Weep No More, My Lady

QUOTE FOR THE DAY:

Good morning, treasured guests.

Are you feeling a bit lazy this morning? Never mind. After a few days we all begin to unwind into delicious and refreshing slumber and think that maybe, just maybe this morning we shall lie abed.

No. No. We beckon to you. Join us in that wonderful and invigorating morning walk through our beautiful grounds and along the coast. You will be glad. Perhaps by now you have already learned the pleasure of meeting new friends, of revisiting old ones on our sun-bright journey.

A gentle reminder. All guests who swim in any of the pools alone must wear the regulation Spa whistle. It has never been needed, but it is a safety factor that we deem essential.

Look in the mirror. Isn't all the exercise and pampering starting to show? Aren't your eyes brighter? Isn't your skin firmer? Won't it be fun showing off the new you to your family and friends?

And a final thought. Whatever troubles you brought with you to the Spa should by now be completely forgotten. Think happy.

Baron and Baroness Helmut von Schreiber

One

Elizabeth 's phone rang at six o'clock. Sleepily she groped for it. Her eyelids were heavy and drooping. The aftereffects of the sedative made it impossible to think clearly.

It was William Murphy, the New York assistant district attorney. His opening words snapped her awake. "Miss Lange, I thought you wanted your sister's killer convicted." Without waiting for her to answer, he rushed on: "Can you please explain to me why you are in the same spa with Ted Winters?"

Elizabeth pulled herself up and swung her feet onto the floor. "I didn't know he was going to be here. I haven't been near him."

"That may be true, but the minute you saw him you should have been on the next plane home. Take a look at this morning's Globe. They've got a picture of you two in a clinch."

"I was never-"

"It was at the memorial service, but the way you're looking at each other is open to interpretation. Get out of there now! And what's this about your sister's secretary?"

"She's the reason I can't leave here." She told him about the letters, about Sammy's death. "I won't go near Ted," she promised, "but I am staying here until Friday. That gives me two days to find the letter Dora was carrying or to figure out who took it from her."

She would not change her mind, and finally Murphy hung up with a parting shot: "If your sister's killer walks, look to yourself for the reason." He paused. "And I told you before: Be careful!"

She jogged into Carmel. The New York papers would be on the stands there. Once again it was a glorious late-summer day. Sleek limousines and Mercedes convertibles followed each other on the road to the golf course. Other joggers waved at her amiably. Privacy hedges protected the estate homes from the curious eyes of the tourists, but in between, glimpses of the Pacific could be seen. A glorious day to be alive, Elizabeth thought, and she shuddered at the mental image of Sammy's body in the morgue.

Over coffee in a breakfast shop on Ocean Avenue, she read the Globe. Someone had snapped that picture at the end of the memorial service. She had started to weep. Ted was beside her. His arm had come around her and he'd turned her to him. She tried not to remember how it had felt to be in his arms.

With a surge of heartsick contempt for herself, she laid money on the table and left the restaurant.

On the way out she tossed the paper into a waste-basket. She wondered who at the Spa had tipped off the Globe. It could have been one of the staff, Min and Helmut were plagued with leaks. It could have been one of the guests who in exchange for personal publicity fed items to the columnists. It also could have been Cheryl.

When she got back to her bungalow, Scott was sitting on the porch waiting for her. "You're an early bird," she told him.

There were circles under his eyes. "I didn't do much sleeping last night. Something about Sammy falling backward into that pool just doesn't sit right with me."

Elizabeth winced as she thought of Sammy's bloodstained head.

"I'm sorry," Scott told her.

"It's all right. I feel exactly the same way. Did you find any more of those letters in the mailbags?"

"No. I've got to ask you to go through Sammy's personal effects with me. I don't know what I'm looking for, but you might spot something I'd miss."

"Give me ten minutes to shower and change."

"You're sure it won't upset you too much?"

Elizabeth leaned against the porch railing and ran her hand through her hair. "If that letter had been found, I could believe Sammy might have had some sort of attack and wandered into the bathhouse. But with the letter gone… Scott, if someone pushed her or frightened her so that she backed away, that person is a murderer."

The doors of the bungalows around them were opening. Men and women in identical ivory terry-cloth robes headed for the spa buildings. "Treatments start in fifteen minutes," Elizabeth said. "Massages and facials and steam baths and God knows what-all. Isn't it incredible to think that one of the people being pampered here today left Sammy to die in that god-awful mausoleum?"

Craig's early-morning call was from the private investigator, and it was obvious he was troubled. "Nothing more on Sally Ross," he said, "but the word is that the burglar who was picked up in her building claims he has information about Leila La-Salle's death. He's trying to make a deal with the district attorney."

"What kind of information? This might be the break we're looking for."

"My contact doesn't get that feeling."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"The district attorney is happy. You have to conclude his case is stronger, not weaker."

Craig phoned Bartlett and reported the conversation. "I'll put my office on it," Bartlett said. "My people may be able to find out something. We'll have to sit tight until we find out what's up. In the meantime I intend to see Sheriff Alshorne. I want a full explanation of those 'poison-pen' letters he talked about. You're sure Teddy wasn't involved with another woman, somebody he may be protecting? He doesn't seem to realize how much that could help his case. Maybe you might mention that to him."

Syd was about to leave for the hike when his telephone rang. Something told him it would be Bob Koenig. He was wrong. For three endless minutes he pleaded with a loan shark for a little more time to pay the rest of his debts. "If Cheryl gets this part, I can borrow against my commissions," he argued. "I swear she has the edge over Margo Dresher… Koenig told me himself… I swear…"

When he hung up the receiver, he sat on the edge of the bed trembling. He had no choice. He had to go to Ted and use what he knew to get the money he needed.

Time had run out.

There was something indefinably different about Sammy's apartment. Elizabeth felt it was as though her aura as well as her physical being had departed. Her plants had not been watered. Dead leaves rimmed the planters. "Min was in touch with Sammy's cousin about the funeral arrangements," Scott explained.

"Where is her body now?"

"It will be picked up from the morgue tomorrow and shipped to Ohio for burial in the family plot."

Elizabeth thought of the concrete dust that had smudged Sammy's skirt and cardigan. "Can I give you clothes for Sammy?" she asked. "Is it too late?"

"It's not too late."

The last time she'd performed this service had been for Leila. Sammy had helped her select the dress in which Leila would be buried. "Remember, the casket won't be open," Sammy had reminded her.

"It isn't that," Elizabeth had said. "You know Leila. If she ever wore anything that didn't feel right, she was uncomfortable all evening even if everyone else thought she looked great. If there's such a thing as knowing…"

Sammy had understood. And together they had decided on the green chiffon-and-velvet gown Leila had worn the night she won the Oscar. They were the only two who had seen her in the casket. The undertaker had skillfully covered the bruises, had reconstructed the beautiful face, now curiously peaceful at last. For a time they had sat together reminiscing, Sammy holding Elizabeth's hand, finally reminding her that it was time to allow the fans to file past the bier, that the funeral director needed time to close the casket and drape it in the floral blanket that Elizabeth and Ted had ordered.

Now, with Scott watching her, Elizabeth examined the closet. "The blue tie silk," she murmured, "the one Leila gave her for her birthday two years ago. Sammy used to say that if she'd had clothes like this when she was young, her whole life might have been different."

She packed a small overnight case containing underthings, stockings, shoes and the inexpensive pearl necklace Sammy always wore with her "good dresses."

"At least that's one thing I know I can do for her," she told Scott. "Now let's get about the business of finding what happened to her."

Sammy's dresser drawers revealed only personal items. Her desk held her checkbook, daily memo pad, personal stationery. On a shelf of the closet, pushed back behind a stack of sweaters, they found a year-old appointment book and a bound copy of Merry-Go-Round by Clayton Anderson.

"Leila's play," Elizabeth said. "I never did get to read it." She opened the folder and flipped through the pages. "Look, it's her working script. She always made so many notes and changed lines so that they sounded right for her."

Scott watched as Elizabeth ran her fingers over the ornate penmanship that dotted the margins of the pages. "Why don't you take that?" he asked.

"I'd like to."

He opened the appointment book. The entries were in the same curlicued handwriting. "This was Leila's too." There were no entries after March 31. On that page Leila had printed Opening night! Scott flipped through the earlier pages. Most of them had the daily entry marked Rehearsal with a line drawn through.

There were appointments indicated for the hairdresser, for costume fittings, visit Sammy at Mount Sinai, send flowers, Sammy, publicity appearances. In the last six weeks, more and more of the extraneous appointments had been crossed out. There were also notations: Sparrow, L.A.; Ted, Budapest; Sparrow, Montreal ; Ted, Bonn … "She seems to have kept both your schedules right in front of her."

"She did. So she'd know where to reach us."

Scott stopped at one page. "You two were in the same city that night." He turned the pages more slowly. "Actually, Ted seems to have shown up fairly regularly in the same cities where your play was booked."

"Yes. We'd go out for supper after the performance and call Leila together."

Scott scrutinized Elizabeth 's face. For just an instant something else had come over it. Was it possible that Elizabeth had fallen in love with Ted and refused to face that fact? And if so, was it possible that a sense of guilt was subconsciously demanding that Ted be punished for Leila's death, knowing that she would be punishing herself at the same time? It was a disquieting thought. He tried to dismiss it. "This appointment book probably doesn't have any bearing on the case, but I still think the district attorney in New York should have it," he said.

"Why?"

"No particular reason. But it could be considered an exhibit."

There was nothing more to be found in Sammy's apartment. "I've got a suggestion," Scott told her. "Go over to the spa and follow whatever schedule you had planned. As I told you, there are no more anonymous letters in that fan mail. My boys went through everything in those bags last night. Our chance of finding out who sent them is remote. I'll talk to Cheryl, but she's pretty cagey. I don't think she'll give herself away."

Together they walked down the long hall that led to the main house. "You haven't gone through Sammy's desk in the office, have you?" Scott asked.

"No." Elizabeth realized how tightly she was gripping the script. Something was compelling her to read it. She'd only seen that one terrible performance. She'd heard it was a good vehicle for Leila. Now she wanted to judge for herself. Reluctantly she accompanied Scott to the office. That had become another place she wanted to avoid.

Helmut and Min were in their private office. The door was open. Henry Bartlett and Craig were with them. Bartlett lost no time in demanding an explanation for the anonymous letters. "They may very well contribute to my client's defense," he told Scott. "We have a right to be fully briefed on them."

Elizabeth watched Henry Bartlett as he absorbed Scott's explanation of the anonymous letters. His look grew intense. His face was all sharp planes; his eyes were hard. This was the man who would be cross-examining her in court. He looked like a predator watching for prey.

"Let me get this straight," Bartlett said. "Miss Lange and Miss Samuels agreed that Leila LaSalle may have been profoundly upset by poison-pen letters suggesting that Ted Winters was involved with someone else? Those letters have now disappeared?

On Monday night Miss Samuels wrote her impressions of the first letter? Miss Lange has transcribed the second one? I want copies."

"I see no reason why you can't have them," Scott told him. He placed Leila's appointment book on Min's desk. "Oh, for the record, this is something else I'm sending on to New York," he said. "It was Leila's calendar for the last three months of her life."

Without asking for permission, Henry Bartlett reached for it. Elizabeth waited for Scott to protest, but he did not. Watching Bartlett thumb through Leila's personal daily diary, she felt an enormous sense of intrusion. What business had he? She threw an angry glance at Scott. He was looking at her impassively.

He's trying to prepare me for next week, she thought bleakly, and realized that maybe she should be grateful. Next week, all that Leila was would be laid out for twelve people to analyze; her own relationship with Leila, with Ted-nothing would be hidden, no privacy beyond violation. "I'll look through Sammy's desk," she said abruptly.

She was still holding the script of the play. She laid it on Sammy's desk and quickly went through the drawers. There was absolutely nothing personal in them. Spa letterheads; Spa publicity folders; Spa follow-up memos; the usual office paraphernalia.

Min and the Baron had followed her out. She glanced up to see them standing in front of Sammy's desk. Both of them were staring at the leather-bound folder with the bold title Merry-Go-Round on the cover.

"Leila's play?" Min asked.

"Yes. Sammy kept Leila's copy. I'll take it now."

Craig, Bartlett and the sheriff came out of the private office. Henry Bartlett was smiling-a self-satisfied, smug, chilly smile. "Miss Lange, you've been a great help to us today. But I think I should warn you that the jury won't take kindly to the fact that as a woman scorned, you put Ted Winters through this hellish nightmare."

Elizabeth stood up, her lips white. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the fact that in her own handwriting, your sister made the connection between you and Ted 'happening' to be in the same city so often. I'm talking about the fact that someone else also made that connection and tried to warn her with those letters. I'm talking about the look on your face when Ted put his arms around you at the memorial service. Surely you've seen this morning's paper? Apparently what may have been a mild flirtation for Ted was serious to you, and so when he dropped you, you discovered a way to take your revenge."

"You filthy liar!" Elizabeth did not know she had thrown the copy of the play at Henry Bartlett until it struck him in the chest.

His expression was impassive, even pleased. Bending, he picked up the script and handed it back to her. "Do me a favor, young lady, and stage that kind of outburst in front of the jury next week," he said. "They'll exonerate Ted."

Two

While Craig and Bartlett went to confront the sheriff, Ted worked out with the Nautilus equipment in the men's spa. Each piece of equipment he used seemed to emphasize his own situation. The row-boat that went nowhere; the bicycle that no matter how furiously pedaled, stayed in place. On the surface he managed to exchange pleasantries with some of the other men in the gym-the head of the Chicago stock exchange, the president of Atlantic Banks, a retired admiral.

He sensed in all of them a wariness: they didn't know what to say to him, didn't want to say "Good luck." It was easier for them-and for him-when they got busy with the machines and concentrated on building muscles.

Men in prison tended to get pretty soft. Not enough exercise. Boredom. Pallid skin. Ted studied his own tan. It wouldn't last long behind bars.

He was supposed to meet Bartlett and Craig in his bungalow at ten o'clock. Instead, he went for a swim in the indoor pool. He'd have preferred the Olympic pool, but there was always the chance Elizabeth might be there. He didn't want to run into her.

He had swum about ten laps when he saw Syd dive in at the opposite end of the pool. They were six lanes apart, and after a brief wave, he ignored Syd. But after twenty minutes, when the three swimmers between them had left, he was surprised to see that Syd was keeping pace with him. He had a powerful backstroke and moved with swift precision from one end of the pool to the other. Ted deliberately set out to beat him. Syd obviously caught on. After six laps they were in a dead heat.

They left the water at the same time. Syd slung a towel over his shoulders and came around the pool. "Nice workout. You're in good shape."

"I've been swimming every day in Hawaii for nearly a year and a half. I should be."

"The pool at my health club isn't like Hawaii, but it keeps me fit." Syd looked around. There were Jacuzzis in two corners of the glass-enclosed room. "Ted, I have to talk to you privately."

They went to the opposite end. There were three new swimmers in the pool, but they were well out of earshot. Ted watched as Syd rubbed the towel through his dark brown hair. He noticed that the hair on Syd's chest was completely gray. That'll be the next thing, he decided. He would grow old and gray in prison.

Syd did not hedge. "Ted, I'm in trouble. Big trouble. With guys who play rough. It all began with that damn play. I borrowed too much. I thought I could sweat it out. If Cheryl gets this part, I'm on my way up again. But I can't stall them anymore. I need a loan. Ted, I mean a loan. But I need it now."

"How much?"

"Six hundred thousand dollars. Ted, it's small change for you, and it's a loan. But you owe it to me."

"I owe it to you?"

Syd looked around and then stepped closer. His mouth was within inches of Ted's ear. "I'd never have said this… never even told you I knew… But Ted, I saw you that night. You ran past me, a block from Leila's apartment. Your face was bleeding. Your hands were scratched. You were in shock. You don't remember, do you? You didn't even hear me when I called you. You just kept running." Syd's voice dropped to a whisper. "Ted, I caught up with you. I asked what had happened and you told me Leila was dead, that she had fallen off the terrace. Ted, then you said to me… I swear to God… you said to me, 'My father pushed her, my father pushed her.' You were like a little kid, trying to blame what you did on someone else. You even sounded like a little kid."

Ted felt waves of nausea. "I don't believe you."

"Why would I lie? Ted, you ran into the street. A cab came along. You nearly got run over stopping it.

Ask that cabbie who took you to Connecticut. He's going to be a witness, isn't he? Ask him if he didn't almost sideswipe you. Ted, I'm your friend. I know how you felt when Leila went nuts in Elaine's. I know how I felt. When I saw you, I was on my way to try to talk sense to Leila. I was mad enough to kill her myself. Have I mentioned this once to you, to anyone? I wouldn't do it now, except I'm desperate. You've got to help me! If I don't come up with that money in forty-eight hours-I'm finished."

"You'll have the money."

"Oh, Christ, Ted, I knew I could count on you. God, thanks, Ted." Syd put his hands on Ted's shoulders.

"Get away from me." Ted's voice was almost a shout. The swimmers looked at them curiously. Ted shook himself free, grabbed his towel and ran blindly out of the pool area.

Three

Scott questioned Cheryl in her bungalow. This one was furnished in a splashy yellow-and-green-and-white print, with white carpeting and white walls. Scott felt the thickness of the carpet under his feet. All wool. Top quality. Sixty… seventy dollars a yard? No wonder Min had that haunted look! Scott knew exactly how much old Samuel had left her. There couldn't be much left, after what she'd poured into this place…

Cheryl was not happy about having been paged in the spa to meet him. She was wearing her own version of the standard tank suit, a skimpy scrap of material which did not quite cover her breasts and arched up on either side of her hipbones. The terry-cloth robe was slung on her shoulders. She did not attempt to conceal her impatience. "I'm due in a calisthenics class in ten minutes," she told him.

"Well, let's hope you make it," he said. His throat muscles tightened as the active dislike he felt for Cheryl swelled within him. "Your chances will improve a lot if you give me some straight answers. Like did you write some pretty nasty letters to Leila before she died?"

As he had anticipated, the interrogation was, at first, fruitless. Cheryl cleverly dodged his questions. Anonymous letters? Why would she be interested in sending them? Break up Ted and Leila? What difference would it have made if they had ended up married? It wouldn't have lasted. Leila didn't have it in her to stick with one man. She had to hurt men before they hurt her. The play? She had no idea of how the rehearsals for Leila's play had gone. Frankly, she hadn't been that interested.

Finally Scott had had enough. "Listen, Cheryl, I think there's something you'd better realize. I'm not satisfied that Sammy's death was from natural causes. The second anonymous letter she was carrying is missing.

"You went to Sammy's desk. You left a bill marked Paid in full. An anonymous letter was on top of the desk with other fan mail. And then the letter disappeared. Granted someone else may have entered the reception area so quietly that even though the door was open, neither Min nor the Baron nor Sammy heard anyone come in. But that's a bit unlikely, isn't it?" He did not share with Cheryl the fact that Min and the Baron both had had access to the desk, out of Sammy's presence. He was rewarded by a faint glow of alarm in Cheryl's eyes. She licked her lips nervously.

"You're not suggesting I had anything to do with Sammy's death?"

"I'm suggesting that you took that first letter from Sammy's desk, and I want it now. That is state's evidence in a murder trial."

She looked away, and as Scott studied her, he saw an expression of naked panic come over her face. He followed her gaze and saw a sliver of charred paper wedged under the baseboard. Cheryl lunged from the couch to pick it up, but he was too quick for her.

On the ragged piece of cheap paper were pasted three words:

Learn your lines.

Scott took out his wallet and carefully inserted the tiny scrap in it. "So you did steal that letter," he said. "Destroying evidence is a felony, punishable by imprisonment. What about the second letter? The one Sammy was carrying? Did you destroy that one too? And how did you get it from her? You'd better get yourself a lawyer, lady."

Cheryl clutched his arm. "Scott, my God, please. I swear I didn't write those letters. I swear the only time I saw Sammy was in Min's office. All right. I took this letter from Sammy's desk. I thought it might help Ted. I showed it to Syd. He said people would think I wrote it. He tore it up; I didn't. I swear that's as much as I know." Tears were spilling down her cheeks. "Scott, any publicity, any publicity about this at all could kill my chances of being Amanda. Scott, please."

Scott heard the contempt in his voice. "I really don't give a damn how publicity affects your career, Cheryl. Why don't we make a bargain? I'll hold off bringing you in for formal questioning and you do some hard thinking. Maybe your memory will suddenly get better. For your sake, I hope so."

Four

In a state of dazed relief, Syd headed back to his bungalow. Ted was going to lend him the money. It had been so tempting to make the story stronger, to say that Ted had outright admitted killing Leila. But at the last instant, he'd changed his mind and quoted Ted exactly. God, Ted had sounded creepy when he'd rambled about his father that night. Syd still felt a violent wrench in his gut whenever he thought of running after Ted. It had been immediately obvious that Ted had been in some sort of psychotic state. After Leila's death, he'd waited to see whether Ted would ever sound him out about that meeting. His reaction today proved he had no memory of it.

He cut across the lawn, deliberately avoiding the path. He didn't want to make small talk with anyone. There'd been some new arrivals yesterday. One of them he recognized as a young actor who'd been leaving his photos at the agency and phoning constantly. He wondered what old broad was paying his way. Today of all days, Syd didn't want to spend his time dodging eager would-be clients.

His first move when he reached the privacy of his own place was to make a drink. He needed one. He deserved one. His second was to phone his early-morning caller. "I'll have the money to you by the weekend," he said, with newfound confidence.

Now if he could just hear from Bob Koenig. The phone rang before he could complete the thought. The operator asked him to hold on for Mr. Koenig. Syd felt his hands begin to tremble. He caught a look at his reflection in the mirror. The expression wasn't of the kind that inspired confidence in Los Angeles.

Bob's first words were "Congratulations, Syd."

Cheryl had the part! Syd's mind began clicking percentages. With two words, Bob had put him in the big time again.

"I don't know what to say." His voice became stronger, more confident. "Bob, I'm telling you, you've made the right choice. Cheryl's going to be fantastic."

"I know all that, Syd. The bottom line is that rather than risk any bad press with Margo, we're going with Cheryl. I talked her up. So what if she's box-office poison now? That's what they said about Joan Collins and look what she's done."

"Bob, that's what I've been telling you all along."

"We'd better both be right. I'll arrange a press reception for Cheryl at the Beverly Hilton for Friday afternoon about five o'clock."

"We'll be there!"

"Syd, this is very important. From now on, we treat Cheryl as a superstar. And by the way, tell Cheryl to plaster a smile on her face. Amanda is a strong, but likable character. I don't want to read about any more outbursts at waiters or limo drivers. And I mean it."

Five minutes later, Syd was confronting a hysterical Cheryl Manning. "You mean you admitted to Scott that you took that letter, you dumb bitch?" He grabbed her shoulders. "Shut up and listen to me. Are there any more letters?"

"Let go. You're hurting me. I don't know." Cheryl tried to shrink away from him. "I can't lose that part. I can't. I am Amanda."

"You bet you can't lose that part!" Syd shoved her backward, and she toppled against the couch.

Fury replaced fear. Cheryl brushed back her hair and clenched her teeth. Her mouth became a thin, menacing slash. "Do you always push when you're angry, Syd? You'd better get something straight. You tore up that letter. I didn't. And I didn't write that letter, or any others. Scott doesn't believe me. So you march yourself over to him and tell him the truth: that I planned to give that letter to Ted to help his defense. You convince Scott, do you hear me, Syd? Because on Friday I'm not going to be here. I'm going to be at my press reception, and there isn't going to be a whisper to connect me to any poison-pen letters or destroyed evidence."

They glared at each other. In a frenzy of frustration, Syd realized that she might be telling the truth and that by destroying the letter he might have thrown away the series. If one hint of unfavorable publicity hit the papers before Friday… If Scott refused to let Cheryl leave the Spa…

"I've got to think," he said. "I'll figure something out."

He had one last card to play.

The question was how to play it.

Five

When Ted returned to his bungalow, he found Henry Bartlett and Craig waiting for him. A jubilant Bartlett did not seem to notice his silence. "I think we've had a break," he announced. As Ted took his place at the table, Bartlett told him about the discovery of Leila's diary. "In her own hand, she'd checked off when you and Elizabeth Lange were in the same cities. Did you see her every time you were there?"

Ted leaned back and folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes. It seemed so long ago.

"Ted, at least here I can help you." Craig's enthusiasm was a quality that had for a long time been missing from his voice and demeanor. "You kept Elizabeth 's schedule on your desk. I can swear that you adjusted your travel plans so that you'd be able to see her."

Ted did not open his eyes. "Will you kindly explain that?"

Henry Bartlett had been driven past irritation. "Listen, Mr. Winters. I wasn't hired to take on this case so that you could wipe your feet on me. It's the rest of your life; but it's also my professional reputation. If you can't or won't cooperate in your own defense, maybe it's not too late for you to get another attorney." He shoved his files across the table and watched as papers spilled from them. "You insisted on coming here when it would have been much better to have ready access to my staff. You disappeared for a long walk yesterday when we were supposed to work. You were supposed to be here an hour ago and we're twiddling our thumbs waiting for you. You've blackballed one line of defense that might work. Now we have a decent shot at destroying Elizabeth Lange's credibility as a witness and you're not interested."

Ted opened his eyes. Slowly he lowered his arms until they rested on the table. "Oh, but I am interested. Tell me about it."

Bartlett chose to ignore the sarcasm. "Listen, we're going to be able to produce a facsimile of two letters Leila received that suggest you were involved with someone else. Cheryl is one possibility as that someone else. We know she'd say anything. But there's a better way. You did try to coordinate your schedule with Elizabeth 's-"

Ted interrupted him. "Elizabeth and I were very good friends. We liked each other. We enjoyed each other's company. If I had my choice of being in Chicago on Wednesday and Dallas on Friday or the other way around, and found that a good friend with whom I could enjoy a late supper and relax was in those same cities, yes, I would arrange my schedule to do that. So what?"

"Come off it, Ted. You did it half a dozen times in the same weeks that Leila started to fall apart- when she was receiving those letters."

Ted shrugged.

"Ted, Henry is trying to plan your defense," Craig snapped. "At least pay attention to him."

Bartlett continued. "What we are trying to show you is this: Step One. Leila was receiving letters saying that you were involved with someone else. Step Two. Craig is witness to the fact that you synchronized your schedule with Elizabeth 's. Step Three. In her own handwriting, Leila made the obvious connection between you two in her diary. Step Four. You had no reason to kill Leila if you were no longer interested in her. Step Five. What to you was a mild flirtation was very, very different to Elizabeth. She was head over heels in love with you." Triumphantly Henry threw the copy of the Globe at Ted. "Look at that picture."

Ted studied it. He remembered the moment at the end of the service when some fool had asked the organist to play "My Old Kentucky Home." Leila had told him about singing that to Elizabeth when they took off for New York. Beside him, Elizabeth had gasped; then the tears that she'd held back flooded her face. He'd put his arms around her, turned her to him and whispered, "Don't, Sparrow."

"She was in love with you," Henry continued. "When she realized that for you it was simply a flirtation, she turned on you. She took advantage of that wacko's crazy accusation to destroy you. I'm telling you, Teddy, we may be able to make this stick."

Ted tore the paper in half. "Apparently, my job is to be the devil's advocate. Let's suppose your scenario is true. Elizabeth was in love with me. But let's carry it one step further. Suppose I had come to realize that life with Leila would be a succession of constant ups and downs, of tantrums, of an insecurity that resulted in jealous accusations every time I spoke pleasantly to another woman. Suppose I'd come to realize that Leila was an actress first, last and always, that she didn't want a child. Suppose I'd realized that in Elizabeth I had found something I'd been looking for all my life."

Ted slammed his fist on the table. "Don't you know that you have just given me the very best reason in the world for killing Leila? Because do you think that Elizabeth would have looked at me twice while her sister was alive?" He pushed back his chair with a vehemence that caused it to topple over. "Why don't you two play golf or go for a swim or do anything that makes you feel good? Don't waste your time here. I don't plan to."

Bartlett 's face turned crimson. "I've had enough," he snapped. "Listen, Mr. Winters, you may know how to run hotels, but you don't know a damn thing about what goes on in a criminal courtroom. You hired me to keep you out of prison, but I can't do it alone. What's more, I don't intend to. Either you start cooperating with me or get yourself another lawyer."

"Calm down, Henry," Craig said.

"No, I won't calm down. I don't need this case. I can possibly win it, but not the way it's going now." He pointed at Ted. "If you are so sure that any defense I raise won't work, why don't you plea-bargain right now? I might get you a maximum of seven to ten years. Is that what you want? Say so. Or else sit down at that table."

Ted picked up the chair he had knocked over. "Let's get to work," he said tonelessly. "I probably owe you an apology. I realize you're the best in your field, but I guess you can understand how trapped I feel. Do you really think there is a chance for an acquittal?"

"I've gotten acquittals in cases as rough as this," Bartlett told him. "What you don't seem to fathom," he added, "is that being guilty has nothing to do with the verdict."

Six

Somehow Min managed to get through the rest of the morning. She was too busy fielding phone calls from the media to even think of the scene in the office between Elizabeth and Ted's lawyer. They had all left immediately after the blowup: Bartlett and Elizabeth furious, Craig distressed, Scott grim-faced. Helmut had escaped to the clinic. He had known she wanted to talk to him. He had avoided her this morning as he'd avoided her last night, when after telling her that he'd heard Ted attacking Leila, he'd locked himself in his study.

Who in hell had tipped off the press that Elizabeth and Ted were here? She answered the persistent inquiries with her standard reply: "We never release the names of our guests." She was told that both Elizabeth and Ted had been spotted in Carmel. "No comment."

Any other time she'd have loved the publicity. But now? She was asked if there was anything unusual about her secretary's death. "Certainly not."

At noon she told the operator to hold all calls and went to the women's spa. She was relieved to see that the atmosphere there was normal. There seemed to be no more talk about Sammy's death. She made it a point to chat with the guests lunching around the pool. Alvirah Meehan was there. She had spotted Scott's car and tried to pepper Min with questions about his presence.

When Min got back to the main house she went directly up to the apartment. Helmut was sitting on the couch, sipping a cup of tea. His face was a sickly gray. "Ah, Minna." He attempted a smile.

She did not return it. "We have got to talk," she told him abruptly. "What is the real reason you went to Leila's apartment that night? Were you having an affair with her? Tell me the truth!"

The cup rattled in the saucer as he put it down. "An affair! Minna, I hated that woman!"

Min watched as his face blotched and his hands clenched. "Do you think I was amused at the way she ridiculed me? An affair with her?" He slammed his fist on the cocktail table. "Minna, you are the only woman in my life. There has never been another woman since I met you. I swear that to you."

"Liar!" Min rushed over to him, bent down and grabbed his lapels. "Look at me. I tell you, look at me. Stop the phony aristocratic crap and the dramatics. You were dazzled by Leila. What man wasn't? Every time you looked at her, you raped her with your eyes. You were all like that, the pack of you. Ted. Syd. Even that clod, Craig. But you were the worst. Love. Hate. It's all one. And in your entire life, you've never put yourself out for anyone. I want the truth. Why did you go to her that night?" She released him, suddenly drained and exhausted.

He jumped to his feet. His hand brushed the tea-cup and it tipped over, sending splatters of tea onto the table and carpet. "Minna, this is impossible. I will not have you treating me like a germ under a microscope." Disdainfully he glanced at the mess. "Send for someone to clean this up," he ordered. "I have to get to the clinic. Mrs. Meehan is due for her collagen injections this afternoon." His tone became sarcastic. "Take heart, my dear. As you know, that's another outrageous fee in the till."

"I saw that dreary woman an hour ago," Min said. "You've made yet another conquest. She was gushing about how talented you are and how you are going to make her feel like a butterfly floating on a cloud. If I hear that idiotic expression from her once more…"

She broke off. Helmut's knees had begun to sag. She grabbed him before he could fall. "Tell me what is wrong!" she shrieked. "Tell me what you've done!"

Seven

When she left Min's office, Elizabeth rushed back to her bungalow, furious at herself for allowing Bartlett to goad her. He would say anything, do anything to discredit her testimony, and she was playing into his hands.

To distract herself, she opened the script of Leila's play. But the words were a jumble. She could not focus on them.

Was there the ring of truth to Bartlett 's accusations? Had Ted deliberately sought her out?

She thumbed through the script restlessly, deciding to read it later. Then her glance fell on one of Leila's marginal notes. Shocked, she sank down on the couch and turned back to the first page.

Merry-Go-Round. A comedy by Clayton Anderson.

She read the play through rapidly, then sat for a long time totally absorbed in her thoughts. Finally she reached for a pen and pad and began rereading slowly, making her own notations.

At two thirty she laid the pen down. Pages of the pad were filled with her jottings. She became aware that she had skipped lunch, that her head ached dully. Some of Leila's markings in the margin had been almost indecipherable, but eventually she'd made them all out.

Clayton Anderson. The playwright of Merry-Go-Round. The wealthy college professor who had invested one million dollars of his own money in the play, but whose true identity was known to no one. Who was he? He had known Leila intimately.

She phoned the main house. The operator told her that Baroness von Schreiber was in her apartment but was not to be disturbed. "I'll be right there," Elizabeth told her crisply. "Tell the Baroness I have to see her."

Min was in bed. She did look ill. There was no bravado, no bossihess in her demeanor or voice. 'Well, Elizabeth?"

She's afraid of me, Elizabeth thought. With a rush of her old affection she sat by the bed. "Min, why did you bring me here?"

Min shrugged. "Because believe it or not, I was worried about you, because I love you."

"I believe that. And the other reason?"

"Because I am appalled at the idea that Ted may spend the rest of his life in prison. Sometimes people do terrible things in anger, because they are out of control, things they might never do if they were not goaded beyond their ability to stop themselves. I believe that happened. I know that happened to Ted."

"What do you mean you know that happened?"

"Nothing… nothing." Min closed her eyes. " Elizabeth, you do what you must. But I warn you. You will have to live with destroying Ted for the rest of your life. Someday you will again face Leila. I think she will not thank you. You know how she was after she had been utterly outrageous. Contrite. Loving. Generous. All of it."

"Min, isn't there another reason why you want Ted to be acquitted? It has to do with this place, doesn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that just before Leila died, Ted was considering putting a Cypress Point Spa in all his new hotels. What happened to that plan?"

"Ted has not gone ahead with plans for new hotels since his indictment."

"Exactly. So there are a couple of reasons why you want Ted acquitted. Min, who is Clayton Anderson?"

"I have no idea. Elizabeth, I am very tired. Perhaps we can talk later."

"Min, come on. You're not that tired." The sharper tone in her voice made Min open her eyes and pull herself up on the pillows. I was right, Elizabeth thought. She's not so much sick as afraid. "Min, I just read and re-read that play Leila was in. I saw it with all of you that last preview, but I didn't pay attention to it. I was too worried about Leila. Min, someone who knew Leila inside and out wrote that play. That's why it was so perfect for her. Someone even used Helmut's expressions in it-'a butterfly floating on a cloud.' Leila noticed it too. She had a notation in the margin: 'Tell the Baron someone is stealing his thunder.' Min…"

They stared at each other as the same thought struck them. "Helmut wrote the ads for this place," Elizabeth whispered. "He writes the daily bulletins. Maybe there is no wealthy college professor. Min, did Helmut write the play?"

"I… don't… know." Min struggled out of bed. She was wearing a loose caftan that suddenly seemed too large, as if she were shriveling inside it. " Elizabeth, will you excuse me? I have to make a call to Switzerland."

Eight

With an unfamiliar sense of worry, Alvirah walked reluctantly down the hedged path that led to treatment room C. The instructions the nurse had given her were re-confirmed by the note that had been on her breakfast tray this morning. The note was friendly and reassuring, but even so, now that the time had come, Alvirah still felt squeamish.

To ensure absolute privacy, the note said, patients entered the treatment rooms by the individual outside doors. Alvirah was to go to treatment room C at three P.M. and settle herself on the table. In view of the fact that Mrs. Meehan had an aversion to needles, she would be given a special-strength Valium and allowed to rest until three thirty, at which time Dr. von Schreiber would perform the treatment. She would continue to rest for an additional half-hour to allow the Valium to wear off.

The flowering hedges were over six feet high, and walking between them made her feel like a young girl in a bower. The day had become really warm, but in here the hedges held moisture, and the azaleas made her think of her own azalea plants in front of the house. They'd been really pretty last spring.

She was at the treatment-room door. It was painted a pale blue, and a tiny gold C confirmed that she was in the right place. Hesitantly, she turned the handle and went in.

The room looked like a lady's boudoir. It had flowered wallpaper and a pale green carpet, a little dressing table and a love seat. The treatment table was made up like a bed, with sheets that matched the wallpaper, a pale pink comforter and a lace-edged pillow. On the closet door was a gilt-framed mirror with beveled edges. Only the presence of a cabinet with medical supplies suggested the real purpose of the room, and even that was finished in white wood with leaded glass doors.

Alvirah removed her sandals and placed them, neatly, side by side under the table. She had a size nine foot and didn't want the doctor tripping when he was giving the collagen injections. She lay down on the table, pulled up the comforter and closed her eyes.

They sprang open a moment later when the nurse came in. She was Regina Owens, the chief assistant, the one who had taken her medical history. "Don't look so worried," Miss Owens said. Alvirah liked her. She reminded her of one of the women whose houses she cleaned. She was about forty, with dark short hair, nice wide eyes and a pleasant smile.

She brought a glass of water and a couple of pills to Alvirah. "These will make you feel nice and drowsy, and you won't even know you're getting made gorgeous."

Obediently Alvirah put them into her mouth and swallowed the water. "I feel like a baby," she apologized.

"Not at all. You'd be amazed how many people are terrified of needles." Miss Owens came behind her and began massaging her temples. "You are tense. Now, I'm going to put a nice, cool cloth over your eyes and you just let yourself drift off to sleep. The doctor and I will be back in about a half-hour. By then you probably won't even know we're here."

Alvirah felt the strong fingers press against her temples. "That feels good," she murmured.

"I'll bet it does." For a few minutes Miss Owens continued to knead Alvirah's forehead, the back of her neck. Alvirah felt herself drifting into a pleasantly dreamy state. Then a cool cloth was placed over her eyes. She barely heard the click of the door when Miss Owens tiptoed out.

There were so many thoughts running through her head, like loose threads that she couldn't quite pull together.

A butterfly floating on a cloud…

She was beginning to remember why that seemed familiar. It was almost there.

"Can you hear me, Mrs. Meehan?"

She hadn't realized that Baron von Schreiber had come in. His voice sounded low and a little hoarse. She hoped the microphone would pick it up. She wanted everything on record.

"Yes." Her own voice sounded far away.

"Don't be afraid. You'll barely feel a pinprick."

He was right. She felt hardly anything, just a tiny sensation like a mosquito bite. And to think, she'd been worried! She waited. The doctor had told her he'd be injecting the collagen in ten or twelve spots on each side of her mouth. What was he waiting for?

It was getting hard to breathe. She couldn't breathe. "Help!" she cried, but the word wouldn't come out. She opened her mouth, gasping desperately. She was slipping away. Her arms, her chest, nothing moved. Oh, God, help me, help me, she thought.

Then darkness overcame her as the door opened and Nurse Owens said briskly, "Well, here we are, Mrs. Meehan. All set for your beauty treatment?"

Nine

What does it prove? Elizabeth asked herself as she walked from the main house along the path to the clinic. If Helmut wrote that play, he must be going through hell. The author had put one million dollars into the production. That was why Min was calling Switzerland. Her nest egg in a numbered account was a standing joke. "I'll never be broke," she had always bragged. Min had wanted Ted acquitted so that she could license Cypress Point Spas in all his new hotels. Helmut had a much more compelling reason. If he was "Clayton Anderson," he knew that even the nest egg was gone.

She would force him to tell her the truth, Elizabeth decided.

The foyer of the clinic was hushed and quiet, but the receptionist was not at her desk. From down the hall, Elizabeth heard running feet, raised voices. She hurried toward the sounds. Doors were open on the corridor as guests in the process of treatment peeked out. The room at the end of the hall was open. It was from there that the sounds were coming.

Room C. Dear God, that was where Mrs. Meehan was going to have the collagen treatment. There wasn't anyone in the Spa who hadn't heard about it. Had something gone wrong? Elizabeth almost collided with a nurse coming out of the room.

"You can't go in there!" The nurse was trembling.

Elizabeth pushed her aside.

Helmut was bent over the treatment table. He was compressing Alvirah Meehan's chest. An oxygen mask was on Alvirah's face. The noise of a respirator dominated the room. The coverlet had been pulled back; her robe was crumpled under her, the incongruous sunburst pin gleaming upward. As Elizabeth watched, too horrified to speak, a nurse handed Helmut a needle. He attached it to tubing and started an intravenous in Alvirah's arm. A male nurse took over compressing her chest.

From the distance Elizabeth could hear the wail of an ambulance siren screeching through the gates of the Spa.

It was four fifteen when Scott was notified that Alvirah Meehan, the forty-million-dollar lottery winner, was in the Monterey Peninsula hospital, a possible victim of an attempted homicide. The deputy who phoned had responded to the emergency call and accompanied the ambulance to the Spa. The attendants suspected foul play, and the emergency-room doctor agreed with them. Dr. von Schreiber claimed that she had not yet received a collagen treatment; but a drop of blood on her face seemed to indicate a very recent injection.

Alvirah Meehan! Scott rubbed his hands over suddenly weary eyes. That woman was bright. He thought of her comments at dinner. She was like the child in the fable The Emperor's New Clothes who says, "But he has no clothes on!"

Why would anyone want to hurt Alvirah Meehan? Scott had hoped she wouldn't get caught up with charlatans trying to invest her money for her, but the thought that anyone might deliberately try to kill her was incredible. "I'll be right there," he said as he slammed down the phone.

The waiting room of the community hospital was open and pleasant, with greenery and an indoor pond, not unlike the lobby of a small hotel. He never saw it without remembering the hours he had sat here, when Jeanie was a patient…

He was informed that the doctors were working on Mrs. Meehan, that Dr. Whitley would be available to see him shortly. Elizabeth came in while he was waiting.

"How is she?"

"I don't know."

"She shouldn't have had those injections. She really was afraid. She had a heart attack, didn't she?"

"We don't know yet. How did you get here?"

"Min. We came in her car. She's parking it now. Helmut rode in the ambulance with Mrs. Meehan. This can't be happening." Her voice rose. People in nearby chairs turned to stare at her.

Scott forced her to sit on the sofa beside him. " Elizabeth, get hold of yourself. You only met Mrs. Meehan a few days ago. You can't let yourself get this upset."

"Where's Helmut?" Min's voice, coming from behind them, was as flat as though there were no emotion left in her. She too seemed to be in a state of disbelief and shock. She came around the couch and sank into the chair facing them. "He must be so distraught…" She broke off. "Here he is."

To Scott's practiced eye, the Baron looked as though he had seen a ghost. He was still wearing the exquisitely tailored blue smock that was his surgical costume. He sank heavily into the chair beside Min and groped for her hand. "She is in a coma. They say she had some sort of injection. Min, it is impossible, I swear to you, impossible."

"Stay here." Scott's look included the three of them. From the long corridor that led to the emergency area, he had seen the chief of the hospital beckon to him.

They spoke in the private office. "She was injected with something that brought on shock," Dr. Whitley said flatly. He was a tall, lean sixty-three-year-old whose usual expression was affable and sympathetic. Now it was steely, and Scott remembered that his longtime friend had been an Army fighter pilot in World War II.

"Will she live?"

"Absolutely impossible to say. She's in a coma which may become irreversible. She tried to say something before she went totally under."

"What was it?"

"It sounded like 'voy.' That's as much as she got out."

"That's no help. What does the Baron have to say? Does he have any idea how this could have happened?"

"We didn't let him near her, Scott, frankly."

"I gather you don't think much of the good doctor?"

"I have no reason to doubt his medical capabilities. But there's something about him that shouts 'phony' at me every time I see him. And if he didn't inject Mrs. Meehan, then who the hell did?"

Scott pushed back his chair. "That's just what I intend to find out."

As he left the office, Whitley called him back.

"Scott, something that might help us-could someone check Mrs. Meehan's rooms and bring in any medication she may have been taking? Until we reach her husband and get her medical history, we don't know what we may be dealing with."

"I'll take care of it myself."

Elizabeth drove back to the Spa with Scott. On the way he told her about finding the shred of paper in Cheryl's bungalow. "Then she did write those letters!" Elizabeth exclaimed.

Scott shook his head. "I know it sounds crazy, and I know Cheryl can lie as easily as most of us can breathe, but I've been thinking about this all day, and my gut feeling is she's telling the truth."

"What about Syd? Did you talk to him?"

"Not yet. She's bound to tell him she admitted that she stole the letter and that he tore it up. I decided to let him stew before I question him. That sometimes works. But I'm telling you, I'm inclined to believe her story."

"But if she didn't write the letters, who did?" Scott shot a glance at her. "I don't know." He paused, then said, "What I mean is, I don't know yet."

Min and the Baron followed Scott's car in her convertible. Min drove. "The only way I can help you is to know the truth," she told her husband. "Did you do something to that woman?"

The Baron lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. His china-blue eyes watered. The reddish tint in his hair seemed brassy under the late-afternoon sun. The top of the convertible was down. A cool land breeze had dispelled the last of the daytime warmth. A sense of autumn was in the air.

"Minna, what crazy talk is that? I went into the room. She wasn't breathing. I saved her life. What reason would I have to hurt her?"

"Helmut, who is Clayton Anderson?"

He dropped the cigarette. It fell on the leather seat beside him. Min reached over and picked it up. "You'd better not ruin this car. There won't be a replacement. I repeat: Who is Clayton Anderson?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he whispered.

"Oh, I think you do. Elizabeth came to see me. She read the play. That's why you were so upset this morning, isn't it? It wasn't the appointment book. It was the play. Leila had made notes in the margin. She picked up that idiotic phrase you use in the ads. Elizabeth caught it too. So did Mrs. Meehan. She saw one of the previews. That's why you tried to kill her, isn't it? You were still hoping to conceal the fact you wrote that play."

"Minna, I am telling you-you are crazy! For all we know that woman was self-injecting."

"That's nonsense. She talked constantly about her fear of needles."

"That could have been a cover-up."

"The playwright put over a million dollars in that play. If you are that playwright, where would you have gotten the money?"

They were at the gates of the Spa. Min slowed down and glanced at him, unsmiling. "I tried to phone Switzerland to check on my balance. Of course, it was after business hours there. I will call tomorrow, Helmut. I hope-for your sake-that money is in my account."

His expression was as bland as ever, but his eyes were those of a man about to be hanged.

They met on the porch of Alvirah Meehan's bungalow. The Baron opened the door and they went in. Scott saw that Min had clearly taken advantage of Alvirah's naivete. This was the most expensive of their accommodations-the rooms the First Lady used when she saw fit to seek R-and-R at the Spa. There were a living room, a dining room, a library, a huge master bedroom, two full baths on the first floor. You sure socked it to her, Scott thought.

His inspection of the premises was relatively brief. The medicine chest in the bathroom Alvirah used contained only over-the-counter drugs-maximum-strength Bufferin, Allerest, a nasal spray, a jar of Vicks VapoRub, Ben-Gay. A nice lady whose nasal passages get stuffed up at night and who probably has a few twinges of arthritis.

It seemed to him that the Baron was disappointed. Under Scott's careful scrutiny, he insisted on opening all the bottles, spilling out the contents, examining them to see if any extra medication was mixed with the ordinary tablets and pills. Was it an act? How good an actor was the Toy Soldier?

Alvirah's closet revealed well-worn brushed flannel nightgowns side by side with expensive dresses and caftans, most of them carrying labels from Martha Park Avenue and Cypress Point Spa Boutique.

An incongruous note was the expensive Japanese recorder in the carry-on bag that was part of the Louis Vuitton matching luggage. Scott raised his eyes. Sophisticated, professional equipment! He wouldn't have expected it of Alvirah Meehan.

Elizabeth watched as he thumbed through the cassettes. Three of them were marked in numerical sequence. The rest were blank. Scott shrugged, put them back and closed the bag. He left a few minutes later. Elizabeth walked with him to his car. On the ride over, she had not told him her suspicion that Helmut might have written the play. She wanted to be sure first, to demand the truth from Helmut himself. It was still possible that Clayton Anderson existed, she told herself.

It was exactly six o'clock when Scott's car disappeared past the gates. It was getting cool. Elizabeth shoved her hands into her pockets and felt the sunburst pin. She had taken it off Alvirah's robe after the ambulance left. Obviously it had great sentimental value.

They had sent for Alvirah's husband. She would give the pin to him tomorrow.

Ten

Ted returned to his bungalow from town at six thirty P.M. He had come back the long way, through the Crocker Woodland, to the service entrance of the Spa. He hadn't missed the cars, half-hidden in the brush beside the road leading to the Cypress Point grounds. Reporters. Like dogs on a scent, following the lead that the Globe article suggested…

He peeled off his sweater. It had been too hot to wear-but on the other hand, at this time of year you could be surprised on the Peninsula. The winds could shift and become favorable or unfavorable at a moment's notice.

He drew the shades, switched on the lights and was startled to see the gleam of dark hair that rose over the back of the couch. It was Min. "It is important that I speak with you." The tone was the same he'd always known. Warm and authoritative, a curious blend that at one time had inspired confidence. She was wearing a long, sleeveless jacket over some sort of glittery one-piece outfit.

Ted sat opposite her and lit a cigarette. "I gave these up years ago, but it's amazing how many bad habits you can take on again when you're faced with a lifetime in prison. So much for discipline. I'm not very presentable, Min-but then, I'm not used to having unexpected guests in quite this way."

"Unexpected and uninvited." Min's eyes swept over him. "You've been jogging?"

"No. I've been walking. Quite a long distance. It gives one time to think."

"Your thoughts can't be very pleasant these days."

"No. They're not." Ted waited.

"May I have one of those?" Min indicated the pack of cigarettes he had tossed on the table.

Ted offered her one and lit it for her.

"I too gave them up, but in times of stress…" Min shrugged. "I gave up many things in my life while I was clawing my way up. Well, you know how it is… launching a model agency and trying to keep it going when there was no money corning in… marrying a sick old man and being his nurse, his mistress, his companion for five endless years… Oh, I thought I had reached a point of certain security. I thought I had earned it."

"And you haven't?"

Min waved a hand. "It's lovely here, isn't it? This spot is ideal. The Pacific at our feet, the magnificent coastline, the weather, the comfort and beauty of these accommodations, the unparalleled facilities of the Spa… Even Helmut's monstrosity of a Roman bath could be a stunning draw. Nobody else would be fool enough to try to build one; nobody else would have the flair to run it."

No wonder she's here, Ted thought. She couldn't risk talking to me with Craig around.

It was as though Min read his mind. "I know what Craig would advise. But Ted, you're the entrepreneur, the daring businessman. You and I think alike. Helmut is utterly impractical-I know that; but he also has vision. What he needs, and has always needed, is the money to bring his dreams to fruition. Do you remember a conversation we had- the three of us-when your damn bulldog Craig wasn't around? We talked about your putting a Cypress Point Spa in all your new hotels. It's a fabulous idea. It would work."

"Min, if I'm in prison, there won't be new hotels. We've stopped building since the indictment. You know that."

"Then lend me money now." Min's mask dropped. "Ted, I am desperate. I will be bankrupt in weeks. It need not be! This place lost something in these past few years. Helmut has not been bringing in new guests. I think I know now why he's been in a terrible state. But it could change. Why do you think I brought Elizabeth here? To help you."

"Min, you saw her reaction to me. If anything, you've made things worse."

"I'm not sure about that. This afternoon I begged her to reconsider. I told her she would never forgive herself if she destroyed you." Min crushed the cigarette into the ashtray. "Ted, I know what I'm saying. Elizabeth is in love with you. She always has been. Make it work for you. It's not too late." She grasped his arm.

He shook off her grip. "Min, you don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm telling you what I know. It's something I sensed from the first time she laid eyes on you. Don't you know how difficult it was for her to be around you and Leila, wanting Leila to be happy, loving you both? She was torn in two. That's why she took that play before Leila died. It wasn't a role she wanted. Sammy talked to me about it. She saw it too. Ted, Elizabeth is fighting you because she feels guilty. She knows Leila goaded you beyond endurance. Make it work for you! And Ted, I beg you- help me now! Please! I beg you."

With naked appeal she looked at him. He had been perspiring, and his dark brown hair was matted in ringlets and waves. A woman would kill for that head of hair, Min thought. His high cheekbones accentuated the narrow, perfectly shaped nose. His lips were even, his jaw just square enough to impart a look of strength to his face. His shirt was clinging to his body. His limbs were tanned and muscular. She wondered where he had been and realized he might not have heard yet about Alvirah Meehan. She did not want to talk about that now.

"Min, I can't go ahead with spas in hotels that won't be built if I go to prison. I can bail you out now, and I will. But let me ask you something: has it ever occurred to you that Elizabeth might be wrong, might be mistaken about the time? Has it even occurred to you that I'm telling the truth, when I say I did not go back upstairs?"

Min's smile of relief turned to astonishment. "Ted, you can trust me. You can trust Helmut. He hasn't told a soul except me… He never will tell a soul… He heard you shouting at Leila. He heard her begging for her life."

Eleven

Should she have told Scott what she suspected about the Baron? Elizabeth wondered as she went into the welcome calm of her bungalow. Her senses absorbed the emerald-and-white color scheme. Splashy print on thick white carpeting. She could almost imagine there was a lingering hint of Joy mixed with the salty sea air.

Leila.

Red hair. Emerald eyes. The pale skin of the natural redhead. The billowing white satin pajamas that she'd been wearing when she died. Those yards of material must have floated around her as she fell.

My God. My God. Elizabeth slipped the double lock and huddled on the couch, her head in her hands, appalled at the vision of Leila, floating down through the night to her death…

Helmut. Had he written Merry-Go-Round? If so, had he cleaned out Min's untouchable Swiss account to finance it? He would have been frantic when Leila said she was quitting the show. How frantic?

Alvirah Meehan. The ambulance attendants. The speck of blood on Alvirah's face. The incredulous tone when the paramedic spoke to Helmut: "What do you mean you hadn't started the injections? Who do you think you're kidding?"

Helmut's hands compressing Alvirah's chest… Helmut starting the intravenous… But Helmut must have been frantic hearing Alvirah talk about "a butterfly floating on a cloud." Alvirah had seen a preview of the play. Leila had made the connection to Helmut. Had Alvirah Meehan made it as well?

She thought about Min's speech to her this afternoon, about Ted. She had virtually acknowledged Ted's guilt, then tried to persuade her that Leila had provoked him over and over again. Was that true?

Was Min right-that Leila would never want to see Ted behind bars for the rest of his life? And why did Min sound so positive about Ted's guilt? Two days ago she'd been saying it must have been an accident.

Elizabeth locked her arms around her knees and laid her head on her hands.

"I don't know what to do," she whispered to herself. She had never felt lonelier in her life.

.

At seven o'clock she heard the faint chimes that indicated "cocktail" hour had begun. She decided to have dinner served in the bungalow. It was impossible to envision going through the motions of socializing with any of those people, knowing that Sammy's body was in the morgue awaiting shipment to Ohio, that Alvirah Meehan was fighting for her life in Monterey Hospital. Two nights ago she had been at the table with Alvirah Meehan. Two nights ago Sammy had been in this room with her. Who would be next?

At quarter of eight Min called. " Elizabeth, everyone is inquiring about you. Are you all right?"

"Of course. I just need to be quiet."

"You're sure you're not ill? You should know- Ted especially is very concerned."

Hand it to Min. She never gives up. "I'm really fine, Min. Would you have them send a tray? I'll take it a bit easy and go for a swim later. Don't worry about me."

She hung up the phone. Walked around the room restlessly, already longing to be in the water.

"IN AQUA SANITAS," the inscription read. For once Helmut was right. Water would soothe her, turn off her mind.

Twelve

He was reaching for the tank when there was a sharp knock on the door. Frantically he yanked the mask from his face and pulled his arms out of the cumbersome wet suit. He jammed the tank and the mask into the closet, then rushed into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

The knocking was repeated, an impatient staccato. He managed to get free of the suit, dropped it behind the couch and grabbed his robe.

Making his voice sound annoyed, he shouted, "All right, all right" and opened the door.

The door was pushed open. "What took you so long? We've got to talk."

It was nearly ten o'clock when he was at last able to go to the pool. He reached it just in time to see Elizabeth walking down the path to her bungalow. In his hurry, he brushed against a chair at the edge of the patio. She turned around, and he barely had time to step back into the bushes.

Tomorrow night. There was still a chance to get to her here. If not, a different kind of accident would have to be arranged.

Like Alvirah Meehan, she had picked up the scent and was leading Scott Alshorne along the trail.

That scraping noise. It had been the sound of a chair grating against the patio tiles. The air had become cool but was very still. There was no breeze to set anything in motion. She'd turned quickly and for just an instant had thought she'd seen someone moving. But that was foolish. Why would anyone bother to stand in the shadows of the trees?

Even so, Elizabeth quickened her steps and was glad to be back in the bungalow with the door locked. She phoned the hospital. There was no change in Mrs. Meehan's condition.

It took a long time to fall asleep. What was eluding her? Something that had been said, something she ought to have seized on. Finally she drifted off…

She was searching for someone… She was in an empty building with long, dark halls… Her body was aching with need… Her arms were outstretched… What was that poem she'd read somewhere? "Is there yet one, oh eyes and lips remembered, who turns and reaches for me in the night?" She whispered it over and over… She saw a staircase… She hurried down it… He was there. His back to her. She threw her arms around him. He turned and caught her and held her. His mouth was on hers. "Ted, I love you, I love you," she said, over and over again…

Somehow she managed to wake up. For the rest of the night, miserable and despairing, she lay numbly in the bed where Leila and Ted had so often slept together, determined not to sleep. Not to dream.