Weep No More, My Lady

QUOTE FOR THE DAY:

Good morning, dear guests.

We hope you have slept blissfully. The weatherman promises us yet another beautiful Cypress Point Spa day.

A little reminder. Some of us are forgetting to fill out our luncheon menu. We don't want you to have to wait for service after all that vigorous exercise and delicious pampering of the morning. So do please take a tiny moment to circle your choices before you leave your room now.

In just a moment, we'll be greeting you on our morning walk. Hurry and join us.

And remember, another day at Cypress Point Spa means another set of dazzling hours dedicated to making you a more beautiful person, the kind of person people long to be with, to touch, to love.

Baron and Baroness Helmut von Schreiber

One

Elizabeth woke long before dawn on Monday morning. Even the swim had not performed its usual magic. For what seemed most of the night, she had been troubled with broken dreams, fragments that came and went intermittently. They were all in the dreams: Mama, Leila, Ted, Craig, Syd, Cheryl, Sammy, Min, Helmut-even Leila's two husbands, those transitory charlatans who had used her success to get themselves into the spotlight: the first an actor, the second a would-be producer and socialite…

At six o'clock she got out of bed, pulled up the shade, then huddled back under the light covers. It was chilly, but she loved to watch the sun come up. It seemed to her that the early morning had a dreamy quality of its own, the human quiet was so absolute. The only sounds came from the seabirds along the shore.

At six thirty there was a tap on the door. Vicky, the maid who brought in the wake-up glass of juice, had been with the Spa for years. She was a sturdy sixty-year-old woman who supplemented her husband's pension by what she sardonically called "carrying breakfast roses to fading blossoms." They greeted each other with the warmth of old friends.

"It feels strange to be on the guest end of the place," Elizabeth commented.

"You earned your right to be here. I saw you in Hilltop. You're a damn good actress."

"I still feel surer of myself teaching water aerobics."

"And Princess Di can always get a job teaching kindergarten. Come off it."

She deliberately waited until she was sure that the daily procession called The Cypress Hike was in progress. By the time she went out, the marchers, led by Min and the Baron, were already nearing the path that led to the coast. The hike took in the Spa property, the Crocker wooded preserve and Cypress Point, wound past the Pebble Beach golf course, circled the Lodge and backtracked to the Spa. In all, it was a brisk fifty-minute exercise, followed by breakfast.

Elizabeth waited until the hikers were out of sight before she began jogging in the opposite direction from them. It was still early, and traffic was light. She would have preferred to run along the coast, where she could have an unbroken view of the ocean, but that would have meant risking being noticed by the others.

If only Sammy were back, she thought as she began to quicken her pace. I could talk to her and be on a plane this afternoon. She wanted to get away from here. If Alvirah Meehan was to be believed, Cheryl had called Leila a "washed-up drunk" last night. And except for Ted, her murderer, everyone else had laughed.

Min, Helmut, Syd, Cheryl, Craig, Ted. The people who had been closest to Leila; the weeping mourners at her memorial service. Oh, Leila! Elizabeth thought. Incongruously, lines from a song she had learned as a child came back to her.

Though all the world betray thee,

One sword at least thy rights shall guard,

One faithful heart shall praise thee.

I'll sing your praises, Leila! Tears stung her eyes, and she dabbed at them impatiently. She began to jog faster, as if to outrun her thoughts. The early-morning mist was being burned away by the sun; the thick shrubbery that bordered the homes along the road was bathed in morning dew; the sea gulls arced overhead and swooped back to the shore. How accurate a witness was Alvirah Meehan? There was something oddly intense about the woman, something that went beyond her excitement at being here.

She was passing the Pebble Beach golf links. Early golfers were already on the course. She had taken up golf in college. Leila had never played. She used to tell Ted that someday she'd make time to learn. She never would have, Elizabeth thought, and a smile touched her lips; Leila was too impatient to traipse after a ball for four or five hours…

Her breath was coming in gulps, and she slowed her pace. I'm out of shape, she thought. Today she would go to the women's spa and take a full schedule of exercises and treatments. It would be a useful way to pass the time. She turned down the road that led back to the Spa-and collided with Ted.

He grasped her arms to keep her from falling. Gasping at the force of the impact, she struggled to push him away from her. "Let go of me." Her voice rose. "I said, let go of me." She was aware that there was no one else on the road. He was perspiring, his T-shirt clinging to his body. The expensive watch Leila had given him glistened in the sun.

He released her. Stunned and frightened, she watched as he stared down at her, his expression inscrutable. " Elizabeth, I've got to talk to you."

He wasn't even going to pretend he hadn't planned this.

"Say what you have to say in court." She tried to pass him, but he blocked her way. Inadvertently she stepped back. Was this what Leila had felt at the end: this sense of being trapped?

"I said listen to me." It seemed that he had sensed her fear and was infuriated by it.

" Elizabeth, you haven't given me a chance. I know how it looks. Maybe-and this is something I just don't know-maybe you're right, and I went back upstairs. I was drunk and angry, but I was also terribly worried about Leila. Elizabeth, think about this: if you are right, if I did go back up, if that woman is right who says she saw me struggling with Leila, won't you at least grant that I might have been trying to save her? You know how depressed Leila was that day. She was almost out of her mind."

"If you went back upstairs. Are you telling me now that you're willing to concede you went back upstairs?" Elizabeth felt as though her lungs were closing. The air seemed suddenly humid and heavy with the scent of still-damp cypress leaves and moist earth. Ted was just over six feet tall, but the three-inch difference in their heights seemed to disappear as they stared at each other. She was aware again of the intensity of the lines that seared the skin around his eyes and mouth.

" Elizabeth, I know how you must feel about me, but there is something you have to understand. I don't remember what happened that night. I was so damn drunk; so damn upset. Over these months I've begun to have some vague impression of being at the door of Leila's apartment, of pushing it open. So maybe you're right, maybe you did hear me call something to her. But I have absolutely no memory beyond that!'That is the truth as I know it. The next question: do you think, drunk or sober, that I'm capable of murder?"

His dark blue eyes were clouded with pain. He bit his lip and held his hands out imploringly. "Well, Elizabeth?"

In a quick move she darted around him and ran for the gates of the Spa. The district attorney had predicted this. If Ted didn't think he could lie his way out of being on the terrace with Leila, he would say he was trying to save her.

She didn't look back until she was at the gates. Ted had not attempted to follow her. He was standing where she had left him, staring after her, his hands on his hips.

Her arms were still burning from the force with which his hands had grabbed her. She remembered something else the district attorney had told her.

Without her as a witness, Ted would go free.

Two

At eight A.M., Dora "Sammy" Samuels backed her car out of her cousin Elsie's driveway and with a sigh of relief began the drive from the Napa Valley to the Monterey Peninsula. With any luck, she'd be there about two o'clock. Originally she'd planned to leave in the late afternoon, and Elsie had been openly annoyed that she'd changed her mind, but she was eager to get back to the Spa and go through the rest of the mailbags.

She was a wiry seventy-one-year-old woman with steel-gray hair pulled back in a neat bun. Old-fashioned rimless glasses sat on the bridge of her small, straight nose. It had been a year and a half since an aneurism had nearly killed her, and the massive surgery had left her with a permanent air of fragility, but until now she had always impatiently shaken off any talk of retirement.

It had been a disquieting weekend. Her cousin had always disapproved of Dora's job with Leila. "Answering fan mail from vapid women" was the way she put it. "I should think with your brains, you'd find a better way to spend your time. Why don't you do volunteer teaching?"

Long ago, Dora had given up trying to explain to Elsie that after thirty-five years of teaching, she never wanted to see a textbook again, that the eight years she'd worked for Leila had been the most exciting of her own uneventful life.

This weekend had been particularly trying, because when Elsie saw her going through the sack of fan mail, she'd been astonished. "You mean to tell me that seventeen months after that woman died, you're still writing to her fans? Are you crazy?"

No, she wasn't, Dora told herself as she drove well within the speed limit through the wine country. It was a hot, lazy day, but even so, busloads of sightseers were already passing her, heading for vineyard tours and wine-tasting parties.

She had not tried to explain to Elsie that sending personal notes to the people who had loved Leila was a way of assuaging her own sense of loss. She had also not told her cousin the reason why she had brought up the heavy sack of mail. She was searching to see if Leila had received other poison-pen letters than the one she had already found.

That one had been mailed three days before Leila died. The address on the envelope and the enclosed note were put together with words and phrases snipped from magazines and newspapers. It read:

Leila,

How many Times Do I Hai'e to write? Can't YOU get it straight ThAT Ted is sick of you? His new girl is beautiful and much younger THaN you. I told you THAT the emerald necklace HE gave Her matcHes the bracelet he gave you. It cost Twice as much And looks ten Times better. I hear your play is Lousy. You really should Learn your lines. I'll write again soon.

Your friend.

Thinking of that note, of the others that must have preceded it, brought a fresh burst of outrage. Leila, Leila, she whispered. Who would do that to you?

She of all people had understood Leila's terrible vulnerability, understood that her outward confidence, her flamboyant public image was the facade of a deeply insecure woman.

She remembered how Elizabeth had gone off to school just at the time she'd started working for Leila. She'd seen Leila come back from the airport, lonely, devastated, in tears. "God, Sammy," she said. "I can't believe I may not see Sparrow for months. But a Swiss boarding school! Won't that be a great experience for her? A big difference from Lumber Creek High, my alma mater." Then she said hesitantly, "Sammy, I'm not doing anything tonight. Will you stay, and let's get something to eat?"

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

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

"If you want to laugh, hire a clown."

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

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

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

"Are you crazy? Have you stopped looking in the mirror?"

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

"Come off it. I saw the dailies too. You're wonderful"

She'd won the Oscar for that performance.

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

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

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

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

Three

When Elizabeth reached her bungalow, she found a note from Min pinned with her schedule to the terry-cloth robe folded on the bed. It read:

My dear Elizabeth,

I do hope that while you are here you will enjoy a day of treatment and exercise at the Spa. As you know, it is necessary that all new guests consult briefly with Helmut before beginning any activities. I have scheduled you for his first appointment.

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

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

She would have preferred to avoid seeing Helmut, but she didn't want to make an issue of it.

Her interview with him was brief. He checked her pulse and blood pressure, then examined her skin under a strong light. "Your face is like a fine carving," he told her. "You are one of those fortunate women who will become more beautiful as you age. It's all in the bone structure."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He did not reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Four

Alvirah collapsed on her bed with a grateful sigh. She was dying for a nap, but knew it was important to record her impressions while they were fresh in her mind. She propped herself on her pillows, reached for the recorder and began to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The Baron seemed pleased that I noticed. He said he'd had a hand in creating it."

Five

Ted spent the morning working out in the gym in the men's spa. With Craig at his side, he rowed stationary boats, pedaled stationary bicycles and methodically made his way through the aerobics machines.

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

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

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

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

"Min would know better than to blab-"

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

"Make it three," Craig said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And you and Leila always won. Elizabeth was stuck with me. As Leila put it, 'Bulldogs can't spell'"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Henry asked.

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

"I'm not sure I'd have been flattered."

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

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

"Let's order lunch," Henry said. "We've got a long afternoon of work ahead of us."

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

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

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

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

"I refuse to concede that I might have killed Leila. I won't even consider it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bartlett nodded. "They're all fine. See which one can get right on the case. I want to know if Sally Ross is a drinker; if she has friends she confides in; if she's ever discussed the case with them; if any of them were with her the night Leila LaSalle died.

Don't forget, everyone's taking her word that she was in her apartment and happened to be looking at Leila's terrace at the precise moment Leila plunged off it."

He glanced at Ted. "With or without Teddy's help."

When Craig and Henry finally left him at quarter of five, Ted felt drained. Restlessly he switched on the television set and in a reflex gesture switched it off. He certainly wouldn't clear his mind by watching soap operas. A walk would feel good, a long, long walk where he could breathe in the salty spray of the ocean and maybe wander past his grandparents' house where he'd spent so much time as a kid.

Instead, he elected to shower. He went into the bathroom and for a moment stared at his reflection in the paneled mirror that covered half the wall around the oversize marble sink. Flecks of gray around his temples. Signs of strain around his eyes. A tautness around his mouth. Stress manifests itself both mentally and physically. He'd heard a pop psychologist deliver that line on a morning news program. No kidding, he thought.

Craig had suggested that they might share a two-bedroom unit. Ted hadn't answered, and obviously Craig got the message; he hadn't pursued the idea.

Wouldn't it be nice if everybody understood without being told that you needed a certain amount of space? He stripped and tossed his discarded clothes into the bathroom hamper. With a half-smile he remembered how Kathy, his wife, had gotten him out of the habit of dropping clothes as he stepped out of them. "I don't care how rich your family is," she would chide. "I think it's disgusting to expect another human being to pick your laundry off the floor."

"But it's distinguished laundry."

His face in her hair. The scent she always used, a twenty-dollar cologne. "Save your money. I can't wear expensive perfume. It overwhelms me."

The icy shower helped to relieve the dull, throbbing headache. Feeling somewhat better, Ted wrapped the terry-cloth robe around him, rang for the maid and requested iced tea. It would have been enjoyable to sit on the deck, but too much of a risk. He didn't want to get into a conversation with someone walking by. Cheryl. It would be just like her to "accidentally" pass. Good God, would she never get over their casual affair? She was beautiful, she had been amusing and she did have a certain hardheaded ability to cut through the bull-but even if he didn't have the trial hanging over his head, there was no way he would get involved with her again.

He settled on the couch, where he could look out on the ocean and watch the sea gulls arcing over the foaming surf, beyond the threat of the undertow, beyond the power of the waves to crash them against the rocks.

He felt himself begin to perspire as the prospect of the trial loomed in his mind. Impatiently, he got up and pushed open the door to the side deck. Late August usually carried this welcome tang of chill. He put his hands on the railing.

When had he begun to realize that he and Leila wouldn't make it, in the long run? The mistrust for men so ingrained in her head had become intolerable. Was that the reason he'd overruled Craig's advice and put the millions in her play? Subconsciously had he hoped that she would get so caught up in a smash hit that she would decide she didn't want to accept the social demands of his life, or his desire for a family? Leila was an actress-first, last, always. She talked about wanting a child, but it wasn't true. She had satisfied her maternal instincts by raising Elizabeth.

The sun was beginning to lower over the Pacific. The air was filled with the humming of the crickets and the katydids. Evening. Dinner. He could already see the expressions on the faces around the table. Min and Helmut, phony smiles, worried eyes. Craig trying to read his mind. Syd, a certain defiant nervousness about him. How much did Syd owe the wrong people for the money he'd put into the play? How much was Syd hoping to borrow? How much was his testimony worth? Cheryl, all seductive enticement. Alvirah Meehan, fiddling with that damn sunburst pin, her eyes snapping with curiosity. Henry watching Elizabeth through the glass partition. Elizabeth, her face cold and scornful, studying them all.

Ted glanced down. The bungalow was set on slop-ing ground, and the side veranda jutted out over a ten-foot drop. He stared at the red-flowered bushes below. Images formed in his mind, and he rushed back inside.

He was still trembling when the maid came with the iced tea. Heedless of the delicate satin puff, he threw himself down on the massive king-size bed. He wished that dinner were over; that the night, with all it entailed, were over.

His mouth curved in a grim attempt at a smile. Why was he wishing the evening away? What kind of dinners do they serve in prison? he wondered.

He would have plenty of evenings to find out.

Six

Dora arrived back at the Spa at two o'clock, dropped her bag in her room and went directly to her desk in the reception office.

Min had allowed her to keep the sacks of unanswered fan mail in a closet in the file room. Dora usually took out a handful at a time and kept them in the bottom drawer of her desk. She knew the sight of Leila's mail was an irritant to Min. Now she didn't care if Min was annoyed. She had the rest of the day off, and she intended to search for any further letters.

For the tenth time since she had found it, Dora re-examined the poison-pen letter. With each reading, her conviction grew that there might have been at least an element of truth in it. Happy as Leila had been with Ted, her distress over the last three or four films had often made her temperamental and moody. Dora had noticed Ted's increasing impatience with the outbursts. Had he become involved with another woman?

That was exactly the way Leila would have been thinking if she opened this kind of letter or a series of these letters. It would explain the anxiety, the drinking, the despondency of those last months. Leila often said, "There are just two people I know I can trust in this world: Sparrow and Falcon. Now you, Sammy, are getting there." Dora had felt honored. "And the Q.E. Two"-Leila's name for Min- "is a do-or-die friend, provided there's a buck in it for her and it doesn't conflict with anything the Toy Soldier wants."

Dora reached the office and was glad to see that Min and Helmut weren't there. Outside, the day was sunny, the breeze from the Pacific gentle. Far down on the rocky embankments over the ocean, she could see the traces of ice plants, the henna-and-green-and-rust-shaded leaves that lived on water and air. Elizabeth and Ted had been water and air to Leila.

Quickly she went into the file room. With Min's passion for beautiful surroundings, even this small storage area was extravagantly designed. The cus-tom-made files were a sunny yellow, the ceramic-tile floor was in shades of gold and umber, a Jacobean sideboard had been converted into a supply cupboard.

There were still two full sacks of letters to Leila. They ranged from lined paper torn from a child'* notebook to expensive, perfumed stationery. Dora scooped a batch of them into her arms and brought them to her desk.

It was a slow process. She could not assume that another anonymous letter would necessarily come addressed with snipped and pasted words and numbers like the one she had found. She began with the letters already opened, the ones Leila had seen. But after forty minutes she'd gotten nowhere. Most of the mail was the usual. You're my favorite actress… I named my daughter after you… I saw you on Johnny Carson. You looked beautiful, and you were so funny… But there were also several surprisingly harsh critical notes. That's the last time I spend five dollars to see you. What a lousy movie… Do you read your scripts, Leila, or just take what roles you can get?

Her rapt concentration caused her to be unaware of Min and Helmut's four-o'clock arrival. One minute she was alone; the next they were approaching her desk. She looked up, tried to summon a natural smile and with a casual movement of her hand slid the anonymous letter into the pile.

It was clear that Min was upset. She did not seem to notice that Dora was early. "Sammy, get me the file on the bathhouse."

Min waited while she went for it. When she returned, Helmut reached out his hand to take the manila folder, but Min literally grabbed it first. Min was ghastly pale. Helmut patted her arm. "Minna, please, you are hyperventilating."

Min ignored him. "Come inside," she ordered Dora.

"I'll just tidy up first." Dora indicated her desk.

"Forget it. It's not going to make any difference."

There was nothing she could do. If she made any attempt to put the anonymous letter into her drawer, Min would demand to see it. Dora patted her hair and followed Min and Helmut into their private office. Something was dreadfully wrong, and it had to do with that blasted Roman bath.

Min went to her own desk, opened the file and began to race through the papers in it. Most of the correspondence was in the form of bills from the contractor. "Five hundred thousand down, three hundred thousand, twenty-five thousand…" She kept reading, her voice going higher and higher. "And now another four hundred thousand dollars before he can continue working on the interior rooms." She slapped the papers down and slammed her fist on them.

Dora hurried to get a glass of ice water from the office refrigerator. Helmut rushed around the desk, put his hands on Min's temples and made soft, shushing sounds. "Minna, Minna, you must relax.

Think about something pleasant. You'll bring on high blood pressure."

Dora handed the glass to Min and looked contemptuously at Helmut. That spendthrift, she thought, would put Min in her grave with his crazy projects! Min had been absolutely right when she'd suggested that they add a self-contained budget-price spa on the back half of the property. That would have worked. Secretaries as well as socialites were going to spas these days. Instead, this pompous fool had persuaded Min to build the bathhouse. "It will make a statement about us to the world" was his favorite phrase when he talked Min into plunging into debt. Dora knew the finances of this place as well as they did. It couldn't go on. She cut through Helmut's soothing "Minna, Minna-"

"Stop work on the bathhouse immediately," she suggested crisply. "The outside is finished, so the place looks all right. Say the special marble you ordered for the interior has been held up. No one will know the difference. The contractor's pretty much paid to date, isn't he?"

"Very nearly," Helmut agreed. He smiled brightly at Dora as though she had just solved an intricate puzzle. "Dora is right, Minna. We'll put off finishing the bathhouse."

Min ignored him. "I want to go over those figures again." For the next half-hour they had their heads together comparing the contracts, the estimates and the actual figures. At one point Min and then Helmut left the room. Don't let them go to my desk,

Dora prayed. She knew the minute Min calmed down, she would be annoyed to see clutter in the reception area.

Finally Min tossed the original sketches across her desk. "I want to talk to that damn lawyer. It looks to me as if the contractor is entitled to price over-runs on every phase of the job."

"This contractor has soul," Helmut said. "He understands the concept of what we are doing. Minna, we stop building for the moment. Dora is right. We turn the problem into a virtue. We are awaiting shipment of Carrara marble. We still settle for nothing less, yes? So. We shall be admired as purists. Liebchen, don't you know that to create a desire for something is every bit as important as fulfilling it?"

Dora was suddenly aware of another presence in the room. She looked up quickly. Cheryl was standing there, her shapely body curved against the doorframe, her eyes amused. "Have I come at a bad time?" she asked brightly. Without waiting for an answer, she strolled over and leaned past Dora. "Oh, I see you're going over the sketches of the Roman bath." She bent over to examine them.

"Four pools, steam rooms, saunas, more massage rooms, sleeping rooms? I love the idea of nap time after a strenuous romp through the mineral baths! Incidentally, won't it cost a fortune to provide real mineral water for the baths? Do you intend to fake it or pipe it in from Baden-Baden?" She straightened up gracefully. "It looks as though you two could use a little investment capital. Ted respects my opinion, you know. In fact, he used to listen to me quite a bit before Leila got her fangs into him. See you people at dinner."

At the door she turned back and looked over her shoulder. "Oh, by the way, Min, dear, I left my bill on Dora's desk. I'm sure it was just an oversight that one was left in my bungalow. I know you planned to have me as your guest, dear."

Cheryl had left the bill on her desk. Dora knew that meant she had gone through the mail. Cheryl was what she was. She had probably seen the letter to Leila.

Min looked at Helmut. Frustrated tears welled in her eyes. "She knows we're in a bad financial bind, and it would be just like her to tip the columnists off! Now we have another freebie-and don't think she won't use this place as a second home!" Despairingly, Min jammed the scattered bills and sketches back into the file.

Dora took it from her and replaced it in the file room. Her heart fluttering rapidly, she went back to the reception room. The letters to Leila were scattered on her desk; the poison-pen one was missing.

Dismayed, Dora tried to assess what harm that letter might do. Could it be used to blackmail Ted? Or was whoever sent it anxious to have it back, just in case someone tried to trace it?

If only she hadn't been reading it when Min and Helmut came in! Dora sat down at her desk; only then did she notice that propped against her calendar was Cheryl's bill for her week at the Spa.

Scrawled across it Cheryl had written Paid in full.

Seven

At six thirty the phone in Elizabeth 's bungalow rang. It was Min. " Elizabeth, I want you to have dinner with Helmut and me tonight. Ted, his lawyer, Craig, Cheryl, Syd-they're all going out." For a moment she sounded like the familiar Min, imperious, brooking no refusal. Then, before Elizabeth could answer, her tone softened. "Please, Elizabeth. You're going home in the morning. We have missed you."

"Is this another one of your games, Min?"

"I was absolutely wrong to have forced that meeting last night. I can only ask you to forgive me."

Min sounded weary, and Elizabeth felt reluctant sympathy. If Min chose to believe in Ted's innocence, so be it. Her scheme to throw them together had been outrageous, but that was Min's way.

"You're certain none of them will be in the dining room…?"

"I am certain. Do join us, Elizabeth. You're leaving tomorrow. I've hardly seen you."

It was totally out of character for Min to plead. This would be her only chance to visit with Min, and besides, Elizabeth was not sure she welcomed the prospect of a solitary dinner.

She had had a full afternoon at the Spa, including a loofah treatment, two stretch-exercise classes, a pedicure and manicure, and finally a yoga class. In the yoga class, she'd tried to free her mind, but no matter how much she concentrated, she could not obey the soothing suggestions of the instructor. Over and over, against her will, she kept hearing Ted's question: If I did go back upstairs… Was I trying to save her?

" Elizabeth…?"

Elizabeth gripped the phone and glanced around, drinking in the restful monochromatic color scheme of this expensive bungalow. "Leila green," Min called it. Min had been sickeningly high-handed last night, but she had certainly loved Leila. Elizabeth heard herself accepting the invitation.

The large bathroom included a step-in tub, whirlpool, stall shower and personal steam-room facility. She chose Leila's favorite way to wind down. Lying in the tub, she took advantage of both steam and whirlpool. Eyes closed, her head cushioned by a terry-cloth neck rest, she felt tension slip away under the soothing mist and churning water.

Again she marveled at the cost of this place. Min must be racing through the millions she'd inherited.

She had noticed that that worry was shared by all the old-timers on the staff. Rita, the manicurist, had told her virtually the same story that she'd heard from the masseuse. "I tell you, Elizabeth," she had complained, "Cypress Point just doesn't have the same excitement since Leila died. The celebrity followers are going to La Costa now. Sure you see some pretty big names, but the word is half of them aren't paying."

After twenty minutes the steam automatically turned off. Reluctantly Elizabeth stood under a cold shower, then draped herself in a thick terry robe and twisted a towel around her hair. There was something else she had overlooked in her anger at finding Ted here. Min had genuinely loved Leila. Her anguish after Leila's death had not been faked. But Helmut? The hostile way he had looked at Leila's picture, his sly suggestion that Leila was losing her looks… What had provoked that venom? Surely not just the cracks about his being a "toy soldier" that Leila made at his expense? When he overheard them, he was always amused. She remembered the time he'd arrived for dinner at Leila's apartment wearing the tall, old-fashioned cap of a toy soldier.

"I was passing a costume shop, saw it in the window and couldn't resist," he explained as they all applauded. Leila had laughed uproariously and kissed him. "You're a good sport, Your Lordship," she said…

Then what had triggered his anger? Elizabeth toweled her hair dry, brushed it back and caught it in a Psyche knot. As she applied makeup and touched her lips and cheeks with gloss, she could hear Leila's voice: "My God, Sparrow, you get better-looking all the time. I swear you were lucky Mama was having an affair with Senator Lange when you were conceived. You remember some of her other men. How would you like to have been Mart's kid?"

Last year she'd been in summer stock. When the show got to Kentucky, she'd gone to the leading newspaper in Louisville and searched for references to Everett Lange. His obituary notice was four years old at that time. It gave details of his family background, his education, his marriage to a socialite, his achievements in Congress. In his photograph, she had seen a masculine version of her own features… Would her life have been different if she had known her father? She suppressed the thought.

It was a fact of life that everyone at Cypress Point Spa dressed for dinner. She decided to wear a white silk jersey tunic with a knotted cord belt and silver sandals. She wondered if Ted and the others had gone to the Cannery in Monterey. That used to be his favorite spot.

One night, three years ago, when Leila had to leave unexpectedly to shoot extra scenes, Ted had taken her to the Cannery. They had sat for hours talking, and he had told her about spending summers with his grandparents in Monterey, about his mother's suicide when he was twelve, about how much he had despised his father. And he told her about the automobile accident that took the lives of his wife and child. "I couldn't function," he said. "For nearly two years I was a zombie. If it hadn't been for Craig, I'd have had to turn over executive control of my business to someone else. He functioned for me. He became my voice. He practically was me."

The next day he told her, "You're too good a listener."

She had known that he was uncomfortable about having revealed so much of himself to her.

She deliberately waited until the "cocktail" hour was nearly over before she left her bungalow. As she followed the path that led to the main house, she stopped to observe the scene on the veranda. The lighted main house, the well-dressed people standing in twos and threes, sipping their make-believe cocktails, talking, laughing, separating, forming into new social units.

She was acutely aware of the breathtaking clarity of the stars against the backdrop of the sky, the artfully placed lanterns that illuminated the path and accentuated the blossoms on the hedges, the placid slap of the Pacific as it washed against the shoreline; and behind the main house, the looming shadow of the bathhouse, its black marble exterior glistening in the reflected light.

Where did she belong? Elizabeth wondered. When she was in Europe working, it had been easier to forget the sense of isolation, the alienation from every other human being that had become a fact of her existence. As soon as the movie was in the can, she rushed home, so sure that her apartment would be a haven, the familiarity of New York a welcoming comfort, but in ten minutes, she had been frantic to flee, had grasped at Min's invitation like a drowning woman. Now she was marking the hours until she could go back to New York, and the apartment. She felt as if she had no home.

Would the trial be a purge for her emotions? Would knowing that she had helped to bring about the punishment of Leila's murderer in some way release her, let her reach out to other people, start a new life for herself? "Excuse me." A young couple were behind her. She recognized him as a top-seeded tennis player. How long had she been blocking their path?

"I'm sorry. I guess I'm woolgathering." She stepped aside, and he and the young woman, whose hand was entwined in his, smiled indifferently and passed her. She followed them slowly to the end of the path, up the steps of the veranda. A waiter offered her a drink. She accepted it and quickly moved to the far railing. She had no small talk in her.

Min and Helmut were circulating among their guests with the practiced skill of veteran party givers. Min was triumphantly visible in a flowing yellow satin caftan and cascading diamond earrings. With a measure of surprise, Elizabeth realized that

Min was really quite slim. It was her full breasts and overbearing manner that created the imposing illusion.

As always, Helmut was impeccable, in a navy silk jacket and light gray flannel slacks. He exuded charm as he bowed over hands, smiled, raised one perfectly arched eyebrow-the perfect gentleman.

But why did he hate Leila?

Tonight the dining rooms were decorated in peach: peach tablecloths and napkins, centerpieces of peach roses, Lenox china in a delicate peach-and-gold design. Min's table was set for four. As Elizabeth approached it, she saw the maitre d' touch Min's arm and direct her to the phone on his desk.

When Min came back to the table, she was visibly annoyed. Nevertheless, her greeting seemed genuine. " Elizabeth, at last a little time to be with you. I had hoped to give both you and Sammy a happy surprise. Sammy returned early. She must have missed my note and didn't realize you were here. I invited her to join us at table, but she's just phoned to say she doesn't feel very well. I told her you were with us and she'll see you in your bungalow after dinner."

"Is she ill?" Elizabeth asked anxiously.

"She had a long drive. Still, she ought to eat. I wish she had made the effort." Min clearly wanted to dismiss any more discussion.

Elizabeth watched as, with a practiced eye, Min surveyed the surroundings. Woe to a waiter who did not have the proper demeanor, who rattled, or spilled, or brushed against the chair of a guest. The thought struck her that it was not like Min to invite Sammy to join her table. Was it possible that Min had guessed there was a special reason she had waited to see Sammy, and wanted to know what it was?

And was it possible that Sammy had shrewdly avoided that trap?

"I'm sorry I'm late." Alvirah Meehan yanked out the chair before the waiter could help her. "The cosmetician did a special makeup after I got dressed," she said, beaming. "How do you like it?"

Alvirah was wearing a scoop-necked beige caftan with intricate brown beading. It looked very expensive. "I bought this in the boutique," she explained. "You have lovely things there. And I bought every single product the makeup woman suggested. She was so helpful."

As Helmut came to the table, Elizabeth studied Min's face with amusement. One was invited to join Min and Helmut-something which Mrs. Meehan did not understand. Min could explain that and place her at another table. On the other hand, Mrs. Meehan was in the most expensive bungalow in the Spa; she was clearly buying everything in sight, and offending her could be very foolish. A strained smile tugged at the corners of Min's lips. "You look charming," she told Alvirah. "Tomorrow I shall personally help you select other outfits."

"That's very nice of you." Alvirah fiddled with her sunburst pin and turned to Helmut. "Baron, I have to tell you I was re-reading your ad-you know, the one you have framed in the bungalows."

"Yes?"

Elizabeth wondered if it was just her imagination that made Helmut suddenly seem wary.

"Well, let me tell you that everything you say about the place is true. Remember how the ad says, 'At the end of a week here, you will feel as free and untroubled as a butterfly floating on a cloud?"

"The ad reads something like that, yes."

"But you wrote it-didn't you tell me that?"

"I had some input, I said. We have an agency."

"Nonsense, Helmut. Mrs. Meehan obviously agrees with the text of the ad. Yes, Mrs. Meehan, my husband is very creative. He personally writes the daily greeting, and ten years ago when we converted the hotel into the Spa, he simply would not accept the advertising copy we were given, and rewrote it himself. That ad won many awards, which is why we have a framed copy in every bungalow."

"It certainly made important people want to come here," Alvirah told them. "How I wish I'd been a fly on the wall to listen to all of them… She beamed at Helmut. "Or a butterfly floating on a cloud."

They were eating the low-calorie mousse when it dawned on Elizabeth how skillfully Mrs. Meehan had drawn out Helmut and Min. They had told her stories Elizabeth had never heard before: about an eccentric millionaire who had arrived on opening day on his bicycle, with his Rolls-Royce majestically trailing him, or about how a chartered plane had been sent from Arabia to pick up a fortune in jewels that one of a sheikh's four wives had left behind on a table near the pool…

As they were about to leave the table, Alvirah posed her final question: "Who was the most exciting guest you've ever had?"

Without hesitation, without even looking at each other, they answered "Leila LaSalle."

For some reason, Elizabeth shivered.

Elizabeth did not linger for coffee or the musical program. As soon as she reached her bungalow, she phoned Sammy. There was no answer in her apartment. Puzzled, she dialed Sammy's office.

Sammy's voice had an excited urgency to it when she answered. " Elizabeth, I nearly fainted when Min told me you were here. No, I'm perfectly all right. I'll be right over."

Ten minutes later, Elizabeth flung open the door of her bungalow and threw her arms around the frail, fiercely loyal woman who had shared with her the last years of Leila's life.

Sitting opposite each other on the matching sofas, they took each other's measure. Elizabeth was shocked to see how much Dora had changed. "I know," Dora said with a wry smile. "I don't look that hot."

"You don't look well, Sammy," Elizabeth said. "How's it really going?"

Dora shrugged. "I still feel so guilty. You were away, and couldn't see the day-to-day change in Leila. When she came to visit me in the hospital, I could see it. Something was destroying her, but she wouldn't talk about it. I ought to have contacted you. I feel I let her down so terribly. And now it's as if I have to find out what happened. I can't let it rest until I do."

Elizabeth felt tears begin to spill from her eyes. "Now don't you dare get me started," she said. "For the entire first year I had to carry dark glasses with me. I just never knew when I'd start crying. I used to call the glasses my grief equipment."

She clasped her hands together. "Sammy, tell me. Is there any chance I'm wrong about Ted? I was not mistaken about the time, and if he pushed Leila off that terrace he has to pay for it. But is it possible he was trying to hold her? Why was she so upset? Why was she drinking? You heard her talk about how disgusted she was with people who drank too much. That night, a few minutes before she died, I was nasty to her. I tried to do what she used to do to Mama-shock her, make her see what she was doing to herself. Maybe if I'd been more sympathetic. Sammy, if I'd only asked her why!"

In a spontaneous gesture they moved together. Dora's thin arms encircled Elizabeth, felt the trembling in the slender young body and remembered the teenager who had so worshiped her big sister.

"Oh, Sparrow," she said, unthinkingly using Leila's name for Elizabeth, "what would Leila think about the two of us going on like this?"

"She'd say, 'Quit moaning and do something about it.' " Elizabeth dabbed at her eyes and managed a smile.

"Exactly." With quick, nervous movements, Dora smoothed the thin strands of hair that always wanted to slip out from her bun. "Let's backtrack. Had Leila started to act upset before you left on the tour?"

Elizabeth frowned as she tried to focus, to weed out extraneous memories. "It was just before I left that Leila's divorce had come through. She'd been with her accountant. It was the first time in years I'd seen her worried about money. She said something like 'Sparrow, I've made an awful lot of loot, and honest to God, now I'm on thin ice.'

"I told her that two deadbeat husbands had put her in that bind, but I didn't consider being about to marry a multimillionaire like Ted being on thin ice. And she said something like 'Ted really does love me, doesn't he?' I told her to, for God's sake, get off that line. I said, 'You keep doubting him and you'll drive him away. He's nuts about you. Now go earn the four million bucks he just invested in you!''

"What did she say?" Dora asked.

"She started to laugh-you know that big, gorgeous laugh of hers-and she said, 'As usual, you're right, Sparrow.' She was terribly excited about the play."

"And then when you were gone, and I was sick, and Ted was traveling, someone began a campaign to destroy her." Dora reached into the pocket of her cardigan. "Today the letter I wrote you about was stolen from my desk. But just before you phoned I found another one in Leila's mail. She never got to read it either-it was still sealed-but it speaks for itself."

Horrified, Elizabeth read and reread the uneven, carelessly pasted words:

Leila,

Why won't you admit Ted is trying to Dump you? His new girl is getting tired of waiting. That four million Dollars was his Kiss-off to you. And more than you're worth. Don't blow it, honey.

The word's Out it's A Lousy Play. And you're Ten years too old for the part Too.

Your friend.

Dora watched as Elizabeth 's face turned stony pale. "Leila hadn't seen this?" Elizabeth asked quietly.

"No, but she must have been receiving a series of them."

"Who could have taken the other one today?"

Briefly Dora filled her in on the explosion over the expenses for the bathhouse and about Cheryl's unexpected arrival. "I know Cheryl was at my desk. She left her bill there. But so could anyone else have taken it."

"This smacks of Cheryl's touch." Elizabeth held the letter by the corner, loath to handle it.

"I wonder if this can be traced."

"Fingerprints?"

"That, and typeface has a code. Even knowing what magazines and newspapers these words were snipped from could be helpful. Wait a minute." Elizabeth went into the bedroom and returned with a plastic bag. Carefully she slipped the anonymous note into it. "I'll find out where to send this to be analyzed." She sat down again and folded her arms on her knees. "Sammy, do you remember exactly what the other letter said?"

"I think so."

"Then write it down. Just a minute. There's paper in the desk."

Dora wrote, crossed out, rewrote, finally handed the paper to Elizabeth. "That's pretty close."

Leila,

How many times do I have to write? Can't you get it straight that Ted is sick of you? His new girl is beautiful and much younger than you. I told you that the emerald necklace he gave her matches the bracelet he gave you. It cost twice as much and looks ten times better. I hear your play is lousy. You really should learn your lines. I'll write again soon.

Your friend.

This letter Elizabeth read and reread. "That bracelet, Sammy. When did Ted give it to Leila?"

"Sometime after Christmas. The anniversary of their first date, wasn't it? She had me put it in the safety-deposit box because she was starting rehearsals and knew she wouldn't be wearing it."

"That's what I mean. How many people could have known about that bracelet? Ted gave it to her at a dinner party. Who was there?"

"The usual people. Min. Helmut. Craig. Cheryl. Syd. Ted. You and I."

"And the same group of people knew how much Ted put into the play. Remember, he didn't want it publicized. Sammy, have you finished going through the mail?"

"Besides the one I started this afternoon, there's one more large sack. It may have six or seven hundred letters in it."

"Tomorrow morning I'm going to help you go through them. Sammy, think about who might have written these letters. Min and the Baron had nothing to do with the play; they had everything to gain by having Ted and Leila together here, with all the people they attracted. Syd had a million dollars in the play. Craig acted as though the four million Ted invested was out of his own pocket. He certainly wouldn't do anything to wreck the play's chances. But Cheryl never forgave Leila for taking Ted from her. She never forgave Leila for becoming a superstar. She knew Leila's vulnerabilities. And she would be the very one who'd want the letters back now."

"What good are they to her?" Elizabeth stood up slowly. She walked to the window and pushed back the curtain. The night was still brilliantly clear. "Because if some way they can be traced to her, they can ruin her career? How would the public feel if it learned that Leila had been driven to suicide by a woman she considered a friend?"

" Elizabeth, did you hear what you just said?" Elizabeth turned. "Don't you think I'm right?"

"You have just conceded the fact that Leila might have committed suicide."

Elizabeth gasped. She stumbled across the room, fell to her knees, and put her head on Sammy's lap. "Sammy, help me," she pleaded. "I don't know what to believe anymore. I don't know what to do."

Eight

It was at Henry Bartlett's suggestion that they went out for dinner and invited Cheryl and Syd to join them. When Ted protested that he did not want to get involved with Cheryl, Henry cut him off sharply. "Teddy, like it or not, you are involved with Cheryl. She and Syd Melnick can be very important witnesses for you."

"I fail to see how."

"If we don't admit that you may have gone back upstairs, we've got to prove that Elizabeth Lange was confused about the exact time of that phone conversation and we've got to make the jury believe that Leila may have committed suicide."

"What about the eyewitness?"

"She saw a tree on the terrace moving. Her lively imagination decided it was you struggling with Leila. She's a nut case."

They went to the Cannery. A chattering, happy end-of-summer crowd filled the popular restaurant; but Craig had phoned ahead, and there was a window table with a sweeping view of Monterey Harbor awaiting them. Cheryl slipped in beside Ted. Her hand rested on his knee. "This is like old times," she whispered. She was wearing a lame halter and matching skin-tight pants. A buzz of excite-ment had followed her as she walked across the room.

In the months since he'd seen her, Cheryl had phoned him repeatedly but he'd never returned the calls. Now as her warm, restless fingers caressed his knee, Ted wondered if he was being a fool for not taking what was being offered to him. Cheryl would say anything he wanted that might help his defense. But at what price?

Syd, Bartlett and Craig were visibly relieved to be here instead of at the Spa. "Wait till you start eating," Syd told Henry. "You'll know what seafood is all about."

The waiter came. Bartlett ordered a Johnnie Walker Black Label. His champagne-toned linen jacket was an impeccable fit; his sport shirt in the exact champagne shade and cinnamon-colored trousers were obviously custom-made. His thick but meticulously barbered white hair contrasted handsomely with his unlined, tanned face. Ted imagined him by turn informing, wooing, scolding a jury. A grandstander. Obviously, it worked for him. But what percentage of the time? He started to order a vodka martini and changed it to a beer. This was no time to dull any of his faculties.

It was early for dinner, only seven o'clock. But he had insisted on that. Craig and Syd were having an animated conversation. Syd seemed almost cheerful. Testimony for sale, Ted thought. Make Leila sound like a maniacal drunk. It could all backfire, kids, and if it does, I'm the one who pays.

Craig was asking Syd about his agency; was sympathizing with him over the money he'd lost in Leila's play. "We took a bath too," he said. He looked over at Cheryl and smiled warmly.

"And we think you were a hell of a good sport to try to save the ship, Cheryl."

For God's sake, don't shovel it on! Ted bit his lip to keep from shouting at Craig. But everyone else was smiling broadly. He was the alien in the group, the Unidentified Flying Object. He could sense the eyes of the other diners on this table, on him. He might as well have been able to overhear the sotto voce conversations. "His trial starts next week."… "Do you think he did it?"… "With his money, he'll probably get off. They always do."

Not necessarily.

Impatiently, Ted looked out at the bay. The harbor was filled with boats-large, small, sailing vessels, yachts. Whenever she could, his mother had brought him to visit here. It was the only place where she'd been happy.

"Ted's mother's family came from Monterey," Craig was telling Henry Bartlett.

Again Ted experienced the wild irritation that Craig had begun to trigger in him. When had it started? In Hawaii? Before that? Don't read my thoughts. Don't speak for me. I'm sick of it. Leila used to ask him if he didn't get sick of having the Bulldog at his heels all the time…

The drinks came. Bartlett took over the conversation. "As you know, you are all listed as potential defense witnesses for Teddy. Obviously you can testify to the scene at Elaine's. So can about two hundred other people. But on the stand, I'd like you to help me paint for the jurors a more complete picture of Leila. You all know her public image. But you also know that she was a deeply insecure woman who had no faith in herself, who was haunted by a fear of failure."

"A Marilyn Monroe defense," Syd suggested. "With all the wild stories about Monroe 's death, everyone has pretty well conceded that she committed suicide."

"Exactly." Bartlett favored Syd with a friendly smile. "Now the question is motive. Syd, tell me about the play."

Syd shrugged. "It was perfect for her. It could have been written about her. She loved the script. The rehearsals started like a cakewalk. I used to tell her we could open in a week. And then something happened. She came into the theater smashed at nine in the morning. After that it was all downhill."

"Stage fright?"

"Lots of people get stage fright. Helen Hayes threw up before every performance. When Jimmy Stewart finished a movie, he was sure no one would ever ask him to be in another one. Leila threw up and worried. That's show biz."

"That's just what I don't want to hear on the stand," Henry said sharply. "I intend to paint the picture of a woman with a drinking problem who was experiencing severe depression."

A teenager was standing over Cheryl. "Could I please have your autograph?" He plunked a menu in front of her.

"Of course." Cheryl beamed and scrawled her signature.

"Is it true you're going to be Amanda in that new series?"

"Keep your fingers crossed. I think so." Cheryl's eyes drank in the adolescent's homage.

"You'll be great. Thank you."

"Now, if we just had a tape of this to send to Bob Koenig," Syd said drily.

"When will you know?" Craig asked.

"Maybe in the next few days."

Craig held up his glass. "To Amanda."

Cheryl ignored him and turned to Ted. "Aren't you going to drink to that?"

He raised his glass. "Of course." He meant it. The naked hope in her eyes was in an odd way touching. Leila had always overshadowed Cheryl. Why had they kept up the farce of friendship? Was it because Cheryl's endless quest to become bigger than Leila had been a challenge for Leila, a constant prod that she welcomed, that kept her on her mettle?

Cheryl must have seen something in his face, because her lips brushed his cheek. He did not pull away.

It was over coffee that Cheryl leaned her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands. The champagne she had drunk had clouded her eyes so that they now seemed to smolder with secret prom-ises. Her voice was slightly blurred as she half-whispered to Bartlett, "Suppose Leila believed that Ted wanted to dump her for another woman? What would that do to help the suicide theory?"

"I was not involved with another woman," Ted said flatly.

"Darling, this isn't True Confessions. You don't have to say a word," Cheryl chided. "Henry, answer my question."

"If we had proof that Ted was interested in someone else, and that Leila knew it, we give Leila a reason to be despondent. We damage the prosecutor's claim that Ted killed Leila because she rejected him. Are you telling me there was something going on between you and Ted before Leila died?" Bartlett asked hopefully.

"I'll answer that," Ted snapped. "No!"

"You didn't listen," Cheryl protested. "I said I may have proof that Leila thought Ted was ready to dump her for someone else."

"Cheryl, I suggest you shut up. You don't know what you're talking about," Syd told her. "Now let's get out of here. You've had too much to drink."

"You're right," Cheryl said amiably. "You're not often right, Syd, dear, but this time you are."

"Just a minute," Bartlett interrupted. "Cheryl, unless this is some sort of game, you'd better put your cards on the table. Anything that clarifies Leila's state of mind is vital to Ted's defense. What do ou call 'proof?"

"Maybe something that wouldn't even interest you," Cheryl said. "Let me sleep on it."

Craig signaled for a check. "I have a feeling this conversation is a waste of time."

It was nine thirty when the limousine dropped them at the Spa. "I want Ted to walk me to my place." Now Cheryl's voice had an edge on it.

"I'll walk you," Syd snapped.

"Ted will walk me," Cheryl insisted.

She leaned against him as they went down the path toward her bungalow. Other guests were just beginning to leave the main house. "Wasn't it fun to be out together?" Cheryl murmured.

"Cheryl, is this 'proof talk one of your games?" Ted pushed the cloud of black hair away from her face.

"I like it when you touch my hair." They were at her bungalow. "Come in, darling."

"No. I'll say good night."

She pulled his head down until their lips were barely apart. In the starlight her eyes blazed up at him. Had she faked the business of acting tight? he wondered. "Darling," she whispered feverishly, "don't you understand that I'm the one who can help you walk out of that courtroom a free man?"

Craig and Bartlett said good night to Syd and made their way to their bungalows. Henry Bartlett was visibly satisfied. "Teddy looks as if he's finally getting the message. Having that little lady in his corner at the trial will be important. What do you think she meant by that mumbo jumbo about Ted being involved with another woman?"

"Wishful thinking. She probably wants to volunteer for the part."

"I see. If he's smart, he'll accept."

They reached Craig's bungalow. "I'd like to come in for a minute," Bartlett told him. "It's a good chance to talk alone." Inside the bungalow, he glanced around. "This is a different look."

"It's Min's masculine, rustic effect," Craig explained. "She didn't miss a trick-pine tables, wide-planked floors. The bed even has a cord spring. She automatically puts me in one of these units. I think she subconsciously views me as the simple type."

"Are you?"

"I don't think so. And even though I lean to king-size beds with box springs, this is a hell of a step up from Avenue B and Eighth Street, where my old man had a deli."

Bartlett studied Craig carefully. "Bulldog" was an apt description for him, he decided. Sandy hair, neutral complexion, cheeks that would fold into jowls if he let himself put weight on. A solid citizen. A good person to have in your corner. "Ted is lucky to have you," he said. "I don't think he appreciates it."

"That's where you're wrong. Ted has to rely on me now to front for him in the business, and he resents it. To clarify that, he only thinks he resents me. The problem is, my very presence in his place is a symbol of the jam he's in."

Craig went to the closet and pulled out a suitcase. "Like you, I carry my private supply " He poured Courvoisier into two glasses, handed one of them to Bartlett and settled on the couch, leaning forward, turning his glass in his hand. "I'll give you the best example I can. My cousin was in an accident and flat on her back in the hospital for nearly a year. Her mother knocked herself out taking care of the kids. You want to know something? My cousin was jealous of her mother. She said her mother was enjoying her children and she should be the one with them. It's like that with Ted and me. The minute my cousin got out of the hospital, she was singing her mother's praises for the good job she did. When Ted is acquitted, things will be back to normal between us. And let me tell you, I'd a lot rather put up with his outbursts than be in his boots."

Bartlett realized that he had been too quick to dismiss Craig Babcock as a glorified lackey. The problem, he told himself sourly, of being too cocky. He chose his response carefully. "I see your point, and I think you're quite perceptive."

"Unexpectedly perceptive?" Craig asked with a half-smile.

Bartlett chose to ignore the bait. "I also am starting to feel somewhat better about this case. We might be able to put together a defense that will at least create reasonable doubt in a jury's mind. Did you take care of the investigative agency?"

"Yes. We've got two detectives finding out everything they can about the Ross woman. We've got another detective trailing her. Maybe that's overkill, but you never know."

"Nothing that helps is overkill." Bartlett moved to the door. "As you can certainly see, Ted Winters resents the hell out of me for probably the same reason he's jumping at you. We both want him to walk out of that courtroom a free man. One line of defense that I hadn't considered before tonight is to convince the jury that shortly before Leila LaSalle died, he and Cheryl had gotten back together, and the money he put in the play was a kiss-off for Leila."

Bartlett opened the door and glanced back over his shoulder. "Sleep on it, and come back to me in the morning with a game plan."

He paused. "But we've got to prevail on Teddy to go along with us."

When Syd reached his bungalow the message light on the phone was flashing. He sensed immediately that it was Bob Koenig. The president of World Motion Pictures was famed for his habit of placing after-hours calls. It could only mean that a decision had been made about Cheryl and the role of Amanda. He broke into a cold sweat.

With one hand he reached for a cigarette, with the other for the phone. As he barked "Syd Melnick," he cradled the receiver against his shoulder and lit the cigarette.

"Glad you reached me tonight, Syd. I had a six-o'clock call in to you in the morning."

"I'd have been awake. Who can sleep in this business?"

"I sleep like a top, myself. Syd, I've got a couple of questions."

He had been sure that Cheryl had lost the part. Something about the flashing light had signaled doom. But Bob had questions. No decision had been made.

He could visualize Bob at the other end of the line, leaning back in the leather swivel chair in his library at home. Bob hadn't gotten to be head of the studio by making sentimental decisions. Cheryl's test was great, Syd told himself hopefully. But then what? "Shoot," he said, trying to sound relaxed.

"We're still battling it out between Cheryl and Margo Dresher. You know how tough it is to launch a series. Margo's a bigger name. Cheryl was good, damn good-probably better than Margo, even though I'll deny having said that. But Cheryl hasn't done anything big in years, and that fiasco on Broadway kept coming up at the meeting."

The play. Once again the play. Leila's face drifted across Syd's mind. The way she'd screamed at him in Elaine's. He had wanted to bludgeon her then, to drown out that cynical, mocking voice forever…

"That play was a vehicle for Leila. I take full blame for rushing Cheryl into it."

"Syd, we've been through all that. I'm going to be absolutely candid with you. Last year, as all the columnists reported, Margo had a little drug problem. The public is getting damn sick of stars who spend half their lives in drug-rehab centers. I want it straight. Is there anything about Cheryl that could embarrass us, if we choose her?"

Syd gripped the phone. Cheryl had the inside track. A burst of hope made his pulse fluctuate wildly. Sweat poured from his palms. "Bob, I swear to you-"

"Everybody swears to me. Try telling me the truth instead. If I put myself on the line and decide on Cheryl, will it backfire on me? If it ever does, Syd, you're finished."

"I swear. I swear on my mother's grave…"

Syd hung up the phone, hunched over and put his face in his hands. Clammy perspiration broke over his entire body. Once again the golden ring was within his grasp.

Only this time it was Cheryl, not Leila, who could screw it up for him…

Nine

When she left Elizabeth, Dora carried the plastic-wrapped anonymous letter in the pocket of her cardigan. They had decided that she would make a copy of the letter on the office machine, and in the morning Elizabeth would take the original to the sheriffs office in Salinas.

Scott Alshorne, the county sheriff, was a regular dinner guest at the Spa. He'd been friendly with Min's first husband and was always discreetly helpful when a problem, like missing jewelry, arose. Leila had adored him.

"Poison-pen letters aren't the same as missing jewelry," Dora warned Elizabeth.

"I know, but Scott can tell us where to send the letter for analysis, or if I should just give it to the district attorney's office in New York. Anyway, I want a copy myself."

"Then let me make it tonight. Tomorrow, when Min is around, we can't risk having her reading it."

As Dora was leaving, Elizabeth wrapped her in her arms. "You don't believe Ted is guilty, do you, Sammy?"

"Of calculated murder? No, I simply can't believe that. And if he was interested in another woman, there was no motive for him to kill Leila."

Dora had to go back to the office anyhow. She'd left mail scattered on the desk and the unsearched plastic bags on the floor of the reception room. Min would have a fit if she saw them.

Her dinner tray was still on a table near her desk, almost untouched. Funny how little appetite she had these days. Seventy-one really wasn't that old. It was just that between the operation and losing

Leila, there was a spark gone, the old zest that Leila had always teased her about;

The copy machine was camouflaged by a walnut cabinet. She opened the top of the cabinet and turned on the machine, took the letter from her pocket and slipped it free of the plastic bag, carefully touching it only by the edges. Her movements were quick. There was always the worry that Min might take it into her head to come down to the office. Helmut was undoubtedly locked in his study. He was an insomniac and read late into the night.

She happened to glance out the half-open window. Just the sound of the Pacific-its truculent roar -and the smell of the salty breeze were invigorating. She did not mind the rush of cool air that caused her to shiver. But what had caught her attention?

All the guests were settled by now. Lights were visible from behind the curtained windows of the bungalows. Just against the horizon she could see the outlines of the umbrella tables around the Olympic pool. To the left, the silhouette of the Roman bathhouse loomed against the sky. The night was starting to turn misty. It was getting harder to see. Then Dora leaned forward. Someone was walking not on the path, but in the shadows of the cypress trees, as though afraid of being seen. She adjusted her glasses and was astonished to realize that whoever was there was wearing a scuba-diving outfit. What ever was he doing on the grounds? He seemed to be heading toward the Olympic pool.

Elizabeth had told her she was going swimming. An unreasoning fear gripped Dora. Shoving the letter into the pocket of her cardigan, she hurried out of the office and as swiftly as she could move her arthritic body rushed down the stairs, across the darkened foyer and out the seldom-used side door. Now the interloper was passing the Roman bathhouse. She hurried to cut him off. It was probably one of the college kids who were staying at Pebble Beach Lodge, she told herself. Every once in a while they'd sneak onto the grounds and go for a swim in the Olympic pool. But she didn't like the idea of this one coming upon Elizabeth if she was alone there.

She turned and realized that he had seen her. The lights of the security guard's golf cart were coming up the hill from near the gates. The figure in the scuba outfit ran toward the Roman bathhouse. Dora could see that the door was ajar. That fool Helmut probably hadn't bothered to close it this afternoon.

Her knees were trembling as she hurried behind him. The guard would drive by in a moment, and she didn't want the intruder to get away. Tentatively she stepped inside the doorway of the bathhouse.

The entrance foyer was a giant open expanse of marbled walls with twin staircases at the far end. There was enough light from the Japanese lanterns in the trees outside for Dora to see that this area was empty. They actually had done quite a bit more work since she'd looked in a few weeks ago.

Through the open doorway to the left, she saw the beam of a flashlight. The archway led to the lockers, and beyond was the first of the saltwater pools.

For an instant, her indignation was replaced by fear. She decided to go out and wait for the guard.

"Dora, in here!"

The familiar voice made her weak with relief. Carefully making her way across the darkened foyer, she went through the locker room and into the area of the indoor pool.

He was waiting for her, flashlight in hand. The blackness of the wet suit, the thick underwater goggles, the bend of the head, the sudden convulsive movement of the flashlight made her step back uncertainly. "For goodness' sake, don't shine that thing at me. I can't see," she said.

One hand, thick and menacing in the heavy black glove, stretched out toward her, reaching for her throat. The other flashed the light directly in her eyes, blinding her.

Horrified, Dora began to back up. She raised her hands to protect herself and was unaware that she had brushed the letter from her pocket. She barely felt the empty space under her feet before her body toppled backward.

Her last thought as her head smashed against the piles of jagged concrete at the bottom of the pool was that at last she knew who had killed Leila.

Ten

Elizabeth swam from one end of the pool to the other at a demanding, furious pace. The fog was just beginning to roll in-uneven bits of mist that at one moment blew like a dark vapor over the surrounding area, the next were gone. She preferred it when it was dark. She could work every inch of her body knowing that the punishing physical effort somehow would diffuse the built-up emotional anxiety.

She reached the north end of the pool, touched the wall, inhaled, turned, pivoted and with a furious breaststroke began racing toward the opposite end. Now her heart was pounding with the strain of the pace she had set herself. It was crazy. She wasn't in condition for this kind of swimming. But still she raced, trying with the expenditure of physical energy to outrun her thoughts.

At last she felt herself begin to calm down, and flipping onto her back, she began to tread water, her arms rotating in even, sweeping motions.

The letters. The one they had; the one someone had taken; the others they might find in the unopened mail. The ones Leila had probably seen and destroyed. Why didn't Leila tell me about them? Why did she shut me out? She always used me as a sounding board. She always said I could snap her out of taking criticism too seriously.

Leila hadn't told her because she had believed that Ted was involved with someone else, that there was nothing she could do about it. But Sammy was right: If Ted was involved withsomeone else, he had no motive to kill Leila.

But I wasn't mistaken about the time of the call.

Suppose Leila had fallen-had slipped from his grasp-and he'd blacked out? Suppose those letters had driven her to suicide? I've got to find out who sent them, Elizabeth thought.

It was time to go in. She was dead tired, and at last somewhat calmer. In the morning, she'd go through the rest of the mail with Sammy. She'd take the letter they'd found to Scott Alshorne. He might want her to take it directly to the district attorney in New York. Was she handing Ted an alibi? And whom had he been involved with?

As she climbed the ladder from the pool, she shivered. The night air was chilly now, and she'd stayed longer than she'd realized. She slipped on her robe and reached into the pocket for her wristwatch. The luminous dial showed that it was half-past ten.

She thought she heard a rustling sound from behind the cypress trees that bordered the patio. "Who's there?" She knew her voice sounded nervous. There was no answer, and she walked to the edge of the patio and strained her eyes to see past the hedges and between the scattered trees. The silhouettes of the cypress trees seemed grotesque and ominous in the dark, but there was no movement other than the faint rustling of the leaves. The cool sea breeze was becoming more forceful. That was it, of course.

With a gesture of dismissal, she wrapped the robe around her and pulled the hood over her hair.

But somehow the feeling of uneasiness persisted, and her footsteps quickened along the path to her bungalow.

He hadn't touched Sammy. But there would be questions. What was she doing in the bathhouse? He cursed the fact that the door had been open, that he had run in there. If he had simply gone around it, she'd never have caught him.

Something so simple could betray him.

But the fact that she had the letter with her, that it had fallen from her pocket-that had been simple good luck. Should he destroy it? He wasn't sure. It was a double-edged sword.

Now the letter was buried against his skin inside the wet suit. The door of the bathhouse was snap-locked. The guard had made his desultory rounds and wouldn't be back tonight. Slowly, with infinite caution, he made his way toward the pool. Would she be there? Probably. Should he take the chance tonight? Two accidents. Was that more risky than letting her live? Elizabeth would demand answers when Sammy's body was found. Had Elizabeth seen that letter?

He heard the lapping of the water in the pool. Cautiously he stepped from behind the tree and watched the swiftly moving body. He would have to wait until she slowed down. By then she would be tired. It might be the time to go ahead. Two unrelated accidents in one night. Would the ensuing confusion keep people off the track? He took a step forward toward the pool.

And saw him. Standing behind the shrubbery. Watching Elizabeth. What was he doing there? Did he suspect she was in danger? Or had he too decided she was an unacceptable risk?

The wet suit glistened with mist as its wearer slipped behind the sheltering branches of cypress and vanished into the night.