Weep No More, My Lady

by Mary Higgins Clark

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

  Elizabeth shrugged. “Which dining room will Ted be in?”

  “The Cypress Room,” Helmut answered hopefully.

  “Syd? Cheryl?”

  “The same.”

  “Where did you plan to put me?”

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

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

  10

  FIVE YEARS BEFORE, IN AN ATTEMPT TO RESOLVE THE vociferous differences between smokers and nonsmokers, Min had divided the spacious dining room into two areas, separating them by a glass wall. The Cypress Room was for nonsmokers only, the Ocean Room accommodated both. The seating was open, except for the guests who were invited to share Min and Helmut’s table. When Elizabeth stood at the door of the Ocean Room, she was waved to a table by Countess d’Aronne. The problem, she soon realized, was that from her seat she had an unbroken view of Min’s table in the other room. It was with a sense of déja vu that she saw them all sitting together: Min, Helmut, Syd, Cheryl, Ted, Craig.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Gathered at whose request?

  And why?

  11

  “FOR A NINE-HUNDRED-CALORIE DINNER, IT WASN’T BAD.” Henry Bartlett came from his bungalow carrying a handsome leather case. He placed it on the table in Ted’s sitting room and opened it, revealing a portable mini-bar. He reached for the Courvoisier and brandy snifters. “Gentlemen?”

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

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

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

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

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Craig said flatly.

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

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

  12

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

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

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

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

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

  “I’m not sure I get your meaning.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “So did you.”

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

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

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

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

  13

  MIN AND HELMUT KEPT THEIR SMILES FIXED AND WARM until they were safely in their own apartment. Then, wordlessly, they turned to each other. Helmut put his arms around Min. His lips brushed her cheeks. With practiced skill, his hands massaged her neck. “Liebchen.”

  “Helmut, was it as bad as I think?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I’ll take it, gladly.”

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

  “Not yet. I’ll read for a bit. That’s my sleeping pill.”

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

  14

  AT QUARTER OF TEN ELIZABETH SAW THE GUESTS BEGIN TO stream from the main house. She knew that in a few minutes the whole place would be silent, curtains drawn, lights extinguished. The day began early at the Spa. After the strenuous exercise classes and the relaxing beauty treatments, most people were more than ready to retire by ten o’clock.

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

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

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

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

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

  Elizabeth moistened her lips. “What makes you think that?”

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

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

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

  “You can’t mean Min and Craig thought it was funny?”

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