She was still holding the script of the play. She laid it on Sammy’s desk and quickly went through the drawers. There was absolutely nothing personal in them. Spa letterheads; Spa publicity folders; Spa follow-up memos; the usual office paraphernalia.
Min and the Baron had followed her out. She glanced up to see them standing in front of Sammy’s desk. Both of them were staring at the leather-bound folder with the bold title Merry-Go-Round on the cover.
“Leila’s play?” Min asked.
“Yes. Sammy kept Leila’s copy. I’ll take it now.”
Craig, Bartlett and the sheriff came out of the private office. Henry Bartlett was smiling—a self-satisfied, smug, chilly smile. “Miss Lange, you’ve been a great help to us today. But I think I should warn you that the jury won’t take kindly to the fact that as a woman scorned, you put Ted Winters through this hellish nightmare.”
Elizabeth stood up, her lips white. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that in her own handwriting, your sister made the connection between you and Ted ‘happening’ to be in the same city so often. I’m talking about the fact that someone else also made that connection and tried to warn her with those letters. I’m talking about the look on your face when Ted put his arms around you at the memorial service. Surely you’ve seen this morning’s paper? Apparently what may have been a mild flirtation for Ted was serious to you, and so when he dropped you, you discovered a way to take your revenge.”
“You filthy liar!” Elizabeth did not know she had thrown the copy of the play at Henry Bartlett until it struck him in the chest.
His expression was impassive, even pleased. Bending, he picked up the script and handed it back to her. “Do me a favor, young lady, and stage that kind of outburst in front of the jury next week,” he said. “They’ll exonerate Ted.”
2
WHILE CRAIG AND BARTLETT WENT TO CONFRONT THE sheriff, Ted worked out with the Nautilus equipment in the men’s spa. Each piece of equipment he used seemed to emphasize his own situation. The rowboat that went nowhere; the bicycle that no matter how furiously pedaled, stayed in place. On the surface he managed to exchange pleasantries with some of the other men in the gym—the head of the Chicago stock exchange, the president of Atlantic Banks, a retired admiral. He sensed in all of them a wariness: they didn’t know what to say to him, didn’t want to say “Good luck.” It was easier for them—and for him—when they got busy with the machines and concentrated on building muscles. Men in prison tended to get pretty soft. Not enough exercise. Boredom. Pallid skin. Ted studied his own tan. It wouldn’t last long behind bars. He was supposed to meet Bartlett and Craig in his bungalow at ten o’clock. Instead, he went for a swim in the indoor pool. He’d have preferred the Olympic pool, but there was always the chance Elizabeth might be there. He didn’t want to run into her.
He had swum about ten laps when he saw Syd dive in at the opposite end of the pool. They were six lanes apart, and after a brief wave, he ignored Syd. But after twenty minutes, when the three swimmers between them had left, he was surprised to see that Syd was keeping pace with him. He had a powerful backstroke and moved with swift precision from one end of the pool to the other. Ted deliberately set out to beat him. Syd obviously caught on. After six laps they were in a dead heat.
They left the water at the same time. Syd slung a towel over his shoulders and came around the pool. “Nice workout. You’re in good shape.”
“I’ve been swimming every day in Hawaii for nearly a year and a half. I should be.”
“The pool at my health club isn’t like Hawaii, but it keeps me fit.” Syd looked around. There were Jacuzzis in two corners of the glass-enclosed room. “Ted, I have to talk to you privately.”
They went to the opposite end. There were three new swimmers in the pool, but they were well out of earshot. Ted watched as Syd rubbed the towel through his dark brown hair. He noticed that the hair on Syd’s chest was completely gray. That’ll be the next thing, he decided. He would grow old and gray in prison.
* * *
Syd did not hedge. “Ted, I’m in trouble. Big trouble. With guys who play rough. It all began with that damn play. I borrowed too much. I thought I could sweat it out. If Cheryl gets this part, I’m on my way up again. But I can’t stall them anymore. I need a loan. Ted, I mean a loan. But I need it now.”
“How much?”
“Six hundred thousand dollars. Ted, it’s small change for you, and it’s a loan. But you owe it to me.”
“I owe it to you?”
Syd looked around and then stepped closer. His mouth was within inches of Ted’s ear. “I’d never have said this . . . never even told you I knew . . . But Ted, I saw you that night. You ran past me, a block from Leila’s apartment. Your face was bleeding. Your hands were scratched. You were in shock. You don’t remember, do you? You didn’t even hear me when I called you. You just kept running.” Syd’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Ted, I caught up with you. I asked what had happened and you told me Leila was dead, that she had fallen off the terrace. Ted, then you said to me . . . I swear to God . . . you said to me, ‘My father pushed her, my father pushed her.’ You were like a little kid, trying to blame what you did on someone else. You even sounded like a little kid.”
Ted felt waves of nausea. “I don’t believe you.”
“Why would I lie? Ted, you ran into the street. A cab came along. You nearly got run over stopping it. Ask that cabbie who took you to Connecticut. He’s going to be a witness, isn’t he? Ask him if he didn’t almost sideswipe you. Ted, I’m your friend. I know how you felt when Leila went nuts in Elaine’s. I know how I felt. When I saw you, I was on my way to try to talk sense to Leila. I was mad enough to kill her myself. Have I mentioned this once to you, to anyone? I wouldn’t do it now, except I’m desperate. You’ve got to help me! If I don’t come up with that money in forty-eight hours—I’m finished.”
“You’ll have the money.”
“Oh, Christ, Ted, I knew I could count on you. God, thanks, Ted.” Syd put his hands on Ted’s shoulders.
“Get away from me.” Ted’s voice was almost a shout. The swimmers looked at them curiously. Ted shook himself free, grabbed his towel and ran blindly out of the pool area.
3
SCOTT QUESTIONED CHERYL IN HER BUNGALOW. THIS ONE was furnished in a splashy yellow-and-green-and-white print, with white carpeting and white walls. Scott felt the thickness of the carpet under his feet. All wool. Top quality. Sixty . . . seventy dollars a yard? No wonder Min had that haunted look! Scott knew exactly how much old Samuel had left her. There couldn’t be much left, after what she’d poured into this place. . . .
Cheryl was not happy about having been paged in the spa to meet him. She was wearing her own version of the standard tank suit, a skimpy scrap of material which did not quite cover her breasts and arched up on either side of her hipbones. The terry-cloth robe was slung on her shoulders. She did not attempt to conceal her impatience. “I’m due in a calisthenics class in ten minutes,” she told him.
“Well, let’s hope you make it,” he said. His throat muscles tightened as the active dislike he felt for Cheryl swelled within him. “Your chances will improve a lot if you give me some straight answers. Like did you write some pretty nasty letters to Leila before she died?”
As he had anticipated, the interrogation was, at first, fruitless. Cheryl cleverly dodged his questions. Anonymous letters? Why would she be interested in sending them? Break up Ted and Leila? What difference would it have made if they had ended up married? It wouldn’t have lasted. Leila didn’t have it in her to stick with one man. She had to hurt men before they hurt her. The play? She had no idea of how the rehearsals for Leila’s play had gone. Frankly, she hadn’t been that interested.
Finally Scott had had enough. “Listen, Cheryl, I think there’s something you’d better realize. I’m not satisfied that Sammy’s death was from natural causes. The second anonymous letter she was carrying is m
issing.
“You went to Sammy’s desk. You left a bill marked Paid in full. An anonymous letter was on top of the desk with other fan mail. And then the letter disappeared. Granted someone else may have entered the reception area so quietly that even though the door was open, neither Min nor the Baron nor Sammy heard anyone come in. But that’s a bit unlikely, isn’t it?” He did not share with Cheryl the fact that Min and the Baron both had had access to the desk, out of Sammy’s presence. He was rewarded by a faint glow of alarm in Cheryl’s eyes. She licked her lips nervously.
“You’re not suggesting I had anything to do with Sammy’s death?”
“I’m suggesting that you took that first letter from Sammy’s desk, and I want it now. That is state’s evidence in a murder trial.”
She looked away, and as Scott studied her, he saw an expression of naked panic come over her face. He followed her gaze and saw a sliver of charred paper wedged under the baseboard. Cheryl lunged from the couch to pick it up, but he was too quick for her.
On the ragged piece of cheap paper were pasted three words:
Scott took out his wallet and carefully inserted the tiny scrap in it. “So you did steal that letter,” he said. “Destroying evidence is a felony, punishable by imprisonment. What about the second letter? The one Sammy was carrying? Did you destroy that one too? And how did you get it from her? You’d better get yourself a lawyer, lady.”
Cheryl clutched his arm. “Scott, my God, please. I swear I didn’t write those letters. I swear the only time I saw Sammy was in Min’s office. All right. I took this letter from Sammy’s desk. I thought it might help Ted. I showed it to Syd. He said people would think I wrote it. He tore it up; I didn’t. I swear that’s as much as I know.” Tears were spilling down her cheeks. “Scott, any publicity, any publicity about this at all could kill my chances of being Amanda. Scott, please.”
Scott heard the contempt in his voice. “I really don’t give a damn how publicity affects your career, Cheryl. Why don’t we make a bargain? I’ll hold off bringing you in for formal questioning and you do some hard thinking. Maybe your memory will suddenly get better. For your sake, I hope so.”
4
IN A STATE OF DAZED RELIEF, SYD HEADED BACK TO HIS bungalow. Ted was going to lend him the money. It had been so tempting to make the story stronger, to say that Ted had outright admitted killing Leila. But at the last instant, he’d changed his mind and quoted Ted exactly. God, Ted had sounded creepy when he’d rambled about his father that night. Syd still felt a violent wrench in his gut whenever he thought of running after Ted. It had been immediately obvious that Ted had been in some sort of psychotic state. After Leila’s death, he’d waited to see whether Ted would ever sound him out about that meeting. His reaction today proved he had no memory of it.
He cut across the lawn, deliberately avoiding the path. He didn’t want to make small talk with anyone. There’d been some new arrivals yesterday. One of them he recognized as a young actor who’d been leaving his photos at the agency and phoning constantly. He wondered what old broad was paying his way. Today of all days, Syd didn’t want to spend his time dodging eager would-be clients.
His first move when he reached the privacy of his own place was to make a drink. He needed one. He deserved one. His second was to phone his early-morning caller. “I’ll have the money to you by the weekend,” he said, with newfound confidence.
Now if he could just hear from Bob Koenig. The phone rang before he could complete the thought. The operator asked him to hold on for Mr. Koenig. Syd felt his hands begin to tremble. He caught a look at his reflection in the mirror. The expression wasn’t of the kind that inspired confidence in Los Angeles.
Bob’s first words were “Congratulations, Syd.”
Cheryl had the part! Syd’s mind began clicking percentages. With two words, Bob had put him in the big time again.
“I don’t know what to say.” His voice became stronger, more confident. “Bob, I’m telling you, you’ve made the right choice. Cheryl’s going to be fantastic.”
“I know all that, Syd. The bottom line is that rather than risk any bad press with Margo, we’re going with Cheryl. I talked her up. So what if she’s box-office poison now? That’s what they said about Joan Collins and look what she’s done.”
“Bob, that’s what I’ve been telling you all along.”
“We’d better both be right. I’ll arrange a press reception for Cheryl at the Beverly Hilton for Friday afternoon about five o’clock.”
“We’ll be there!”
“Syd, this is very important. From now on, we treat Cheryl as a superstar. And by the way, tell Cheryl to plaster a smile on her face. Amanda is a strong, but likable character. I don’t want to read about any more outbursts at waiters or limo drivers. And I mean it.”
* * *
Five minutes later, Syd was confronting a hysterical Cheryl Manning. “You mean you admitted to Scott that you took that letter, you dumb bitch?” He grabbed her shoulders. “Shut up and listen to me. Are there any more letters?”
“Let go. You’re hurting me. I don’t know.” Cheryl tried to shrink away from him. “I can’t lose that part. I can’t. I am Amanda.”
“You bet you can’t lose that part!” Syd shoved her backward, and she toppled against the couch.
Fury replaced fear. Cheryl brushed back her hair and clenched her teeth. Her mouth became a thin, menacing slash. “Do you always push when you’re angry, Syd? You’d better get something straight. You tore up that letter. I didn’t. And I didn’t write that letter, or any others. Scott doesn’t believe me. So you march yourself over to him and tell him the truth: that I planned to give that letter to Ted to help his defense. You convince Scott, do you hear me, Syd? Because on Friday I’m not going to be here. I’m going to be at my press reception, and there isn’t going to be a whisper to connect me to any poison-pen letters or destroyed evidence.”
They glared at each other. In a frenzy of frustration, Syd realized that she might be telling the truth and that by destroying the letter he might have thrown away the series. If one hint of unfavorable publicity hit the papers before Friday . . . If Scott refused to let Cheryl leave the Spa . . .
“I’ve got to think,” he said. “I’ll figure something out.”
He had one last card to play.
The question was how to play it.
5
WHEN TED RETURNED TO HIS BUNGALOW, HE FOUND Henry Bartlett and Craig waiting for him. A jubilant Bartlett did not seem to notice his silence. “I think we’ve had a break,” he announced. As Ted took his place at the table, Bartlett told him about the discovery of Leila’s diary. “In her own hand, she’d checked off when you and Elizabeth Lange were in the same cities. Did you see her every time you were there?” Ted leaned back and folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes. It seemed so long ago.
“Ted, at least here I can help you.” Craig’s enthusiasm was a quality that had for a long time been missing from his voice and demeanor. “You kept Elizabeth’s schedule on your desk. I can swear that you adjusted your travel plans so that you’d be able to see her.”
Ted did not open his eyes. “Will you kindly explain that?”
Henry Bartlett had been driven past irritation. “Listen, Mr. Winters. I wasn’t hired to take on this case so that you could wipe your feet on me. It’s the rest of your life; but it’s also my professional reputation. If you can’t or won’t cooperate in your own defense, maybe it’s not too late for you to get another attorney.” He shoved his files across the table and watched as papers spilled from them. “You insisted on coming here when it would have been much better to have ready access to my staff. You disappeared for a long walk yesterday when we were supposed to work. You were supposed to be here an hour ago and we’re twiddling our thumbs waiting for you. You’ve blackballed one line of defense that might work. Now we have a decent shot at destroying Elizabeth Lange’s credibility as a witness and you’re not interested.”
&n
bsp; Ted opened his eyes. Slowly he lowered his arms until they rested on the table. “Oh, but I am interested. Tell me about it.”
Bartlett chose to ignore the sarcasm. “Listen, we’re going to be able to produce a facsimile of two letters Leila received that suggest you were involved with someone else. Cheryl is one possibility as that someone else. We know she’d say anything. But there’s a better way. You did try to coordinate your schedule with Elizabeth’s—”
Ted interrupted him. “Elizabeth and I were very good friends. We liked each other. We enjoyed each other’s company. If I had my choice of being in Chicago on Wednesday and Dallas on Friday or the other way around, and found that a good friend with whom I could enjoy a late supper and relax was in those same cities, yes, I would arrange my schedule to do that. So what?”
“Come off it, Ted. You did it half a dozen times in the same weeks that Leila started to fall apart—when she was receiving those letters.”
Ted shrugged.
“Ted, Henry is trying to plan your defense,” Craig snapped. “At least pay attention to him.”
Bartlett continued. “What we are trying to show you is this: Step One. Leila was receiving letters saying that you were involved with someone else. Step Two. Craig is witness to the fact that you synchronized your schedule with Elizabeth’s. Step Three. In her own handwriting, Leila made the obvious connection between you two in her diary. Step Four. You had no reason to kill Leila if you were no longer interested in her. Step Five. What to you was a mild flirtation was very, very different to Elizabeth. She was head over heels in love with you.” Triumphantly Henry threw the copy of the Globe at Ted. “Look at that picture.”
Ted studied it. He remembered the moment at the end of the service when some fool had asked the organist to play “My Old Kentucky Home.” Leila had told him about singing that to Elizabeth when they took off for New York. Beside him, Elizabeth had gasped; then the tears that she’d held back flooded her face. He’d put his arms around her, turned her to him and whispered, “Don’t, Sparrow.”
Weep No More, My Lady Page 18
