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 swimsuit 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 c
ase 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. B
ut 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.
Weep No More, My Lady Page 24
