.”

  “The playwright put over a million dollars in that play. If you are that playwright, where would you have gotten the money?”

  They were at the gates of the Spa. Min slowed down and glanced at him, unsmiling. “I tried to phone Switzerland to check on my balance. Of course, it was after business hours there. I will call tomorrow, Helmut. I hope—for your sake—that money is in my account.”

  His expression was as bland as ever, but his eyes were those of a man about to be hanged.

  * * *

  They met on the porch of Alvirah Meehan’s bungalow. The Baron opened the door and they went in. Scott saw that Min had clearly taken advantage of Alvirah’s naivete. This was the most expensive of their accommodations-the rooms the First Lady used when she saw fit to seek R-and-R at the Spa. There were a living room, a dining room, a library, a huge master bedroom, two full baths on the first floor. You sure socked it to her, Scott thought.

  His inspection of the premises was relatively brief. The medicine chest in the bathroom Alvirah used contained only over-the-counter drugs—maximum-strength Bufferin, Allerest, a nasal spray, ajar of Vicks VapoRub, Ben-Gay. A nice lady whose nasal passages get stuffed up at night and who probably has a few twinges of arthritis.

  It seemed to him that the Baron was disappointed. Under Scott’s careful scrutiny, he insisted on opening all the bottles, spilling out the contents, examining them to see if any extra medication was mixed with the ordinary tablets and pills. Was it an act? How good an actor was the Toy Soldier?

  Alvirah’s closet revealed well-worn brushed flannel nightgowns side by side with expensive dresses and caftans, most of them carrying labels from Martha Park Avenue and Cypress Point Spa Boutique.

  An incongruous note was the expensive Japanese recorder in the carry-on bag that was part of the Louis Vuitton matching luggage. Scott raised his eyes. Sophisticated, professional equipment! He wouldn’t have expected it of Alvirah Meehan.

  Elizabeth watched as he thumbed through the cassettes. Three of them were marked in numerical sequence. The rest were blank Scott shrugged, put them back and closed the bag. He left a few minutes later. Elizabeth walked with him to his car. On the ride over, she had not told him her suspicion that Helmut might have written the play. She wanted to be sure first, to demand the truth from Helmut h
imself. It was still possible that Clayton Anderson existed, she told herself.

  It was exactly six o’clock when Scott’s car disappeared past the gates. It was getting cool. Elizabeth shoved her hands into her pockets and felt the sunburst pin. She had taken it off Alvirah’s robe after the ambulance left. Obviously it had great sentimental value.

  They had sent for Alvirah’s husband. She would give the pin to him tomorrow.

  10

  TED RETURNED TO HIS BUNGALOW FROM TOWN AT SIX thirty P.M. He had come back the long way, through the Crocker Woodland, to the service entrance of the Spa. He hadn’t missed the cars, half-hidden in the brush beside the road leading to the Cypress Point grounds. Reporters. Like dogs on a scent, following the lead that the Globe article suggested . . .

  He peeled off his sweater. It had been too hot to wear—but on the other hand, at this time of year you could be surprised on the Peninsula. The winds could shift and become favorable or unfavorable at a moment’s notice.

  He drew the shades, switched on the lights and was startled to see the gleam of dark hair that rose over the back of the couch. It was Min. “It is important that I speak with you.” The tone was the same he’d always known. Warm and authoritative, a curious blend that at one time had inspired confidence. She was wearing a long, sleeveless jacket over some sort of glittery one-piece outfit.

  Ted sat opposite her and lit a cigarette. “I gave these up years ago, but it’s amazing how many bad habits you can take on again when you’re faced with a lifetime in prison. So much for discipline. I’m not very presentable, Min—but then, I’m not used to having unexpected guests in quite this way.”

  “Unexpected and uninvited.” Min’s eyes swept over him. “You’ve been jogging?”

  “No. I’ve been walking. Quite a long distance. It gives one time to think.”

  “Your thoughts can’t be very pleasant these days.”

  “No. They’re not.” Ted waited.

  “May I have one of those?” Min indicated the pack of cigarettes he had tossed on the table.

  Ted offered her one and lit it for her.

  “I too gave them up, but in times of stress . . .” Min shrugged. “I gave up many things in my life while I was clawing my way up. Well, you know how it is . . . launching a model agency and trying to keep it going when there was no money coming in . . . marrying a sick old man and being his nurse, his mistress, his companion for five endless years . . . Oh, I thought I had reached a point of certain security. I thought I had earned it.”

  “And you haven’t?”

  Min waved a hand. “It’s lovely here, isn’t it? This spot is ideal The Pacific at our feet, the magnificent coastline, the weather, the comfort and beauty of these accommodations, the unparalleled facilities of the Spa . . . Even Helmut’s monstrosity of a Roman bath could be a stunning draw. Nobody else would be fool enough to try to build one; nobody else would have the flair to run it.”

  No wonder she’s here, Ted thought. She couldn’t risk talking to me with Craig around.

  It was as though Min read his mind. “I know what Craig would advise. But Ted, you’re the entrepreneur, the daring businessman. You and I think alike. Helmut is utterly impractical—I know that; but he also has vision. What he needs, and has always needed, is the money to bring his dreams to fruition. Do you remember a conversation we had—the three of us—when your damn bulldog Craig wasn’t around? We talked about your putting a Cypress Point Spa in all your new hotels. It’s a fabulous idea. It would work.”

  “Min, if I’m in prison, there won’t be new hotels. We’ve stopped building since the indictment. You know that.”

  “Then lend me money now.” Min’s mask dropped.

  “Ted, I am desperate. I will be bankrupt in weeks. It need not be! This place lost something in these past few years. Helmut has not been bringing in new guests. I think I know now why he’s been in a terrible state. But it could change. Why do you think I brought Elizabeth here? To help you.”

  “Min, you saw her reaction to me. If anything, you’ve made things worse.”

  “I’m not sure about that. This afternoon I begged her to reconsider. I told her she would never forgive herself if she destroyed you.” Min crushed the cigarette into the ashtray. “Ted, I know what I’m saying. Elizabeth is in love with you. She always has been. Make it work for you. It’s not too late.” She grasped his arm.

  He shook off her grip. “Min, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m telling you what I know. It’s something I sensed from the first time she laid eyes on you. Don’t you know how difficult it was for her to be around you and Leila, wanting Leila to be happy, loving you both? She was torn in two. That’s why she took that play before Leila died. It wasn’t a role she wanted. Sammy talked to me about it. She saw it too. Ted, Elizabeth is fighting you because she feels guilty. She knows Leila goaded you beyond endurance. Make it work for you! And Ted, I beg you—help me now! Please! I beg you.”

  With naked appeal she looked at him. He had been perspiring, and his dark brown hair was matted in ringlets and waves. A woman would kill for that head of hair, Min thought. His high cheekbones accentuated the narrow, perfectly shaped nose. His lips were even, his jaw just square enough to impart a look of strength to his face. His shirt was clinging to his body. His limbs were tanned and muscular. She wondered where he had been and realized he might not have heard yet about Alvirah Meehan. She did not want to talk about that now.

  “Min, I can’t go ahead with spas in hotels that won’t be built if I go to prison. I can bail you out now, and I will. But let me ask you something has it ever occurred to you that Elizabeth might be wrong, might be mistaken about the time? Has it even occurred to you that I’m telling the truth, when I say I did not go back upstairs?”

  Min’s smile of relief turned to astonishment. “Ted, you can trust me. You can trust Helmut. He hasn’t told a soul except me. . . . He never will tell a soul. . . . He heard you shouting at Leila. He heard her begging for her life.”

  11

  SHOULD SHE HAVE TOLD SCOTT WHAT SHE SUSPECTED about the Baron? Elizabeth wondered as she went into the welcome calm of her bungalow. Her senses absorbed the emerald-and-white color scheme. Splashy print on thick white carpeting. She could almost imagine there was a lingering hint of Joy mixed with the salty sea air.

  Leila.

  Red hair. Emerald eyes. The pale skin of the natural redhead. The billowing white satin pajamas that she’d been wearing when she died. Those yards of material must have floated around her as she fell.

  My God. My God. Elizabeth slipped the double lock and huddled on the couch, her head in her hands, appalled at the vision of Leila, floating down through the night to her death. . . .

  Helmut. Had he written Merry-Go-Round? If so, had he cleaned out Min’s untouchable Swiss account to finance it? He would have been frantic when Leila said she was quitting the show. How frantic?

  Alvirah Meehan. The ambulance attendants. The speck of blood on Alvirah’s face. The incredulous tone when the paramedic spoke to Helmut: “What do you mean you hadn’t started the injections? Who do you think you’re kidding?”

  Helmut’s hands compressing Alvirah’s chest . . . Helmut starting the intravenous . . . But Helmut must have been frantic hearing Alvirah talk about “a butterfly floating on a cloud.” Alvirah had seen a preview of the play. Leila had made the connection to Helmut. Had Alvirah Meehan made it as well?

  She thought about Min’s speech to her this afternoon, about Ted. She had virtually acknowledged Ted’s guilt, then tried to persuade her that Leila had provoked him over and over again. Was that true?

  Was Min right-that Leila would never want to see Ted behind bars for the rest of his life? And why did Min sound so positive about Ted’s guilt? Two days ago she’d been saying it must have been an accident.

  Elizabeth locked her arms around her knees and laid her head on her hands.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she w
hispered to herself. She had never felt lonelier in her life.

  * * *

  At seven o’clock she heard the faint chimes that indicated “cocktail” hour had begun. She decided to have dinner served in the bungalow. It was impossible to envision going through the motions of socializing with any of those people, knowing that Sammy’s body was in the morgue awaiting shipment to Ohio, that Alvirah Meehan was fighting for her life in Monterey Hospital. Two nights ago she had been at the table with Alvirah Meehan. Two nights ago Sammy had been in this room with her. Who would be next?

  At quarter of eight Min called. “Elizabeth, everyone is inquiring about you. Are you all right?”

  “Of course. I just need to be quiet.”

  “You’re sure you’re not ill? You should know—Ted especially is very concerned.”

  Hand it to Min. She never gives up. “I’m really fine, Min. Would you have them send a tray? I’ll take it a bit easy and go for a swim later. Don’t worry about me.”

  She hung up the phone. Walked around the room restlessly, already longing to be in the water.

  “IN AQUA SANITAS,” the inscription read. For once Helmut was right. Water would soothe her, turn off her mind.

  12

  HE WAS REACHING FOR THE TANK WHEN THERE WAS A sharp knock on the door. Frantically he yanked the mask from his face and pulled his arms out of the cumbersome wet suit. He jammed the tank and the mask into the closet, then rushed into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

  The knocking was repeated, an impatient staccato. He managed to get free of the suit, dropped it behind the couch and grabbed his robe.

  Making his voice sound annoyed, he shouted,” All right, all right” and opened the door.

  The door was pushed open.” What took you so long? We’ve got to talk.”

  * * *

  It was nearly ten o’clock when he was at last able to go to the pool. He reached it just in time to see Elizabeth walking down the path to her bungalow. In his hurry, he brushed against a chair at the edge of the patio. She turned around, and he barely had time to step back into the bushes.