Weep No More, My Lady Read online

  Alvirah Meehan beamed. “That’s the way I feel right now.”

  “Elizabeth, you go up to the office. Helmut is waiting to see you. I’ll escort Mrs. Meehan to her bungalow, then join you.”

  Obediently Elizabeth went into the main house and walked through the cool marble-floored foyer, past the salon, the music room, the formal dining rooms and up the sweeping staircase that led to the private rooms. Min and her husband shared a suite of offices that overlooked the front and both sides of the property. From there Min could observe the movements of guests and staff as they went back and forth between the areas of activity. At dinner she was frequently known to admonish a guest. “You should have been in aerobics when I saw you reading in the garden” She also had an uncanny knack of noticing when an employee kept a guest waiting.

  Elizabeth knocked softly on the door of the private office suite. When there was no answer she opened it. Like every room in Cypress Point Spa, the offices were furnished exquisitely. An abstract watercolor by Will Moses hung on the wall over the oyster-colored couch. An Aubusson rug shimmered on the dark tile. The reception desk was authentic Louis XV, but there was no one seated there. She felt an immediate sense of sharp disappointment, but reminded herself that Sammy would be back tomorrow night.

  Tentatively, she walked to the partially open door of the office Min and the Baron shared, then gasped in surprise. Baron Helmut von Schreiber was standing at the far wall, where pictures of Min’s most famous clients were hung. Elizabeth’s eyes followed him, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out.

  It was Leila’s portrait Helmut was studying, the one Leila had posed for the last time she was here. The vivid green of Leila’s dress was unmistakable, the brilliant red hair that floated around her face, the way she was holding up a champagne glass as though offering a toast.

  Helmut’s hands were clasped tightly behind his back. Everything about his stance suggested tension.

  Elizabeth did not want him to know that he had been observed. Swiftly she retraced her steps to the reception room, opened and closed the door with a loud thud, then called, “Anyone home?”

  An instant later he rushed from the inner office. The change in his demeanor was dramatic, This was the gracious, urbane European she had always known, with the warm smile, the kiss on both cheeks, the murmured compliment. “Elizabeth, you grow more beautiful every day. So young, so fair, so divinely tall.”

  “Tall, anyhow.” Elizabeth stepped back. “Let me look at you, Helmut.” She studied him carefully, observing that no trace of tension showed in his baby-blue eyes His smile was relaxed and natural His parted lips showed perfect white teeth. How had Leila described him? “I swear, Sparrow, that guy makes me think of a toy soldier. Do you suppose Min winds him up in the morning? He may have decent ancestry, but I bet he never had more than a nickel behind him till he latched on to Min.”

  Elizabeth had protested, “He’s a plastic surgeon, and certainly he’s knowledgeable about spas. The place is famous.”

  “It may be famous, “Leila had retorted, “but it costs a bundle to run, and I’d bet my last dollar even those prices can’t carry that overhead. Listen, Sparrow, I should know. I’ve married two freeloaders so far, right? Sure he treats Min like a queen, but he’s putting that tinted head on two-hundred-dollar pillowcases every night, and besides what she’s spent on the Spa, Min’s dumped a pile of dough into that broken-down castle of his in Austria”

  Like everyone else, Helmut had seemed grief-stricken at Leila’s death, but now Elizabeth wondered if that had only been an act.

  “Well, tell me. Am I all right? You look so troubled. Perhaps you have found some wrinkles?” His laugh was low, well bred, amused.

  She made herself smile up at him. “I think you look splendid,” she said. “Perhaps I’m just shocked to realize how long it’s been since I’ve seen you.”

  “Come.” He took her hand and led her to the grouping of Art Deco wicker furniture near the front windows. He grimaced as he sat down. “I keep trying to convince Minna that these objects were meant to be seen, not used. So tell me, how has it been for you?”

  “Busy. Of course, that’s the way I want it to be.”

  “Why haven’t you come to see us before this?”

  Because in this place I knew I’d be seeing Leila everywhere I turned. “I did see Min in Venice three months ago.”

  “And also, the Spa holds too many memories for you, yes?”

  “It holds memories. But I’ve missed you two. And I’m looking forward to seeing Sammy. How do you think she’s feeling?”

  “You know Sammy. She never complains. But my guess would be—not well. I don’t think she’s ever recovered, either from the surgery or from the shock of Leila’s death. And she is past seventy now. No great age physiologically, but still . . .”

  The outer door closed with a decided thump, and Min’s voice preceded her entrance. “Helmut, wait until you see the lottery winner. You have your work cut out for you. We’ll need to arrange interviews for her. She’ll make this place sound like seventh heaven.”

  She rushed across the room and embraced Elizabeth fiercely. “If you knew the nights I’ve lain awake worrying about you! How long can you stay?”

  “Not very long. Just until Friday.”

  “That’s only five days!”

  “I know, but the district attorney’s office has to review my testimony.” Elizabeth realized how good it felt to have loving arms around her.

  “What do they have to review?”

  “The questions they’ll be asking me at the trial. The questions Ted’s lawyer will be asking me. I thought telling the simple truth would be enough, but apparently the defense will try to prove I’m mistaken about the time of the phone call.”

  “Do you think you might be mistaken?” Min’s lips were grazing her ear, her voice a suggestive stage whisper. Startled, Elizabeth pulled back from the embrace in time to see the warning frown on Helmut’s face.

  “Min, do you think if I had the slightest doubt—”

  “All right,” Min said hastily. “We shouldn’t talk about that now. So you have five days. You’re going to be pampered; you’re going to rest. I made out your schedule myself. You start with a facial and massage this afternoon.”

  * * *

  Elizabeth left them a few minutes later. The slanting rays of the sun danced on the beds of wildflowers along the path to the bungalow Min had assigned her. Somewhere in her subconscious she experienced a sense of calm observing the brilliant checkerblooms, the wood roses, the flowering currant hedges. But the momentary tranquillity could not mask the fact that behind the warm welcome and seeming concern, Min and Helmut were different.

  They were angry and worried and hostile. And that hostility was directed at her.

  3

  SYD MELNICK DID NOT FIND THE DRIVE FROM BEVERLY Hills to Pebble Beach enjoyable. For the entire four hours, Cheryl Manning sat like a stone, rigid and uncommunicative, in the seat beside him. For the first three hours she had not allowed him to put the top down on the convertible. She wasn’t going to risk drying out her face and hair. It was only when they approached Carmel and she wanted to be recognized going through town that she’d permitted the change.

  Occasionally during the long ride, Syd glanced over at her. There was no question she looked good. The blue-black hair exploding in a mass of tendrils around her face was sexy and exciting. She was thirty-six now, and what had once been a gamin quality had evolved into a sultry sophistication that became her well. Dynasty and Dallas were getting long in the tooth. Audiences eventually got restless. There was a definite move to say “Enough” to the steamy love affairs of women in their fifties. And in Amanda, Cheryl had finally found the role that could make her a superstar.

  When that happened, Syd in turn would be a big-time agent again. An author was as good as his last book. An actor as bankable as his last picture. An agent needed megabucks deals to be considered topflight. It was again within his
grasp to become a legend, the next Swifty Lazar. And this time, he told himself, he wouldn’t screw it up at the casinos, or blow it on the horses.

  He would know in a few days if Cheryl had the part. Just before they left, at Cheryl’s insistence, he had phoned Bob Koenig at home. Twenty-five years ago, Bob, fresh out of college, and Syd, a studio gofer, had met on a Hollywood set and become friends. Now Bob was president of World Motion Pictures. He even looked the part of the new breed of studio head, with his rugged features and broad shoulders. Syd knew that he himself could be typecast for the stereotypical Brooklynite, with his long, slightly mournful face, receding curly hair and slight paunch that even rigorous exercise didn’t help. It was another thing he envied Bob Koenig for.

  Today Bob had let his irritation show. “Look, Syd, don’t call me at home on a Sunday to talk business again! Cheryl did a damn good test. We’re still seeing other people. You’ll hear one way or another in the next few days. And let me give you a tip. Sticking her in that play last year when Leila LaSalle died was a lousy judgment call, and it’s a big part of the problem with choosing her. Calling me at home on Sunday is a lousy judgment call too.”

  Syd’s palms began to sweat at the memory of the conversation. Oblivious of the scenery, he pondered the fact that he had made the mistake of abusing a friendship. If he wasn’t more careful, everyone he knew would be “in conference” when he phoned.

  And Bob was right. He had made a terrible mistake, talking Cheryl into going into the play with only a few days’ rehearsal. The critics had slaughtered her.

  Cheryl had been standing next to him when he called Bob. She’d heard what Bob said about the play’s being the reason she might not get the part. And of course, that triggered an explosion. Not the first one, nor the last.

  That goddamn play! He’d believed in it enough to beg and borrow until he had a million dollars to invest in it! It could have been a smash hit. And then Leila had started boozing and trying to act as if the play were the problem. . . .

  Anger parched Syd’s throat. All he had done for that bitch, and she’d fired him in Elaine’s in front of a roomful of show-business people, cursing him out at the top of her voice! And she knew how much he’d sunk into the play! He only hoped she’d been conscious enough to know what was happening before she hit the concrete!

  They were driving through Carmel: crowds of tourists on the streets; the sun bright; everybody looking relaxed and happy. He took the long way and threaded along the busiest streets. He could hear people comment when they started to recognize Cheryl. Now, of course, she was smiling, little Miss Gracious! She needed an audience the way other people needed air and water.

  They reached the gate to Pebble Beach. He paid the toll. They drove past Pebble Beach Lodge, the Crocker Woodland, to the gates of the Spa.

  “Drop me off at my bungalow,” Cheryl snapped. “I don’t want to bump into anybody until I get myself together.”

  She turned to him and pulled off her sunglasses. Her extraordinary eyes blazed. “Syd, what are my chances of becoming Amanda?”

  He answered the question as he had answered it a dozen times in the last week. “The best, baby,” he said sincerely. “The best.”

  They’d better be, he told himself, or it was all over.

  4

  THE WESTWIND BANKED, TURNED AND BEGAN ITS DESCENT into Monterey airport. With methodical care, Ted checked the instrument panel. It had been a good flight from Hawaii-smooth air every foot of the way, the cloud banks lazy and floating like cotton candy at a circus. Funny; he liked the clouds, liked to fly over them and through them, but even as a kid he had despised cotton candy. One more contradiction in his life . . .

  In the copilot’s seat John Moore stirred, a quiet reminder that he was there if Ted elected to turn over the controls to him. Moore had been the chief pilot for Winters Enterprises for ten years. But Ted wanted to make this landing, to see how smoothly he could bring the plane in. Set the wheels down. Land on his feet. It was all one, wasn’t it?

  Craig had come forward an hour ago and urged him to let John take over.

  “Cocktails are ready at your fahvoreet tahbl’ in the cornaire, Monsieur Wintairs.”

  He’d done his flawless imitation of the captain at the Four Seasons.

  “For Christ’s sake,” Ted had snapped, “no more of your impersonations today. I don’t need that now.”

  Craig had known enough not to argue when Ted decided to stay at the controls.

  The runway was rushing toward them. Ted eased the nose of the plane up slightly. How much longer would he be free to fly planes, to travel, to have a drink or not have a drink, to function as a human being? The trial would begin next week. He didn’t like his new lawyer. Henry Bartlett was too pompous, too conscious of his own image. Ted could imagine Bartlett in a New Yorker ad, holding up a bottle of Scotch, the caption reading, “This is the only brand I ever serve my guests.”

  The main wheels touched the ground. The impact inside the plane was almost unnoticeable. Ted threw the engines into reverse. “Nice landing, sir,” John said quietly.

  Wearily, Ted brushed his hand over his forehead. He wished he could get John over the habit of calling him “sir.” He also wished he could get Henry Bartlett over the habit of calling him “Teddy.” Did all criminal lawyers think that because you need their services, they have the right to be condescending? An interesting question. Had circumstances been different, he wouldn’t have had anything to do with a man like Bartlett. But firing the man who was supposed to be the best defense lawyer in the country at a time when you’re facing a long prison sentence wouldn’t be smart. He had always thought of himself as smart. He wasn’t so sure anymore.

  A few minutes later, they were in a limousine heading for the Spa. “I’ve heard a lot about the Monterey Peninsula,” Bartlett commented as they turned onto Highway 68. “I still don’t see why we couldn’t have worked on the case at your place in Connecticut or your New York apartment; but you’re paying the bills.”

  “We’re here because Ted needs the kind of relaxation he gets at Cypress Point,” Craig said. He did not bother to hide the edge in his voice.

  Ted was sitting on the right side of the roomy back seat, Henry beside him. Craig had taken the seat facing them, next to the bar. Craig raised the lid of the bar and mixed a martini. With a half-smile he handed it to Ted. “You know Min’s rules about booze. You’d better drink up fast.”

  Ted shook his head. “I seem to remember another time when I drank up fast. Have you got a cold beer in there?”

  “Teddy, I absolutely have to insist that you stop referring to that night in a way that suggests you don’t have complete recall.”

  Ted turned to look directly at Henry Bartlett, absorbing the man’s silver hair, his urbane manner, the faint hint of an English accent in his voice. “Let’s get something straight,” he said. “You are not, I repeat not to call me Teddy again. My name, in case you don’t remember it from that very sizable retainer, is Andrew Edward Winters. I have always been called Ted. If you find that too difficult to remember, you may call me Andrew. My grandmother always did. Nod if you understand what I just said.”

  “Take it easy, Ted,” Craig said quietly.

  “I’ll take it a lot easier if Henry and I establish a few ground rules.”

  He felt his hand grip the glass. He was unraveling. He could feel it. These months since the indictment, he’d managed to keep his sanity by staying at his place in Maui, doing his own analysis of urban expansion and population trends, designing hotels and stadiums and shopping centers he would build when all this was over. Somehow he’d managed to make himself believe that something would happen, that Elizabeth would realize she was wrong about the time of the phone call, that the so-called eyewitness would be declared mentally incompetent . . .

  But Elizabeth was sticking to her story, the eyewitness was adamant about her testimony and the trial was looming. Ted had been shocked when he realized his first lawyer w
as virtually conceding a guilty verdict. That was when he had hired Henry Bartlett.

  “All right, let’s put this aside until later,” Henry Bartlett said stiffly. He turned to Craig. “If Ted doesn’t want a drink, I do.”

  Ted accepted the beer Craig held out to him and stared out the window. Was Bartlett right? Was it crazy to come here instead of just working from Connecticut or New York? But somehow whenever he was at the Spa, he had a sense of calm, of well-being. It came from all the summers he’d spent on the Monterey Peninsula when he was a kid.

  The car stopped at the gate to Pebble Beach onto the Seventeen Mile Drive, and the chauffeur paid the toll. The estate homes overlooking the ocean came into view. Once he had planned to buy a house here. He and Kathy had agreed it would be a good vacation place for Teddy. And then Teddy and Kathy were gone.

  On the left side, the Pacific sparkled, clear and beautiful in the bright afternoon sun. It wasn’t safe for swimming here—the undertow was too strong—but how good it would feel to dive in and let the salty water wash over him! He wondered if he would ever feel clean again, ever stop seeing those pictures of Leila’s broken body. In his thoughts they were always there, gigantically enlarged, like billboards on a highway. And in these last few months, the doubts had begun.

  “Quit thinking whatever you’re thinking, Ted,” Craig said mildly.

  “And stop trying to read my thoughts,” Ted snapped. Then he managed a weak smile. “Sorry.”