Weep No More, My Lady

QUOTE FOR THE DAY:

Dear Cypress Point Spa guest,

A cheery good morning to you. I hope as you read this you are sipping one of our delicious fruit-juice eye-openers. As some of you know, all the oranges and grapefruits are specially grown for the Spa.

Have you shopped in our boutique this week? If not, you must come and see the stunning fashions we have just received for both men and women. One-of-a-kind only, of course. Each of our guests is unique.

A health reminder. By now you may be feeling muscles you'd forgotten you had. Remember, exercise is never pain. Mild discomfort shows you are achieving the stretch. And whenever you exercise, keep your knees relaxed.

Are you looking your very best? For those tiny lines that time and life's experience trace on our face, remember, collagen, like a gentle hand, is waiting to smooth them away.

Be serene. Be tranquil. Be merry. And have a pretty day.

Baron and Baroness Helmut von Schreiber.

One

Long before the first rays of the sun proclaimed yet another brilliant day on the Monterey Peninsula, Ted lay awake thinking about the weeks ahead. The courtroom. The defendant's table where he would sit, feeling the eyes of the spectators on him, trying to get a sense of the impact of the testimony on the jurors. The verdict: Guilty of Murder in the Second Degree. Why Second Degree? he had asked his first lawyer. "Because in New York State, First Degree is reserved for killing a peace officer. For what it's worth, it amounts to about the same, as far as sentencing goes." Life, he told himself. A life in prison.

At six o'clock he got up to jog. The morning was cool and clear, but it would be a hot day. Without a sense of where he wanted to run, he let his feet follow whatever roads they chose and was not surprised to find himself after forty minutes in front of his grandfather's house in Carmel. It was on the ocean block. It used to be white, but the present owners had painted it a moss green-attractive enough, but he preferred the way the white paint used to gleam in the afternoon sun. One of his earliest memories was of this beach. His mother helped him to build a castle; laughing, her dark hair swirling around her face, so happy to be here instead of New York, so grateful for the reprieve. That bloody bastard who was his father! The way he'd ridiculed her, mimicked her, hammered at her. Why? What gives anyone a streak of cruelty like that? Or was it simply alcohol that brought out something savage and evil in his father, until he was drinking so much that the savage streak became his personality, all there was, the bottle and the fists? And had he inherited the same savage streak?

Ted stood on the beach, staring at the house, seeing his mother and grandmother on the porch, seeing his grandparents at his mother's funeral, hearing his grandfather say, "We should have made her leave him."

His grandmother whispered, "She wouldn't leave him-it would have meant giving up Ted."

Had it been his fault? he wondered as a child. He still asked himself the same question. There was still no answer.

There was someone watching him from a window. Quickly he continued to jog down the beach.

Bartlett and Craig were waiting in his bungalow. They'd already had breakfast. He went to the phone and ordered juice, toast, coffee. "I'll be right back," he told them. He showered and put on shorts and a T-shirt. The tray was waiting when he came out. "Quick service here, isn't it? Min really knows how to run a spa! It would have been a good idea to franchise this place for new hotels."

Neither man answered him. They sat at the library table watching him, seeming to know that he neither expected nor wanted comment. He swallowed the orange juice in one gulp and reached for the coffee. "I'm going to the spa for the morning," he said. "I might as well have a decent workout. We'll leave for New York tomorrow. Craig, call an emergency board meeting for Saturday morning. I'm resigning as president and chairman of the company, and appointing you in my place."

His expression warned Craig not to argue. He turned to Bartlett, his eyes ice-cold. "I've decided to plea-bargain, Henry. Give me the best and worst possible scenarios of what kind of sentence I can expect to get."

Two

Elizabeth was still in bed when Vicky brought in her breakfast tray. She set it down next to the bed and studied Elizabeth. "You're not feeling well."

Elizabeth propped her pillows against the headboard and sat up. "Oh, I guess I'll survive." She attempted a smile. "One way or another, we have to, don't we?" She reached over and picked up the vase with the single flower from the tray. "What's that you always say about carrying roses to fading flowers?"

"I don't mean you." Vicky's angular face softened. "I was off the last two days. I just heard about Miss Samuels. What a nice lady she was. But will you tell me what she was doing in the bathhouse? She once told me just looking at that place gave her the creeps. She said it reminded her of a tomb. Even if she wasn't feeling well, that would be the last place she'd go…"

After Vicky left, Elizabeth picked up the schedule that was on the breakfast tray. She hadn't intended to go to the Spa for either treatments or exercise, but changed her mind. She was slated for a massage with Gina at ten o'clock. Employees talk. Just now Vicky had underscored her own belief that Sammy would never have gone into the bathhouse on her own. When she had arrived on Sunday and had the massage, Gina had gossiped about the financial problems of the Spa. She might be able to hear more gossip if she asked the right questions.

As long as she was going there, Elizabeth decided to go through the full schedule. The first exercise class helped her to limber up, but it was hard not to look across the room to the place in the front row where Alvirah Meehan had been the other day. She had labored so hard to bend and twist that at the end of the class she had been puffing furiously, her face bright red. "But I kept up!" she had told Elizabeth proudly.

She ran into Cheryl in the corridor leading to the facial rooms. Cheryl was wrapped in a terry-cloth robe. Her finger- and toenails were painted a brilliant bluish-pink. Elizabeth would have passed her without speaking, but Cheryl grasped her arm. " Elizabeth, I've got to talk to you."

"About what?"

"Those poison-pen letters. Is there any chance of finding any more of them?" Without waiting for an answer, she rushed on: "Because if you have any more, or find any more, I want them analyzed, or tested, or fingerprinted, or whatever you and the world of science can do to trace them back to the sender. I did not send them! Got it?"

Elizabeth watched her sweep down the corridor. As Scott had commented, she sounded convincing. On the other hand, if she was reasonably sure that those last two letters were the only ones likely to be found, it would be the perfect attitude for her to take. How good an actress was Cheryl?

At ten o'clock Elizabeth was on the massage table. Gina came into the room. "Pretty big excitement around this place," she commented.

"I would say so."

Gina wrapped Elizabeth 's hair in a plastic cap. "I know. First Miss Samuels, then Mrs. Meehan. It's crazy." She poured cream on her hands and began to massage Elizabeth 's neck. "The tension's there again. This has been a lousy time for you. I know you and Miss Samuels were close."

It was easier not to talk about Sammy. She managed to murmur, "Yes, we were," then asked, "Gina, did you ever have Mrs. Meehan for a treatment?"

"Sure did. Monday and Tuesday. She's some character. What happened to her?"

"They're not sure. They're trying to check her medical history."

"I'd have thought she was sound as a dollar. A little chunky, but good skin tone, good heartbeat, good breathing. She was scared of needles, but that doesn't give anyone cardiac arrest."

Elizabeth felt the soreness in her shoulders as Gina's fingers kneaded the tight muscles.

Gina laughed ruefully. "Do you think there was anyone in the Spa who didn't know Mrs. Meehan was having a collagen injection in treatment room C? One of the girls overheard her ask Cheryl Manning if she'd ever had collagen there. Can you imagine?"

"No, I can't. Gina, the other day you told me the Spa hasn't been the same since Leila died. I know she attracted the celebrity-watchers, but the Baron used to bring in a pretty healthy bunch of new faces every year."

Gina poured more cream into her palms. "It's funny. About two years ago that dried up. Nobody can figure out why. He was making enough trips, but most of them were in the New York area. Remember, he used to work the charity balls in a dozen major cities, personally present the certificate for a week at the Spa to whoever came up with the winning ticket, and by the time he got finished talking, the lucky winner had three of her friends going along for the ride-as paying guests."

"Why do you think it stopped?"

Gina lowered her voice. "He was up to something. No one could figure out what-including Min, I guess… She started to travel with him a lot. She was getting plenty worried that His Royal Highness, or whatever he calls himself, had something going in New York…"

Something going? As Gina kneaded and pounded her body, Elizabeth fell silent. Was that something a play called Merry-Go-Round? And if so, had Min guessed the truth long ago?

Three

Ted left the Spa at eleven o'clock. After two hours of using the Nautilus equipment and swimming laps, he'd had a massage and then sat in one of the private open-air Jacuzzis that dotted the enclosure of the men's spa. The sun was warm; there was no breeze; a flock of cormorants drifted overhead, like a floating black cloud in an otherwise cloudless sky.

Waiters were setting up for lunch service on the patio. The striped umbrellas in soft tones of lime green and yellow that shaded the tables complemented the colorful slates on the ground.

Again Ted was aware of how well the place was run. If things were different, he'd put Min and the Baron in charge of creating a dozen Cypress Point Spas all over the world. He almost smiled. Not completely in charge-all the Baron's proposed expenditures would be monitored by a hawk-eyed accountant.

Bartlett had probably been on the phone with the district attorney. By now he would have some idea of the kind of sentence he might expect. It still seemed absolutely incredible. Something he had no memory of doing had forced him to become a totally different person, had forced him to lead a totally different life.

He walked slowly to his bungalow, nodding distantly to the guests who'd cut the last exercise class and were lazing by the Olympic pool. He didn't want to get into a conversation with them. He didn't want to face the discussions he would have with Henry Bartlett.

Memory. A word that haunted him. Bits and pieces. Going back up in the elevator. Being in the hall. Swaying. He'd been so goddamn drunk. And then what? Why had he blotted it out? Because he didn't want to remember what he had done?

Prison. Confinement in a cell. It might be better to…

There was no one in his bungalow. That, at least, was a break. He'd expected to find them again around the library table. He should have given Bartlett this unit and taken the smaller one himself. At least then he'd have more peace. The odds were they'd be back for lunch.

Craig. He was a good detail man. The company wouldn't grow with him at the helm, but he might be able to keep it on a holding course. He should be grateful for Craig. Craig had stepped in when the plane with eight top company executives had crashed in Paris. Craig had been indispensable when Kathy and Teddy died. Craig was indispensable now. And to think…

How many years would he have to serve? Seven? Ten? Fifteen?

There was one more job he needed to do. He took personal stationery from his briefcase and began to write. When he had finished he sealed the envelope, rang for a maid and asked her to deliver it to Elizabeth 's bungalow.

He would have preferred to wait until just before he left tomorrow; but perhaps if she knew there wouldn't be any trial, she might stay here a little longer.

When she returned to her bungalow at noon, Elizabeth found the note propped on the table. The sight of the envelope, white bordered in cerise, the flag colors of Winters Enterprises, with her name written in the firm, straight hand that was so familiar, made her mouth go dry. How many times in her dressing room had a note on that paper, in that handwriting, been delivered between acts? "Hi, Elizabeth. Just got into town. How about late supper-unless you're tied up? First act was great. Love, Ted." They'd have supper and call Leila from the restaurant. "Watch my guy for me, Sparrow. Don't let some painted bitch try to stake him out."

They'd both have their ears pressed to the phone. "You staked me out, Star," Ted would say.

And she would be aware of his nearness, of his cheek grazing hers, and dig her fingers into the phone, always wishing she'd had the courage not to see him.

She opened the envelope. She read two sentences before she let out a stifled cry and then had to wait before she could force herself to go back to finishing Ted's letter.

Dear Elizabeth,

I can only tell you that I am sorry, and that word is meaningless. You were right. The Baron heard me struggling with Leila that night. Syd saw me on the street. I told him Leila was dead. There's no use any longer in trying to pretend I wasn't there. Believe me, I have absolutely no memory of those moments, but in light of all the facts, I am going to enter a plea of guilty to manslaughter when I return to New York.

At least, this will bring this terrible affair to a conclusion and spare you the agony of testifying at my trial and being forced to relive the circumstances of Leila's death.

God bless and keep you. Long ago Leila told me that when you were a little girl and leaving Kentucky to come to New York, you were frightened and she sang that lovely song to you… "Weep no more, my lady."

Think of her as singing that song to you now, and try to begin a new and happier chapter in your life.

Ted

For the next two hours Elizabeth sat hunched up on the couch, her arms locked around her knees, her eyes staring ahead unseeingly. This was what you wanted, she tried to tell herself. He's going to pay for what he did to Leila. But the pain was so intense it gradually retreated into numbness.

When she got up, her legs were stiff, and she moved with the cautious hesitancy of the old. There was still the matter of the anonymous letters.

Now she would not rest until she had found out who had sent them and precipitated this tragedy.

It was past one o'clock when Bartlett phoned Ted. "We have to talk right away," Henry said shortly. "Get over as soon as you can."

"Is there any reason we can't meet here?"

"I've got some calls from New York coming in. I don't want to risk missing them."

When Craig opened the door for him, Ted did not waste time on preliminaries. "What's up?"

"Something you won't like."

Bartlett was not at the oval dinette table he used as a desk in this suite. Instead, he was leaning back in an armchair, one hand on the phone as though expecting it to leap into his hand. He had a meditative expression, Ted decided, not unlike that of a philosopher confronted with a problem too difficult to solve.

"How bad is it?" Ted asked. "Ten years? Fifteen years?"

"Worse. They won't take a plea. A new eyewitness has come forward."

Briefly, even brusquely, he explained. "As you know, we put private investigators on Sally Ross. We wanted to discredit her in every way possible. One of the investigators was in her apartment building night before last. A thief was caught red-handed trying to rob the apartment one floor above Mrs. Ross's. He's been making a deal of his own with the district attorney. He was in that apartment once before. The night of March twenty-ninth. He claims he saw you push Leila off the terrace!"

He watched the sickly pallor that stole over Ted's face change his deep tan to a muddy beige. "No plea bargain," Ted whispered. His voice was so low that Henry had to lean forward to catch the words.

"Why should they, with a witness like that? From what my people tell me, there's no question that his view was unobstructed. Sally Ross had that eucalyptus tree on the terrace, obscuring her line of vision. One floor higher up, and the tree wasn't in the way."

"I don't care how many people saw Ted that night," Craig blurted. "He was drunk. He didn't know what he was doing. I'll perjure myself. I'll say he was on the phone with me at nine thirty."

"You can't perjure yourself," Bartlett snapped. "You're already on record as saying you heard the phone ring and didn't pick it up. Don't even think of it."

Ted jammed clenched fists into his pockets. "Forget the goddamned phone. What exactly does this witness claim he saw?"

"So far the district attorney has refused to take my calls. I've got a few inside connections there, and from what they've been able to find out, this guy claims Leila was struggling to save herself."

"Then I could be facing the maximum?"

"The judge assigned to this case is an imbecile. He'll let a throat-slasher from the ghetto off with a slap on the wrist, but he likes to show how tough he is when he deals with important people. And you're important."

The phone rang. Bartlett had it at his ear before the second ring. Ted and Craig watched as his frown deepened; he moistened his lips with his tongue, then bit his lower lip. They listened as he barked out instructions: "I want a rap sheet on that guy. I want to know what kind of deal he was offered. I want pictures taken from that woman's terrace on a rainy night. Get on with it."

When he put down the receiver, he studied Ted and Craig, noticing how Ted had slumped in his chair and Craig had straightened in his. "We go to trial," he said. "That new eyewitness has been in the apartment before. He described the inside of several of the closets. This time they caught him when he barely got his feet in the entrance hall. He says he saw you, Teddy. Leila was clawing at you, trying to save herself. You picked her up, you held her over that railing and you shook her until she let go of your arms. It won't be a pretty scene when it's described in court."

"I… held… her… over… the… railing… before… I… dropped… her…" Ted picked up a vase from the table and threw it across the room at the marble fireplace. It smashed, and sprays of delicate crystal cascaded across the carpet. "No! It's not possible!" He turned and ran blindly for the door. He slammed it behind him with a force that shattered the window panel.

They watched as he ran across the lawn to the trees that separated the Spa grounds from the Crocker Woodland.

"He's guilty," Bartlett said. "There's no way I can get him off now. Give me a clean-cut liar and I can work with him. If I put him on the stand, the jury will find Teddy arrogant. If I don't we'll have Elizabeth describing how he shouted at Leila, and two eyewitnesses to tell how he killed her. And I'm supposed to work with that?" He closed his eyes. "By the way, he's just proved to us that he has a violent temper."

"There was a special reason for that outburst," Craig said quietly. "When Ted was eight years old, he saw his father in a drunken rage hold his mother over the terrace of their penthouse."

He paused to catch his breath. "The difference is his father decided not to drop her."

Four

At two o'clock, Elizabeth phoned Syd and asked him to meet her at the Olympic pool. When she got there, a mixed water-aerobics class was starting. Men and women holding beach balls were studiously following the directions of the instructor. "Hold the ball between your palms; swing from side to side… no, keep it underwater… that's where we get the pull." Music was turned on.

She chose to sit at a table at the far end of the patio. There was no one nearby. Ten minutes later, she heard a scraping sound behind her and gasped. It was Syd. He had cut through the bushes and pushed aside a chair to get onto the patio. He nodded in the direction of the pool. "We had the janitor's apartment in Brooklyn when I was growing up. It's amazing how much muscle tone my mother got swinging a broom."

His tone was pleasant enough, but his manner was guarded. The polo shirt and shorts he was wearing revealed the wiry strength of his arms and the taut muscles in his legs. Funny, Elizabeth thought, I always considered Syd soft-looking, maybe because he has such a poor carriage. That's a mistake.

The scraping sound. Had she heard a chair being moved last night when she was leaving the pool? And Monday night, she thought she had seen something or someone moving. Was it possible she'd been watched while she was swimming? It was a fleeting but upsetting thought.

"For a place that costs so much to relax in, there are quite a few uptight people around here," Syd said. He sat down across from her.

"And I'm the most uptight, I suppose. Syd, you had your own money in Merry-Go-Round. You brought the script to Leila. You handled some of the script revisions. I have to talk to the playwright, Clayton Anderson. Where can I get in touch with him?"

"I have no idea. I never met him. The contract was negotiated through his lawyer."

"Tell me the lawyer's name."

"No."

"That's because there is no lawyer, right, Syd? Helmut wrote that play, didn't he? He brought it to you, and you brought it to Leila. Helmut knew Min would throw a fit if she found out about it. That play was written by a man obsessed-by Leila. That's why for Leila the play would have worked."

His face turned a dull red. "You don't know what you're talking about."

She handed him the note Ted had written to her. "Don't I? Tell me about meeting Ted the night Leila died. Why didn't you come forward with that information months ago."

Syd scanned the note. "He put that in writing! He's a bigger fool than I realized."

Elizabeth leaned forward. "According to this, the Baron heard Ted struggling with Leila, and Ted told you that Leila was dead. Did it ever occur to either of you to see what had happened, if there was any chance to help her?"

Syd shoved his chair back. "I've listened to you long enough."

"No, you haven't. Syd, why did you go to Leila's apartment that night? Why did the Baron go there? She didn't expect either one of you."

Syd stood up. Anger made his face ugly. "Listen, Elizabeth, your sister wiped me out when she quit that play. I went to ask her to reconsider. I never got inside that apartment building. Ted ran past me on the street. I chased him. He told me she was dead. Who lives after a fall like that? I stayed out of it. I never saw the Baron that night." He threw Ted's letter back at her. "Aren't you satisfied? Ted's going to jail. That's what you want, isn't it?"

"Don't leave, Syd. I've still got lots of questions. The letter Cheryl stole. Why did you destroy it? It might have helped Ted. I thought you were so anxious to help him."

Syd sat down heavily. "Look, Elizabeth, I'll make a deal with you. Tearing up that letter was my mistake. Cheryl swears she didn't write that one or any like it. I believe her."

Elizabeth waited. She was not going to concede that Scott believed Cheryl as well.

"You're right about the Baron," Syd continued. "He wrote the play. You know how Leila put him down. He wanted to have power over her, make her indebted to him. Another guy would want to drag her into bed." He waited. " Elizabeth, if Cheryl can't leave tomorrow and be at her press reception, she'll lose this series. The studio will drop her if they find out she's being detained. You've got Scott's ear. Persuade him to leave Cheryl out of this, and I'll give you a hint about those letters."

Elizabeth stared at him. Syd seemed to take her silence for assent. As he spoke, he tapped the table with his fingertips. "The Baron wrote Merry-Go-Round. I've got his handwritten changes on the early scripts. Let's play 'Suppose,' Elizabeth. Suppose the play is a hit. The Baron doesn't need Min anymore. He's tired of the Spa game. Now he's a Broadway playwright, and constantly with Leila. How could Min prevent that from happening? By making sure the play is a flop. How does she do that? By destroying Leila. And she was just the one who knew how. Ted and Leila were together for three years. If Cheryl wanted to get on their case, why would she have waited that long?"

He did not wait for her response. The chair made the same grating sound as it had when he'd arrived. Elizabeth stared after him. It was possible. It made sense. She could hear Leila say, "God, Sparrow, Min's really got the hots for the Toy Soldier, hasn't she? I'd hate to be the one who got cozy with him. Min would be on the warpath with a hatchet."

Or with scissors and paste?

Syd disappeared through the hedges. Watching him, Elizabeth could not see the grim smile he allowed himself as he passed from her vision.

It might work, Syd thought. He'd been wondering how to play this card, and she had made it easy for him. If she fell for it, Cheryl might be in the clear. The smile disappeared. Might be.

But what about himself?

Five

Unseeing and motionless, Elizabeth sat at the pool until the brisk voice of the water-aerobics instructor cut through the increasing shock she felt as her mind analyzed the enormity of Min's possible betrayal. She got up and followed the path to the main house.

The afternoon had fulfilled the morning's promise. The sun was golden warm; there was no breeze; even the cypress trees looked mellow, their dark leaves shimmering, the craggy shapes unthreatening. The cheerful clusters of petunias, geraniums and azaleas, perky from recent watering, were now straining toward the warmth, the blossoms open and radiant.

In the office she found a temporary receptionist, a thirtyish, pleasant-faced woman. The Baron and Baroness had gone to the Monterey Peninsula hospital to offer their assistance to Mrs. Meehan's husband. "They're just heartsick about her." The receptionist seemed deeply impressed by their concern.

They'd been heartsick when Leila died, Elizabeth remembered. Now she wondered how much of Min's grief had resulted from guilt. She scribbled a note to Helmut and sealed it. "Please give this to the Baron as soon as he comes back."

She glanced at the copy machine. Sammy had been using that machine when for some reason she'd wandered into the bathhouse. Suppose she really had had some sort of attack that disoriented her. Suppose she had left that letter in the copier. Min had come down early the next morning. Min might have found it and destroyed it.

Wearily, Elizabeth went back to her bungalow. She'd never know who had sent those letters. No one would ever admit it. Why was she staying here now? It was all over. And what was she going to do with the rest of her life? In his note, Ted had told her to start a new and happier chapter. Where? How?

Her head was aching-a dull, steady pounding. She realized that she had skipped lunch again. She'd call and inquire after Alvirah Meehan and then start packing. Funny, how awful it is when there's no place in the world you want to go, no single human being you want to see. She pulled a suitcase out of the closet, opened it, then stopped abruptly.

She still had Alvirah's sunburst pin. It was in the pocket of the slacks she'd been wearing when she'd gone to the clinic. When she took it out and held it, she realized it was heavier than it looked. She was no expert on jewelry, but clearly this was not a valuable piece. Turning it over, she began to study the back. It didn't have the usual safety catch. Instead, there was an enclosed device of some sort. She turned the pin again and studied the face. The small opening in the center was a microphone!

The impact of her discovery left her weak. The seemingly artless questions, the way Alvirah Meehan had fiddled with that pin-she'd been pointing the microphone to catch the voices of the people she was with. The suitcase in her bungalow with the expensive recording equipment, the cassettes there… Elizabeth knew she had to get them before anyone else did.

She rang for Vicky.

Fifteen minutes later she was back in her own bungalow, the cassettes and recorder from Alvirah Meehan's suitcase in her possession. Vicky looked flustered and somewhat apprehensive. "I hope no one saw us go in there," she told Elizabeth.

"I'm giving everything to Sheriff Alshorne," Elizabeth assured her. "I just want to be certain they won't disappear if Mrs. Meehan's husband tells anyone about them." She agreed that tea and a sandwich would taste good. When Vicky returned with the tray, she found Elizabeth, earphones on her head, her notebook in her lap, a pen in her hands, listening to the tapes.

Six

Scott Alshorne did not like having a suspicious death and a suspicious near-death unresolved. Dora Samuels had suffered a stroke just before her death. How long before? Alvirah Meehan had had a drop of blood on her face which suggested an injection. The lab report showed a very low blood sugar, possibly the result of an injection. The Baron's efforts had fortunately saved her life. So where did that leave him?

Mrs. Meehan's husband had not been located last night until late evening-one A.M. New York time. He'd chartered a plane and arrived at the hospital at seven A.M. local time. Early in the afternoon, Scott went there to talk to him.

The sight of Alvirah Meehan, ghostly pale, barely breathing, hooked to machines, was incredible to Scott. People like Mrs. Meehan weren't supposed to be sick. They were too hearty, too filled with life. The burly man whose back was to him didn't seem to notice his presence. He was bending over, whispering to Alvirah Meehan.

Scott touched his shoulder. "Mr. Meehan, I'm Scott Alshorne, the sheriff of Monterey County. I'm sorry about your wife."

Willy Meehan jerked his head toward the nurses' station. "I know all about how they think she is. But I'm telling you, she's going to be just fine. I told her that if she up and died on me, I was going to take that money and spend it on a blond floozy. She won't let that happen-will you, honey?" Tears began to stream from his eyes.

"Mr. Meehan, I have to speak with you for just a few minutes."

She could hear Willy talking to her, but she couldn't reach him. Alvirah had never felt so weak. She couldn't even move her hand, she was so tired.

And there was something she had to tell them. She knew what had happened now. It was so clear. She had to make herself talk. She tried moving her lips, but she couldn't. She tried to wiggle her finger.

Willy's hand was covering hers, and she couldn't get up the strength to make him understand that she was trying to reach him.

If she could just move her lips, just get his attention. He was talking about the trips they were going to take. A tiny stab of irritation flared through her mind. Keep quiet and listen to me, she wanted to shout at him… Oh, Willy, please listen…

The conversation in the corridor outside the intensive-care unit was unsatisfactory. Alvirah was "healthy as a horse." She was never sick. She was on no medication. Scott did not bother to ask if there was a possibility that she used drugs. There wasn't, and he wouldn't insult this heartbroken man with the question.

"She was looking forward so much to this trip," Willy Meehan said as he put his hand on the door of the intensive-care unit. "She was even writing articles about it for the Globe. You should have seen how excited she was when they were showing her how to record people's conversations…"

"She was writing articles!" Scott exclaimed. "She was recording people?"

He was interrupted. A nurse rushed out. "Mr. Meehan, will you come in? She's trying to talk again. We want you to speak to her."

Scott rushed in behind him. Alvirah was straining to move her lips. "Voi… voi…"

Willy grasped her hand. "I'm here, honey, I'm here."

The effort was so much. She was getting so tired. She was going to fall asleep. If she could just get even one word out to warn them. With a terrible effort, Alvirah managed that word. She said it loud enough that she could hear it herself.

She said, "Voices."

Seven

The afternoon shadows deepened as, unmindful of time, Elizabeth listened to Alvirah Meehan's tapes. Sometimes she stopped and rewound a segment of the tape and listened to it several times. Her lined pad was filled with notes.

Those questions that had seemed so tactless had actually been so clever. Elizabeth thought of how she had sat at the table with the Countess, wishing she could overhear the conversations at Min's table. Now she could. Some of the talk was muffled, but she could hear enough to detect stress, evasion, attempts to change the subject.

She began to systematize her notations, creating a separate page for everyone at the table. At the bottom of each page she scribbled questions as they came to mind. When she finished the third tape, it seemed to her that she merely had a jumble of confusing sentences.

Leila, how I wish you were here. You were too cynical, but so many times you were right about people. You could see through their facades. Something is wrong, and I'm missing it. What is it?

It seemed to her that she could hear Leila's answer, as if she were in the room. For heaven's sake, Sparrow, open your eyes! Stop seeing what people want you to see. Start listening. Think for yourself. Didn't I teach you that much?

She was just about to put the last cassette from Alvirah's sunburst pin into the recorder when the phone rang. It was Helmut. "You left a note for me."

"Yes, I did. Helmut, why did you go to Leila's apartment the night she died?"

She heard him gasp. " Elizabeth, do not talk on the phone. May I come to you now?"

While she waited, she hid the recording equipment and her pad. She had no intention of letting Helmut become aware of the tapes.

For once, his rigid military carriage seemed to have deserted him. He sat opposite her, his shoulders slumped. His voice low and hurried, his German accent more pronounced as he spoke, he told her what he had told Min. He had written the play. He had gone to plead with Leila to reconsider.

"You took the money out of Min's Swiss account."

He nodded. "Minna has guessed. What is the use?"

"Is it possible that she always knew? That she sent those letters because she wanted to upset Leila enough to destroy her performance? No one knew Leila's emotional state better than Min."

The Baron's eyes widened. "But how magnificent. It is just the sort of thing Minna would do. Then she may have known all along that there was no money left. Could she have been simply punishing me?"

Elizabeth did not care if her face showed the disgust she felt. "I don't share your admiration for that scheme, if it was Min's doing." She went to the desk and got a fresh pad. "You heard Ted struggling with Leila?"

"Yes, I did."

"Where were you? How did you get in? How long were you there? Exactly what did you hear?"

It helped to be writing, to concentrate on taking down word for word what he said. He had heard Leila pleading for her life, and he had not tried to help her.

When he had finished, perspiration was glistening on his smooth cheeks. She wanted to get him out of her sight, but she could not resist saying, "Suppose instead of running away, you had gone into that apartment? Leila might be alive right now. Ted might not be plea-bargaining for a lighter sentence if you hadn't been so worried about saving yourself."

"I don't believe that, Elizabeth. It happened in seconds." The Baron's eyes widened. "But haven't you heard? There is no plea bargain. It's been on the news all afternoon. A second eyewitness saw Ted hold Leila over the terrace before he dropped her. The district attorney wants Ted to get life."

Leila had not toppled over the railing in a struggle. He had held her, then deliberately dropped her. That Leila's death had taken a few seconds longer seemed to Elizabeth even more cruel than her worst fears. I should be glad they're going for the maximum penalty, she told herself. I should be glad to have the chance to testify against him.

She wanted desperately to be alone, but she managed to ask the Baron one more question: "Did you see Syd near Leila's apartment that night?"

Could she trust the look of astonishment on his face? "No, I did not," he said firmly. "Was he there?"

It is finished, Elizabeth told herself. She put in a call to Scott Alshorne. The sheriff was out on official business. Could someone else help her? No. She left a message for him to phone her. She would turn over Alvirah Meehan's recording equipment to him and get on the next plane to New York. No wonder they'd all sounded so on edge from Alvirah's relentless questioning. Most of them had something to hide.

The sunburst pin. She started to put it into a bag with the recorder and then realized she hadn't listened to the last cassette. It occurred to her that Alvirah had been wearing the pin in the clinic… She managed to extract the cassette from the tiny container. If Alvirah was so concerned about the collagen injections, would she have left the recorder on during the treatment?

She had. Elizabeth turned up the volume and held the recorder to her ear. The cassette began with Alvirah in the treatment room talking with the nurse. The nurse reassuring her, talking about Valium; the click of the door, Alvirah's even breathing, the click of the door again… The Baron's somewhat muffled and indistinct voice, reassuring Alvirah, starting the injection; the click of the door, Alvirah's gasps, her attempt to call for help, her frenzied breath, a click of the door again, the nurse's cheerful voice, "Well, here we are, Mrs. Meehan. All set for your beauty treatment?" And then the nurse, upset, on the edge of panic, saying, "Mrs. Meehan, what's the matter? Doctor…"

There was a pause, then the voice of Helmut barking orders -"Open that robe!"-calling for oxygen. There was a pounding sound-that must have been when he was compressing her chest; then Helmut called for an intravenous. That was when I was there, Elizabeth thought. He tried to kill her. Whatever he gave her was meant to kill her. Alvirah's persistent references to that sentence about "a butterfly floating on a cloud," her constantly saying that that reminded her of something, her calling him a clever author-did he perceive that as her toying with him? Had he still hoped that somehow Min wouldn't learn the truth about the play, about her Swiss bank account?

She replayed the last tape again and again. There was something about it she didn't understand. What was it? What was she missing?

Not knowing what she was looking for, she reread the notes she had taken when Helmut described Leila's death. Her eyes became riveted to one sentence. But that's wrong, she thought.

Unless.

Like an exhausted climber within inches of an icy summit, she reviewed the notes she had made from Alvirah Meehan's tapes.

And found the key.

It had always been there, waiting for her. Did he realize how close she had been to the truth?

Yes, he did.

She shivered, remembering the questions that had seemed so innocent, her own troubled answers that must have been so threatening to him.

Her hand flew to the phone. She would call Scott. And then she withdrew her fingers from the dial. Tell him what? There wasn't a shred of proof. There never would be.

Unless she could force his hand.

Eight

For over an hour, Scott sat by Alvirah's bedside, hoping she would say something else. Then, touching Willy Meehan's shoulder, he said, "I'll be right back." He had seen John Whitley at the nurses' station and followed him into his office.

"Have you anything more you can tell me, John?"

"No." The doctor looked both angry and perplexed. "I don't like not knowing what I'm dealing with. Her blood sugar was so low that without a history of severe hypoglycemia we have to suspect that somebody injected her with insulin. She sure as hell has a puncture mark where we found the spot of blood on her cheek. If Von Schreiber claims he didn't inject her face at all, something's screwy."

"What are her chances?" Scott asked.

John shrugged. "I don't know. It's too soon to tell if she has incurred any brain damage. If willpower can bring her back, that husband of hers will manage it. He's doing everything right. Talking to her about chartering a plane to get here, about fixing the house when they go home. If she can hear him, she'll want to stay around."

John's office overlooked the garden. Scott walked to the window, wishing he could spend some time alone, think this through. "We can't prove Mrs. Meehan was the victim of an attempted murder.

We can't prove Miss Samuels was the victim of murder."

"I don't think you can make either one stick, no."

"So that means even if we can make a stab at figuring who would want those women dead-and have the guts to attempt to kill them at a place like the Spa-we still may not be able to prove anything."

"That's more your line of work than mine, but I'd agree."

Scott had one parting question: "Mrs. Meehan has been trying to talk. She finally came out with a single word-'voices.' Is it likely that someone in her condition is really trying to communicate something that makes sense?"

Whitley shrugged. "My impression is that her coma is still too deep to be certain as to her recall. But I could be wrong. It wouldn't be the first time."

Again Scott conferred with Willy Meehan in the corridor. Alvirah was planning to write a series of articles. The editor of the New York Globe had told her to get all the inside information she could on celebrities. Scott remembered her endless questions the night he had been at the Spa for dinner. He wondered what Alvirah might unwittingly have learned. At least it gave some reason for the attack on her-if there had been an attack. And it explained the expensive recording equipment in her suitcase.

He was scheduled to meet with the mayor of Carmel at five o'clock. On his two-way car radio, he learned that Elizabeth had phoned him twice. The second call was urgent.

Some instinct made him cancel his appointment with the mayor for the second time in two days and go directly to the Spa.

Through the picture window, he could see Elizabeth on the phone. He waited until she put the receiver down before he knocked. In the thirty-second interval, he had a chance to study her. The afternoon sun was sending slanted rays into the room which created shadows on her face and revealed the high cheekbones, the wide, sensitive mouth, the luminous eyes. If I were a sculptor, I'd want her to model for me, he thought. She has an elegance that goes beyond beauty.

Eventually she would have surpassed Leila.

Elizabeth turned the tapes over to him. She indicated the writing pad with its lines of notations. "Do me a favor, Scott," she asked him. "Listen to these tapes very, very carefully. This one"-she indicated the cassette she had taken from the sunburst pin- "is going to shock you. Play it over and see if you don't catch what I think I've heard."

Now there was a determined thrust to her jaw, a glitter in her eyes. " Elizabeth, what are you up to?" he asked.

"Something that I have to do-that only I can do."

Despite Scott's increasingly stern demands for an explanation, she would not tell him more. He did remember to tell her that Alvirah Meehan had managed to utter one word. "Does Voices' suggest anything to you?"

Elizabeth 's smile was enigmatic.

"You bet it does," she said grimly.

Nine

Ted had bolted from the Spa grounds in early afternoon. By five o'clock he had still not returned. Henry Bartlett was visibly chafing to go back to New York. "We came here to prepare Ted's defense," he said. "I hope he realized his trial is scheduled to start in five days. If he won't meet with me, I'm not doing any good sitting around here."

The phone rang. Craig jumped to answer it. " Elizabeth. What a nice surprise… Yes, it's true. I'd like to think we can still persuade the district attorney to accept a plea, but that's pretty unrealistic… We hadn't talked about dinner yet, but of course it would be good to be with you… Oh, that! I don't know. It just didn't seem funny anymore. And it always annoyed Ted. Fine… See you at dinner."

Scott drove home with the windows of the car open, appreciating the cool breeze that had begun to blow in from the ocean. It felt good, but he could not shake the sense of apprehension that was overcoming him. Elizabeth was up to something, and every instinct told him that whatever it was, it might be dangerous.

A faint mist was setting in along the shoreline of Pacific Grove. It would develop into a heavy fog later on. He turned the corner and pulled into the driveway of a pleasant narrow house a block from the ocean. For six years now he had been coming home to this empty place and never once not felt that moment of nostalgia that Jeanie was no longer here waiting for him. He used to talk cases through with her. Tonight he would have asked her some hypothetical questions. Would you say that there is a connection between Dora Samuels' death and Al-virah Meehan's coma? Another question jumped into his mind. Would you say that there is a connection between those two women and Leila's death?

And finally: Jeanie, what the hell is Elizabeth up to?

To clear his head, Scott showered, changed into old slacks and a sweater. He made a pot of coffee and put a hamburger on the grill. When he was ready to eat, he turned on the first of Alvirah's tapes.

He began listening at quarter of five. At six o'clock, his notebook, like Elizabeth 's, was filled with jottings. At quarter of seven, he heard the tape that documented the attack on Alvirah. "That son of a bitch, Von Schreiber!" he muttered. He did inject her with something. But with what? Suppose he had started the collagen and seen her go into some sort of attack? He had returned almost immediately with the nurse.

Scott replayed the tape, then played it a third time and finally realized what Elizabeth had wanted him to hear. There was something odd about the Baron's voice the first time he spoke to Mrs. Meehan. It was hoarse, guttural, startlingly different from his voice a moment or two later, when he was shouting orders to the nurse.

He phoned the hospital and asked for Dr. Whitley. He had one question for him. "Do you think an injection that drew blood is the kind that a doctor would have administered?"

"I've seen some sloppy injections given by topflight surgeons. And if a doctor gave the shot that was meant to harm Mrs. Meehan-he may have had the grace to be nervous."

"Thanks, John."

"Don't mention it."

He was reheating the coffee when his bell rang. In quick strides he reached the door, flung it open to face Ted Winters.

His clothes were rumpled, his face smudged with dirt, his hair matted; vivid, fresh scratches covered his arms and legs. He stumbled forward and would have fallen if Scott had not reached out to grasp him.

"Scott, you've got to help me. Somebody's got to help me. It's a trap, I swear it is. Scott, I tried for hours and I couldn't do it. I couldn't make myself do it."

"Easy… easy." Scott put his arm around Ted and guided him to the couch. "You're ready to pass out." He poured a generous amount of brandy into a tumbler. "Come on, drink this."

After a few sips, Ted ran his hand over his face, as if trying to erase the naked panic he had shown. His attempt at a smile was a wan failure, and he slumped with weariness. He looked young, vulnerable, totally unlike the sophisticated head of a multimillion-dollar corporation. Twenty-five years vanished, and Scott felt that he was looking at the nine-year-old boy who used to go fishing with him.

"Have you eaten today?" he asked.

"Not that I remember."

"Then sip that brandy slowly, and I'll get you a sandwich and coffee."

He waited until Ted had finished the sandwich before he said, "All right, you'd better tell me all about it."

"Scott, I don't know what's happening, but I do know this: I could not have killed Leila the way they're trying to say I did. I don't care how many witnesses come out of the woodwork-something is wrong."

He leaned forward. Now his eyes were pleading. "Scott, you remember how terrified Mother was of heights?"

"She had good cause to be. That bastard of a father of yours-"

Ted interrupted him. "He was disgusted because he could see that I was developing that same phobia. One day when I was about eight, he made her stand out on the terrace of the penthouse and look down. She began to cry. She said, 'Come on, Teddy,' and we started to go inside. He grabbed her and picked her up, and that son of a bitch held her over the railing. It was thirty-eight floors up. She was screaming, begging. I was clawing at him. He didn't pull her in until she'd fainted. Then he just dropped her on the terrace floor and said to me, 'If I ever see you look frightened out here, I'll do the same thing to you.'"

Ted swallowed. His voice broke. "This new eyewitness says I did that to Leila. Today I tried to make myself walk down the cliffs at Point Sur. I couldn't do it! I couldn't make my legs go to the edge."

"People under stress can do some pretty funny things."

"No. No. If I'd killed Leila, I'd have done it some other way. I know that. To say that drunk or sober, I could hold her over the railing… Syd swears I told him that my father pushed Leila off the terrace; he may have known that story about my father. Maybe everybody's lying to me. Scott, I've got to remember what happened that night."

With compassionate eyes, Scott studied Ted, taking in the exhausted droop of his shoulders, the fatigue that emanated from his body. He'd been walking all afternoon, trying to make himself stand at the edge of a cliff, battling his own personal demon in search of the truth. "Did you tell them this when they began questioning you about Leila's death?"

"It would have sounded ridiculous. I build hotels where we make people want terraces. I've always been able to avoid going out on them without making an issue of it."

Darkness was setting in. Beads of perspiration like unchecked tears were running down Ted's cheeks. Scott switched on a light. The room with its comfortable overstuffed furniture, the pillows Jeanie had embroidered, the tall-backed rocking chair, the pine bookcase came to life. Ted did not seem to notice. He was in a world where he was trapped by other people's testimony, on the verge of being confined to prison for the next twenty or thirty years. He's right, Scott decided. His only hope is to go back to that night. "Are you willing to have hypnosis or sodium pentothal?" he asked.

"Either… both… it doesn't matter."

Scott went to the phone and called John Whitley at the hospital again. "Don't you ever go home?" he asked.

"I do get there, now and again. In fact, I'm on my way now."

"I'm afraid not, John. We have another emergency…"

Ten

Craig and Bartlett walked together toward the main house. They had deliberately skipped the "cocktail" hour and could see the last of the guests leaving the veranda as the muted gong announced dinner. A cool breeze had come up from the ocean, and the webs of lichen hanging from the giant pines that formed the border of the north end of the property swayed in a rhythmic, solemn movement that was accentuated by the tinted lights scattered throughout the grounds.

"I don't like it," Bartlett told Craig. "Elizabeth Lange is up to something pretty strange when she asks to have dinner with us. I can tell you the district attorney isn't going to like it one damn bit if he hears his star witness is breaking bread with the enemy."

"Former star witness," Craig reminded him.

"Still star witness. That Ross woman is a total nut. The other one is a petty thief. I won't mind being the one to cross-examine those two on the stand."

Craig stopped and grabbed his arm. "You mean you think Ted may still have a chance?"

"Hell, of course not. He's guilty. And he's not a good enough liar to help himself."

There was a placard in the foyer. Tonight there would be a flute-and-harp recital. Bartlett read the names of the artists. "They're first-rate. I heard them in Carnegie Hall last year. You ever go there?"

"Sometimes."

"What kind of music do you like?"

"Bach fugues. And I suppose that surprises you."

"Frankly, I never thought about it one way or another," Bartlett said shortly. Christ, he thought, I'll be glad when this case is over. A guilty client who doesn't know how to lie and a second-in-command with a chip on his shoulder who would never get over his inferiority complex.

Min, the Baron, Syd, Cheryl and Elizabeth were already at the table. Only Elizabeth seemed perfectly relaxed. She, rather than Min, had somehow assumed the role of hostess. The place on either side of her was vacant. When she saw them approaching, she reached out her hands to them in a welcoming gesture. "I saved these seats specially for you."

And what the hell is that supposed to mean? Bartlett wondered sourly.

Elizabeth watched as the waiter filled their glasses with nonalcoholic wine. She said, "Min, I don't mind telling you that when I get home I'll enjoy a good, stiff drink."

"You should be like everyone else," Syd told her. "Where's your padlocked suitcase?"

"Its contents are much more interesting than liquor," she told him. Throughout dinner she led the conversation, reminiscing on the times they had been together at the Spa.

Once dessert was served, it was Bartlett who challenged her. "Miss Lange, I've had the distinct impression that you're playing some sort of game, and I for one don't believe in participating in games unless I know the rules."

Elizabeth was raising a spoonful of raspberries to her lips. She swallowed them, then put down the spoon. "You're quite right," she told him. "I wanted to be with all of you tonight for a very specific reason. You should all know that I no longer believe Ted is responsible for my sister's death."

They stared at her, their faces shocked.

"Let's talk about it," Elizabeth said. "Someone deliberately destroyed Leila by sending those poison-pen letters to her. I think it was you or you." She pointed at Cheryl, then at Min.

"You are absolutely wrong," Min said indignantly.

"I told you to come up with more letters and trace them." Cheryl spat out the words.

"I may do just that," Elizabeth told her. "Mr. Bartlett, did Ted tell you that both Syd and the Baron were around my sister's apartment house the night she died?" She seemed to enjoy his look of astonishment. "There is more to my sister's death than has come out. I know that. One, maybe two of you know that. You see, there's another possible scenario. Syd and Helmut had money in that play. Syd knew Helmut was the playwright. They went together to plead with Leila. Something went wrong and Leila died. It would have been considered an accident if it hadn't been for that woman who swore she saw Ted struggling with Leila. At that point, my testimony that Ted had come back trapped him."

The waiter was hovering over them. Min waved him away. Bartlett realized that people at the surrounding tables were watching them, sensing the tension. "Ted doesn't remember anything about going back to Leila's apartment," Elizabeth said, "but suppose he did go back; suppose he left immediately; suppose one of you struggled with Leila. You're all about the same size. It was raining. That Ross woman might have seen Leila struggling, and simply assumed it was Ted. You two agreed to let Ted take the blame for Leila's death and concocted the stories you told him. It's possible, isn't it?"

"Minna, this girl is crazy," the Baron sputtered. "You must know-"

"I deny absolutely that I was in that apartment that night," Syd said.

"You admit you ran after Ted. But from where? The apartment? Because he'd seen you pushing Leila? It would have been a stroke of luck if he was so traumatized that he blocked it out.

"The Baron claims he heard Leila and Ted quarreling. But I heard them too. I was on the telephone. And I did not hear what he claims he heard!"

Elizabeth leaned her elbows on the table and looked searchingly from one angry face to the next.

"I'm very grateful for this information," Henry Bartlett told her. "But you seem to have forgotten there's a new witness."

"A very convenient new witness," Elizabeth said. "I spoke to the district attorney this afternoon. This witness turns out not to be very bright. The night he claims he was in that apartment watching Ted drop Leila off the terrace, he was in jail." She stood up. "Craig, would you walk me to my place? I've got to finish packing, and I want to get a swim in. It may be a long time before I'm here again… if ever."

Outside, the darkness was now absolute. The moon and stars were again covered with a misty fog; the Japanese lanterns in the trees and bushes were hazy dots of light. Craig put his arm around her shoulders. "That was quite a performance," he said.

"It was just that: a performance. I can't prove anything. If they stick together, there isn't a shred of evidence."

"Do you have any more of those letters that Leila was receiving?"

"No. I was bluffing about that."

"That's a shocker about the new witness."

"I was bluffing about that too. He was in jail that evening, but he was released on bond at eight o'clock. Leila died at nine thirty-one. The most they can do is cast doubt on his credibility."

She leaned against him as they reached her bungalow. "Oh, Craig, it's all so crazy, isn't it? I feel as if I'm digging and digging for the vein of truth the way the old prospectors dug for a vein of gold…

The only trouble is I'm out of time, so I had to start blasting. But at the very least, I may have upset one of them enough so that he-or she-will make a slip."

His hand smoothed her hair. "You're going back tomorrow?"

"Yes. How about you?"

"Ted still hasn't turned up. He may be on a bender. I can't say I blame him. Though it wouldn't be like him… Obviously, we'll wait for him. But when this is over, when you're ready-promise that you'll call me."

"And get your Japanese-houseboy imitation on the recorder? Oh, I forgot. You said you changed it. Why did you do that, Craig? I always thought it was pretty funny. So did Leila."

He looked embarrassed. She did not wait for him to answer.

"This place used to be such fun," Elizabeth murmured. "Remember when Leila invited you here that first time, before Ted came?"

"Of course I remember."

"How did you meet Leila? I forget."

"She was staying at the Beverly Winters. I sent flowers to her suite. She called to thank me, and we had a drink. She was on her way here, and she invited me along…"

"And then she met Ted…" Elizabeth kissed his cheek. "Pray that whatever I've done tonight works. If Ted is innocent, I want him off just as badly as you do."

"I know you do. You're in love with him, aren't you?"

"I have been from that first day you introduced him to Leila and me."

Inside the bungalow, Elizabeth put on her swim-suit and robe. She went to the desk and wrote a long letter addressed to Scott Alshorne. Then she rang for the maid. It was a new girl, one she'd never seen before, but she had to take the chance. She put the envelope for Scott inside a new one and scribbled a brief note. "Give this to Vicky in the morning," she instructed the girl. "No one else. Is that clear?"

"Of course." The girl was slightly offended.

"Thank you." Elizabeth watched the girl leave and wondered what she would say if she could have read the note to Vicky.

It read: "In case of my death, deliver this to Sheriff Alshorne immediately."

At eight o'clock, Ted walked into a private room in the Monterey Peninsula hospital. Dr. Whitley introduced a psychiatrist who was waiting to administer the injection. A video camera had already been set up. Scott and a deputy sheriff were to be witnesses to the statements given under sodium pentothal.

"I still think you ought to have your lawyer here," Scott told him.

Ted was grim-faced. " Bartlett has been the very one urging me not to undergo this test. I don't intend to waste any more time talking about it. Let the truth come out."

He slipped his feet out of his shoes and lay down on the contour couch.

A few minutes after the injection had taken effect he began to answer questions about the last hour he spent with Leila.

"She kept accusing me of cheating on her. Had pictures of me with other women. Group pictures. I told her that that was part of my job. The hotels. I was never with any woman alone. I tried to reason with her. She had been drinking all day. I was drinking with her. Sick of it. I warned her she had to trust me; I couldn't face those scenes the rest of my life. She told me she knew I was trying to break off with her. Leila. Leila. She went wild. I tried to calm her down. She scratched my hands. The phone rang. It was Elizabeth. Leila kept shouting at me. I got out. Went to my apartment downstairs. Looked at myself in the mirror. Blood on my cheek. On my hands. Tried to phone Craig. Knew I couldn't live like that anymore. Knew it was over. But thought maybe Leila would do something to herself. Better stay with her till I can get Elizabeth. God, I'm so drunk. The elevator. Leila's floor. Door open. Leila screaming."

Scott leaned forward intently. "What is she screaming, Ted?"

"Don't. Don't." Ted was trembling, shaking his head, his expression shocked and disbelieving.

"Ted, what do you see? What happened?"

"Push door open. Room is dark. The terrace. Leila. Hold on. Hold on. Help her. Christ, grab her! Don't let her fall! Don't let Mommy fall!"

Ted began to sob-deep, racking sounds that filled the room. His body twitched convulsively.

"Ted, who did that to her?"

"Hands. Just see hands. She's gone. It's my father." His words became broken. "Leila's dead. Daddy pushed her. Daddy killed her."

The psychiatrist looked at Scott. "You won't get any more now. Either that's all he knows or he still can't bring himself to face the entire truth."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Scott whispered. "How soon will he come out of it?"

"Pretty fast. He'd better rest awhile."

John Whitley stood up. "I want to look in on Mrs. Meehan. I'll be right back."

"I'd like to go with you." The cameraman was packing his equipment. "Drop the tape in my office," Scott told him. He turned to his deputy. "Stay here. Don't let Mr. Winters leave."

The head nurse in the ICU was visibly excited. "We were just about to send for you, Doctor. Mrs. Meehan seems to be coming out of the coma."

"She said 'voices' again." Willy Meehan's face was alive with hope. "Just as clear. I don't know what she meant, but she knew what she was trying to say."

"Does that mean she's out of danger?" Scott asked Dr. Whitley.

John Whitley studied the chart and reached for Alvirah's pulse. His answer was low enough that Willy Meehan could not hear him. "Not necessarily. But it sure is a good sign. Whatever prayers you know, start saying them now."

Alvirah's lids fluttered open. She was looking straight ahead, and as her eyes focused, they rested on Scott. A look of urgency came over her face. "Voices," she whispered. "Wasn't."

Scott bent over her. "Mrs. Meehan, I don't understand."

Alvirah felt the way she did when she used to clean old Mrs. Smythe's house. Mrs. Smythe was always telling her to push the piano out and get at the dust behind it. It was like trying to push the piano but so much more important. She wanted to tell them who had hurt her but she couldn't think of his name. She could see him plain as plain, but she couldn't remember his name. Desperately she tried to communicate with the sheriff. "Wasn't the doctor did that to me… wasn't his voice… Someone else…" She closed her eyes and felt herself slipping into sleep.

"She's getting better," Willy Meehan whispered exultantly. "She's trying to tell you something."

"Wasn't the doctor… wasn't his voice…" What the hell did she mean? Scott asked himself.

He rushed to the room where Ted was waiting. Ted was sitting up now in the small plastic armchair, his hands folded in front of him. "I opened the door," he said tonelessly. "Hands were holding Leila over the railing. I could just see the white satin billowing; her arms were flailing…"

"You couldn't see who was holding her?"

"It was so fast. I think I tried to call out, and then she was gone and whoever it was just disappeared. He must have run along the terrace."

"Have you any idea of his size?"

"No, it was as if I was watching my father when he did that to my mother. I even saw my father's face." He looked up at Scott. "And I haven't helped you, or myself, have I?"

"No, you haven't," Scott said bluntly. "I want a free association from you. 'Voices. 'Say the first thing that comes into your mind."

"Identification."

"Go on."

"Unique. Personal."

"Go on."

Ted shrugged. "Mrs. Meehan. She brought up the subject repeatedly. She apparently had some idea of taking elocution lessons and she got everyone into a discussion about accents and voices."

Scott thought of Alvirah's broken whisper. "Wasn't the doctor… wasn't his voice…" Mentally he reviewed the dinner-conversation tapes Alvirah had recorded. Identification. Unique. Personal.

The Baron's voice on that last tape. He drew in his breath sharply. "Ted, do you remember what else Mrs. Meehan said about voices? Something about Craig imitating yours?"

Ted frowned. "She asked me about a story she'd read years ago in People-that Craig used to field my phone calls at the fraternity house and the girls couldn't tell the difference between our voices. I told her it was true. In school Craig used to bring down the house with his imitations."

"And she tried to make him demonstrate it for her, but he refused." Scott saw Ted's look of surprise and shook his head impatiently. "Never mind how I know. That's what Elizabeth wanted me to catch when I listened to those tapes."

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

"Mrs. Meehan kept pestering Craig to imitate your voice. Don't you see? He didn't want anyone to think about his being a good mimic. Elizabeth 's testimony against you is based solely on hearing your voice. Elizabeth suspects him, but if she's tipped her hand he'll go after her."

A wild sense of urgency made him grab Ted's arm. "Come on!" he shouted. "We've got to get to the Spa." On the way out, he yelled instructions at the deputy: "Call Elizabeth Lange at the Cypress Point Spa. Tell her to stay in her room with her door locked. Send another car over there."

He ran through the lobby, Ted at his heels. In his car, Scott turned on the siren. It's too late for you, he thought as his mind filled with the image of the murderer. Killing Elizabeth won't help you anymore…

The car raced along the highway between Salinas and Pebble Beach. Scott fired instructions into the two-way radio. As Ted listened, the full impact of what he was hearing penetrated his consciousness; the hands that had held Leila over the terrace became arms, a shoulder, as familiar as his own, and the realization of Elizabeth 's danger made him jam his feet on the floor of the car in a futile effort to make contact with an imaginary accelerator.

Had she been toying with him? Of course she had. But like the others, she had underestimated him. And like the others, she would pay for it.

With methodical calm he stripped off his clothes and unlocked his suitcase. The mask was on top of the wet suit and tank. It amused him to remember how at the last moment Sammy had seen his eyes through the mask and known. When he'd called to her in Ted's voice, she had run to him. All the evidence hadn't in the end turned her against Ted. And all the overwhelming evidence he had so carefully laid out, even the new eyewitness he had planted, hadn't convinced Elizabeth .

The wet suit was cumbersome. When this was over, he'd get rid of all this equipment. Just in case anyone questioned Elizabeth 's death, it wouldn't be wise to have any visible reminder that he was an expert scuba diver. Ted, of course, should remember. But in all these months it hadn't crossed Ted's mind that he had the special ability to mimic him. Ted- so stupid, so naive. "I tried to phone you; I remember that distinctly." And so Ted had become his impeccable alibi. Until that nosy bitch Alvirah Meehan kept after him. "Let me hear you imitate Ted's voice. Just once. Please. Say anything at all." He'd wanted to throttle her, but then had had to wait until yesterday when he went ahead of her to treatment room C waited in the closet for her, the hypodermic needle in his hand. Too bad she didn't know she'd sampled his gift for mimicry when she thought she was listening to the Baron.

The wet suit was on. He strapped the tank to his back, turned off the lights and waited. It still chilled him to realize that last night he'd been within seconds of opening the door and confronting Ted. Ted had wanted to talk everything through. "I'm beginning to think you're my only real friend," he'd said.

He opened the door a crack and listened. There was no one in sight, no sound of footsteps. The fog was gathering, and it would be easy to slip behind the trees until he reached the pool. He had to get there before her, be waiting and when she swam past, grab the whistle before she could get it to her lips.

He slipped out, his footsteps noiseless as he cut across the path, avoiding the areas where the lanterns sent out beams of light. If only he'd been able to finish this on Monday night… but Ted had been standing near the pool watching Elizabeth .

Ted always in the way. Always the one with money and looks, always the one the girls flocked around. He'd forced himself to accept it, to make himself useful to Ted, first in college, then in the office: the go-fer, the tenacious assistant. He'd had to fight his way up until the executive-plane accident had instantly made him Ted's right hand, and then when Ted lost Kathy and Teddy, he'd been able to take over the reins of the company…

Until Leila.

His loins ached remembering Leila. How it had felt to make love to her. Until he'd brought her here and she'd met Ted. And discarded him, like garbage tossed into a bin.

He had watched those slim arms slide around Ted's neck, that wanton body snuggling against Ted, had helplessly walked away not able to bear the sight of them together, planning revenge, waiting for the time.

And he'd found it with the play. He'd had to prove investing in the play was a mistake. It was already clear that Ted was beginning to ease him out. And it was his chance to destroy Leila. The exquisite pleasure of sending those letters, of watching her fall apart. She'd even shown them to him as she received them. He'd warned her to burn them, to hide them from Ted and Elizabeth. "Ted's getting awfully sick of your jealousy, and if you tell Elizabeth how upset you are, she'll quit her play to be with you. That could ruin her career."

Grateful for his advice, Leila had agreed, "But tell me, "she'd begged. "Is it true, Bulldog? Is there someone else?" His elaborate protests had had the effect he wanted. She'd believed the letters.

He hadn't worried about those last two. He'd thought all that unopened mail had been thrown out. But it hadn't mattered. Cheryl burned one, and he had taken the other one from Sammy. Everything was at last working for him. On Saturday he would become chairman and president of Winters Enterprises.

He was at the pool.

He slipped into the dark water and swam to the shallow end. Elizabeth always dived into the deepest area. That night in Elaine's he'd known the time had come to kill Leila. Everyone would believe it was a suicide. He'd let himself in through one of the guest suites on the upper floor of the duplex and listened to them quarrel, listened when Ted stormed out, and then the idea had come to mimic Ted's voice to make Elizabeth think Ted was with Leila just before she died.

He heard the sound of footsteps on the path. She was coming. Soon he would be safe. In those weeks after Leila's death, he'd thought he had lost. Ted hadn't fallen apart. He'd turned to Elizabeth. The death had been considered an accident. Until that unbelievable stroke of luck when that crazy woman had come forward and said she had seen Ted struggling with Leila. And Elizabeth had become the chief witness.

It was destined to be this way. Now the Baron and Syd had become material witnesses against Ted. The Baron wouldn't be able to deny that he had heard Ted struggling with Leila. Syd had seen Ted on the street. Even Ted himself must have glimpsed them on the terrace and because he was drunk and it was dark, relived that episode with his father.

The footsteps were getting closer. He allowed himself to sink to the bottom of the pool. She was so sure of herself, so clever. Waiting for him to come, anxious for him to attack her, ready to outswim him while she blew the whistle and called for help. She wouldn't get the chance.

It was ten o'clock, and there was a difference in the atmosphere of the Spa. Many of the bungalows were already dark, and Elizabeth wondered how many people had actually checked out. The talk-show host was gone; the Countess and her friends must have left before dinner; the tennis player and his girlfriend had not been in the dining room.

Evening fog had settled in, heavy, penetrating, enveloping. Even the Japanese lanterns along the path seemed hooded.

She dropped her robe by the side of the pool and looked carefully into the water. It was absolutely still. There was no one here yet.

She felt for the whistle around her neck. All she would need was to be able to put her lips to it. A blast from this whistle would bring help.

She dived in. The water felt clammy tonight. Or was it because she was afraid? I can outswim anyone, she reassured herself. I had to take this chance. It's the only way. Would the bait be taken?

Voices. Alvirah Meehan had been persistent on that subject. That persistence might have cost her her life. That was what she had been trying to tell them. She'd known it wasn't Helmut's voice.

She'd reached the north end of the pool; she flipped over and began to backstroke. Voices. It was her identification of Ted's voice that had placed him in that room with Leila a few minutes before her death.

The night Leila died, Craig had claimed to be in his apartment watching a television show when Ted tried to call him. No one had questioned that Craig was home. Ted had been his alibi.

Voices.

Craig wanted Ted to be convicted. Ted was about to turn over the running of Winters Enterprises to him.

When she asked Craig about changing the message on his recorder, had she frightened him enough to force him into an overt attack?

Elizabeth began a freestyle breaststroke. From beneath her, arms encircled her, pinning her own arms to her sides. Her startled gasp caused her to swallow a mouthful of water. Choking furiously, she felt herself being dragged to the bottom of the pool. She began to beat with her heels, but they slipped off the heavy rubber wet suit of her assailant. With a desperate burst of strength, she dug her elbows deep into the ribs of her captor. For an instant the grip relaxed, and she began to rise to the surface. Just as her face emerged, as she managed to gulp one breath of air and fumble for the whistle, the arms enclosed her again, and she slipped downward, through the dark waters of the pool.

Eleven

"After Kathy and Teddy died, I went to pieces." It was as if Ted were talking to himself, not Scott. The car raced past the gate to Pebble Beach without stopping. The roaring siren shattered the peace of the surroundings; the headlights opened only a few feet of visibility in the deepening fog.

"Craig took over running the whole business. He liked it. There were times when he'd answer and say he was me. Imitate my voice. I finally told him to cut it out. Then he met Leila first. I took her away. The reason I was so busy those months before Leila died, I was starting to reorganize. I intended to de-emphasize his job; split his responsibilities with two other men. He knew what was happening.

"And he's the one who hired the detective to follow that first witness; the detective who was so conveniently there to make sure the new witness didn't get away."

They were on the grounds of the Spa. Scott drove the car across the lawn and stopped in front of Elizabeth 's bungalow. The maid rushed from her station. Ted was banging on the door. "Where is Elizabeth?"

"I don't know," the maid said, her voice faltering. "She gave me a letter. She didn't say she was going out."

"Let me see the letter."

"I don't think-"

"Give me the letter."

Scott read the note to Vicky, ripped open the letter addressed to him and began to read.

"Where is she?" Ted demanded.

"Oh, God, that crazy kid… The pool," Scott snapped, "the pool."

The car smashed through hedges and flower beds and roared toward the north end of the property. Inside the bungalows, lights began to go on.

They reached the patio. The fender of the car caught the edge of an umbrella table, knocking it over. The car stopped at the edge of the pool. Scott left the headlights on, and they shone over the water. Waves of the gathering fog shimmered in the lights.

They peered down into the pool. "There's no one here," Scott said. A terrible fear grabbed at him. Were they too late?

Ted was pointing at bubbles floating to the surface. "She's down there." Kicking off his shoes, he dived into the pool. He touched bottom and came up. "Get help," he yelled. He went down again and again.

Scott scrabbled in the glove compartment for his flashlight, grabbed it and saw a figure in a scuba-diving outfit begin to climb the ladder out of the pool. Drawing his pistol, he rushed toward the ladder. In a swift, violent gesture, the scuba diver lunged forward and butted him. The gun fell from Scott's hand as he slammed backward onto the patio.

Ted resurfaced. He was holding a limp figure in his arms. He began to swim toward the ladder, and as Scott dazedly pulled himself to a sitting position, the scuba diver fell backward onto Ted, dragging him and Elizabeth under the surface.

Gasping for breath, Scott reached out a groping hand. His numbed fingers closed around his gun. Pointing it upward, he fired two shots, and was rewarded by the insistent sound of sirens racing toward him.

Ted desperately tried to hold on to Elizabeth with one arm as he pummeled his attacker with the other. His lungs were bursting; he was still groggy from the effects of the sodium pentothal; he felt himself losing consciousness. Futilely he tried to punch the thick rubber suit. His blows fell harmlessly on the solid, massive chest.

The oxygen mask. He had to pull it off. He let go of Elizabeth, trying with all his strength to push her toward the surface. For a moment, the grip on him relaxed. A hand stretched past him, reaching to drag Elizabeth back. It gave him the chance to grab at the face mask. But before he could pull it off, a vicious shove sent him reeling backward.

She had held her breath, forcing herself to resist inhaling. She made herself go limp. There was no way she could get away from him. Her only hope was that he would think she was unconscious and leave her. Even from the feel of the arms that pinned her she knew it was Craig. She had forced him into the open-but now he would get away again.

She was slipping into unconsciousness. Hold on, she thought. No, it was Leila telling her to hold on. Sparrow, this is what I've been trying to tell you. Don't let me down now. He thinks he's safe. You can do it, Sparrow.

She felt the arms begin to release her. She was drifting down, trying to resist the impulse to fight her way to the surface. Wait, Sparrow, wait. Don't let him see you're still conscious.

And then she had felt someone grabbing her, pulling her up; other arms, arms that held her to him, cradled her. Ted.

She felt the night air on her face; gasped in one shuddering breath as, his arm around her neck, he dragged her along the top of the pool; heard his own breath, straining, choking, drowning out the sounds she was making.

And then she felt before she saw the heavy figure bear down on them and managed to pull in one great gulp of air before the water again covered her face.

Ted's arm tightened. She felt him flailing out. Craig was trying to kill both of them. Nothing mattered to Craig except to destroy them now. The water pressed against her eardrums. She could not fight Ted's grip. She felt the push as he tried to shove her toward the surface, felt Craig's grasp on her ankle and managed to kick it away.

On the surface she could see the cars pulling up, hear the shouts. Elizabeth gulped in air, once, twice, filled her lungs and then dived down, down to where Ted was fighting for his life. She knew where Craig was; the arc of her descent was directly over his head. He was squeezing Ted's neck. She reached both hands down. Lights were beaming over the water. She could see the silhouette of Craig's arms, the desperate struggle of Ted's body. She would have only one chance.

Now. She kicked-a sharp, cutting movement of her legs. She was directly over Craig. In a savage thrust, she managed to get her fingers under his face mask. He reached up, and she recoiled from the shove that made her head snap backward, but held on to the mask, held on until she had wrenched it away from his face.

She held it while he groped for it, while his arms grabbed her body, while he tried to pull it from her, held it until she felt him being pulled away from her, held it until, lungs bursting, she found herself being hauled to the surface, still in his grasp.

She could breathe at last. She choked in great gulping sobs as Ted finally relinquished his grip on Craig to the policemen who surrounded them in the water. Then, like two figures drawn by an irresistible magnetic force, she and Ted drifted to each other, and clinging together made their way to the ladder at the end of the pool…