Through the open doorway to the left, she saw the beam of a flashlight. The archway led to the lockers, and beyond was the first of the saltwater pools.
For an instant, her indignation was replaced by fear. She decided to go out and wait for the guard.
“Dora, in here!”
The familiar voice made her weak with relief.
Carefully making her way across the darkened foyer, she went through the locker room and into the area of the indoor pool.
He was waiting for her, flashlight in hand. The blackness of the wet suit, the thick underwater goggles, the bend of the head, the sudden convulsive movement of the flashlight made her step back uncertainly. “For goodness’ sake, don’t shine that thing at me. I can’t see,” she said.
One hand, thick and menacing in the heavy black glove, stretched out toward her, reaching for her throat. The other flashed the light directly in her eyes, blinding her.
Horrified, Dora began to back up. She raised her hands to protect herself and was unaware that she had brushed the letter from her pocket. She barely felt the empty space under her feet before her body toppled backward.
Her last thought as her head smashed against the piles of jagged concrete at the bottom of the pool was that at last she knew who had killed Leila.
10
ELIZABETH SWAM FROM ONE END OF THE POOL TO THE other at a demanding, furious pace. The fog was just beginning to roll in—uneven bits of mist that at one moment blew like a dark vapor over the surrounding area, the next were gone. She preferred it when it was dark. She could work every inch of her body knowing that the punishing physical effort somehow would diffuse the built-up emotional anxiety.
She reached the north end of the pool, touched the wall, inhaled, turned, pivoted and with a furious breaststroke began racing toward the opposite end. Now her heart was pounding with the strain of the pace she had set herself. It was crazy. She wasn’t in condition for this kind of swimming. But still she raced, trying with the expenditure of physical energy to outrun her thoughts.
At last she felt herself begin to calm down, and flipping onto her back, she began to tread water, her arms rotating in even, sweeping motions.
The letters. The one they had; the one someone had taken; the others they might find in the unopened mail. The ones Leila had probably seen and destroyed. Why didn’t Leila tell me about them? Why did she shut me out? She always used me as a sounding board. She always said I could snap her out of taking criticism too seriously.
Leila hadn’t told her because she had believed that Ted was involved with someone else, that there was nothing she could do about it. But Sammy was right: If Ted was involved with someone else, he had no motive to kill Leila.
But I wasn’t mistaken about the time of the call.
Suppose Leila had fallen—had slipped from his grasp—and he’d blacked out? Suppose those letters had driven her to suicide? I’ve got to find out who sent them, Elizabeth thought.
It was time to go in. She was dead tired, and at last somewhat calmer. In the morning, she’d go through the rest of the mail with Sammy. She’d take the letter they’d found to Scott Alshorne. He might want her to take it directly to the district attorney in New York. Was she handing Ted an alibi? And whom had he been involved with?
As she climbed the ladder from the pool, she shivered. The night air was chilly now, and she’d stayed longer than she’d realized. She slipped on her robe and reached into the pocket for her wristwatch. The luminous dial showed that it was half-past ten.
She thought she heard a rustling sound from behind the cypress trees that bordered the patio. “Who’s there?” She knew her voice sounded nervous. There was no answer, and she walked to the edge of the patio and strained her eyes to see past the hedges and between the scattered trees. The silhouettes of the cypress trees seemed grotesque and ominous in the dark, but there was no movement other than the faint rustling of the leaves. The cool sea breeze was becoming more forceful. That was it, of course.
With a gesture of dismissal, she wrapped the robe around her and pulled the hood over her hair.
But somehow the feeling of uneasiness persisted, and her footsteps quickened along the path to her bungalow.
* * *
He hadn’t touched Sammy. But there would be questions. What was she doing in the bathhouse? He cursed the fact that the door had been open, that he had run in there. If he had simply gone around it, she’d never have caught him.
Something so simple could betray him.
But the fact that she had the letter with her, that it had fallen from her pocket—that had been simple good luck. Should he destroy it? He wasn’t sure. It was a double-edged sword.
Now the letter was buried against his skin inside the wet suit. The door of the bathhouse was snap-locked. The guard had made his desultory rounds and wouldn’t be back tonight. Slowly, with infinite caution, he made his way toward the pool. Would she be there? Probably. Should he take the chance tonight? Two accidents. Was that more risky than letting her live? Elizabeth would demand answers when Sammy’s body was found Had Elizabeth seen that letter?
* * *
He heard the lapping of the water in the pool. Cautiously he stepped from behind the tree and watched the swiftly moving body. He would have to wait until she slowed down. By then she would be tired It might be the time to go ahead. Two unrelated accidents in one night. Would the ensuing confusion keep people off the track? He took a step forward toward the pool.
And saw him. Standing behind the shrubbery. Watching Elizabeth. What was he doing there? Did he suspect she was in danger? Or had he too decided she was an unacceptable risk?
The wet suit glistened with mist as its wearer slipped behind the sheltering branches of cypress and vanished into the night.
Tuesday,
September 1
QUOTE FOR THE DAY:
To the best, to the most beautiful who is my joy and well-being.
—CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
GOOD MORNING. BONJOUR, TO OUR DEAR GUESTS.
It is to be a bit brisker this morning, so brace yourselves for the exciting tingle of the fresh sunlit air.
For the nature lovers, we offer a 30-minute after-luncheon walk along our beautiful Pacific coast, to explore the native flowers of our beloved Monterey Peninsula. So if you are of a mind, do join our expert guide at the main gate at 12:30.
A fleeting thought. Our menu tonight is especially exquisite. Wear your prettiest or handsomest outfit, and feast on our gourmet offerings knowing that the delicate taste treats are balanced by the delicate amount of calories you are consuming.
A fascinating thought: Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but when you look in the mirror, you are the beholder.
—Baron and Baroness Helmut von Schreiber
1
THE FIRST HINT OF DAWN FOUND MIN LYING WIDE AWAKE in the canopied king-size bed she shared with Helmut. Moving carefully to keep from disturbing him, she turned her head and pulled herself up on one elbow. Even in sleep he was a handsome man. He was lying on his side, facing her, his one hand outstretched as though reaching for her, his breath now quiet and soft.
He had not slept like that all night. She didn’t know what time he’d come to bed, but at two she’d awakened to the awareness of agitated movement, his head shaking, his voice angry and muffled. There had been no more sleep for her when she heard what he was saying: “Damn you, Leila, damn you.”
Instinctively, she had laid her hand on his shoulder, murmured a soft shushing sound, and he had settled back. Would he remember the dream, remember that he had cried out? She had given no indication of having heard him. It would be useless to expect him to tell her the truth. Incredible as it seemed, had something been going on between him and Leila after all? Or had it been a one-sided attraction on Helmut’s part toward Leila?
That didn’t make it any easier.
The light, more golden than rosy now, began to brighten the room. Carefully Min eased out of bed. Even in h
er heartsick distress, she felt a moment of appreciation for the beauty of this room. Helmut had chosen the furnishings and color scheme. Who else would have visualized the exquisite balance of the peach satin draperies and bedding against the deep blue-violet tone of the carpet?
How much longer would she be living here? This could be their last season. The million dollars in the Swiss account, she reminded herself. Just the interest on that will be enough. . . .
Enough for whom? Herself? Maybe. Helmut? Never! She’d always known that a large part of her attraction for him was this place, the ability to strut around with this background, to mingle with celebrities. Did she really think he’d be content to follow a relatively simple lifestyle with an aging wife?
Noiselessly, Min glided across the room, slipped on a robe and went down the stairs. Helmut would sleep for another half-hour. She always had to awaken him at six thirty. In this half-hour it would be safe to go through some of the records, particularly the American Express bills. In those weeks before Leila died, Helmut had been away from the Spa frequently. He’d been asked to speak at several medical seminars and conventions; he’d lent his name to some charity balls and flown in to attend them. That was good for business. But what else had he been doing when he was on the East Coast? That was the time Ted had been traveling a great deal. She understood Helmut. Leila’s obvious scorn for him would be a challenge. Had he been seeing her?
The night before Leila died, they’d attended the last preview of her show; they’d been at Elaine’s. They’d stayed at the Plaza and in the morning flown to Boston to attend a charity luncheon. He’d put her on a plane to San Francisco at six thirty in the evening. Had he gone to the dinner he was supposed to attend in Boston, or had he taken the seven-o’clock shuttle to New York?
The possibility haunted her.
At midnight California time, three A.M. Eastern time, Helmut had phoned to make sure she was home safely. She had assumed he was calling from the hotel in Boston.
That was something she could check.
At the bottom of the staircase, Min turned left and, key in hand, went to the office. The door was unlocked. Her senses were assaulted by the condition of the room. The lights were still on; a dinner tray was on a table at one side of Dora’s desk; the desk itself was piled with letters. Plastic bags, their contents spilling on the floor, bordered the desk. The window was partly open, and a cold breeze was rustling the letters. Even the copy machine was on.
Min stalked over to the desk and flipped through the mail. Angrily she realized that everything was fan mail to Leila. Her lips tightened ominously. She was sick to death of that mournful look Dora got whenever she answered those letters. At least till now she’d had the brains not to mess up the office with that silly drivel. From now on, if she wants to do that mail, she’ll do it in her apartment. Period. Or maybe it was time to get rid of anyone who insisted on canonizing Leila. What a field day Cheryl would have had if she’d come in here and started going through the personal files. Dora had probably gotten tired and decided to wait to clear up the office this morning. But to leave the copy machine and the lights on was unforgivable. In the morning she’d tell Dora to start making plans for her retirement.
But now she had to get about the reason she had come here. In the storage room, Min went to the file marked “TRAVEL EXPENSES, BARON VON SCHREIBER.”
It took less than two minutes to find what she wanted. The phone call from the East Coast to the Spa the night Leila died was listed on his telephone credit-card bill.
It had been made from New York.
2
SHEER FATIGUE MADE ELIZABETH FALL INTO SLEEP; BUT IT was a restless sleep, filled with dreams. Leila was standing in front of stacks of fan mail; Leila was reading the letters to her, Leila was crying. “I can’t trust anyone . . . I can’t trust anyone.”
In the morning, there was no question in her mind of going on the walk. She showered, pulled her hair into a topknot, slipped on her jogging suit and after waiting just long enough for the hikers to be on their way, headed for the main house. She knew Sammy was always at her desk by a few minutes after seven.
It was a shock to find the usually impeccable receptionist’s office cluttered with stacks of mail on and around Dora’s desk. A large sheet of paper with the ominous words See me and signed by Min clearly revealed that Min had seen the mess.
How unlike Sammy! Never once in all the years she’d known her had Sammy left her desk cluttered. It was unthinkable she’d have chanced leaving it this way in the reception area. It was a surefire way of bringing on one of Min’s famous rages.
But suppose she was ill? Quickly Elizabeth hurried down the stairs to the foyer of the main house and rushed to the stairway leading to the staff wing. Dora had an apartment on the second floor. She knocked briskly at the door, but there was no answer. The sound of a vacuum came from around the corner. The maid, Nelly, was a longtime employee who had been here when Elizabeth was working as an instructor. It was easy to get her to open Sammy’s door. With a growing sense of panic, Elizabeth walked through the pleasant rooms: the sitting room in shades of lime green and white, with Sammy’s carefully tended plants on the windowsills and tabletops; the single bed primly neat, with Sammy’s Bible on the night table.
Nelly pointed to the bed. “She didn’t sleep here last night, Miss Lange. And look!” Nelly walked to the window. “Her car’s in the parking lot. Do you suppose she felt sick and sent for a cab or something to go to the hospital? That would be just like Miss Samuels. You know how independent she is.”
But there was no record of a Dora Samuels’ having signed herself into the community hospital. With growing apprehension, Elizabeth waited for Min to come back from the morning walk. In an effort to keep her mind from the fearful worry that something had happened to Sammy, she began to scan the fan mail. Where was the unsigned letter Dora had planned to copy?
Was she still carrying it?
3
AT FIVE OF SEVEN, SYD WALKED UP THE PATH TO JOIN THE others for the morning hike. Cheryl could read him like a book. He’d have to be careful. Bob wasn’t making his final decision until this afternoon. If it weren’t for that damn play, it would be in the bag now.
“You hear that, everybody? I quit!”
And you wiped me out, you bitch, he thought. He managed to twist his face into the contortion of a smile. The Greenwich, Connecticut, set were there, all turned out for the morning hike, every hair in place, flawless skin, manicured hands. Pretty clear none of them had ever hung by their fingernails waiting for a call, ever clawed their way up in a cutthroat business, ever had someone throw them into the financial gutter with the toss of a head.
It would be a perfect Pebble Beach day. The sun was already warming the cool morning air, the faint smell of salt from the Pacific mingled with the fragrance of the flowering trees that surrounded the main house. Syd remembered the tenement in Brooklyn where he’d been raised. The Dodgers had been in Brooklyn then. Maybe they should have stayed there. Maybe he should have stayed there too.
Min and the Baron came out onto the veranda. Syd was immediately aware of how drawn Min looked. Her expression was frozen on her face, the way people get when they’ve witnessed an accident and cannot believe what they’ve seen. How much had she guessed? He did not glance at Helmut but instead turned his head to watch Cheryl and Ted coming up the path. Syd could read Ted’s mind. He’d always felt guilty about dumping Cheryl for Leila, but it was obvious he didn’t want to pick up with her again. Obvious to everyone except Cheryl.
What in hell had she meant with that dumb remark about “proof” that Ted was innocent? What was she up to now?
“Good morning, Mr. Melnick.” He turned to see Alvirah Meehan beaming up at him. “Why don’t we just walk together?” she asked. “I know how disappointed you must be that Margo Dresher is probably going to be Amanda in the series. I’m telling you, they’re making a terrible mistake.”
Syd did not realize how hard he had
grasped her arm until he saw her flinch. “Sorry, Mrs. Meehan, but you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Too late, Alvirah realized that only the insiders had that tip—the reporter from the Globe who was her contact for her article had told her to study Cheryl Manning’s reaction when she got the news. She’d made a bad slip. “Oh, am I wrong?” she asked. “Maybe it’s just that my husband was saying that he read it’s neck and neck between Cheryl and Margo Dresher.”
Syd made his voice confidential. “Mrs. Meehan, do me a favor, won’t you? Don’t talk about that to anyone. It isn’t true, and you can imagine how it would upset Miss Manning.”
Cheryl had her hand on Ted’s arm. Whatever she had been saying, she had him laughing. She was a hell of a good actress—but not good enough to keep her cool if she lost the Amanda role. And she’d turn on him like an alley cat. Then, as Syd watched, Ted raised his hand in a careless salute and started jogging toward the front gate.
“Good morning, everyone,” Min boomed in a hollow attempt at her usual vigor. “Let us be on our way. Remember, a brisk pace and deep breathing, please.”
Alvirah stepped back as Cheryl caught up with them. They fell into line on the walkway that led to the woods. Scanning the clusters of people ahead, Syd picked out Craig walking with the lawyer, Henry Bartlett. The Countess and her entourage were directly behind them. The tennis pro and his girlfriend were holding hands. The talk-show host was with his date for the week, a twenty-year-old model. The various other guests in twos and threes were unfamiliar.
When Leila made this place her hangout, she put it on the map, Syd thought. You never knew when you’d find her here. Min needs a new superstar. He had noticed the way all eyes drank in Ted as he jogged away. Ted was a superstar.
Cheryl was clearly in a buoyant mood. Her dark hair exploded around her face. Her coal-black brows arced above the huge amber eyes. Her petulant mouth was carved into a seductive smile. She began to hum “That Old Feeling.” Her breasts were high and pointed under her jogging suit. No one else could make a jogging suit look like a second coat of skin.
Weep No More, My Lady Page 13
