Weep No More My Lady (21 page)

Why hadn't she left his father? he wondered. Her family didn't have the Winters millions, but she would certainly have had enough money. Wasn't it because she was afraid of losing custody of him that she'd stayed in that cursed marriage? His father had never let her forget that first suicide attempt. And so she had stayed and endured his periodic drunken rages, his verbal abuse, his mimicking of her mannerisms, his scorn of her private fears until one night she had decided she couldn't endure any more.

Unseeingly, Ted walked along the Seventeen Mile Drive, unaware of the Pacific, glimmering and gleaming below the houses that rose above Stillwater Cove and Carmel Bay, unaware of the luxuriant bougainvillea, heedless of the expensive cars that sped past him.

Carmel was still crowded with summer tourists, college students getting in one last fling before the fall semester. When he and Leila walked through
town, she'd stopped traffic. The thought made him pull his sunglasses from his pocket. In those days, men used to look at him with envy. Now he was aware of hostility on the faces of strangers who recognized him.

Hostility. Isolation. Fear.

These last seventeen months had disrupted his entire life, had forced him to do things he would not have believed possible. Now he accepted the fact that there was one more monumental hurdle he had to overcome before the trial.

Drenching perspiration soaked his body at the image of what that would be.

ALVIRAH SAT AT THE DRESSING TABLE IN HER BUNGALOW, happily surveying the shiny rows of creams and cosmetics that had been presented to her in the makeup class that afternoon. As the instructor had told her, she had flat cheekbones that could be beautifully enhanced with a soft blush rather than the crimson rouge she favored. She also had been persuaded to try wearing a brown mascara instead of the jet black which she believed drew attention to her eyes. “Less is better,” the makeup expert had assured her, and truth to tell, there was a difference. In fact, Alvirah decided, the new makeup, combined with the way they'd toned down her hair to a rich brown, made her look just like the way she remembered Aunt Agnes, and Agnes always was the beauty in the family. It also felt good that her hands were starting to lose their calluses. No more heavy cleaning for her. Ever. Period.

“And if you think you look good now, wait till you see how glamorous you are when Baron von Schreiber is finished with you,” the makeup lady had said. “His collagen injections will make those little lines around your mouth, nose and forehead disappear. It's almost miraculous.”

Alvirah sighed. She was bursting with happiness. Willy had always claimed that she was the finest-looking woman in Queens and that he liked being able to put his arms around her and feel that he had something to hold on to. But these last years, she'd put on weight. Wouldn't it be good to really look classy when they were hunting for a new house? Not that she had any intention of trying to get in with the Rockefellers—just middle-class people like themselves who'd made good. And if she and Willy made out a lot better than most others, were luckier than just about anybody else, it was nice to know that they could do some good for other people.

After she finished the articles for the
Globe,
she really would write that book. Her mother had always said, “Alvirah, you've got such a lively
imagination, you're going to be a writer someday.” Maybe
someday
was here.

Alvirah pursed her lips and carefully applied coral lip gloss with her newly acquired brush. Years ago, in the belief that her lips were too narrow, she'd gotten into the habit of making a kind of Kewpie doll curve to accentuate them, but now she'd been persuaded that that wasn't necessary. She put down the brush and surveyed the results.

Somehow she really did feel a little guilty about being so happy and interested in everything when that nice little lady was stretched out somewhere in the morgue. But she was seventy-one, Alvirah comforted herself, and it must have been real quick. That's the way I want to go when it's my turn. Not that she expected it to be her turn for a long time to come. As her mother said, “Our women make old bones.” Her mother was eighty-four and still went bowling every Wednesday night.

Her makeup adjusted to her satisfaction, Alvirah took her tape recorder from her suitcase and inserted the cassette from Sunday night's dinner. As she listened, a puzzled frown creased her forehead. Funny—when you're just listening to people, you get a different perspective than when you're sitting with them. Like Syd Melnick was supposed to be a big agent. But he sure let Cheryl Manning push him around. And
she
could turn on a dime, one minute hassling Syd Melnick about the water she'd spilled herself and then all sweetness and light, asking Ted Winters if she could go with him sometime to see the Winters Gym at Dartmouth College.
Dartmuth,
Alvirah thought, not
Dart-mouth.
Craig Babcock had corrected her on that. He had such a nice calm voice. She'd told him that. “You sound so educated.”

He'd laughed. “You should have heard me in my teens.”

Ted Winters' voice was so well-bred. Alvirah knew
he
hadn't had to work on it. The three of them had a nice talk on that subject.

Alvirah checked her microphone to see that it was securely in place in the center flower of her sunburst pin and delivered an observation. “Voices,” she declared, “tell a lot about people.”

She was surprised to hear the phone ring. It was only nine o'clock New York time, and Willy was supposed to be at a union meeting. She wished that he'd quit his job, but he said to give him time. He wasn't used to being a millionaire.

It was Charley Evans, the special features editor of the
New York Globe.
“How's my star reporter?” he asked. “Any problems with the recorder?”

“It works like a charm,” Alvirah assured him. “I'm having a wonderful time and meeting some very interesting people.”

“Any celebrities?”

“Oh, yes.” Alvirah couldn't help bragging. “I came from the airport in a limousine with Elizabeth Lange, and I'm at the same dinner table as Cheryl Manning and Ted Winters.” She was rewarded by an audible gasp on the other end of the phone.

“Are you telling me that Elizabeth Lange and Ted Winters are together?”

“Oh, not exactly together,” Alvirah said hastily. “In fact, she wouldn't go near him at all. She was going to leave right away, but she wanted to see her sister's secretary. The only trouble is Leila's secretary was found dead this afternoon in the Roman bathhouse.”

“Mrs. Meehan, hold on a minute. I want you to repeat everything you just said, very slowly. Someone will be taking it down.”

AT SCOTT ALSHORNE'S REQUEST, THE CORONER OF MONTEREY County performed an immediate autopsy on the remains of Dora Samuels. Death had been caused by a severe head injury, pressure on the brain from skull fragments, contributing cause a moderately severe stroke.

In his office, Scott studied the autopsy report in reflective silence and tried to pinpoint the reasons he felt there was something sinister about Dora Samuels' death.

That bathhouse. It looked like a mausoleum; it had turned out to be Sammy's sepulcher. Who the hell did Min's husband think he was to have foisted that on her? Incongruously, Scott thought of the contest Leila had run: Should the Baron be called the
tin
soldier or the
toy
soldier? Twenty-five words or less. Leila bought dinner for the winner.

Why had Sammy been in the bathhouse? Had she just wandered in there? Was she planning to meet someone? That didn't make sense. The electricity wasn't turned on. It would have been pitch black.

Min and Helmut had both stated that the bathhouse should have been locked. But they'd also admitted they had left it in a hurry yesterday afternoon. “Minna was upset by the overrun costs,” Helmut had explained. “I was worried about her emotional state. It is a heavy door. Possibly I did not pull it shut.”

Sammy's death had been caused by the injuries to the back of her head. She had toppled backward into the pool. But had she fallen or been pushed? Scott got up and began backing across his office. A practical, if not a scientific test, he decided. No matter how dazed or confused you are, most people don't start walking backward unless they're backing
away
from someone, or something. . . .

He settled at his desk again. He was supposed to attend a civic dinner with the mayor of Carmel. He'd have to pass. He was going back to the
Spa and he was going to talk to Elizabeth Lange. It was his hunch that she knew what urgent business had made Sammy go back to the office at nine thirty at night and what document had been so important to copy.

On the drive back to the Spa, two words flashed in his mind.

Fallen?

Pushed?

Then as the car passed the Pebble Beach Lodge, he realized what had been bothering him. That was the same question that was bringing Ted Winters to trial on a murder indictment!

CRAIG SPENT THE REST OF THE AFTERNOON IN TED'S bungalow going through the bulky package of mail that had been expressed from the New York office. With a practiced eye he skimmed memos, reviewed printouts, studied projection charts. His frown deepened as he read. That group of Harvard and Wharton Business M.B.A.s Ted had hired a couple of years ago were a constant irritant to him. If they had their way, Ted would be building hotels on space platforms.

At least they had had the brains to recognize that they couldn't try to go around Craig anymore. The memos and letters were all addressed to him and Ted jointly.

Ted got back at five o'clock. Obviously the walk hadn't relaxed him any. He was in a foul mood. “Is there any reason you can't work in your place?” was his first question.

“None except that it seemed simpler to be here for you.” Craig indicated the business files. “There are some things I'd like to go over.”

“I'm not interested. Do what you think best.”

“I think ‘best' would be for you to have a Scotch and unwind a little. And I think ‘best' for Winters Enterprises is to get rid of those two assholes from Harvard. Their expense accounts amount to armed robbery.”

“I don't want to go into that now.”

Bartlett came in pink-faced from his afternoon in the sun. Craig noticed the way Ted's mouth tightened at Bartlett's genial greeting. There was no question Ted was starting to unravel. He drank the first Scotch quickly and didn't protest when Craig refilled it.

Bartlett wanted to discuss the list of defense witnesses Craig had prepared for him. He read it off to Ted-a glittering array of famous names.

“You don't have the President on it,” Ted said sarcastically.

Bartlett fell into the trap. “Which president?”

“Of the United States, of course. I used to be one of his golf partners.”

Bartlett shrugged and closed the file. “Obviously this isn't going to be a good working session. Are you planning to eat out tonight?”

“No, I'm planning to stay right here. And right now I'm planning to nap.”

Craig and Bartlett left together. “You do realize this is getting hopeless,” Bartlett told him.

*   *   *

At six thirty Craig received a call from the agency he'd hired to investigate the eyewitness, Sally Ross. “There was some excitement in Ross's apartment building,” he was told. “The woman who lives directly above her walked in on an attempted burglary. They caught the guy—a petty thief with a long record. Ross didn't go out at all.”

At seven o'clock, Craig met Bartlett at Ted's bungalow. Ted wasn't there. They started toward the main house together. “You're about as popular as I am with Teddy these days,” Bartlett commented.

Craig shrugged. “Listen, if he wants to take it out on me, it's all right. In a way, I brought this on him.”

“How do you figure that one?”

“I introduced him to Leila. She was my date first.”

They reached the veranda in time to hear the newest witticism.
At Cypress Point, for four thousand dollars a week you get to use some of the pools. For five thousand you get to use the ones with water in them.

*   *   *

There was no sign of Elizabeth during the “cocktail” hour. Craig watched for her to come up the path, but she did not appear. Bartlett drifted over to the tennis pro and his girlfriend. Ted was talking to the Countess and her group; Cheryl was hanging on his arm. A morose-looking Syd was standing off by himself. Craig went over to him. “That business about ‘proof.' Was Cheryl drunk last night or just talking her usual drivel?” he asked.

He knew Syd wouldn't have minded taking a swing at him. Syd considered him to be, like all the parasites in Ted's world, the bottleneck to Ted's largesse. Craig considered himself more of a goalie—you had to pass him to score.

“I would say,” Syd told him, “that Cheryl was giving her usual splendid dramatic performance.”

Min and Helmut did not appear in the dining rooms until after the guests had settled. Craig noticed how gaunt they looked, how fixed their smiles were as they visited from table to table. Why not? They were in the business of staving off old age, illness and death. This afternoon Sammy had proved it was a pointless game.

As she sat down, Min murmured an apology for being late. Ted ignored Cheryl, whose hand clung persistently to his. “How
is
Elizabeth?”

Helmut answered him: “She's taking it very hard. I gave her a sedative.”

Would Alvirah Meehan never stop fooling with that damn pin? Craig wondered. She had parked herself between him and Ted. He glanced around. Min. Helmut. Syd. Bartlett. Cheryl. Ted. The Meehan woman. Himself. There was one more place setting next to him. He asked Min who would be joining them.