Weep No More, My Lady

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “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.”

  4

  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 amuzing 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?

  5

  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.

  6

  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 tha
t she could hear it herself.

  She said, “Voices.”

  7

  THE AFTERNOON SHADOWS DEEPENED AS, UNMINDFUL OF time, Elizabeth listened to Alvirah Meehan’s tapes. Sometimes she stopped and re-wound 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.