Weep No More, My Lady

QUOTE FOR THE DAY:

Good morning, dear guest!

Welcome to another day of luxury at Cypress Point Spa.

Besides your personalized program, we are happy to tell you that there will be special makeup classes in the women's spa between 10 A.M. and 4 P.M. Why not fill in one of your free hours learning the enchanting secrets of the world's most beautiful women, as taught by Madame Renford of Beverly Hills?

Today's guest expert in the men's spa is famous bodybuilder Jack Richard, who will share his personal workout schedule at 4 P.M.

The musical program after dinner is a very special one. Cellist Fione Navaralla, one of the most acclaimed new artists in England, will play selections by Ludwig van Beethoven.

We hope all our guests will have a pleasant and pampered day. Remember, to be really beautiful we must keep our minds tranquil and free of distressing or troubling thoughts.

Baron and Baroness Helmut von Schreiber

One

Min's longtime chauffeur, Jason, was waiting at the passenger gate, his silver-gray uniform gleaming in the sunny terminal. He was a small man with a trim, neat build, who had been a jockey in his youth. An accident had ended his racing career, and he had been working as a stable hand when Min hired him. Elizabeth knew that, like all of Min's people, he was intensely loyal to her. Now his leathery face broke into welcoming furrows as he saw her approach. "Miss Lange, it's good to have you back," he said. She wondered if, like her, he was remembering that the last time she came to the Spa she had been with Leila.

She bent over to kiss him on the cheek. "Jason, will you cut that 'Miss Lange' number? You'd think I was a paying guest or something." She noticed the discreet card in his hand with the name Alvirah Meehan on it. "You're picking up someone else?"

"Just one. I thought she'd be out by now. First-class passengers usually are."

Elizabeth reflected that few people economized on air fare when they could afford to pay a minimum of three thousand dollars a week at Cypress Point Spa. With Jason she studied the disembarking passengers. Jason held the card up prominently as several elegantly dressed women passed, but they ignored it. "Hope she didn't miss the flight," he was murmuring as one final straggler came from the passageway. She was a bulky woman of about fifty-five with a large, sharp-featured face and thinning reddish-brown hair. The purple-and-pink print she was wearing was obviously expensive, but absolutely wrong for her. It bulged at the waist and thighs and hiked unevenly over her knees. Intuitively Elizabeth sensed that this lady was Mrs. Alvirah Meehan.

She spotted her name on the card and approached them eagerly, her smile delighted and relieved. Reaching out, she pumped Jason's hand vigorously. "Well, here I am," she announced. "And boy, am I glad to see you! I was so afraid there'd be a foul-up and no one would meet me."

"Oh, we never fail a guest."

Elizabeth felt her lips twitch at Jason's bewildered expression. Clearly Mrs. Meehan was not the usual Cypress Point guest. "Ma'am, may I have your claim checks?"

"Oh, that's nice. I hate to wait for luggage. Sort of a pain in the neck at the end of a trip. Course, Willy and I usually go Greyhound, and the bags are right there, but even so… I don't have too much stuff. I was going to buy a lot, but my friend, May, said, 'Alvirah, wait and see what other people are wearing. All these fancy places have shops… You'll pay through the nose,' she said, 'but at least you'll get the right thing, you know what I mean.' " She thrust her ticket envelope with the baggage stubs at Jason and turned to Elizabeth. "I'm Alvirah Meehan. Are you going to the Spa too? You sure don't look like you need to, honey!"

Fifteen minutes later, they were settled in the sleek silver limousine. Alvirah settled back against the brocaded upholstery with a gusty sigh. "Now, that feels good," she announced.

Elizabeth studied the other woman's hands. They were the hands of a working person, thick-knuckled and callused. The brightly colored fingernails were short and stubby, even though the manicure looked expensive. Her curiosity about Alvirah Meehan was a welcome respite from thinking about Leila. Instinctively she liked the woman-there was something remarkably candid and appealing about her- but who was she? What was bringing her to the Spa?

"I still can't get used to it," Alvirah continued happily. "I mean, one minute, I'm sitting in my living room soaking my feet. Let me tell you, cleaning five different houses a week is no joke, and the Friday one was the killer-six kids and they're all slobs and the mother's worse. Then we hit the lottery. We had all the winning numbers. Willy and I couldn't believe it. 'Willy,' I said, 'we're rich.' And he yelled, 'You bet we are!' You must have read about it last month? Forty million dollars, and a minute before, we didn't have two quarters to rub together."

"You won forty million dollars in the lottery?"

"I'm surprised you didn't see it. We're the biggest single winners in the history of the New York State lottery. How about that?"

"I think it's wonderful," Elizabeth said sincerely.

"Well, I knew what I wanted to do right away, and that was to get to Cypress Point Spa. I've been reading about it for ten years now. I used to dream about how it would be to spend time there and hobnob with the celebrities. Usually you have to wait months for a reservation, but I got one just like that!" She snapped her fingers.

Because Min undoubtedly recognized the publicity value of Alvirah Meehan's telling the world about her lifelong ambition to go to the Spa, Elizabeth thought. Min never missed a trick.

They were on the Coastal Highway. "I thought this was supposed to be a beautiful drive," Alvirah said. "It don't look so hot to me."

"A little farther on it becomes breathtaking," Elizabeth murmured.

Alvirah Meehan straightened up in the seat and turned to Elizabeth, studying her intently. "By the way, I've been talking so much I missed your name."

"Elizabeth Lange."

Large brown eyes, already magnified by thick-rimmed glasses, widened perceptibly. "I know who you are. You're Leila LaSalle's sister. She was my favorite actress in the whole world. I know all about Leila and you. I think the story of the two of you coming to New York when you were just a little girl is so beautiful. Two nights before she died, I saw a preview of her last play. Oh, I'm sorry-I didn't mean to upset you…"

"It's all right. I just have a terrible headache. Maybe if I just rest a bit…"

Elizabeth turned her head toward the window and dabbed at her eyes. To understand Leila, you had to have lived that childhood, that trip to New York, the fear and the disappointments… And you had to know that however good it sounded in People magazine, it wasn't a beautiful story at all…

It was a fourteen-hour bus ride from Lexington to New York. Elizabeth slept curled up in her seat, her head on Leila's lap. She was a little scared, and it made her sad to think of Mama coming home to find them gone, but she knew Matt would say, "Have a drink, honey" and pull Mama into the bedroom, and in a little while they'd be laughing and squealing and the springs of the bed would creak and groan…

Leila told her which states they were going through: Maryland, Delaware, New Jersey. Then the fields were replaced with ugly tanks and the road got more and more crowded. At the Lincoln Tunnel, the bus kept stopping and starting. Elizabeth 's stomach began to feel kind of funny. Leila noticed. "Good God, Sparrow, don't get sick now. It's just another few minutes."

She couldn't wait to get off the bus. She just wanted to smell cool, clean air. But the air was heavy, and it was so hot-hotter even than at home. Elizabeth felt fretful and tired. She was about to complain, but then she saw how tired Leila looked.

They had just left the platform when a man came over to Leila. He was thin, and his dark hair was curly but started pretty far back. He had long sideburns and small brown eyes that got squinty when he smiled. "I'm Lon Pedsell," he said. "Are you the model the Arbitron Agency from Maryland sent?"

Of course Leila wasn't the model, but Elizabeth could tell she didn't want to just say no. "There wasn't anyone else my age on this bus" was the way she answered him.

"And obviously you are a model."

"I'm an actress."

The man brightened up as though Leila had given him a present. "This is a break for me, and I hope for you. If you can use a modeling job, you'd be perfect. The pay is one hundred dollars for the sitting."

Leila put down her bags and squeezed Elizabeth 's shoulder. It was her way of saying, "Let me do the talking."

"I can tell that you're agreeable," Lon Pedsell said. "Come on. I've got my car outside."

Elizabeth was surprised at his studio. When Leila talked about New York, she'd thought that every place Leila worked would be beautiful. But Lon Pedsell took them to a dirty street about six blocks from the bus terminal. Lots of people were sitting on stoops, and garbage was spilled all over the sidewalk. "I have to apologize for my temporary situation, " he said. "I lost the lease on my place across town, and the new one is still being equipped."

The apartment he brought them to was on the fourth floor and as messy as Mama's house. Lon was breathing hard because he insisted on carrying the two big suitcases. "Why don't I get a Coke for your sister, and she can watch television while you pose?" he said to Leila.

Elizabeth could tell that Leila just wasn't sure what to do. "What kind of model am I supposed to be?" she asked.

"It's for a new swimsuit line. Actually, I'm doing the test shots for the agency. The girl they choose will do a whole series of ads. You're pretty lucky you ran into me today. I have a hunch you're just the type they have in mind."

He brought them into the kitchen. It was a tiny, dingy room with a small television set on a ledge over the sink. He poured a Coke for Elizabeth and wine for Leila and himself. "I'll have a Coke, "Leila said.

"Suit yourself." He turned on the television set. "Now, Elizabeth, I'm going to close the door so leila can concentrate. You just stay here and keep yourself amused."

Elizabeth watched three programs. Sometimes she could hear Leila saying in a loud voice, "I don't like that idea," but she didn't sound scared, just kind of worried. After a while she came out. "I'm finished, Sparrow. Let's get our bags." Then she turned to Lon. "Do you know where we can get a furnished room?"

"Would you like to stay here?"

"No. Just give me my hundred dollars."

"If you'll sign this release …"

When Leila signed, he smiled over at Elizabeth. "You must be proud of your big sister. She's on her way to becoming a famous model."

Leila handed him the paper. "Give me the hundred dollars."

"Oh, the agency will pay you. Here's their card. Just go over in the morning and they'll issue a check."

"But you said-"

"Leila, you really are going to have to learn the business. Photographers don't pay models. The agency pays when it gets the release."

He didn't offer to help them carry down their bags.

A hamburger and milk shake at a restaurant called Chock Full o' Nuts made both of them feel better. Leila had bought a street map of New York City and a newspaper. She began to read the real estate section. "Here's an apartment that sounds about right: 'Penthouse; fourteen rooms, spectacular view, wraparound terrace.' Someday, Sparrow. I promise."

They found an ad for an apartment to share. Leila looked at the street map. "It doesn't look too bad," she said. " Ninety-fifth Street and West End Avenue isn't that far, and we can get a bus."

The apartment turned out to be okay, but the woman's nice smile disappeared when she learned that Elizabeth was part of the deal. "No kids," she said flatly.

It was the same everywhere they went. Finally, at seven o'clock, Leila asked a cabdriver if he knew of any cheap but decent place to stay where she could bring Elizabeth. He suggested a rooming house in Greenwich Village .

The next morning they went to the model agency on Madison Avenue to collect Leila's money. The door of the agency was locked, and a sign read, "Put your composite in the mailbox." The mailbox had a half-dozen manila envelopes in it already. Leila pressed her finger on the bell. A voice came over the intercom. "Do you have an appointment?"

"We're here to pick up my money,"Leila said.

She and the woman began to argue. Finally the woman shouted, "Get lost." Leila pressed the bell again and didn't stop until someone yanked the door open. Elizabeth shrank back. The woman had heavy dark hair all done up in braids on her head. Her eyes were coal black, and her whole face was terribly angry. The woman wasn't young, but she was beautiful. Her white silk suit made Elizabeth realize that the blue shorts she was wearing were faded and the dye on her polo shirt had run around the pocket. She had thought Leila looked so pretty when they started out, but next to this woman Leila seemed overdressed and shabby.

"Listen," the woman said, "if you want to leave your picture you can. You try barging in here again and I'll have you arrested."

Leila thrust out the paper in her hand. "You owe me one hundred dollars and I'm not leaving without it."

The woman took the paper, read it and began to laugh so hard she had to lean against the door. "You really are dumb! Those jokers pull that stuff on all you hicks. Where'd he pick you up? In the bus terminal? Did you end up in the sack with him?"

"No, I did not." Leila grabbed the paper, tore it up and ground the pieces under her heel. "Come on, Sparrow. That guy made a fool of me, but we don't have to give this bitch a good laugh about it."

Elizabeth could see that Leila was so upset she was about to cry and didn't want the woman to see it. She shook Leila's arm off her shoulder and stood in front of the woman. "I think you're mean," she said. "That man acted nice, and if he made my sister work for nothing you should feel sorry about it, not make fun of us." She spun around and tugged Leila's hands. "Let's go."

They started for the elevator, and the woman called after them, "Come on back, you two." They ignored her. Then she yelled, "I said come back!"

Two minutes later they were in her private office.

"You've got possibilities," the woman told Leila. "But those clothes… You don't know a thing about makeup; you'll need a good haircut; you'll need composites. Did you pose in the raw for that creep?"

"Yes."

"Terrific. If you're any good, I'll submit you for an Ivory Soap commercial, and right then is when your picture will show up in a girlie magazine. He didn't take any movies of you, did he?"

"No. At least, I don't think so."

"That's something. From now on, I do the booking for you."

They left in a daze. Leila had a list of appointments at a beauty salon for the next day. Then she would meet the woman from the model agency at the photographer's. "Call me Min," the woman had said. "And don't worry about clothes. I'll bring everything you need."

Elizabeth was so happy her feet could hardly touch the ground, but Leila was very quiet. They walked down Madison Avenue. Well-dressed people hurried by; the sun was shining brightly; hot dog carts and pretzel stands seemed to be on every corner; buses and cars honked at each other; nearly everyone ignored the red lights and sauntered through the heavy traffic. Elizabeth had a wonderful sense of being home. "I like it here," she said.

"So do I, Sparrow. And you saved the day for me. I swear, I don't know who's taking care of who. And Min is good people. But, Sparrow, there's something I've found out from that stinking father of mine, and from Mama's lousy boyfriends, and now from that bastard yesterday.

"Sparrow-I'm never going to trust a man again."

Two

Elizabeth opened her eyes. The car was sliding noiselessly past Pebble Beach Lodge, along the tree-lined road where glimpses of estate homes could be seen through hedges of bougainvillea and azaleas. It slowed down as it rounded a bend and the tree that gave Cypress Point Spa its name came into view.

Disoriented for a moment, she brushed the hair back from her forehead and looked around. Alvirah Meehan was beside her, a blissful smile on her face. "You must be worn out, poor thing," Alvirah said. "You've been asleep practically since we left the airport." She shook her head as she gazed out the window. "Now, this is really something!" The car passed through the ornate iron gates and wound its way up toward the main house, a rambling three-story ivory stucco mansion with pale blue shutters. Several swimming pools were dotted through the grounds near the clusters of bungalows. At the north end of the property there was a patio, with umbrella tables scattered around both sides of the Olympic-size pool. Identical adobe buildings were on either side of the pool. "These are the men's and women's spas," Elizabeth explained.

The clinic, a smaller edition of the main house, was at its right. A series of paths lined by high flowering hedges led to individual doorways. The treatment rooms were entered through these doors, and treatments were spaced far enough apart so that guests avoided encountering each other.

Then, as the limousine followed the curve of the driveway, Elizabeth gasped and leaned forward. Between the main house and the clinic, but placed well behind them, a huge new structure had come into view, its black marble exterior, accentuated by massive columns, making it loom like an ominous volcano about to erupt. Or like a mausoleum, Elizabeth thought.

"What's that?" Alvirah Meehan asked.

"It's a replica of a Roman bath. They had just broken ground for it when I was here two years ago. Jason, is it open yet?"

"Not finished, Miss Lange. The construction just goes on and on."

Leila had openly mocked the plans for the bathhouse. "Another of Helmut's grand schemes for separating Min from her money," she said. "He won't be happy until Min is officially declared a shopping-bag lady."

The car stopped at the steps of the main house. Jason leaped out and rushed to open the door. Alvirah Meehan struggled back into her shoes and, stooping awkwardly, hoisted herself from the seat. "It's like sitting on the floor," she commented. "Oh, look, here comes Mrs. von Schreiber. I know her from her pictures. Or should I call her Baroness?"

Elizabeth did not answer. She stretched out her arms as Min descended the steps from the veranda, her gait rapid but stately. Leila had always compared Min in motion to the Q.E. 2 steaming into harbor. Min was wearing a deceptively simple Adolfo print. Her luxurious dark hair was piled on her head in a swirling French knot. She pounced on Elizabeth and hugged her fiercely. "You're much too thin," she hissed. "In a swimsuit I bet you look scrawny." Another bear hug and Min turned her attention to Alvirah. "Mrs. Meehan. 'The world's luckiest woman.' We are enchanted to have you!" She eyed Alvirah up and down. "In two weeks, the world will think you were born with a forty-million-dollar spoon in your mouth."

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 free loaders 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 td 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 wild-flowers 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.

Three

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.

Four

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 was 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 bill-boards 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."

"No problem." Craig's tone was hearty and genial.

Craig had always had a knack for defusing situations, Ted thought. They'd met at Dartmouth as freshmen. Craig had been chunky then. At seventeen, he'd looked like a big blond Swede. At thirty-four he was trim, the chunkiness hardened into solid muscle. The strong, heavy features were more becoming to a mature man than to a kid. Craig had had a partial scholarship to college but had worked his backside off at every job he could get-as a dishwasher in the kitchen, as a room clerk in the Hanover Inn, as an orderly in the local hospital.

And still he's always been around for me, Ted reminded himself. After college, he'd been surprised to bump into Craig in the washroom at the executive office of Winters Enterprises. "Why didn't you ask me if you wanted a job here?" He hadn't been sure he was pleased.

"Because if I'm any good, I'll make it on my own."

You couldn't argue with that. And he'd made it, clear up to executive vice-president. If I go to prison, Ted thought, he gets to run the show. I wonder how often he thinks about that. A sense of disgust at his own mental processes washed over him. I think like a cornered rat. I am a cornered rat!

They drove past the Pebble Beach Lodge, the golf course, the Crocker Woodland, and the grounds of Cypress Point Spa came into view. "Pretty soon you'll understand why we wanted to come here," Craig told Henry. He looked directly at Ted. "We're going to put together an airtight defense. You know this place has always been lucky for you." Then, as he glanced out the side window, he stüfened. "Oh, my God, I don't believe it. The convertible-Cheryl and Syd are here!"

Grimly he turned to Henry Bartlett. "I'm beginning to think you're right. We should have gone to Connecticut."

Five

Min had assigned Elizabeth the bungalow where Leila had always stayed. It was one of the most expensive units, but Elizabeth was not sure that she was flattered. Everything in these rooms shouted Leila's name: the slipcovers in the shade of emerald green Leila loved, the deep armchair with the matching ottoman. Leila used to sprawl on that after a strenuous exercise class-"My God, Sparrow, if I keep this up they can measure me for a thin shroud"; the exquisite inlaid writing desk-"Sparrow, remember the furniture in poor Mama's place? Early Garage Sale."

In the short time Elizabeth had been with Min and Helmut, a maid had unpacked her bags. A blue tank suit and ivory terry-cloth robe were lying on the bed. Pinned to the robe was the schedule of her afternoon appointments: four o'clock, massage; five o'clock, facial.

The building housing the women's spa facilities was at one end of the Olympic pool-a rambling, self-contained one-story structure built to resemble a Spanish adobe. Placid from the outside, it was usually a whirlwind of activity within as women of all ages and shapes hurried along the tiled floors in terry-cloth robes, rushing to their next appointments.

Elizabeth braced herself to see familiar faces- some of the regulars who came to the Spa every three months or so and whom she had gotten to know well during her summers working here. She knew that inevitably condolences would be offered, heads shaken: "I never would have believed Ted Winters capable…"

But she did not see one single familiar face in the array of women padding from exercise classes to beauty treatments. Nor did the spa seem as busy as usual. At peak it accommodated about sixty women; the men's spa held about the same number. There were nothing like that many.

She reminded herself of the color coding of the doors: pink for facial rooms; yellow for massage; orchid for herbal wraps; white for steam cabinets; blue for sloofing. The exercise rooms were beyond the indoor pool and seemed to have been enlarged. There were more individual Jacuzzis in the central solarium. With a touch of disappointment, Elizabeth realized it was too late to soak in one of them for even a few minutes.

Tonight, she promised herself, she'd go for a long swim.

The masseuse who had been assigned to her was one of the old-timers. Small of frame but with powerful arms and hands, Gina was clearly delighted to see her. "You're coming back to work here, I hope? Of course not. No such luck."

The massage rooms had obviously been done over. Did Min never stop spending money on this place? But the new tables were luxuriously padded, and under the expert hands of Gina she could feel herself begin to relax.

Gina was kneading her shoulder muscles. "You're in knots."

"I guess I am."

"You have plenty of reason."

Elizabeth knew that that was Gina's way of expressing her sympathy. She knew too that unless she began a conversation, Gina would be silent. One of Min's firm rules to her help was that if guests wanted to talk, it was all right to converse with them. "But don't you be yakking about your own problems," Min would say at the weekly staff meetings. "Nobody wants to hear them."

It would be helpful to get Gina's impressions of how the Spa was doing. "It doesn't seem to be too busy today," she suggested. "Is everybody on the golf course?"

"I wish. Listen, this place hasn't been busy in nearly two years. Relax, Elizabeth, your arm feels like a board."

"Two years! What's happened?"

"What can I say? It started with that stupid mausoleum. People don't pay these prices to look at mounds of dirt or listen to hammering. And that place still isn't finished. Will you tell me why they needed a Roman bath here?"

Elizabeth thought of Leila's remarks about the Roman bath. "That's what Leila used to say."

"She was right. I'll need to have you turn over now." Expertly the masseuse redraped the sheet. "And listen, you brought up her name. Do you realize how much glamour Leila gave this place? People wanted to be around her. They'd come here hoping to see her. She was a one-woman ad for the Spa. And she always talked about meeting Ted Winters here. Now-I don't know. There's something so different. The Baron spends money like a maniac- you saw the new Jacuzzis. The interior work on that bathhouse goes on and on. And Min is trying to cut corners. It's a joke. He puts in a Roman bath, and she tells us not to waste towels!"

The facialist was new, a Japanese woman. The unwinding that had begun with the massage was completed by the warm mask she applied after the cleansing and steaming. Elizabeth drifted off to sleep. She was awakened by the woman's soft voice. "Have you had a nice nap? I left you an extra forty minutes. You looked so peaceful, and I had plenty of time."

Six

While the maid unpacked her bags, Alvirah Meehan investigated her new quarters. She went from room to room, her eyes darting about, missing nothing. In her mind she was composing what she would dictate into her brand-new recording machine.

"Will that be all, madame?"

The maid was at the door of the sitting room. "Yes, thank you." Alvirah tried to imitate the tone of her Tuesday job, Mrs. Stevens. A little hoity-toity, but still friendly.

The minute the door closed behind the maid, she raced to get her recorder out of her voluminous pocketbook. The reporter from the New York Globe had taught her how to use it. She settled herself on the couch in the living room and began:

"Well, here I am at Cypress Point Spa and buhlieve me it's the cat's meow. This is my first recording and I want to start by thanking Mr. Evans for his confidence in me. When he interviewed me and Willy about winning the lottery and I told him about my lifelong ambition to come to Cypress Point Spa, he said that I clearly have a sense of the dramatic and the Globe readers would love to know all about the goings-on in a classy spa from my point of view.

"He said that the kind of people I'll be meeting would never think of me as a writer and so I might hear a lot of interesting stuff. Then when I explained I'd been a real fan of movie stars all my life, and know lots about the private lives of the stars, he said he had a hunch I could write a good series of articles and who knows, maybe even a book."

Alvirah smiled blissfully and smoothed the skirt of her purple-and-pink traveling dress. The skirt tended to hike up.

"A book," she continued, being careful to speak directly into the microphone. "Me, Alvirah Meehan. But when you think of all the celebrities who write books and how many of them really stink, I believe I just might be able to do that.

"To get to what's happened so far, I rode in a limousine to the Spa with Elizabeth Lange. She is a lovely young woman and I feel so sorry for her. Her eyes are very sad, and you can tell she's under a big strain. She slept practically the whole way from San Francisco. Elizabeth is Leila LaSalle's sister, but very different in looks. Leila was a redhead with green eyes. She could look sexy and queenly at the same time-kind of like a cross between Dolly Parton and Greer Garson. I think a good way to describe Elizabeth is 'wholesome.'

"She's a little too thin; her shoulders are broad; she has wide blue eyes with dark lashes, and honey-colored hair that falls around her shoulders. She has strong, beautiful teeth, and the one time she smiled she gave off just the warmest glow. She's pretty tall -about five foot nine, I guess. I bet she sings. Her speaking voice is so pleasant, but not that exaggerated actressy voice you hear from so many of these young starlets. I guess you don't call them starlets anymore. Maybe if I get friendly with her, she'll tell me some interesting things about her sister and Ted Winters. I wonder if the Globe will want me to cover the trial."

Alvirah paused, pushed the rewind button and then the replay. It was all right. The machine was working. She thought she ought to say something about her surroundings.

"Mrs. von Schreiber escorted me to my bungalow. I almost laughed out loud when she called it a bungalow. We used to rent a bungalow in Rockaway Beach on Ninety-ninth Street right near the amusement park. The place used to shake every time the roller coaster went down the last steep drop, which was every five minutes during the summer.

"This bungalow has a sitting room all done in light blue chintz and Oriental scatter rugs… they're handmade-I checked… a bedroom with a canopy bed, a small desk, a slipper chair, a bureau, a vanity table filled with cosmetics and lotions, and two huge bathrooms, each with its own Jacuzzi. There's also a room with built-in bookshelves, a real leather couch and chairs and an oval table. Upstairs there are two more bedrooms and baths, which of course I really don't need. Luxury! I keep pinching myself.

"Baroness von Schreiber told me that the day starts at seven A.M. with a brisk walk, which everyone in the Spa is requested to take. After that I will be served a low-calorie breakfast in my own dining room. The maid will also bring my personal daily schedule, which will include things like a facial, a massage, a herbal wrap, a sloofing treatment- whatever that is-the steam cabinet, a pedicure and a manicure and a hair treatment. Imagine! After I have been checked out by the doctor, they will add my exercise classes.

"Now I'm going to take a little rest, and then it will be time to dress for dinner. I'm going to wear my rainbow caftan,which I bought at Martha's on Park Avenue. I showed it to the Baroness and she said it would be perfect, but not to wear the crystal beads I won at the shooting gallery in Coney Island."

Alvirah turned off the recorder and beamed in satisfaction. Who ever said writing was hard? With a recorder it was a cinch. Recorder! Quickly, she got up and reached for her pocketbook. From inside a zippered compartment she took out a small box containing a sunburst pin.

But not just any sunburst pin, she thought proudly. This one had a microphone, and the editor had told her to wear it to record conversations. "That way," he had explained, "no one can claim you misquoted them later on."

Seven

"Sorry to do this to you, Ted, but we simply don't have the luxury of time." Henry Bartlett leaned back in the upholstered armchair at the end of the library table.

Ted was aware that his left temple was throbbing, and shafts of pain were finding a target behind and above his left eye. Deliberately he moved his head to avoid the streams of late-afternoon sun that were coming through the window opposite him.

They were in the study of Ted's bungalow in the Meadowcluster area, one of the two most expensive accommodations at Cypress Point Spa. Craig was sitting diagonally across from him, his face grave, his hazel eyes cloudy with worry.

Henry had wanted a conference before dinner. "Time is running out," he had said, "and until we decide on our final strategy, we can't make any progress."

Twenty years in prison, Ted thought incredulously. That was the sentence he was facing. He'd be fifty-four years old when he got out. Incongruously, all the old gangster movies he'd used to watch late at night sprang into his mind. Steel bars, tough prison guards, Jimmy Cagney starring as a mad-dog killer. He used to revel in them.

"We have two ways we can go," Henry Bartlett said. "We can stick to your original story-"

"My original story," Ted snapped.

"Hear me out! You left Leila's apartment at about ten after nine. You went to your own apartment. You tried to phone Craig." He turned to Craig. "It's a damn shame you didn't pick up the phone."

"I was watching a program I wanted to see. The telephone recorder was on. I figured I'd call back anyone who left a message. And I can swear the phone rang at nine twenty, just as Ted says."

"Why didn't you leave a message, Ted?"

"Because I hate talking to machines, and especially that one." His lips tightened. Craig's habit of talking like a Japanese houseboy on his recorder irritated Ted wildly.

"What were you calling Craig about, anyhow?"

"It's blurry. I was drunk. My impression is that I wanted to tell him I was taking off for a while."

"That doesn't help us. Probably if you had reached him it wouldn't help us. Not unless he can back you up that you were talking to him at precisely nine thirty-one P.M."

Craig slammed his hand on the table. "Then I'll say it. I'm not in favor of lying under oath, but neither am I in favor of Ted getting railroaded for something he didn't do."

"It's too late for that. You've already made a statement. You change it now and the situation gets worse." Bartlett skimmed the papers he had pulled from his briefcase. Ted got up and walked to the window. He had planned to go to the men's spa and work out for a while. But Bartlett had been insistent about this meeting. Already his freedom was being infringed.

How many times had he come to Cypress Point with Leila in their three-year relationship? Eight or ten probably. Leila had loved it here. She'd been amused by Min's bossiness, by the Baron's pretentiousness. She'd enjoyed long hikes along the cliffs. "All right, Falcon, if you won't come with me, play your darn golf and I'll meet you at my pad later." That mischievous wink, the deliberate leer, her long, slender fingers running along his shoulders. "God, Falcon, you do turn me on." Lying with her in his arms on the couch watching late-night movies. Her murmured "Min knows better than to give us any of those damn narrow antiques of hers. She knows I like to cuddle with my fellow." It was here that he had found the Leila he loved; the Leila she herself wanted to be.

What was Bartlett saying? "Either we attempt to flatly contradict Elizabeth Lange and the so-called eyewitness or we try to turn that testimony to our benefit."

"How does one do that?" God, I hate this man, Ted thought. Look at him sitting there, cool and comfortable. You'd think he was discussing a chess game, not the rest of my life. Irrational fury almost choked him. He had to get out of this spot. Even being in a room with someone he disliked gave him claustrophobia. How could he share a cell with another man for two or three decades? He couldn't. At any price, he couldn't do it.

"You have no memory of hailing the cab, of the ride to Connecticut."

"Absolutely none."

"Your last conscious memory of that evening. Tell me again: what was it?"

"I had been with Leila for several hours. She was hysterical. Kept accusing me of cheating on her."

"Did you?"

"No."

"Then why did she accuse you?"

"Leila was-terribly insecure. She'd had bad experiences with men. She had convinced herself she could never trust one. I thought I'd gotten her over that as far as our relationship was concerned, but every once in a while she'd throw a jealous fit." That scene in the apartment. Leila lunging at him, scratching his face; her wild accusations. His hands on her wrists, restraining her. What had he felt? Anger. Fury. And disgust.

"You tried to give her back the engagement ring?"

"Yes, and she refused it."

"Then what happened?"

" Elizabeth phoned. Leila began sobbing into the phone and shouting at me to get out. I told her to put the phone down. I wanted to get to the bottom of what had brought all this on.

I saw it was hopeless and left. I went to my own apartment. I think I changed my shirt. I tried to call Craig. I remember leaving the apartment. I don't remember anything else until the next day when I woke up in Connecticut."

"Teddy, do you realize what the prosecutor will do to that story? Do you know how many cases are on record of people who kill in a fit of rage and then have a psychotic episode where they block it out? As your lawyer I have to tell you something: That story stinks! It's no defense. Sure, if it weren't for Elizabeth Lange there wouldn't be a problem… Hell, there wouldn't even be a case. I could make mincemeat of that so-called eyewitness. She's a nut, a real off-the-wall nut. But with Elizabeth swearing you were in the apartment fighting with Leila at nine thirty, the nut becomes believable when she says you shoved Leila off the terrace at nine thirty-one."

"Then what do we do about it?" Craig asked.

"We gamble," Bartlett said. "Ted agrees with Elizabeth 's story. He now remembers going back upstairs. Leila was still hysterical. She slammed the phone down and ran to the terrace. Everybody who was in Elaine's the night before can testify to her emotional state. Her sister admits she had been drinking. She was despondent about her career. She had decided to break off her relationship with you. She felt washed up. She wouldn't be the first one to take a dive in that situation."

Ted winced. A dive. Christ, were all lawyers so insensitive? And then the image came of Leila's broken body; the garish police pictures. He felt perspiration break out over his entire body.

But Craig looked hopeful. "It might work. What that eyewitness saw was Ted struggling to save Leila, and when Leila fell, he blacked out. That's when he had the psychotic episode. That explains why he was almost incoherent in the cab."

Ted stared through the window at the ocean. It was unusually calm now, but he knew the tide would soon be roaring in. The calm before the storm, he thought. Right now we're having a clinical discussion. In nine days I'll be in the courtroom. The People of the State of New York v. Andrew Edward Winters III. "There's one big hole in your theory," he said flatly. "If I admit I went back to that apartment and was on the terrace with Leila, I'm putting my head in a noose.

If the jury decides I was in the process of killing her, I'll be found guilty of Murder Two."

"It's a chance you may have to take."

Ted came back to the table and began to stuff the open files into Bartlett 's briefcase. His smile was not pleasant. "I'm not sure I can take that chance. There has to be a better solution, and at any cost I intend to find it. I will not go to prison!"

Eight

Min sighed gustily. "That feels good. I swear, you've got better hands than any masseuse in this place."

Helmut leaned down and kissed her cheek. "Liebchen, I love touching you, even if it's only to ease your shoulders."

They were in their apartment, which covered the entire third floor of the main house. Min was seated at her dressing table wearing a loose kimono. She had unpinned her heavy raven-colored hair, and it fell below her shoulders. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Today she was no ad for this place. Shadows under her eyes-how long since she'd had her eyes done? Five years? Something hard to accept was happening. She was fifty-nine years old. Until this last year she could have passed for ten years younger. No more.

Helmut was smiling at her in the mirror. Deliberately, he rested his chin on her head. His eyes were a shade of blue that always reminded her of the waters in the Adriatic Sea around Dubrovnik, where she had been born. The long, distinguished face with its picture-perfect tan was unlined, the dark brown sideburns untouched by gray. Helmut was fifteen years her junior. For the first years of their marriage it hadn't mattered. But now?

She had met him at the spa in Baden-Baden, after Samuel died. Five years of catering to that fussy old man had paid off. He'd left her twelve million dollars and this property.

She hadn't been stupid about Helmut's sudden attentiveness to her. No man becomes enamored of a woman fifteen years his senior unless there's something he wants. At first she had accepted his attentions cynically, but by the end of two weeks she had realized that she was becoming deeply interested in him and in his suggestion that she convert the Cypress Point Hotel into a spa… The cost had been staggering, but Helmut had urged her to consider it an investment, not an expenditure. The day the Spa opened, he had asked her to marry him.

She sighed heavily.

"Minna, what is it?"

How long had they been staring at each other in the mirror? "You know."

He bent down and kissed her cheek.

Incredibly, they'd been happy together. She had never dared tell him how much she loved him, instinctively afraid to hand him that weapon, always watching for signs of restlessness. But he ignored the young women who flirted with him. It was only Leila who had seemed to dazzle him, only Leila who had made her churn in an agony of fear…

Perhaps she had been wrong. If one could believe him, Helmut had actually disliked Leila, even hated her. Leila had been openly contemptuous of him- but then, Leila had been contemptuous of every man she knew well…

The shadows had become long in the room. The breeze from the sea was sharply cooler. Helmut reached his hands under her elbows. "Rest a little. You'll have to put up with the lot of them in less than an hour."

Min clutched his hand. "Helmut, how do you think she'll react?"

"Very badly."

"Don't tell me that," she wailed. "Helmut, you know why I have to try. It's our only chance."

Nine

At seven o'clock, chimes from the main house announced the arrival of the "cocktail" hour, and immediately the paths to the main house became filled with people-singles, couples, groups of three or four. All were well dressed, in semiformal wear, the women in elegant caftans or flowing tunics, the men in blazers, slacks and sport shirts. Blazing gem-stones were mixed with amusing costume pieces. Famous faces greeted each other warmly, or nodded distantly. Soft lights glowed on the veranda, where waiters in ivory-and-blue uniforms served delicate canap6s and alcohol-free "cocktails."

Elizabeth decided to wear the dusty-pink silk jumpsuit with a magenta sash that had been Leila's last birthday present to her. Leila always wrote a note on her personal stationery. The note that had accompanied this outfit was tucked in the back of Elizabeth 's wallet, a talisman of love. She'd written: "It's a long, long way from May to December. Love and Happy Birthday to my darling Capricorn sister from the Taurus kid."

Somehow, wearing that outfit, rereading that note made it easier for Elizabeth to leave the bungalow and start up the path to the main house. She kept a half-smile on her face as she finally saw some of the regulars. Mrs. Lowell from Boston, who had been coming here since Min opened the place; Countess d'Aronne, the brittle, aging beauty, who was at last showing most of her seventy years. The Countess had been an eighteen-year-old bride when her much older husband was murdered. She'd married four times since then, but after every divorce petitioned the French courts to restore her former title.

"You look gorgeous. I helped Leila pick out that jumpsuit on Rodeo Drive." Min's voice boomed in her ear; Min's arm was solidly linked in hers. Elizabeth felt herself being propelled forward. A scent of the ocean mingled with the perfume of roses. The well-bred voices and laughter of the people on the veranda hummed around her. The background music was Serber playing Mendelssohn's Concerto for Violin in E minor. Leila would drop everything to attend a Serber concert.

A waiter offered her a choice of beverages-nonalcoholic wine or a soft drink. She chose the nonalcoholic wine. Leila had been cynical about Min's firm no-alcohol rule. "Listen, Sparrow, half the people who go to that joint are boozers. They all bring some stuff with them, but even so they have to cut down a lot. So they lose some weight, and Min claims credit for the Spa. Don't you think the Baron keeps a supply in that study of his? You bet he does!"

I should have gone to East Hampton, Elizabeth thought. Anywhere-anywhere but here. It was as if she were filled with a sense of Leila's presence, as if Leila were trying to reach her…

" Elizabeth." Min's voice was sharp. Sharp, but also nervous, she realized. "The Countess is talking to you."

"I'm terribly sorry." Affectionately, she reached out to grasp the aristocratic hand that was extended to her.

The Countess smiled warmly. "I saw your last film. You're developing into a very fine actress, cherie."

How like Countess d'Aronne to sense she would not want to discuss Leila. "It was a good role. I was lucky." And then Elizabeth felt her eyes widen. "Min, coming down the path. Isn't that Syd and Cheryl?"

"Yes. They just called this morning. I forgot to tell you. You don't mind that they're here?"

"Of course not. It's only…" Her voice trailed off. She was still embarrassed over the way Leila had humiliated Syd that night in Elaine's. Syd had made Leila a star. No matter what mistakes he'd talked her into those last few years, they didn't stack up against the times he'd nailed down the parts she wanted…

And Cheryl? Under the veneer of friendship, she and Leila had shared an intense professional and personal rivalry. Leila had taken Ted from Cheryl. Cheryl had almost wrecked her career by stepping into Leila's play…

Unconsciously, Elizabeth straightened her back. On the other hand, Syd had made a fortune off Leila's earnings. Cheryl had tried every trick in the book to get Ted back. If only she'd succeeded, Elizabeth thought, Leila might still be alive…

They had spotted her. They both looked as surprised as she felt. The Countess murmured, "Not that dreadful tart, Cheryl Manning…"

They were coming up the steps toward her. Elizabeth studied Cheryl objectively. Her hair was a tangled web around her face. It was much darker than it had been the last time she had seen her, and very becoming. The last time? That had been at Leila's memorial service.

Reluctantly Elizabeth conceded to herself that Cheryl had never looked better. Her smile was dazzling; the famous amber-colored eyes assumed a tender expression. Her greeting would have fooled anyone who didn't know her. "Elizabeth, my darling, I never dreamed I'd see you here, but how wonderful! Has it gone fairly well?"

Then it was Syd's turn. Syd, with his cynical eyes and mournful face. She knew he'd put a million dollars of his own money into Leila's play-money he had probably borrowed. Leila had called him "the Dealer." "Sure, he works hard for me, Sparrow, but that's because I make a lot of money for him. The day I quit being an asset to him, he'll walk over my dead body."

Elizabeth felt a chill as Syd gave her a perfunctory show-business kiss. "You look good;

I may have to steal you from your agent. I didn't expect to see you till next week."

Next week. Of course. The defense was probably going to use Cheryl and Syd to testify to Leila's emotional state that night in Elaine's.

"Are you filling in for one of the instructors?" Cheryl asked.

" Elizabeth is here because I invited her," Min snapped.

Elizabeth wondered why Min seemed so terribly nervous. Min's eyes were darting around, and her hand was still gripping Elizabeth 's elbow as though she were afraid of losing her.

"Cocktails" were offered to the newcomers.

Friends of the Countess drifted over to join them. The host of a famous talk show greeted Syd genially. "Next time you want us to book one of your clients, make sure he's sober."

"That one's never sober."

Then she heard a familiar voice coming from behind her, an astonished voice: " Elizabeth, what are you doing here?"

She turned and felt Craig's arms around her-the solid, dependable arms of the man who had rushed to her when he heard the news flash, who had stayed with her in Leila's apartment, listening as she babbled out her grief, who had helped her to answer the questions of the police, who had finally located Ted…

She'd seen Craig three or four times in the last year. He'd look her up when she was filming. "I can't be in the same city without at least saying hello," he'd say. By tacit agreement they avoided discussing the impending trial, but they never got through a dinner without some reference to it. It was through Craig that she'd learned that Ted was staying in Maui, that he was jumpy and irritable, that he was practically ignoring business and out of touch with his friends. It was from Craig, inevitably, that she'd heard the question "Are you sure?"

The last time she'd seen him, she'd burst out, "How can anyone be sure of anything or anybody?" and asked him not to contact her again until after the trial. "I know where your loyalty has to be."

But what was he doing here now? She'd have thought he'd be with Ted preparing for the trial. And then as she stepped back from his embrace, she saw Ted coming up the steps of the veranda.

She felt her mouth go dry. Her arms and legs trembled; her heart beat so wildly she could hear its pounding in her ears. Somehow in these months she had managed to bar his image from her conscious mind, and in her nightmares, he was always shadowy-she'd seen only the murderous hands, pushing Leila over the railing, the merciless eyes watching her fall…

Now he was walking up these stairs with his usual commanding presence. Andrew Edward Winters III, his dark hair contrasting with the white dinner jacket, his strong, even features deeply tanned, looking all the better for his self-imposed exile in Maui.

Outrage and hatred made Elizabeth want to lunge at him; to push him down those steps as he had pushed Leila, to scratch that composed, handsome face as Leila had scratched it, trying to save herself. The brackish taste of bile filled her mouth and she gulped, trying to fight back nausea.

"There he is!" Cheryl cried. In an instant she was sliding through the clusters of people on the veranda, her heels clattering, the scarf of her red silk evening pajamas trailed behind her. Conversation stopped, heads turned as she threw herself into Ted's arms.

Like a robot, Elizabeth stared down at them. It was as though she were looking through a kaleido-scope. Loose fragments of colors and impressions rotated before her. The white of Ted's jacket; the red of Cheryl's outfit; Ted's dark brown hair; his long, well-shaped hands holding Cheryl's shoulders as he tried to free himself.

At the grand jury hearing, Elizabeth remembered, she had brushed past him, filled with self-loathing that she had been so deceived, so taken in by his performance as Leila's grief-stricken fiance. Now he glanced up, and she knew he had seen her. He looked shocked and dismayed-or was that just another act? Pulling his arm away from Cheryl's clinging fingers, he came up the steps. Unable to move, she was dimly aware of the hushed silence of the people around them, the murmurs and laughter of those farther away who did not realize what was happening, of the last strains of the concerto, of the bouquet of fragrances from the flowers and ocean.

He looked older. The lines around his eyes and mouth that had appeared at the time of Leila's death had deepened and were now permanently etched on his face. Leila had loved him so, and he had killed her. A fresh passion of hatred surged through Elizabeth. All the intolerable pain, the awful sense of loss, the guilt that permeated her soul like a cancer because at the end she had failed Leila. This man was the cause of all of it.

" Elizabeth…"

How dare he speak to her? Shocked out of her immobility, she spun around, stumbled across the veranda and into the foyer. She heard the click of heels behind her. Min had followed her in. Elizabeth turned to her fiercely. "Damn you, Min. What in hell do you think you're pulling?"

"In here." Min's head jerked toward the music room. She did not speak until she had closed the door behind them. " Elizabeth, I know what I'm doing."

"I don't." With an acute sense of betrayal, Elizabeth stared at Min. No wonder she had seemed nervous. And she was even more nervous now-she, who always seemed impervious to stress, who always gave off the commanding air of one who could change and resolve any problem, was actually trembling.

" Elizabeth, when I saw you in Venice, you told me yourself that something in you still couldn't believe Ted would hurt Leila. I don't care how it looks. I've known him longer than you-years longer… You're making a mistake. Don't forget, I was in Elaine's that night too. Listen, Leila had gone crazy. There's no other way of saying it. And you knew it! You say you set your clock the next day. You were distraught about her. Are you so infallible that maybe you didn't set it wrong? When Leila was on the phone with you just before she died, were you watching the clock? Look at Ted these next few days as if he's a human being, not a monster. Think about how good he was to Leila."

Min's face was impassioned. Her low, intense voice was more piercing than a scream. She grasped Elizabeth 's arm. "You're one of the most honest people I know. From the time you were a little girl you always told the truth. Can't you face the fact that your mistake means that Ted will rot in prison for the rest of his life?"

The melodious sound of chimes echoed through the room. Dinner was about to be served. Elizabeth put her hand on Min's wrist, forcing Min to release her. Incongruously, she remembered how a few minutes ago Ted had pulled away from Cheryl.

"Min, next week a jury will begin to decide who is telling the truth. You think you can run everything, but you're out of your element this time… Get someone to call me a taxi."

" Elizabeth, you can't leave!"

"Can't I? Do you have a number where I can reach Sammy?"

"No."

"Exactly when is she expected back?"

"Tomorrow night after dinner." Min clasped her hands beseechingly. " Elizabeth, I beg you."

From behind her, Elizabeth heard the door open. She whirled around. Helmut was in the doorway. He put his hands on her arms in a gesture that both embraced and restrained her. " Elizabeth." His voice was soft and urgent. "I tried to warn Minna. She had the crazy idea that if you saw Ted you would think of all the happy times, would remember how much he loved Leila. I implored her not to do this. Ted is as shocked and upset as you are."

"He should be. Will you please let go of me!"

Helmut's voice became soothing, pleading. " Elizabeth, next week is Labor Day. The Peninsula is alive with tourists. There are hundreds of college kids having one last fling before school opens. You could drive around half the night and not find a room. Stay here. Be comfortable. See Sammy tomorrow night, then go if you must."

It was true, Elizabeth thought. Carmel and Monterey were meccas for tourists in late August.

" Elizabeth, please." Min was weeping. "I was so foolish. I thought, I believed that if you just saw Ted… not in court, but here… I'm sorry."

Elizabeth felt her anger drain away, to be replaced by bone-weary emptiness. Min was Min. Incongruously, she remembered the time Min had sent a reluctant Leila to a casting for a cosmetics commercial. Min had stormed, "Listen, Leila, I don't need you to tell me they didn't ask to see you. Get over there. Force your way in. You're just what they're looking for. You make your breaks in this world."

Leila got the job and became the model the cosmetic company used in all its commercials for the next three years.

Elizabeth shrugged. "Which dining room will Ted be in?"

"The Cypress Room," Helmut answered hopefully.

"Syd? Cheryl?"

"The same."

"Where did you plan to put me?"

With us as well. But the Countess sends her love and asks you to join her table in the Ocean Room."

"All right. I'll stay over till I see Sammy." Elizabeth looked sternly at Min, who seemed almost to cringe. "Min, I'm the one who's warning you now," she said. "Ted is the man who killed my sister. Don't dare try to arrange any more 'accidental' meetings between him and me."

Ten

Five years before, in an attempt to resolve the vociferous differences between smokers and non-smokers, Min had divided the spacious dining room into two areas, separating them by a glass wall. The Cypress Room was for nonsmokers only; the Ocean Room accommodated both. The seating was open, except for the guests who were invited to share Min and Helmut's table. When Elizabeth stood at the door of the Ocean Room, she was waved to a table by Countess d'Aronne. The problem, she soon realized, was that from her seat she had an unbroken view of Min's table in the other room. It was with a sense of deja vu that she saw them all sitting together: Min, Helmut, Syd, Cheryl, Ted, Craig.

The two other people at Min's table were Mrs. Meehan, the lottery winner, and a distinguished-looking older man. Several times she caught him glancing over at her.

Somehow she got through the dinner, managing to nibble at the chop and salad, to make some attempts at conversation with the Countess and her friends. But as though drawn to a magnet, she found herself again and again watching Ted.

The Countess noticed it, naturally. "Despite everything he looks quite wonderful, doesn't he? Oh, I'm sorry, my dear. I made a pact with myself not to mention him at all. It's just that you do realize I've known Ted since he was a little boy. His grandparents used to bring him here, when this place was a hotel."

As always, even among celebrities, Ted was the center of attention. Everything he did was effortless, Elizabeth thought-the attentive bend of his head toward Mrs. Meehan, the easy smile for the people who came to his table to greet him, the way he allowed Cheryl to slip her hand into his, then managed to disengage it casually. It was a relief to see him and Craig and the older man leave the table early.

She did not linger for the coffee that was served in the music room. Instead, she slipped out onto the veranda and down the path to her bungalow. The mist had blown off, and stars were brilliant in the dark night sky. The crashing and pounding of the surf blended with the faint sounds of the cello. There was always a musical program after dinner.

An intense sense of isolation came over Elizabeth, an indefinable sadness that was beyond Leila's death, beyond the incongruity of the company of these people who had been so much a part of her life. Syd, Cheryl, Min. She'd known them since she was the eight-year-old Miss Tag Along. The Baron. Craig. Ted.

They went back a long way, these people whom she had considered close friends and who had now closed ranks on her, who sympathized with Leila's murderer, who would come to New York to testify for him…

When she reached her bungalow, Elizabeth hesitated and then decided to sit outside for a while. The veranda furniture was comfortable-a padded sofa swing and matching deck chairs. She settled on a corner of the sofa and, with one foot against the floor, set it moving. Here in the almost-dark, she could see the lights of the big house and quietly think about the people who had incongruously been gathered here tonight.

Gathered at whose request?

And why?

Eleven

"For a nine-hundred-calorie dinner, it wasn't bad." Henry Bartlett came from his bungalow carrying a handsome leather case. He placed it on the table in Ted's sitting room and opened it, revealing a portable mini-bar. He reached for the Courvoisier and brandy snifters. "Gentlemen?"

Craig nodded assent. Ted shook his head. "I think you should know that one of the firm rules at this spa is no liquor."

"When I-or should I say you?-pay over seven hundred dollars a day for me to be at this place, I decide what I drink."

He poured a generous amount into the two glasses, handed one to Craig and walked over to the sliding glass doors. A full, creamy moon and a galaxy of brilliant silver stars lighted the inky darkness of the ocean; the crescendo of the waves attested to the awesome power of the surf. "I'll never know why Balboa called this the Pacific Ocean," Bartlett commented. "Not when you hear that sound coming from it." He turned to Ted. "Having Elizabeth Lange here could be the break of the century for you. She's an interesting girl."

Ted waited. Craig turned the stem of the glass in his hand. Bartlett looked reflective. "Interesting in a lot of ways, and most particularly for something neither one of you could have seen. Every expression in the gamut marched across her face when she saw you, Teddy. Sadness. Uncertainty. Hatred. She's been doing a lot of thinking, and my guess is that something in her is saying two plus two doesn't equal five."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Craig said flatly.

Henry pushed open the sliding glass door. Now the crescendo of the ocean became a roar. "Hear that?" he asked. "Makes it kind of hard to concentrate, doesn't it? You're paying me a lot of money to get Ted out of this mess. One of the best ways to do it is to know what I'm up against and what I have going for me."

A sharply cool gust of air interrupted him. Quickly he pulled the door shut and walked back to the table. "We were very fortunate the way the seating worked out. I spent a good part of the dinner studying Elizabeth Lange. Facial expressions and body language tell a lot. She never took her eyes off you, Teddy. If ever a woman was caught in a love-hate situation, she's it. Now my job is to figure out how we can make it work for you."

Twelve

Syd walked an unnaturally silent Cheryl back to her bungalow. He knew that dinner had been an ordeal for her. She'd never gotten over losing Ted Winters to Leila. Now it must absolutely gall her that even with Leila out of the way, Ted wouldn't respond to her. In a crazy way, that lottery winner had been a good diversion for Cheryl. Alvirah Meehan knew all about the series, told her she was perfect for the role of Amanda. "You know how sometimes you can just see a star in a role," Alvirah had said. "I read Till Tomorrow when it was in paperback, and I said, 'Willy, that would make a great television series, and only one person in the world should play Amanda, and that's Cheryl Manning.' " Of course, it was unfortunate she had also told Cheryl that Leila was her favorite actress in the whole world.

They were walking along the highest point of the property back to Cheryl's bungalow. The paths were lighted with ground-level Japanese lanterns which threw shadows on the cypress trees. The night was sparkling with stars, but the weather was supposed to change, and already the air was carrying the touch of dampness that preceded a typical Monterey Peninsula fog. Unlike the people who considered Pebble Beach the nearest spot to heaven, Syd had always felt somewhat uncomfort-able around cypress trees, with their crazy twisted shapes. No wonder some poet had compared them to ghosts. He shivered.

Matter-of-factly, he took Cheryl's arm as they turned from the main path to her bungalow. Still he waited for her to begin to talk, but she remained silent. He consoled himself with the thought that he'd had enough of her moods anyway for one day; but when he started to say good night, she interrupted him: "Come inside."

Groaning to himself, he followed her in. She wasn't ready to quit on him yet. "Where's the vodka?" he asked.

"Locked in my jewelry case. It's the only place these damn maids don't check for booze." She tossed him the key and settled herself on the striped satin couch. He poured vodka on ice for the two of them, handed her a glass and sat down opposite her, sipping his drink, watching her make a production out of tasting hers. Finally she looked squarely at him. "What did you think about tonight?"

"I'm not sure I get your meaning."

She looked scornful. "Of course you do. When Ted drops his guard, he looks haunted. It's obvious Craig is worried sick. Min and the Baron make me think of a pair of high-wire acrobats on a slippery rope. That lawyer never took his eyes off Elizabeth, and she was spying on our table all night. I've always suspected she had a case on Ted. As for that crazy lottery winner-if Min puts me next to her tomorrow night, I'll strangle her!"

"The hell you will! Listen, Cheryl, you may get the part. Great. There's still always the chance the series will die in the ratings. A slight chance, I grant you, but a chance. If that happens, you're going to need a movie role. There are plenty of them around, but movies need backing. That lady's gonna have a lot of bucks for investment capital. Keep smiling at her."

Cheryl's eyes narrowed. "Ted could be talked into financing a movie for me. I know he could. He told me it wasn't fair that I was stuck with the play last year."

"Get this straight: Craig is a lot more cautious than Ted. If Ted goes to prison, he'll run the show. And another thing. You're crazy if you think Elizabeth has the hots for Ted. If she did, why the hell would she be putting a noose around his neck? All she has to do is say she was wrong about the time and how wonderful Ted was to Leila. Period. Case dismissed."

Cheryl finished her drink and imperiously held out her empty glass. Silently, Syd got up, refilled it and added a generous splash of vodka to his own. "Men are too dumb to see," Cheryl told him as he placed the drink in front of her. "You remember the kind of kid Elizabeth was. Polite, but if you asked her a direct question, you got a direct answer. And she never made excuses. She just doesn't know how to lie. She'd never lie for herself, and unfortunately she won't lie for Ted. But before this is over she's going to look under stones to try to find some sort of positive proof of what happened that night. That can make her very dangerous.

"Something else, Syd. You heard that nutty Alvirah Meehan say she read in a fan magazine that Leila LaSalle's apartment was like a motel? That Leila gave out keys to all her friends in case they wanted to stay over?"

Cheryl got up from the couch, walked over to Syd, sat beside him and put her hands on his knees. " You had a key to the apartment, didn't you, Syd?"

"So did you."

"I know it. Leila got a kick out of patronizing me, knowing I couldn't afford one room in that building, never mind a duplex. But when she died, the bartender in the Jockey Club can testify I was lingering over a drink. My dinner date was late. You were my dinner date, Syd, dear. How much did you put up for that goddamn play?"

Syd felt his knuckles harden and hoped that Cheryl could not feel the instant rigidity of his body. "What are you driving at?"

"The afternoon before Leila died, you told me you were going to see Leila, to beg her to reconsider. You had at least a million tied up in that play. Your million or borrowed money, Syd? You shoved me into that disaster as a replacement, just the way you'd send a lamb to slaughter. Why? Because you were willing to risk my career on the faint chance that maybe the play could still work. And my memory has improved a lot. You're always on time. That night, you were fifteen minutes late. You came into the Jockey Club at nine forty-five. You were dead white. Your hands kept trembling. You spilled a drink on the table. Leila had died at nine thirty-one. Her apartment was less than a ten-minute walk from the Jockey Club."

Cheryl put her hands on the sides of his face. "Syd, I want that part. See that I get it. If I do, I promise you, drunk or sober, I'll never remember that you were late that night, that you looked terrible, that you had a key to Leila's apartment and that Leila had virtually driven you into bankruptcy. Now get the hell out of here. I need my beauty sleep."

Thirteen

Min and Helmut kept their smiles fixed and warm until they were safely in their own apartment. Then, wordlessly, they turned to each other. Helmut put his arms around Min. His lips brushed her cheeks. With practiced skill, his hands massaged her neck. "Liebchen."

"Helmut, was it as bad as I think?"

His voice was soft. "Minna, I tried to warn you it would be a mistake to bring Elizabeth here, yes? You understand her. Now she's furious at you, but beyond that, something else has happened. Your back was to her at dinner, but I could see the way she was observing us from her table. It was as if she were seeing us for the first time."

"I thought if she just saw Ted… You know how much she cared about him… I've always suspected that she was in love with him herself."

"I know what you thought. But it hasn't worked. So, no more about it tonight, Minna. Get into bed. I'm going to make a cup of hot milk for you, and give you a sleeping pill. Tomorrow you'll be your usual overbearing self."

Min smiled wanly and allowed him to lead her toward the bedroom. His arm was still around her; she was half-leaning against him. Her head fitted into the crook of his shoulder. After ten years she still loved the scent of him, the hint of expensive cologne, the feel of his superbly tailored jacket. In his arms, she could forget about his predecessor, with his cold hands and his petulance.

When Helmut returned with the hot milk, she was propped up in bed, the silken pillows framing her loosened hair. She knew the rose-tinted shade on the night table threw a flattering glow on her high cheekbones and dark eyes. The appreciation she saw in her husband's eyes when he handed her the delicate Limoges cup was gratifying. "Liebchen," he whispered, "I wish you knew how I feel about you. After all this time, you still don't trust that feeling, do you?"

Seize the moment. She had to do it. "Helmut, something is terribly wrong, something you haven't told me. What is it?"

He shrugged. "You know what's wrong. Spas are springing up all over the country. The rich are restless people, fickle… The cost of the Roman bath has exceeded my expectation-I admit it… Nevertheless, I am sure that when we finally open it-"

"Helmut, promise me one thing. No matter what, we won't touch the Swiss account. I'd rather let this place go. At my age, I can't be broke again." Min tried to keep her voice from rising.

"We won't touch it, Minna. I promise." He handed her the sleeping pill. "So. As your husband… as a doctor… I order you to swallow this, immediately."

"I'll take it, gladly."

He sat on the edge of the bed as she sipped the milk. "Aren't you coming to bed?" Her voice was drowsy.

"Not yet. I'll read for a bit. That's my sleeping pill."

After he turned out the light and left the room, Min felt herself drifting off to sleep. Her last conscious thought became an inaudible whisper. "Helmut," she pleaded, "what are you hiding from me?"

Fourteen

At quarter of ten Elizabeth saw the guests begin to stream from the main house. She knew that in a few minutes the whole place would be silent, curtains drawn, lights extinguished. The day began early at the Spa. After the strenuous exercise classes and the relaxing beauty treatments, most people were more than ready to retire by ten o'clock.

She sighed when she saw one figure leave the main path and turn in her direction. Instinctively she knew it was Mrs. Meehan.

"I thought you might be a little lonesome," Alvirah said as, uninvited, she settled herself on one of the deck chairs. "Wasn't dinner good? You'd never guess you were counting calories, would you? Buhlieve me, I wouldn't weigh one hundred and sixty-five pounds if I'd eaten like this all my life."

She rearranged the shawl on her shoulders. "This thing keeps slipping." She looked around. "It's a beautiful night, isn't it? All those stars. I guess they don't have as much pollution here as in Queens. And the ocean. I love that sound. What was I saying? Oh, yes-dinner. You could have knocked me over when the waiter-or was he a butler?-put that tray in front of me, with the spoon and fork. You know, at home we just kind of dig in. I mean who needs a spoon and fork to get at string beans, or an itsy-bitsy lamb chop? But then I remembered the way Greer Garson helped herself from the fancy silver platter in Valley of Decision , and I was okay. You can always count on the movies."

Unwillingly, Elizabeth smiled. There was something so genuinely honest about Alvirah Meehan. Honesty was a rare commodity at the Spa. "I'm sure you did fine."

Alvirah fiddled with her sunburst pin. "To tell the truth, I couldn't take my eyes of Ted Winters. I was all set to hate him, but he was so nice to me. Boy, was I surprised at how snippy that Cheryl Manning is. She certainly hated Leila, didn't she?"

Elizabeth moistened her lips. "What makes you think that?"

"I just happened to say at dinner that I thought Leila would become a legend like Marilyn Monroe, and she said that if it's still fashionable to consider a washed-up drunk a legend, Leila just might make it." Alvirah felt a pang of regret at having to tell this to Leila's sister. But as she'd always read, a good reporter gets the story.

"How did the others respond to that?" Elizabeth asked quietly.

"They all laughed, except Ted Winters. He said that was a sickening thing to say."

"You can't mean Min and Craig thought it was funny?"

"It's hard to be sure," Alvirah said hastily. "Sometimes people laugh when they're embarrassed. But even that lawyer who's with Ted Winters said something like it's pretty clear Leila wouldn't win any popularity contests around here."

Elizabeth stood up. "It was nice of you to drop by, Mrs. Meehan. I'm afraid I have to change now. I always like to take a swim before I go to bed."

"I know. They talked about that at the table. Craig-is that his name, Mr. Winters' assistant-?"

"Yes."

"He asked the Baroness how long you were going to stay. She told him probably until day after tomorrow because you were waiting to see someone named Sammy."

"That's right."

"And Syd Melnick said that he has a hunch you're going to avoid all of them. Then the Baroness said that the one place you can always find Elizabeth is swimming in the Olympic pool around ten o'clock at night. I guess she was right."

"She knows I like to swim. Do you know your way to your cottage, Mrs. Meehan? If not, I'll walk with you. It can be confusing in the dark."

"No, I'm fine. I enjoyed talking to you." Alvirah pulled herself up from the chair and, ignoring the path, began to cut across the lawn to her bungalow. She was disappointed that Elizabeth hadn't said anything that would be helpful for her articles. But on the other hand, she had gotten a lot of material at dinner. She certainly could do a meaty article on jealousy!

Wouldn't the reading public be interested to hear that Leila LaSalle's very best friends all acted as if they were glad she was dead!

Fifteen

Carefully, he drew the shades and extinguished the lights. He was frantic to hurry. It might already be too late, but there was no way he could have ventured out before now. When he opened the outside door, he shivered for a moment. The air had become chilly, and he was wearing only swim trunks and a dark T-shirt.

The grounds were quiet, lighted only by the now-dimmed lanterns along the footpaths and in the trees. It was easy to stay hidden in the shadows as he hurried toward the Olympic pool. Would she still be there?

The change in wind had caused a mist to blow in from the sea. In minutes, the stars had been covered by clouds, the moon had disappeared. Even if anyone happened to stand at a window and look out, he would not be seen.

Elizabeth planned to stay at the Spa until she saw Sammy tomorrow night. That gave him only a day and a half-until Tuesday morning-to arrange her death.

He stopped at the shrubbery that edged the patio around the Olympic pool. In the darkness he could barely see Elizabeth 's moving form as she swam with swift, sure strokes from one end of the pool to the other. Carefully, he calculated his chance of success. The idea had come to him when Min said Elizabeth was always in this pool around ten o'clock. Even strong swimmers have accidents. A sudden cramp, no one within hearing distance if she cried out, no marks, no signs of struggle... His plan was to slip into the pool when she was almost at the opposite end, wait and pounce on her as she passed him, hold her down until she stopped struggling. Now, he edged his way from behind the shrubbery. It was dark enough to risk a closer look.

He had forgotten how fast she swam. Though she was so slender, the muscles in her arms were like steel. Suppose she was able to fight long enough to attract attention? And she was probably wearing one of those damn whistles Min insisted lone swimmers put on.

His eyes narrowed in anger and frustration as he crouched nearer and nearer the edge of the pool, ready to spring, not sure if this was the precisely right moment. She was a faster swimmer than he was. In the water she might have the advantage over him…

He could not afford to make a second mistake.

In aqua sanitas. The Romans had chiseled the motto into the walls of their bathhouses. If I believed in reincarnation, I would think I had lived in those times, Elizabeth thought as she glided across the dark recess of the pool. When she had begun to swim, it had been possible to see not only the perimeter of the pool, but the surrounding area with its lounge chairs and umbrella tables and flowering hedges. Now they were only dark silhouettes.

The persistent headache she'd had all evening began to ebb, the sense of enclosure faded; once again she began to experience the release she had always found in water. "Do you think it started in the womb?" she'd once joked to Leila. "I mean this absolute sensation of being free when I'm immersed."

Leila's answer had shocked her: "Maybe Mama was happy when she was carrying you, Sparrow. I've always thought that your father was Senator Lange. He and Mama had a big thing going after my daddy-dear split the scene. When I was in the womb, I gather they called me 'the mistake.''

It was Leila who had suggested that Elizabeth use the stage name Lange. "It probably should be your real name, Sparrow," she had said. "Why not?"

As soon as Leila began making money, she had sent a check to Mama every month. One day the check was returned uncashed by Mama's last boyfriend. Mama had died of acute alcoholism.

Elizabeth touched the far wall, brought her knees to her chest and flipped her body over, changing from a backstroke to a breaststroke in one fluid movement. Was it possible that Leila's fear of personal relationships had begun at the moment of conception? Can a speck of protoplasm sense that the climate is hostile, and can that realization color a whole life? Wasn't it because of Leila that she'd never experienced that terrible sense of parental rejection? She remembered her mother's description of bringing her home from the hospital: "Leila took her out of my arms. She moved the crib into her room. She was only eleven, but she became that child's mother. I wanted to call her Laverne, but Leila put her foot down. She said, "Her name is Elizabeth!" One more reason to be grateful to Leila, Elizabeth thought.

The soft ripple that her body made as she moved through the water masked the faint sound of footsteps at the other end of the pool. She had reached the north end and was starting back. For some reason she began to swim furiously, as though sensing danger .

The shadowy figure edged its way along the wall. He coldly calculated the speed of her swift, graceful progress. Timing was essential. Grab her from behind as she passed, lie over her body, hold her face in the water until she stopped struggling. How long would it take? A minute? Two? But suppose she wasn't that easy to subdue? This had to appear to be an accidental drowning.

Then an idea came to him, and in the darkness his lips stretched in the semblance of a smile. Why hadn't he thought of the scuba equipment earlier?

Wearing the oxygen tank would make it possible for him to hold her at the bottom of the pool until he was certain she was dead. The wet suit, the gloves, the mask, the goggles were a perfect disguise, if anyone happened to see him cutting across the grounds.

He watched as she began to swim toward the steps. The impulse to get rid of her now was almost overwhelming. Tomorrow night, he promised himself. Carefully he moved closer as she placed her foot on the bottom step of the ladder and straightened up. His narrowed eyes strained to watch as she slipped on her robe and began to walk along the path to her bungalow.

Tomorrow night he would be waiting here for her. The next morning someone would spot her body at the bottom of the pool, as the workman had spotted Leilas body in the courtyard.

And he would have nothing left to fear.