Weep No More, My Lady

  The years went by so quickly, Dora thought as another bus honked impatiently and passed her. Today, for some reason, the memory of Leila seemed particularly vivid to her: Leila with her wild extravagances, spending money as fast as she made it; Leila’s two marriages. . . . Dora had begged her not to marry the second one. “Haven’t you learned your lesson yet?” she pleaded. “You can’t afford another leech.”

  Leila with her arms hugging her knees. “Sammy, he’s not that bad. He makes me laugh, and that’s a plus.”

  “If you want to laugh, hire a clown.”

  Leila’s fierce hug. “Oh, Sammy, promise you’ll always say it straight. You’re probably right, but I guess I’ll go through with it.”

  Getting rid of the funnyman had cost her two million dollars.

  Leila with Ted. “Sammy, it can’t last. Nobody’s that wonderful. What does he see in me?”

  “Are you crazy? Have you stopped looking in the mirror?”

  Leila, always so apprehensive when she started a new film.” Sammy, I stink in this part. Shouldn’t have taken it. It’s not me.”

  “Come off it. I saw the dailies too. You’re wonderful.”

  She’d won the Oscar for that performance.

  But in those last few years she had been miscast in three films. Her worry about her career became an obsession. Her love for Ted was equaled only by her fear of losing him. And then Syd had brought her the play. “Sammy, I swear I don’t have to act in this one. I just have to be me. I love it.”

  Then it was over, Dora thought. In the end, each of us left her alone. I was sick, she told herself; Elizabeth was touring with her own play; Ted was constantly away on business. And someone who knew Leila well attacked her with those poison-pen letters, shattered that fragile ego, precipitated the drinking. . . .

  Dora realized that her hands were trembling. She scanned the road for signs of a restaurant. Perhaps she would feel better if she stopped for a cup of tea. When she got to the Spa, she would begin going through the rest of the unopened mail.

  She knew that Elizabeth would somehow find a way to trace the poison-pen mail back to its sender.

  3

  WHEN ELIZABETH REACHED HER BUNGALOW, SHE FOUND A note from Min pinned with her schedule to the terrycloth robe folded on the bed. It read:

  My dear Elizabeth,

  I do hope that while you are here you will enjoy a day of treatment and exercise at the Spa.

  As you know, it is necessary that all new guests consult briefly with Helmut before beginning any activities. I have scheduled you for his first appointment.

  Please know that your ultimate happiness and well-being are very important to me.

  The letter had been written in Min’s florid, sweeping penmanship. Quickly, Elizabeth scanned her schedule. Interview with Dr. Helmut von Schreiber at 8:45; aerobic dance class at 9; massage at 9:30; trampoline at 10; advanced water aerobics at 10:30—that had been the class she taught when she worked here; facial at 11; cypress curves 11:30; herbal wrap at noon. The afternoon schedule included a loofah, a manicure, a yoga class, a pedicure, two more water exercises . . .

  She would have preferred to avoid seeing Helmut, but she didn’t want to make an issue of it. Her interview with him was brief. He checked her pulse and blood pressure, then examined her skin under a strong light. “Your face is like a fine carving,” he told her. “You are one of those fortunate women who will become more beautiful as you age. It’s all in the bone structure.”

  Then, as if he were thinking aloud, he murmured, “Wildly lovely as Leila was, her beauty was the kind that peaks and begins to slip away. The last time she was here I suggested that she begin collagen treatments, and we had planned to do her eyes as well. Did you know that?”

  “No.” Elizabeth realized with a pang of regret that her reaction to the Baron’s remark was to be hurt that Leila had not confided her plans to her. Or was he lying?

  “I am sorry,” Helmut said softly. “I should not have brought up her name. And if you wonder why she did not confide in you, I think you must realize that Leila had become very conscious of the three-year age difference between her and Ted. I was able to assure her honestly that it made no difference between people who love each other—after all, I should know—but even so, she had begun to worry. And to see you growing lovelier, as she began to find those small signs of age in herself, was a problem for her.”

  Elizabeth got up. Like all the other offices at the Spa, this one had the look of a well-appointed living room. The blue-and-green prints on the couches and chairs were cool and restful, the draperies tied back to allow the sunshine to stream in. The view included the putting green and the ocean.

  She knew Helmut was studying her intently. His extravagant compliments were the sugar coating on a bitter pill. He was trying to make her believe that Leila had begun to consider her a competitor. But why? Remembering the hostility with which he had studied Leila’s picture when he thought he was unobserved, she wondered if Helmut was viciously trying to get even for Leila’s barbs by suggesting she had been beginning to lose her beauty.

  Leila’s face flashed in her mind: the lovely mouth; the dazzling smile; the emerald-green eyes; the glorious red hair, like a blazing fire around her shoulders. To steady herself, she pretended to be reading one of the framed ads about the Spa. One phrase caught her eye: a butterfly floating on a cloud. Why did it seem familiar?

  The belt of her terry-cloth robe had loosened. As she tightened it, she turned to Helmut. “If one tenth of the women who spend a fortune in this place had even a fragment of Leila’s looks, you’d be out of business, Baron.”

  He did not reply.

  * * *

  The women’s spa was busier than it had been the previous afternoon, but certainly not at the level she remembered. Elizabeth went from exercise class to treatment, glad to really work out again, then equally glad to relax under the skillful hands of the masseuse or facialist. She encountered Cheryl several times in the ten-minute breaks between appointments. Awashedup drunk. She was barely civil to Cheryl, who didn’t seem to notice. Cheryl acted preoccupied.

  Why not? Ted was on the premises, and Cheryl was obviously still dazzled by him.

  Alvirah Meehan was in the same aerobic dance class—a surprisingly agile Alvirah, with a good sense of rhythm. Why in the name of heaven did she wear that sunburst pin on her robe? Elizabeth noticed that Alvirah fiddled with the pin whenever she got into a conversation. She also noticed, with some amusement, Cheryl’s unsuccessful efforts not to be cornered by Mrs. Meehan.

  She went back to her own bungalow for lunch; she did not want to risk running into Ted again by lunching at one of the poolside tables. As she ate the fresh-fruit salad and sipped the iced tea, she phoned the airline and changed her reservation. She could get a ten-o’clock flight to New York from San Francisco the next morning.

  She had been frantic to get out of New York. Now, with equal fervor, she wanted to be out of here.

  She put on her robe and prepared to go back to the spa for the afternoon session. All morning she had tried to push Ted’s face from her mind. Now it filled her vision again. Pain-racked. Angry. Imploring. Vengeful. What expression had she seen in it? And would she spend the rest of her life trying to escape it, after the trial—and the verdict?

  4

  ALVIRAH COLLAPSED ON HER BED WITH A GRATEFUL SIGH. She was dying for a nap, but knew it was important to record her impressions while they were fresh in her mind. She propped herself on her pillows, reached for the recorder and began to speak.

  “It is four o’clock and I am resting in my bungalow. I have finished my first full day of activities at the Spa and I must report I am absolutely exhausted. Go, go, go. We started with a hike; then I came back here and the maid brought in my schedule for the day on my breakfast tray. Breakfast was a poached egg on a couple of crumbs of whole-wheat toast and coffee. My schedule, which is on a tag that you tie to your robe, showed me as having two water aerobics classes,
a yoga class, a facial, a massage, two dance classes, a warm hose treatment, fifteen minutes in the steam box and a whirlpool dip. . . .

  “The water aerobics classes are very interesting. I push a beach ball around in the water, which sounds very easy, but now my shoulders hurt and I’ve got muscles in my thighs I didn’t know existed. The yoga class wasn’t bad except that I can’t get my knees in the Lotus position. The dance exercise was fun. If I do say so myself I was always a good dancer, and even though this is just hopping from one foot to the other and doing a lot of kicking, I put some of the younger women to shame. Maybe I should have been a Rockette.

  “The warm hose treatment is another word for crowd control. I mean they turn these powerful hoses on you while you’re standing in the buff, and you hang on to a metal bar hoping you won’t get washed away. But supposedly it breaks down fatty cells, and if so, I’m ready for two treatments a day.

  “The clinic is a very interesting building. From the outside it looks just like the main house, but inside it’s totally different. All the treatment rooms have private entrances, with high hedges leading to them. The idea is that people don’t bump into each other coming and going for appointments. I mean, I really don’t care that the whole world knows I’m going to have some collagen injections to fill out the lines around my mouth, but I can well understand why someone like Cheryl Manning would be very upset if that was general knowledge.

  “I had my interview with Baron von Schreiber about my collagen injections this morning. The Baron is a charming man. So handsome, and the way he bowed over my hand made me very fluttery. If I were his wife, I think I’d be pretty nervous about holding him, especially if I had fifteen years on him. I think it is fifteen years, but I’ll check that when I write my article.

  “The Baron examined my face under a strong light and said that I had remarkably tight skin and the only treatment he would suggest besides the regular facials and a peeling mask would be the collagen injections. I explained to him that when I made my reservations, his receptionist, Dora Samuels, suggested that I have a test to see if I’d be allergic to collagen, and I did. I’m not allergic, but I told the Baron how scared I am of needles, and how many would he have to use?

  “He was so nice. He said that a lot of people feel that way about needles, and when I go for my treatment the nurse will give me a double-strength Valium, and by the time he’s ready to start the injections, I’ll think I’m just getting a couple of mosquito bites.

  “Oh, one more thing. The Baron’s office has lovely paintings in it, but I was really fascinated by the ad for the Spa that has appeared in magazines like Architectural Digest and Town and Country and Vogue. He told me there’s a copy of it on the wall in all the bungalows. It’s so cleverly worded.

  “The Baron seemed pleased that I noticed. He said he’d had a hand in creating it.”

  5

  TED SPENT THE MORNING WORKING OUT IN THE GYM IN the men’s spa. With Craig at his side, he rowed stationary boats, pedaled stationary bicycles and methodically made his way through the aerobics machines.

  They decided to finish with a swim and found Syd pacing laps in the indoor pool. Impulsively, Ted challenged him and Craig to a race. He had been swimming daily in Hawaii, but finished barely ahead of Craig. To his surprise, even Syd was only a few feet behind him. “You’re keeping in shape,” he told him. He had always thought of Syd as sedentary, but the man was surprisingly strong.

  “I’ve had time to keep in shape. Sitting in an office waiting for the phone to ring gets boring.” With unspoken consent, they walked to deck chairs far enough away from the pool to avoid being overheard.

  “I was surprised to find you here, Syd. When we talked last week, you didn’t tell me you were coming.” Craig’s eyes were cold.

  Syd shrugged. “You didn’t tell me you people were coming either. This place isn’t my idea. Cheryl made the decision.” He glanced at Ted. “She must have found out you’d be around.”

  “Min would know better than to blab—”

  Syd interrupted Craig. With one finger, he beckoned to the waiter who was going from table to table offering soft drinks. “Perrier.”

  “Make it three,” Craig said.

  “Do you want to swallow it for me too?” Ted snapped. “I’ll have a Coke,” he told the waiter.

  “You never drink colas,” Craig commented mildly. His light hazel eyes were tolerant. He amended the order. “Bring two Perriers and an orange juice.”

  Syd chose to ignore the byplay. “Min wouldn’t blab, but don’t you think there are people on the staff who get paid to tip the columnists? Bettina Scuda called Cheryl yesterday morning. She probably put the bug in her ear that you were on the way. What’s the difference? So she makes a play for you again. Is that new? Use it. She’s dying to be a witness for you at the trial. If anyone can convince a jury how nutty Leila acted in Elaine’s, Cheryl can. And I’ll back her up.”

  He put a friendly hand on Ted’s shoulder. “This whole thing stinks. We’re going to help you beat it. You can count on us.”

  * * *

  “Translated, that means you owe him one,” Craig commented as they walked back to Ted’s bungalow. “Don’t fall for it. So what if he lost a million bucks in that goddamn play? You lost four million, and he talked you into investing.”

  “I invested because I read the play and felt that someone had managed to capture the essence of Leila; created a character who was funny and vulnerable and willful and impossible and sympathetic all at the same time. It ought to have been a triumph for her.”

  “It was a four-million-dollar mistake,” Craig said. “Sorry, Ted, but you do pay me to give you good advice.”

  * * *

  Henry Bartlett spent the morning in Ted’s bungalow reviewing the transcript of the grand jury hearing and on the phone to his Park Avenue office. “In case we go for a temporary-insanity defense, we’ll need plenty of documentation of similar successful pleas,” he told them. He was wearing an open-necked cotton shirt and baggy khaki walking shorts. The Sahib! Ted thought. He wondered if Bartlett wore knickers on the golf course.

  The library table was covered with annotated piles of paper. “Remember how Leila and Elizabeth and you and I used to play Scrabble at this table?” he asked Craig.

  “And you and Leila always won. Elizabeth was stuck with me. As Leila put it, ‘Bulldogs can’t spell.’”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Henry asked.

  “Oh, Leila had nicknames for all her close friends,” Craig explained. “Mine was Bulldog.”

  “I’m not sure I’d have been flattered.”

  “Yes, you would have. When Leila gave you a nickname, it meant you were part of her inner circle.”

  Was that true? Ted wondered. When you looked up the definitions of the nicknames Leila bestowed, there was always a double edge to them. Falcon: a hawk trained to hunt and kill. Bulldog: a short-haired, square-jawed, heavily built dog with a tenacious grip.

  “Let’s order lunch,” Henry said. “We’ve got a long afternoon of work ahead of us.”

  Over a club sandwich, Ted described his encounter with Elizabeth. “So you can forget yesterday’s suggestion,” he told Henry. “It’s just as I thought. If I admit the possibility that I went back to Leila’s apartment, when Elizabeth gets through testifying I’ll be on my way to Attica.”

  It was a long afternoon. Ted listened as Henry Bartlett explained the theory of temporary insanity. “Leila had publicly rejected you; she had quit a play in which you invested four million dollars. The next day you pleaded with her for a reconciliation. She continued to insult you, to demand that you match her drink for drink.”

  “I could afford the tax write-off,” Ted interrupted.

  “You know that. I know it. But the guy on the jury who’s behind in his car payments won’t believe it.”

  “I refuse to concede that I might have killed Leila. I won’t even consider it.”

  Bartlett’s face was becomi
ng flushed. “Ted, you’d better understand I’m trying to help you. All right, you were smart to get a reading on Elizabeth Lange’s reaction today. So we can’t admit you might have gone back upstairs. If we don’t claim a total blackout on your part, we have to destroy both Elizabeth Lange’s testimony and the eyewitness’. One or the other: maybe. I’ve told you this before. Both: no.”

  “There’s one possibility I’d like to explore,” Craig suggested. “We’ve got psychiatric information on that so-called eyewitness. I’d suggested to Ted’s first lawyer that we put a detective on her trail and get a more rounded picture of her. I still think that’s a good idea.”

  “It is.” Bartlett’s eyes disappeared beneath a heavy-lidded frown. “I wish it had been done a long time ago.”

  They are talking about me, Ted thought. They are discussing what can and cannot be done to win my eventual freedom as though I weren’t here. A slow, hard anger that now seemed to be part of his persona made him want to lash out at them. Lash out at them? The lawyer who supposedly would win his case? The friend who had been his eyes and ears and voice these last months? But I don’t want them to take my life out of my hands, Ted thought, and tasted the acid that suddenly washed his mouth. I can’t blame them, but I can’t trust them either. No matter what, it’s as I’ve known right along: I have to take care of this myself.

  Bartlett was still talking to Craig. “Have you an agency in mind?”

  “Two or three. We’ve used them when there’s been an internal problem we had to solve without publicity.” He named the investigative agencies.

  Bartlett nodded. “They’re all fine. See which one can get right on the case. I want to know if Sally Ross is a drinker, if she has friends she confides in; if she’s ever discussed the case with them; if any of them were with her the night Leila LaSalle died. Don’t forget, everyone’s taking her word that she was in her apartment and happened to be looking at Leila’s terrace at the precise moment Leila plunged off it.”