Weep No More, My Lady

QUOTE FOR THE DAY:

Good morning. Bonjour, to our dear guests.

It is to be a bit brisker this morning, so brace yourselves for the exciting tingle of the fresh sunlit air.

For the nature lovers, we offer a 30-minute after-luncheon walk along our beautiful Pacific coast, to explore the native flowers of our beloved Monterey Peninsula. So if you are of a mind, do join our expert guide at the main gate at 12:30.

A fleeting thought. Our menu tonight is especially exquisite. Wear your prettiest or handsomest outfit, and feast on our gourmet offerings knowing that the delicate taste treats are balanced by the delicate amount of calories you are consuming.

A fascinating thought: Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but when you look in the mirror, you are the beholder.

– Baron and Baroness Helmut von Schreiber

One

The first hint of dawn found Min lying wide awake in the canopied king-size bed she shared with Helmut. Moving carefully to keep from disturbing him, she turned her head and pulled herself up on one elbow. Even in sleep he was a handsome man. He was lying on his side, facing her, his one hand outstretched as though reaching for her, his breath now quiet and soft.

He had not slept like that all night. She didn't know what time he'd come to bed, but at two she'd awakened to the awareness of agitated movement, his head shaking, his voice angry and muffled. There had been no more sleep for her when she heard what he was saying: "Damn you, Leila, damn you."

Instinctively, she had laid her hand on his shoulder, murmured a soft shushing sound, and he had settled back. Would he remember the dream, remember that he had cried out? She had given no indication of having heard him. It would be useless to expect him to tell her the truth. Incredible as it seemed, had something been going on between him and Leila after all? Or had it been a one-sided attraction on Helmut's part toward Leila?

That didn't make it any easier.

The light, more golden than rosy now, began to brighten the room. Carefully Min eased out of bed. Even in her heartsick distress, she felt a moment of appreciation for the beauty of this room. Helmut had chosen the furnishings and color scheme. Who else would have visualized the exquisite balance of the peach satin draperies and bedding against the deep blue-violet tone of the carpet?

How much longer would she be living here? This could be their last season. The million dollars in the Swiss account, she reminded herself. Just the interest on that will be enough…

Enough for whom? Herself? Maybe. Helmut? Never! She'd always known that a large part of her attraction for him was this place, the ability to strut around with this background, to mingle with celebrities. Did she really think he'd be content to follow a relatively simple lifestyle with an aging wife?

Noiselessly, Min glided across the room, slipped on a robe and went down the stairs. Helmut would sleep for another half-hour. She always had to awaken him at six thirty. In this half-hour it would be safe to go through some of the records, particularly the American Express bills. In those weeks before Leila died, Helmut had been away from the Spa frequently. He'd been asked to speak at several medical seminars and conventions; he'd lent his name to some charity balls and flown in to attend them. That was good for business. But what else had he been doing when he was on the East Coast? That was the time Ted had been traveling a great deal. She understood Helmut. Leila's obvious scorn for him would be a challenge. Had he been seeing her?

The night before Leila died, they'd attended the last preview of her show; they'd been at Elaine's. They'd stayed at the Plaza and in the morning flown to Boston to attend a charity luncheon. He'd put her on a plane to San Francisco at six thirty in the evening. Had he gone to the dinner he was supposed to attend in Boston, or had he taken the seven-o'clock shuttle to New York?

The possibility haunted her.

At midnight California time, three A.M. Eastern time, Helmut had phoned to make sure she was home safely. She had assumed he was calling from the hotel in Boston.

That was something she could check.

At the bottom of the staircase, Min turned left and, key in hand, went to the office. The door was unlocked. Her senses were assaulted by the condition of the room. The lights were still on; a dinner tray was on a table at one side of Dora's desk; the desk itself was piled with letters. Plastic bags, their contents spilling on the floor, bordered the desk. The window was partly open, and a cold breeze was rustling the letters. Even the copy machine was on.

Min stalked over to the desk and flipped through the mail. Angrily she realized that everything was fan mail to Leila. Her lips tightened ominously. She was sick to death of that mournful look Dora got whenever she answered those letters. At least till now she'd had the brains not to mess up the office with that silly drivel. From now on, if she wants to do that mail, she'll do it in her apartment. Period. Or maybe it was time to get rid of anyone who insisted on canonizing Leila. What a field day Cheryl would have had if she'd come in here and started going through the personal files. Dora had probably gotten tired and decided to wait to clear up the office this morning. But to leave the copy machine and the lights on was unforgivable. In the morning she'd tell Dora to start making plans for her retirement.

But now she had to get about the reason she had come here. In the storage room, Min went to the file marked "Travel Expenses, Baron von Schreiber."

It took less than two minutes to find what she wanted. The phone call from the East Coast to the Spa the night Leila died was listed on his telephone credit-card bill.

It had been made from New York.

Two

Sheer fatigue made Elizabeth fall into sleep; but it was a restless sleep, filled with dreams. Leila was standing in front of stacks of fan mail; Leila was reading the letters to her; Leila was crying. "I can't trust anyone… I can't trust anyone."

In the morning, there was no question in her mind of going on the walk. She showered, pulled her hair into a topknot, slipped on her jogging suit and after waiting just long enough for the hikers to be on their way, headed for the main house. She knew Sammy was always at her desk by a few minutes after seven.

It was a shock to find the usually impeccable receptionist's office cluttered with stacks of mail on and around Dora's desk. A large sheet of paper with the ominous words See me and signed by Min clearly revealed that Min had seen the mess.

How unlike Sammy! Never once in all the years she'd known her had Sammy left her desk cluttered. It was unthinkable she'd have chanced leaving it this way in the reception area. It was a surefire way of bringing on one of Min's famous rages.

But suppose she was ill? Quickly Elizabeth hurried down the stairs to the foyer of the main house and rushed to the stairway leading to the staff wing. Dora had an apartment on the second floor. She knocked briskly at the door, but there was no answer. The sound of a vacuum came from around the corner. The maid, Nelly, was a longtime employee who had been here when Elizabeth was working as an instructor. It was easy to get her to open Sammy's door. With a growing sense of panic, Elizabeth walked through the pleasant rooms: the sitting room in shades of lime green and white, with Sam-my's carefully tended plants on the windowsills and tabletops; the single bed primly neat, with Sammy's Bible on the night table.

Nelly pointed to the bed. "She didn't sleep here last night, Miss Lange. And look!" Nelly walked to the window. "Her car's in the parking lot. Do you suppose she felt sick and sent for a cab or something to go to the hospital? That would be just like Miss Samuels. You know how independent she is."

But there was no record of a Dora Samuels' having signed herself into the community hospital. With growing apprehension, Elizabeth waited for Min to come back from the morning walk. In an effort to keep her mind from the fearful worry that something had happened to Sammy, she began to scan the fan mail. Where was the unsigned letter Dora had planned to copy?

Was she still carrying it?

Three

At five of seven, Syd walked up the path to join the others for the morning hike. Cheryl could read him like a book. He'd have to be careful. Bob wasn't making his final decision until this afternoon. If it weren't for that damn play, it would be in the bag now.

"You hear that, everybody? I quit!"

And you wiped me out, you bitch, he thought. He managed to twist his face into the contortion of a smile. The Greenwich, Connecticut, set were there, all turned out for the morning hike, every hair in place, flawless skin, manicured hands. Pretty clear none of them had ever hung by their fingernails waiting for a call, ever clawed their way up in a cutthroat business, ever had someone throw them into the financial gutter with the toss of a head.

It would be a perfect Pebble Beach day. The sun was already warming the cool morning air; the faint smell of salt from the Pacific mingled with the fragrance of the flowering trees that surrounded the main house. Syd remembered the tenement in Brooklyn where he'd been raised. The Dodgers had been in Brooklyn then. Maybe they should have stayed there. Maybe he should have stayed there too.

Min and the Baron came out onto the veranda. Syd was immediately aware of how drawn Min looked. Her expression was frozen on her face, the way people get when they've witnessed an accident and cannot believe what they've seen. How much had she guessed? He did not glance at Helmut but instead turned his head to watch Cheryl and Ted coming up the path. Syd could read Ted's mind. He'd always felt guilty about dumping Cheryl for Leila, but it was obvious he didn't want to pick up with her again. Obvious to everyone except Cheryl.

What in hell had she meant with that dumb remark about "proof" that Ted was innocent? What was she up to now?

"Good morning, Mr. Melnick." He turned to see Alvirah Meehan beaming up at him. "Why don't we just walk together?" she asked. "I know how disappointed you must be that Margo Dresher is probably going to be Amanda in the series. I'm telling you, they're making a terrible mistake."

Syd did not realize how hard he had grasped her arm until he saw her flinch. "Sorry, Mrs. Meehan, but you don't know what you're talking about."

Too late, Alvirah realized that only the insiders had that tip-the reporter from the Globe who was her contact for her article had told her to study Cheryl Manning's reaction when she got the news. She'd made a bad slip. "Oh, am I wrong?" she asked. "Maybe it's just that my husband was saying that he read it's neck and neck between Cheryl and Margo Dresher."

Syd made his voice confidential. "Mrs. Meehan, do me a favor, won't you? Don't talk about that to anyone. It isn't true, and you can imagine how it would upset Miss Manning."

Cheryl had her hand on Ted's arm. Whatever she had been saying, she had him laughing. She was a hell of a good actress-but not good enough to keep her cool if she lost the Amanda role. And she'd turn on him like an alley cat. Then, as Syd watched, Ted raised his hand in a careless salute and started jogging toward the front gate.

"Good morning, everyone," Min boomed in a hollow attempt at her usual vigor. "Let us be on our way. Remember, a brisk pace and deep breathing, please."

Alvirah stepped back as Cheryl caught up with them. They fell into line on the walkway that led to the woods. Scanning the clusters of people ahead, Syd picked out Craig walking with the lawyer, Henry Bartlett. The Countess and her entourage were directly behind them. The tennis pro and his girlfriend were holding hands. The talk-show host was with his date for the week, a twenty-year-old model. The various other guests in twos and threes were unfamiliar.

When Leila made this place her hangout, she put it on the map, Syd thought. You never knew when you'd find her here. Min needs a new superstar. He had noticed the way all eyes drank in Ted as he jogged away. Ted was a superstar.

Cheryl was clearly in a buoyant mood. Her dark hair exploded around her face. Her coal-black brows arced above the huge amber eyes. Her petulant mouth was carved into a seductive smile. She began to hum "That Old Feeling." Her breasts were high and pointed under her jogging suit. No one else could make a jogging suit look like a second coat of skin.

"We've got to talk," Syd told her quietly.

"Go ahead."

"Not here."

Cheryl shrugged. "Then later. Don't look so sour,

Syd. Breathe deeply. Get rid of poisonous thoughts."

"Don't bother being cute with me. When we get back, I'll come to your place."

"What is this about?" Cheryl clearly did not want to have the euphoric mood spoiled.

Syd glanced over his shoulder. Alvirah was directly behind them. Syd could almost feel her breath on his neck.

He gave Cheryl's arm a warning pinch.

When they reached the road, Min continued to lead in the direction of the lone cypress tree, and Helmut began dropping back to chat with the hikers. "Good morning… Wonderful day… Try to pick up the pace… You're doing marvelously." His artificial cheerfulness grated on Syd. Leila had been right. The Baron was a toy soldier. Wind him up and he marches forward.

Helmut stopped abreast of Cheryl. "I hope you two enjoyed your dinner last night." His smile was dazzling and mechanical. Syd could not remember what he had eaten. "It was okay."

"Good." Helmut dropped back to ask Alvirah Meehan how she was feeling.

"Absolutely fine." Her voice was hard and stri dent. "You might say I'm as bright as a butterfly floating on a cloud." Her noisy laugh sent a chill through Syd.

Had even Alvirah Meehan caught on?

Henry Bartlett was not feeling good about the world or his particular situation. When he was asked to take on the case of Ted Winters, he'd rearranged his calendar immediately. Few criminal lawyers would be too busy to represent a prominent multimillionaire. But there was an ongoing problem between him and Ted Winters. The definitive word was "chemistry," and it was bad between them.

As he grudgingly plodded on the forced march behind Min and the Baron, Henry admitted to himself that this place was luxurious, that the setting was beautiful, that under different circumstances he could come to appreciate the charms of the Monterey Peninsula and Cypress Point Spa. But now he was on a countdown. The trial of The People of the State of New York v. Andrew Edward Winters III would begin in exactly one week. Publicity was eminently desirable when you won a headline case; but unless Ted Winters started cooperating, this case would not be won.

Min was picking up the pace. Henry quickened his footsteps. He hadn't missed the appreciative glances of the fiftyish ash-blonde who was with the Countess. Under different circumstances he'd check that out. But not now.

Craig was marching at a solid, steady pace behind him. Henry still couldn't put his finger on what made Craig Babcock tick. On the one hand he'd talked about Pop's deli on the Lower East Side. On the other, he was clearly the hatchet man for Ted

Winters. It was a pity that it was too late for him to testify that he and Ted had been on the phone when that so-called eyewitness claimed she saw Ted. That thought reminded Henry of what he wanted to ask Craig.

"What's with the investigator on Sally Ross?"

"I put three investigators on her-two for background, one to shadow her."

"It should have been done months ago."

"I agree. Ted's first lawyer didn't think it was necessary."

They were leaving the path that exited the Spa grounds and proceeding onto the road that led to the Lone Cypress.

"How did you arrange to get reports?"

"The head guy will call me every morning, nine thirty New York time, six thirty here. I just spoke to him. Nothing too important to report yet. Pretty much what we know already. She's been divorced a couple of times; she fights with her neighbors; she's always accusing people of staring at her. She treats 911 like it's her own personal hot line, always calling to report suspicious-looking characters."

"I could chew her up and spit her out on the stand," Bartlett said. "Without Elizabeth Lange's testimony, the prosecution would be flying on one wing. Incidentally, I want to know how good her eyesight is, if she needs glasses, what strength glasses, when they were changed last, and so on… everything about her vision."

"Good. I'll phone it in."

For a few minutes they walked in silence. The morning was silvery bright; the sun was absorbing the dew from the leaves and bushes; the road was quiet, with only an occasional car passing; the narrow bridge that led to the Lone Cypress was empty.

Bartlett glanced over his shoulder. "I'd hoped to see Ted holding hands with Cheryl."

"He always jogs in the morning. Maybe he was holding hands with her all night."

"I hope so. Your friend Syd doesn't look happy."

"The rumor is Syd's broke. He was riding high with Leila as a client. He'd sign her up for a picture and part of the deal was they'd use a couple of his other clients somewhere else. That's how he kept Cheryl working. Without Leila and with all the money he lost in that play, he's got problems. He'd love to put the arm on Ted right now. I won't let him."

"He and Cheryl are the most important defense witnesses we have," Henry snapped. "Maybe you'd better be more generous. In fact, I'm going to make that suggestion to Ted."

They had passed the Pebble Beach Lodge and were on the way back to the Spa. "We'll get to work after breakfast," Bartlett announced. "I've got to decide the strategy of this case and whether to put Ted on the stand. My guess is that he'll make a lousy witness for himself; but no matter how much the judge instructs the jury, it makes a big psychological difference when a defendant won't subject himself to questioning."

Syd walked back to Cheryl's bungalow with her. "Let's make this short," she said when the door closed behind them. "I want to shower, and I invited Ted for breakfast." She pulled the sweat shirt over her head, stepped out of the sweat pants and reached for her robe. "What is it?"

"Always practicing, aren't you?" Syd snapped. "Save it for the dopes, honey. I'd rather wrestle with a tiger." For a long minute he studied her. She had darkened her hair for the Amanda audition, and the effect was startling. The softer color had obliterated the brassy, cheap-at-the-core look she'd never quite conquered and had accentuated those marvelous eyes. Even in a terry-cloth robe she looked like someone with class. Inside, Syd knew, she was the same scheming little hooker he'd been dealing with for nearly two decades.

Now she smiled dazzlingly at him. "Oh, Syd, let's not fight. What do you want?"

"I'll be happy to make it brief. Why did you suggest that Leila might have committed suicide? Why would she have believed that Ted was involved with another woman?"

"Proof."

"What kind of proof?"

"A letter." Quickly she explained. "I went up to see Min yesterday. They had the nerve to leave a bill here, when they know perfectly well I'm a draw for this place. They were inside, and I just happened to notice all that fan mail on Sammy's desk, and when I looked around I saw this crazy letter. And I took it."

"You took it!"

"Of course. Let me show it to you." She hurried into her bedroom, brought it back, and leaning over his shoulder, read it with him.

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 H_er 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.

"Don't you see? Ted must have been having a fling with someone else. But wouldn't that make him glad to break up with Leila? And if he wants to say it was with me, that's fine. I'll back him up."

"You stupid bitch."

Cheryl straightened up and walked over to the other couch. She sat down, leaned forward and spoke precisely, as though she were addressing a not-very-bright child. "You don't seem to realize that this letter is my chance to make Ted understand that I have his best interests at heart."

Syd walked over, grabbed the letter from Cheryl's hand and shredded it. "Last night Bob Koenig phoned me to make sure there was nothing unfavorable that might come out about you. You know why, as of this minute, you have the inside track for Amanda? Because Margo Dresher's had more than her share of lousy publicity. What kind of publicity do you think you'd get if Leila's fans find out you drove her to suicide with poison-pen letters?"

"I didn't write that letter."

"The hell you didn't! How many people knew about that bracelet? I saw your eyes when Ted gave it to Leila. You were ready to stab her right then. Those rehearsals were closed. How many people knew Leila was having trouble with her lines? You knew. Why? Because I told you myself. You wrote that letter and others like it. How much time did it take you to cut and paste? I'm surprised you had the patience. How many more are there, and are they likely to show up?"

Cheryl looked alarmed. "Syd, I swear to you I did not write that letter or any others. Syd, tell me about Bob Koenig."

Now it was Syd who, enunciating slowly, repeated the conversation. When he finished, Cheryl reached out her hand. "Got a match? You know I gave up smoking."

Syd watched as the shredded letter with its bizarre, uneven scraps of print curled and disappeared in the ashtray.

Cheryl came over to him and put her arms around his neck. "I knew you were going to get that part for me, Syd. You're right about getting rid of the letter. I think I should still testify at the trial. The publicity will be wonderful. But don't you think my attitude should be shock that my very dearest friend was so distraught and depressed? Then I could explain how even those of us at the top have terrible periods of anxiety."

Her eyes opened wide; two tears ran down her cheeks. "I think Bob Koenig would like that approach, don't you?"

Four

" Elizabeth!" Min's startled voice made her jump. "Is something wrong? Where is Sammy?"

Min and Helmut were in matching jogging outfits; Min's black hair was pulled regally into a chignon, but her makeup only partially masked the unfamiliar wrinkles around her eyes, the puffiness of her lids. The Baron seemed, as always, to be striking a pose, his legs slightly parted, his hands clasped behind his back, his head bent forward, his eyes puzzled and guileless.

Briefly, Elizabeth told them what had happened. Sammy was missing; her bed had not been slept in.

Min looked alarmed. "I came down at about six o'clock. The lights were on; the window was open; the copy machine was on. I was annoyed. I thought Sammy was getting careless."

"The copy machine was on! Then she did come back to the office last night." Elizabeth darted across the room. "Did you look to see if the letter she wanted to copy is in the machine?"

It was not there. But next to the copier Elizabeth found the plastic bag the letter had been wrapped in.

Within fifteen minutes a search party had been quietly organized. Reluctantly, Elizabeth acceded to Min's pleadings not to call the police immediately. "Sammy was very ill last year," Min reminded her. "She had a slight stroke and was disoriented. It may have happened again. You know how she hates fuss. Let us try to find her first."

"I'll give it until lunchtime," Elizabeth said flatly, "and then I'm going to report her missing. For all we know, if she did have some kind of attack, she's wandering on the beach somewhere."

"Minna gave Sammy a job out of pity," Helmut snapped. "The essence of this place is privacy, seclusion. We have deputies swarming about and half the guests will pack up and go home."

Elizabeth felt red-hot anger, but it was Min who answered. "Too much has been concealed around here," she said quietly. "We will delay calling the sheriffs office for Sammy's sake, not for ours."

Together they scooped the piled-up letters back into the bags. "This is Leila's mail," Elizabeth told them. She twisted the tops of the bags into intricate knots. "I'll take these to my bungalow later." She studied the knots and was satisfied no one could undo them without tearing the bags.

"Then you're planning to stay?" Helmut's attempt to sound pleased did not come off.

"At least until Sammy is found," Elizabeth told him. "Now let's get some help."

The search party consisted of the oldest and most trusted employees: Nelly, the maid who had let her into Dora's apartment; Jason, the chauffeur; the head gardener. They stood huddled at a respectful distance from Min's desk waiting for instructions.

It was Elizabeth who addressed them. "To protect Miss Samuels' privacy, we don't want anyone to suspect that there is a problem." Crisply she divided their responsibilities. "Nelly, check the empty bungalows. Ask the other maids if they've seen Dora. Be casual. Jason, you contact the cab companies. Find out if anyone made a pickup here between nine o'clock last night and seven this morning." She nodded to the gardener. "I want every inch of the grounds searched." She turned to Min and the Baron. "Min, you go through the house and the women's spa. Helmut, see if she's anywhere in the clinic. I'm going around the neighborhood."

She looked at the clock. "Remember, noon is the deadline for finding her."

As she headed for the gates, Elizabeth realized it had not been for Min and Helmut that she had made the concession, but because she knew that for Sammy it was already too late.

Five

Ted flatly refused to begin working on his defense until he'd spent an hour in the gym. When Bartlett and Craig arrived at his bungalow, he had just finished breakfast and was wearing a blue sport shirt and white shorts. Looking at him, Henry Bartlett could understand why women like Cheryl threw themselves at him, why a superstar like Leila LaSalle had been head over heels in love with him. Ted had that indefinable combination of looks and brains and charm which attracted men and women alike.

Over the years Bartlett had defended the rich and the powerful. The experience had left him cynical. No man is a hero to his valet. Or to his lawyer. It gave Bartlett a certain sense of power of his own to get guilty defendants acquitted, to shape a defense on loopholes in the law. His clients were grateful to him and paid his huge fees with alacrity.

Ted Winters was one of a kind. He treated Bartlett with contempt. He was the devil's advocate of his own defense strategy. He did not pick up the hints Bartlett threw to him, the hints which ethically Bartlett could not bluntly state. Now he said, "You start planning my defense, Henry. I'm going to the gym for an hour. And then I might just take a swim. And possibly jog again. By the time I get back, I'd like to see exactly what your line of defense is and see if I can live with it. I assume you understand that I have no intention of saying, Yes, perhaps, maybe I did stumble back upstairs?"

"Teddy, I…"

Ted stood up. He pushed the breakfast tray aside. His posture was menacing as he stared at the older man. "Let me explain something. Teddy is the name of a two-year-old boy. I'll describe him for you. He was what my grandmother used to call a towhead… very, very blond. He was a tough little guy who walked at nine months and spoke sentences at fifteen months. He was my son. His mother was a very sweet young woman who unfortunately could not get used to the idea she had married a very rich man. She refused to hire a housekeeper. She did her own marketing. She refused to have a chauffeur. She wouldn't hear of driving an expensive automobile. Kathy lived in fear that folks from Iowa City would think she was getting uppity. One rainy night she was driving back from grocery shopping and-we think-a goddamn can of tomato soup rolled out of the bag and under her foot. And so she couldn't stop at the stop sign, and a trailer truck plowed into that goddamn piece of tin she called a car. And she and that little boy, Teddy, died. That was eight years ago. Now have you got it straight that when you call me Teddy, I see a little blond kid who walked early and talked early and would be ten years old next month?"

Ted's eyes glistened. "Now you plan my defense. You're being paid for it. I'm going to the gym. Craig, take your pick."

"I'll work out with you."

They left the bungalow and started toward the men's spa. "Where did you find him?" Ted asked. "For Christ's sake!"

"Have a heart, Ted. He's the best criminal lawyer in the country."

"No, he isn't. And I'll tell you why. Because he came in with a preconceived notion and he's trying to mold me into the ideal defendant. And it's phony."

The tennis player and his girlfriend were coming out of their bungalow. They greeted Ted warmly. "Missed you at Forest Hills last time," the pro told Ted.

"Next year for sure."

"We're all rooting for you." This time it was the pro's girlfriend with her model's smile flashing.

Ted returned the smile. "Now, if I can just get you on the jury…" He raised his hand in a gesture of acknowledgment and walked on. The smile disappeared. "I wonder if they have celebrity tennis in Attica."

"You won't have to give a damn one way or the other. It will have nothing to do with you." Craig stopped. "Look, isn't that Elizabeth?"

They were almost directly in front of the main house. From across the vast lawn they watched as the slender figure ran down the steps of the veranda and turned toward the outer gates. There was no mistaking the honey-colored loop of hair twirled on the top of her head, the thrust of the chin, the innate grace of her movements. She was dabbing at her eyes, and as they watched, she pulled sunglasses from her pocket and put them on.

"I thought she was going home this morning." Ted's voice was impersonal. "Something's wrong."

"Do you want to see what it is?"

"Obviously my presence would only upset her more. Why don't you follow her? She doesn't think you killed Leila."

"Ted, for God's sake, knock it off! I'd put my hand in the fire for you and you know it, but being a punching bag isn't going to make me function any better. And I fail to see how it helps you."

Ted shrugged. "My apologies. You're quite right. Now see if you can help Elizabeth. I'll meet you back at my place in about an hour."

Craig caught up with her at the gate. Quickly she explained what had happened. His reaction was comforting. "You mean to say that Sammy may have been missing for hours and the police haven't been called?"

"They're going to be as soon as the grounds are searched, and I thought I'd just see if maybe…" Elizabeth could not finish. She swallowed and went on: "You remember when she had that first attack. She was so disoriented and then so embarrassed."

Craig's arm was around her. "Okay-steady. Let's walk a bit." They crossed the road toward the path that led to the Lone Cypress. The sun had dispersed the last of the morning mist, and the day was bright and warm. Sandpipers flurried over their heads, circled and returned to their perches on the rocky shoreline. Waves broke like foaming geysers against the rocks and retreated to the sea. The Lone Cypress, always a tourist attraction, was already the center of attention of the camera buffs.

Elizabeth began to question them. "We're looking for an older lady… She may be ill… She's quite small…"

Craig took over. He gave an accurate description of Dora. "What was she wearing, Elizabeth?"

"A beige cardigan, a beige cotton blouse, a tan skirt."

"Sounds like my mother," commented a tourist in a red sport shirt with a camera slung over his shoulder.

"She's kind of everybody's mother," Elizabeth said.

They rang doorbells of the secluded homes hidden by shrubbery from the road. Maids, some sympathetic, some annoyed, promised to "keep an eye out."

They went to the Pebble Beach Lodge. "Sammy has breakfast here sometimes on her days off," Elizabeth said. With a clutch of hope, she searched the dining rooms, praying that her eyes would find the small straight figure, that Sammy would be surprised at all the fuss. But there were only the vacationers, dressed in casually expensive sport clothes, most of them awaiting their tee-off time.

Elizabeth turned to leave, but Craig held her arm. "I'll bet you didn't have any breakfast." He signaled to the headwaiter.

Over coffee they surveyed each other. "If there's no sign of her when we get back, we'll insist on calling the police," he told her.

"Something's happened to her."

"You can't be sure of that. Tell me exactly when you saw her, whether she said anything about going out."

Elizabeth hesitated. She was not sure if she wanted to tell Craig about the letter Sammy was going to copy or about the letter that had been stolen. She did know that the deep concern on his face was a tremendous comfort, that if it became necessary, he would put the awesome power of Winters Enterprises into the search for Sammy. Her response was careful. "When Sammy left me, she said she was going back to the office for a while."

"I can't believe that she's so overworked she has to burn midnight oil."

Elizabeth half-smiled. "Not quite midnight. Nine thirty." To avoid further questions, she gulped the rest of the coffee. "Craig, do you mind if we go back now? Maybe there's been some word."

But there was not. And if the maids, the gardener and the chauffeur could be believed, every inch of the grounds had been searched. Now even Helmut agreed not to wait until noon, that it was time to phone in a missing-person report.

"That's not good enough," Elizabeth told them. "I want you to ask for Scott Alshorne."

She waited for Scott at Sammy's desk. "Do you want me to hang around?" Craig asked.

"No."

He glanced at the trash bags. "What's all that?"

"Leila's fan mail. Sammy was answering it."

"Don't start going through it. It will only upset you." Craig glanced into Min and Helmut's office. They were sitting side by side on the Art Deco wicker couch, speaking in low tones. He leaned over the desk. " Elizabeth, you have to know I'm between a rock and a hard place. But when this is over, no matter how it ends, we've got to talk. I've missed you terribly." In a surprisingly agile move, he was around the desk; his hand was on her hair, his lips on her cheek. "I'm always here for you," he whispered. "If anything has happened to Sammy and you need a shoulder or an ear… You know where to find me."

Elizabeth clutched at his hand and for an instant held it against her cheek. She felt its solid strength, its warmth, the width of his blunt fingers. And incongruously thought of Ted's long-fingered graceful hands. She dropped his hand and pulled away. "Watch out or you'll get me crying." She tried to make her voice light, to dispel the intensity of the moment.

Craig seemed to understand. He straightened up and said matter-of-factly, "I'll be in Ted's bungalow if you need me."

Waiting was the hardest. It was like the night when she'd sat in Leila's apartment hoping, praying that Leila and Ted had made up, had gone off together and knowing with every nerve in her body that something was wrong. Sitting at Sammy's desk was agony. She wanted to run in a dozen different directions; to walk along the road and ask people if they'd seen her; to search the Crocker Woodland in case she'd wandered in there in a daze.

Instead, Elizabeth opened one of the bags of fan mail and brought out a handful of envelopes. At least she could accomplish something.

She could search for more anonymous letters.

Six

Sheriff Scott Alshorne had been a lifelong friend of Samuel Edgers, Min's first husband, the man who had built the Cypress Point Hotel. He and Min had liked each other from the start, and it had pleased him to see that Min kept her part of her bargain. She gave the ailing and cantankerous octogenarian a new lease on life for the five years she was married to him.

Scott had watched with mingled curiosity and awe as Min and that titled jerk she married next had taken a comfortable, profitable hotel and turned it into a self-consuming monster. Min now invited him at least once a month to dinner at the Spa, and in the last year and a half he'd come to know Dora Samuels well. That was why when Min called with the news of her disappearance, he instinctively feared the worst.

If Sammy had had some kind of stroke and started wandering around, she'd have been noticed. Old sick people didn't get overlooked on the Monterey Peninsula. Scott was proud of his jurisdiction.

His office was in Salinas, the seat of Monterey County and twenty-two miles from Pebble Beach. Crisply he issued instructions for the posting of a missing-person notice and directed that deputies from the Pebble Beach area meet him at the Spa.

He was silent on the drive. The deputy who chauffeured him noticed there were unusually deep creases in his boss's forehead, that the craggy, tanned face under the wealth of unmanageable white hair was furrowed in thought. When the chief looked like this, it meant he anticipated a big problem.

It was ten thirty when they drove through the gates. The houses and grounds had an air of tranquillity. There were few people walking around. Scott knew that most of the guests were in the spas, working out, being pummeled and patted and scrubbed and plucked so that when they went home at the end of their stay, their families and friends would gush over how marvelous they looked. Or they were in the clinic having one of Helmut's sophisticated and ultra-expensive treatments.

He had heard that Ted Winters' private jet had landed at the airport on Sunday afternoon and that Ted was here. He'd debated with himself as to whether or not to call him. Ted was under indictment for second-degree murder. He was also the kid who used to delight in sailing with his grandfather and Scott.

Knowing that Ted was booked at the Spa caused Scott to register openmouthed astonishment when he saw Elizabeth sitting at Sammy's desk. She had not heard him come up the stairs, and he took a moment to study her unobserved. She was deathly pale, and her eyes were red-rimmed. Strands of hair had slipped from the knot on top of her head and curled around her face. She was pulling letters from envelopes, glancing at them and tossing them aside impatiently. Clearly she was searching for something. He noticed that her hands were trembling.

He knocked loudly on the open door and watched her jump up. Relief and apprehension mingled in her expression. Spontaneously she ran around the desk and with outstretched arms hurried toward him. Just before she reached him, she stopped abruptly. "I'm sorry… I mean, how are you, Scott? It's good to see you."

He knew what she was thinking. Because of his longtime friendship with Ted, he might regard her as the enemy. Poor kid. He gathered her in a quick bear hug. To disguise his own emotion, he said gruffly, "You're too skinny. I hope you're not on one of Min's celebrity diets."

"I'm on a get-fat-fast. Banana splits and brownies."

"Good."

Together they went into Min's office. Scott raised his eyebrows when he saw the haggard expression on Min's face, the wary, veiled eyes of the Baron. They were both worried, and somehow he felt it went beyond concern for Sammy. His direct questions garnered the information he needed. "I'd like to take a look at Sammy's apartment."

Min led the way. Elizabeth and Helmut trailed behind. Somehow Scott's presence gave Elizabeth a faint touch of hope. At least something would be done. She had seen the disapproval in his face at the realization they had waited so long to phone him.

Scott glanced around the sitting room and walked into the bedroom. He pointed to the suitcase on the floor near the closet. "Was she planning to go somewhere?"

"She just got back," Min explained, then looked puzzled. "It's not like Sammy not to unpack immediately."

Scott opened the bag. There was a cosmetic case on top filled with pill bottles. He read the directions: "One every four hours; twice a day; two at bedtime." He frowned. "Sammy was careful about her medication. She didn't want another siege. Min, show me the condition of the office as you found it."

It was the copy machine that seemed to intrigue him most. "The window was open. The machine was on." He stood in front of it. "She was about to copy something. She looked out the window, and then what? She felt dizzy? She wandered outside? But where was she trying to go?" He stared out the window. This view took in the expanse of the north lawn, the scattered bungalows along the way to the Olympic pool and the Roman bath-that god-awful monstrosity!

"You say every inch of the grounds, every building was searched?"

"Yes." Helmut answered first. "I personally saw to it."

Scott cut him off. "We'll start all over."

Elizabeth spent the next hours at Sammy's desk. Her fingers were dry from handling the dozens of letters she examined. They read alike-requests for Leila's autograph, requests for her picture. There was so far no sign of any more anonymous letters.

At two o'clock Elizabeth heard a shout. She raced to the window in time to see one of the policemen gesturing from the door of the bathhouse. Her feet flew on the stairs. At the next-to-last step, she tripped and fell, smashing her arms and legs against the polished tiles. Heedless of the sharp sting in her palms and knees, she ran across the lawn to the bathhouse, arriving as Scott disappeared inside. She followed him through the locker room into the pool area.

A policeman was standing at the side of the pool pointing down at Sammy's crumpled body.

Later, she vaguely remembered kneeling beside Sammy, reaching her hand to brush back the matted, bloody hair from her forehead, feeling Scott's iron grasp, hearing his sharp command: "Don't touch her!" Sammy's eyes were open, her features frozen in terror, her glasses still caught on her ears but dropped down on her nose, her palms outstretched as though pushing something back. Her beige cardigan was still buttoned, the wide patch pockets suddenly prominent. "See if she has the letter to Leila," Elizabeth heard herself say. "Look in the pockets." Then her own eyes widened. The beige wool cardigan became Leila's white satin pajamas, and she was kneeling over Leila's body again… Mercifully, she fainted.

When she regained consciousness, she was lying on the bed in her bungalow. Helmut was bending over her, holding something that smelled harsh and pungent under her nostrils. Min was chafing her hands. Uncontrollable sobs racked her body, and she heard herself wailing, "Not Sammy too, not Sammy too."

Min held her tightly. " Elizabeth, don't… Don't."

Helmut muttered, "This will help you." The prick of a needle in her arm.

When she awoke, the shadows were long in the room. Nelly, the maid who had helped in the search, was touching her shoulder. "I'm so sorry to disturb you, miss," she said, "but I did bring tea and something for you to eat. The sheriff can't wait any longer. He has to talk with you."

Seven

The news of Dora's death rippled through the Spa like an unwelcome rainstorm at a family picnic. There was mild curiosity: "What ever was she doing wandering in that place?" A sense of mortality: "How old was she, did you say?" An attempt to place her-"Oh, you mean that prim little woman in the office?"-then a quick return to the pleasant activities of the Spa. This was, after all, an extremely expensive retreat. One came here to escape problems, not find them.

In mid-afternoon Ted had gone for a massage, hoping to obtain some relief from tension in the pounding hands of the Swedish masseur. He'd just returned to his bungalow when Craig told him the news. "They found her body in the bathhouse. She must have gotten dizzy and fallen."

Ted thought of the afternoon in New York when Sammy had had that first stroke. They were all in Leila's apartment, and in the middle of a sentence Sammy's voice had trailed off. It was he who had realized there was something seriously wrong.

"How is Elizabeth taking it?" he asked Craig.

"Pretty badly. I gather she fainted."

"She was close to Sammy. She…" Ted bit his lip and changed the subject. "Where's Bartlett?"

"On the golf course."

"I wasn't aware I brought him out here to play golf."

"Ted, come off it! He's been on the job since early this morning. Henry claims he can think better if he gets some exercise."

"Remind him that I go on trial next week. He'd better curtail his exercise." Ted shrugged. "It was crazy to come here. I don't know why I thought it would help me calm down; it's not working."

"Give it a chance. It wouldn't be any better in New York or Connecticut. Oh, I just bumped into your old friend Sheriff Alshorne."

"Scott's here? Then they must think there's something peculiar about Sammy's death."

"I don't know about that. It's probably just routine for him to show up."

"Does he know I'm here?"

"Yes. As a matter of fact, he asked about you."

"Did he suggest that I call him?"

Craig's hesitation was barely perceptible. "Well, not exactly-but look, it wasn't a social conversation."

Another person avoiding me, Ted thought. Another person waiting to see the full evidence laid out in court. Restlessly he wandered around the living room of his bungalow. Suddenly it had become a cage to him. But all rooms had seemed like that since the indictment. It must be a psychological reaction. "I'm going for a walk," he said abruptly. Then, to forestall Craig's offer of company, he added, "I'll be back in time for dinner."

As he passed the Pebble Beach Lodge, he wondered at the sense of isolation that made him feel so totally apart from the people who wandered along the paths, heading for the restaurants, the tourist shops, the golf courses. His grandfather had started bringing him to these courses when he was eight. His father had detested California, and so when they came it was just his mother and himself, and he'd seen her shed her nervous mannerisms and become younger, lighthearted.

Why hadn't she left his father? he wondered. Her family didn't have the Winters millions, but she would certainly have had enough money. Wasn't it because she was afraid of losing custody of him that she'd stayed in that cursed marriage? His father had never let her forget that first suicide attempt. And so she had stayed and endured his periodic drunken rages, his verbal abuse, his mimicking of her mannerisms, his scorn of her private fears until one night she had decided she couldn't endure any more.

Unseeingly, Ted walked along the Seventeen Mile Drive, unaware of the Pacific, glimmering and gleaming below the houses that rose above Stillwater Cove and Carmel Bay, unaware of the luxuriant bougainvillea, heedless of the expensive cars that sped past him.

Carmel was still crowded with summer tourists, college students getting in one last fling before the fall semester. When he and Leila walked through town, she'd stopped traffic. The thought made him pull his sunglasses from his pocket. In those days, men used to look at him with envy. Now he was aware of hostility on the faces of strangers who recognized him.

Hostility. Isolation. Fear.

These last seventeen months had disrupted his entire life, had forced him to do things he would not have believed possible. Now he accepted the fact that there was one more monumental hurdle he had to overcome before the trial.

Drenching perspiration soaked his body at the image of what that would be.

Eight

Alvirah sat at the dressing table in her bungalow, happily surveying the shiny rows of creams and cosmetics that had been presented to her in the makeup class that afternoon. As the instructor had told her, she had flat cheekbones that could be beautifully enhanced with a soft blush rather than the crimson rouge she favored. She also had been persuaded to try wearing a brown mascara instead of the jet black which she believed drew attention to her eyes. "Less is better," the makeup expert had assured her, and truth to tell, there was a difference. In fact, Alvirah decided, the new makeup, combined with the way they'd toned down her hair to a rich brown, made her look just like the way she remembered Aunt Agnes, and Agnes always was the beauty in the family. It also felt good that her hands were starting to lose their calluses. No more heavy cleaning for her. Ever. Period. "And if you think you look good now, wait till you see how glamorous you are when Baron von Schreiber is finished with you," the makeup lady had said. "His collagen injections will make those little lines around your mouth, nose and forehead disappear. It's almost miraculous."

Alvirah sighed. She was bursting with happiness. Willy had always claimed that she was the finest-looking woman in Queens and that he liked being able to put his arms around her and feel that he had something to hold on to. But these last years, she'd put on weight. Wouldn't it be good to really look classy when they were hunting for a new house? Not that she had any intention of trying to get in with the Rockefellers-just middle-class people like themselves who'd made good. And if she and Willy made out a lot better than most others, were luckier than just about anybody else, it was nice to know that they could do some good for other people.

After she finished the articles for the Globe, she really would write that book. Her mother had always said, "Alvirah, you've got such a lively imagination, you're going to be a writer someday." Maybe someday was here.

Alvirah pursed her lips and carefully applied coral lip gloss with her newly acquired brush. Years ago, in the belief that her lips were too narrow, she'd gotten into the habit of making a kind of Kewpie doll curve to accentuate them, but now she'd been persuaded that that wasn't necessary. She put down the brush and surveyed the results.

Somehow she really did feel a little guilty about being so happy and interested in everything when that nice little lady was stretched out somewhere in the morgue. But she was seventy-one, Alvirah comforted herself, and it must have been real quick. That's the way I want to go when it's my turn. Not that she expected it to be her turn for a long time to come. As her mother said, "Our women make old bones." Her mother was eighty-four and still went bowling every Wednesday night.

Her makeup adjusted to her satisfaction, Alvirah took her tape recorder from her suitcase and inserted the cassette from Sunday night's dinner. As she listened, a puzzled frown creased her forehead. Funny-when you're just listening to people, you get a different perspective than when you're sitting with them. Like Syd Melnick was supposed to be a big agent. But he sure let Cheryl Manning push him around. And she could turn on a dime, one minute hassling Syd Melnick about the water she'd spilled herself and then all sweetness and light, asking Ted Winters if she could go with him sometime to see the Winters Gym at Dartmouth College. Dartmuth, Alvirah thought, not Dart-mouth. Craig Babcock had corrected her on that. He had such a nice calm voice. She'd told him that. "You sound so educated."

He'd laughed. "You should have heard me in my teens."

Ted Winters' voice was so well-bred. Alvirah knew he hadn't had to work on it. The three of them had a nice talk on that subject.

Alvirah checked her microphone to see that it was securely in place in the center flower of her sunburst pin and delivered an observation. "Voices," she declared, "tell a lot about people."

She was surprised to hear the phone ring. It was only nine o'clock New York time, and Willy was supposed to be at a union meeting. She wished that he'd quit his job, but he said to give him time. He wasn't used to being a millionaire.

It was Charley Evans, the special features editor of the New York Globe. "How's my star reporter?" he asked. "Any problems with the recorder?"

"It works like a charm," Alvirah assured him. "I'm having a wonderful time and meeting some very interesting people."

"Any celebrities?"

"Oh, yes." Alvirah couldn't help bragging. "I came from the airport in a limousine with Elizabeth Lange, and I'm at the same dinner table as Cheryl Manning and Ted Winters." She was rewarded by an audible gasp on the other end of the phone.

"Are you telling me that Elizabeth Lange and Ted Winters are together?"

"Oh, not exactly together," Alvirah said hastily. "In fact, she wouldn't go near him at all. She was going to leave right away, but she wanted to see her sister's secretary. The only trouble is Leila's secretary was found dead this afternoon in the Roman bathhouse."

"Mrs. Meehan, hold on a minute. I want you to repeat everything you just said, very slowly. Someone will be taking it down."

Nine

At Scott Alshorne's request, the coroner of Monterey County performed an immediate autopsy on the remains of Dora Samuels. Death had been caused by a severe head injury, pressure on the brain from skull fragments, contributing cause a moderately severe stroke.

In his office, Scott studied the autopsy report in reflective silence and tried to pinpoint the reasons he felt there was something sinister about Dora Samuels' death.

That bathhouse. It looked like a mausoleum; it had turned out to be Sammy's sepulcher. Who the hell did Min's husband think he was to have foisted that on her? Incongruously, Scott thought of the contest Leila had run: Should the Baron be called the tin soldier or the toy soldier? Twenty-five words or less. Leila bought dinner for the winner.

Why had Sammy been in the bathhouse? Had she just wandered in there? Was she planning to meet someone? That didn't make sense. The electricity wasn't turned on. It would have been pitch black.

Min and Helmut had both stated that the bathhouse should have been locked. But they'd also admitted they had left it in a hurry yesterday afternoon. "Minna was upset by the overrun costs," Helmut had explained. "I was worried about her emotional state. It is a heavy door. Possibly I did not pull it shut."

Sammy's death had been caused by the injuries to the back of her head. She had toppled backward into the pool. But had she fallen or been pushed? Scott got up and began backing across his office. A practical, if not a scientific test, he decided. No matter how dazed or confused you are, most people don't start walking backward unless they're backing away from someone, or something…

He settled at his desk again. He was supposed to attend a civic dinner with the mayor of Carmel. He'd have to pass. He was going back to the Spa and he was going to talk to Elizabeth Lange. It was his hunch that she knew what urgent business had made Sammy go back to the office at nine thirty at night and what document had been so important to copy.

On the drive back to the Spa, two words flashed in his mind.

Fallen?

Pushed?

Then as the car passed the Pebble Beach Lodge, he realized what had been bothering him. That was the same question that was bringing Ted Winters to trial on a murder indictment!

Ten

Craig spent the rest of the afternoon in Ted's bungalow going through the bulky package of mail that had been expressed from the New York office. With a practiced eye he skimmed memos, reviewed printouts, studied projection charts. His frown deepened as he read. That group of Harvard and Wharton Business M.B.A.s Ted had hired a couple of years ago were a constant irritant to him. If they had their way, Ted would be building hotels on space platforms.

At least they had had the brains to recognize that they couldn't try to go around Craig anymore. The memos and letters were all addressed to him and Ted jointly.

Ted got back at five o'clock. Obviously the walk hadn't relaxed him any. He was in a foul mood. "Is there any reason you can't work in your place?" was his first question.

"None except that it seemed simpler to be here for you." Craig indicated the business files. "There are some things I'd like to go over."

"I'm not interested. Do what you think best."

"I think 'best' would be for you to have a Scotch and unwind a little. And I think 'best' for Winters Enterprises is to get rid of those two assholes from

Harvard. Their expense accounts amount to armed robbery."

"I don't want to go into that now."

Bartlett came in pink-faced from his afternoon in the sun. Craig noticed the way Ted's mouth tightened at Bartlett 's genial greeting. There was no question Ted was starting to unravel. He drank the first Scotch quickly and didn't protest when Craig refilled it.

Bartlett wanted to discuss the list of defense witnesses Craig had prepared for him. He read it off to Ted-a glittering array of famous names.

"You don't have the President on it," Ted said sarcastically.

Bartlett fell into the trap. "Which president?"

"Of the United States, of course. I used to be one of his golf partners."

Bartlett shrugged and closed the file. "Obviously this isn't going to be a good working session. Are you planning to eat out tonight?"

"No, I'm planning to stay right here. And right now I'm planning to nap."

Craig and Bartlett left together. "You do realize this is getting hopeless," Bartlett told him.

At six thirty Craig received a call from the agency he'd hired to investigate the eyewitness, Sally Ross. "There was some excitement in Ross's apartment building," he was told. "The woman who lives directly above her walked in on an attempted bur-glary. They caught the guy-a petty thief with a long record. Ross didn't go out at all."

At seven o'clock, Craig met Bartlett at Ted's bungalow. Ted wasn't there. They started toward the main house together. "You're about as popular as I am with Teddy these days," Bartlett commented.

Craig shrugged. "Listen, if he wants to take it out on me, it's all right. In a way, I brought this on him."

"How do you figure that one?"

"I introduced him to Leila. She was my date first."

They reached the veranda in time to hear the newest witticism. At Cypress Point, for four thousand dollars a week you get to use some of the pools. For five thousand you get to use the ones with water in them.

There was no sign of Elizabeth during the "cocktail" hour. Craig watched for her to come up the path, but she did not appear. Bartlett drifted over to the tennis pro and his girlfriend. Ted was talking to the Countess and her group; Cheryl was hanging on his arm. A morose-looking Syd was standing off by himself. Craig went over to him. "That business about 'proof.' Was Cheryl drunk last night or just talking her usual drivel?" he asked.

He knew Syd wouldn't have minded taking a swing at him. Syd considered him to be, like all the parasites in Ted's world, the bottleneck to Ted's largesse. Craig considered himself more of a goalie -you had to pass him to score.

"I would say," Syd told him, "that Cheryl was giving her usual splendid dramatic performance."

Min and Helmut did not appear in the dining rooms until after the guests had settled. Craig noticed how gaunt they looked, how fixed their smiles were as they visited from table to table. Why not? They were in the business of staving off old age, illness and death. This afternoon Sammy had proved it was a pointless game.

As she sat down, Min murmured an apology for being late. Ted ignored Cheryl, whose hand clung persistently to his. "How is Elizabeth?"

Helmut answered him: "She's taking it very hard. I gave her a sedative."

Would Alvirah Meehan never stop fooling with that damn pin? Craig wondered. She had parked herself between him and Ted. He glanced around. Min. Helmut. Syd. Bartlett. Cheryl. Ted. The Meehan woman. Himself. There was one more place setting next to him. He asked Min who would be joining them.

"Sheriff Alshorne. He just came back. He's talking to Elizabeth now." Min bit her lip. "Please. We all know how sad we feel about losing Sammy, but I think it would be better if we do not discuss it during dinner."

"Why does the sheriff want to talk to Elizabeth Lange?" Alvirah Meehan asked. "He doesn't think there's anything funny about Miss Samuels dying in that bathhouse, does he?"

Seven stony pairs of eyes discouraged further questions.

The soup was chilled peach and strawberry, a specialty of the Spa. Alvirah sipped hers contentedly. The Globe would be interested to learn that Ted Winters was very clearly concerned about Elizabeth.

She could hardly wait to meet the sheriff.

Eleven

Elizabeth stood at the window of her bungalow and glanced at the main house just in time to see the guests drifting inside for dinner. She had insisted that Nelly leave: "You've had a long day, and I'm perfectly all right now." She'd propped herself up in bed for the tea and toast, then showered quickly, hoping that the splashing cold water would clear her head. The sedative had left her groggy.

An off-white cable-knit sweater and tan stretch pants were her favorite comfortable clothes. Somehow, wearing them, her feet bare, her hair twisted up casually, she felt like herself.

The last of the guests had disappeared. But as she watched, she saw Scott cut across the lawn in her direction.

They sat across from each other, leaning slightly forward, anxious to communicate, wary of how to begin. Looking at Scott with his kind, questioning eyes made Elizabeth remember how Leila had once said, "He's the kind of guy I would have liked for a father." Last night Sammy had suggested that they take the anonymous letter to him.

"I'm sorry I couldn't wait until the morning to see you," Scott told her. "But there are too many things about Sammy's death that trouble me. From what I've learned so far, Sammy drove six hours from Napa Valley yesterday, arriving at about two o'clock. She wasn't due till late evening. She must have been pretty tired, but she didn't even stop to unpack. She went directly to the office. She claimed she wasn't feeling well and wouldn't come down to the dining room for dinner, but the maid tells me she had a tray in the office and was busily going through bags of mail. Then she came to visit you and left around nine thirty. Sammy should have been pretty beat by then, but she apparently went back to the office and turned on the copy machine. Why?"

Elizabeth got up and walked into the bedroom. From her suitcase she took the letter from Sammy that had been waiting for her in New York. She showed it to Scott. "When I realized Ted was here I would have left immediately, but I had to wait and see Sammy about this." She told him about the letter that had been taken from Sammy's office and showed him the transcript Sammy had made from memory. "This is pretty much the text of it."

Her eyes filled as she looked at Sammy's graceful penmanship. "She found another poison-pen letter in one of those sacks last evening. She was going to make a copy for me, and we were planning to give the original to you. I've written it down as I remembered. We had hoped the original could be traced. The typeface for magazines is coded, isn't it?"

"Yes." Scott read and re-read the transcripts of the letters. "Stinking business."

"Somebody was systematically trying to destroy Leila," Elizabeth said. "Somebody doesn't want those letters found. Somebody took one from Sammy's desk yesterday afternoon and perhaps the other one from Sammy's body last night."

"Are you saying that you think Sammy may have been murdered?"

Elizabeth flinched, then looked directly at him. "I simply can't answer that. I do know that someone was worried enough about those letters to want them back. I do know that a series of those letters would have explained Leila's behavior. Those letters precipitated that quarrel with Ted, and those letters have something to do with Sammy's death. I swear this to you, Scott. I'm going to find out who wrote them. Maybe there's no criminal prosecution possible, but there has to be a way of making that person pay. It's someone who was very close to Leila, and I have my suspicions."

Fifteen minutes later Scott left Elizabeth, the transcripts of both anonymous letters in his pocket. Elizabeth believed Cheryl had written those letters. It made sense. It was Cheryl's kind of trick. Before he went into the dining room, he walked around to the right side of the main house. Up there was the window where Sammy had stood when she turned on the copy machine. If someone had been on the steps of the bathhouse and signaled to her to come down…

It was possible. But, of course, he told himself sadly, Sammy wouldn't have come down except for someone she knew. And trusted.

The others were halfway through the main course when he joined them. The empty seat was between Craig and a woman who was introduced as Alvirah Meehan. Scott took the initiative in greeting Ted. Presumption of innocence. Ted had always had outstanding looks. It was no wonder that a woman would go to any extreme to separate him from another woman. Scott did not miss the way Cheryl constantly managed to touch Ted's hand, to brush her shoulder against his.

He helped himself to lamb chops from the silver tray the waiter was offering him.

"They're delicious," Alvirah Meehan confided, her voice barely a whisper. "They'll never go broke in this place from the size of the portions, but I'm telling you when you're finished you feel as though you've had a big meal."

Alvirah Meehan. Of course. He'd read in the Monterey Review about the forry-miftion-dollar lottery winner who was going to realize her fondest dream by coming to Cypress Point Spa. "Are you enjoying yourself, Mrs. Meehan?"

Alvirah beamed. "I sure am. Everyone has been just wonderful, and so friendly." Her smile encompassed the entire table. Min and Helmut attempted to return it. "The treatments make you feel like a princess. The nutritionist said that in two weeks I should be able to lose five pounds and a couple of inches. Tomorrow I'm having collagen to get rid of the lines around my mouth. I'm scared of injections, but Baron von Schreiber will give me something for my nerves. I'll leave here a new woman feeling… like… like a butterfly floating on a cloud." She pointed to Helmut. "The Baron wrote that. Isn't he a real author?"

Alvirah realized she was talking too much. It was just that she felt kind of guilty being an undercover reporter and wanted to say nice things about these people. But now she'd better be quiet and listen to see if the sheriff had anything to say about Dora Samuels' death. But, disappointingly, no one brought it up at all. It was only when they had just about finished the vanilla mousse that the sheriff asked, not quite casually, "You people will all be around here for the next few days? No one has plans to leave?"

"Our plans are undetermined," Syd told him. "Cheryl may have to go back to Beverly Hills on short notice."

"I think it would be better if she checks with me before she goes to Beverly Hills, or anywhere else," Scott said pleasantly. "And by the way, Baron- those bags of Leila's fan mail. I'll be taking them with me."

He put down the spoon he was holding and began to push back his chair. "It's funny," he said, "but it's my guess that one of the people at this table, with the exception of Mrs. Meehan, may have been writing some pretty rotten letters to Leila LaSalle. I'm real anxious to find out who that might be."

To Syd's dismay, Scott's now steely glance rested squarely on Cheryl.

Twelve

It was nearly ten o'clock before they were alone in their apartment. Min had agonized all day about whether or not to confront Helmut with the proof that he had been in New York the night Leila died. To confront him was to force the admission that he had been involved with Leila. Not to confront him was to allow him to remain vulnerable. How stupid he had been not to destroy the record of the telephone call!

He went directly into his dressing room, and a few minutes later she heard the whirling of the

Jacuzzi in his bathroom. When he came back, she was waiting in one of the deep armchairs near the bedroom fireplace. Impersonally, she studied him. His hair was combed as precisely as though he were leaving for a formal ball; his silk dressing gown was knotted by a silk cord; his military posture made him seem taller than his true height. Five feet ten inches was barely above the average for men these days.

He prepared a Scotch and soda for himself and, without asking, poured a sherry for her. "It's been a difficult day, Minna. You handled it well," he said. Still she did not speak, and at last he seemed to sense that her silence was unusual. "This room is so restful," he said. "Aren't you glad you let me have my head with this color scheme? And it suits you. Strong, beautiful colors for a strong and beautiful woman."

"I would not consider peach a strong color."

"It becomes strong when it is wedded with deep blue. Like me, Minna. I become strong because I am with you."

"Then why this?" From the pocket of her robe she pulled out the telephone-credit-card bill and watched as his expression changed from bewilderment to fear. "Why did you lie to me? You were in New York that night. Were you with Leila? Had you gone to her?"

He sighed. "Minna, I'm glad you have found this. I wanted so much to tell you."

"Tell me now. You were in love with Leila. You were having an affair with her."

"No. I swear not."

"You're lying."

"Minna, I am telling the truth. I did go to her-as a friend-as a doctor. I got there at nine thirty. The door to her apartment was just barely open. I could hear Leila crying hysterically. Ted was shouting at her to put the phone down. She screamed back at him. The elevator was coming. I didn't want to be seen. You know the right angle the foyer takes. I went around that corner…"

Helmut sank to the floor at Min's feet. "Minna, it has been killing me not to tell you. Minna, Ted did push her. I heard her scream, 'Don't. Don't' And then her shriek as she fell."

Min paled. "Who got off the elevator? Did anyone see you?"

"I don't know. I ran down the fire stairs."

Then, as if his composure, his sense of order, had abandoned him, he leaned forward, his head in his hands, and began to cry.