Weep No More My Lady (6 page)

THE
WESTWIND
BANKED, TURNED AND BEGAN ITS DESCENT into Monterey airport. With methodical care, Ted checked the instrument panel. It had been a good flight from Hawaii-smooth air every foot of the way, the cloud banks lazy and floating like cotton candy at a circus. Funny; he liked the clouds, liked to fly over them and through them, but even as a kid he had despised cotton candy. One more contradiction in his life . . .

In the copilot's seat John Moore stirred, a quiet reminder that he was there if Ted elected to turn over the controls to him. Moore had been the chief pilot for Winters Enterprises for ten years. But Ted wanted to make this landing, to see how smoothly he could bring the plane in. Set the wheels down. Land on his feet. It was all one, wasn't it?

Craig had come forward an hour ago and urged him to let John take over.

“Cocktails are ready at your fahvoreet tahbl' in the cornaire, Monsieur Wintairs.”

He'd done his flawless imitation of the captain at the Four Seasons.

“For Christ's sake,” Ted had snapped, “no more of your impersonations today. I don't need that now.”

Craig had known enough not to argue when Ted decided to stay at the controls.

The runway was rushing toward them. Ted eased the nose of the plane up slightly. How much longer would he be free to fly planes, to travel, to have a drink or not have a drink, to function as a human being? The trial would begin next week. He didn't like his new lawyer. Henry Bartlett was too pompous, too conscious of his own image. Ted could imagine Bartlett in a
New Yorker
ad, holding up a bottle of Scotch, the caption reading, “This is the only brand I ever serve my guests.”

The main wheels touched the ground. The impact inside the plane was almost unnoticeable. Ted threw the engines into reverse. “Nice landing, sir,” John said quietly.

Wearily, Ted brushed his hand over his forehead. He wished he could get John over the habit of calling him “sir.” He also wished he could get Henry Bartlett over the habit of calling him “Teddy.” Did all criminal lawyers think that because you need their services, they have the right to be condescending? An interesting question. Had circumstances been different, he wouldn't have had anything to do with a man like Bartlett. But firing the man who was supposed to be the best defense lawyer in the country at a time when you're facing a long prison sentence wouldn't be smart. He had always thought of himself as smart. He wasn't so sure anymore.

A few minutes later, they were in a limousine heading for the Spa. “I've heard a lot about the Monterey Peninsula,” Bartlett commented as they turned onto Highway 68. “I still don't see why we couldn't have worked on the case at your place in Connecticut or your New York apartment; but you're paying the bills.”

“We're here because Ted needs the kind of relaxation he gets at Cypress Point,” Craig said. He did not bother to hide the edge in his voice.

Ted was sitting on the right side of the roomy back seat, Henry beside him. Craig had taken the seat facing them, next to the bar. Craig raised the lid of the bar and mixed a martini. With a half-smile he handed it to Ted. “You know Min's rules about booze. You'd better drink up fast.”

Ted shook his head. “I seem to remember another time when I drank up fast. Have you got a cold beer in there?”

“Teddy, I absolutely have to insist that you stop referring to that night in a way that suggests you don't have complete recall.”

Ted turned to look directly at Henry Bartlett, absorbing the man's silver hair, his urbane manner, the faint hint of an English accent in his voice. “Let's get something straight,” he said. “You are not, I repeat
not
to call me Teddy again. My name, in case you don't remember it from that very sizable retainer, is Andrew Edward Winters. I have always been called Ted. If you find that too difficult to remember, you may call me Andrew. My grandmother always did. Nod if you understand what I just said.”

“Take it easy, Ted,” Craig said quietly.

“I'll take it a lot easier if Henry and I establish a few ground rules.”

He felt his hand grip the glass. He was unraveling. He could feel it. These months since the indictment, he'd managed to keep his sanity by staying at his place in Maui, doing his own analysis of urban expansion and population trends, designing hotels and stadiums and shopping centers
he would build when all this was over. Somehow he'd managed to make himself believe that something would happen, that Elizabeth would realize she was wrong about the time of the phone call, that the so-called eyewitness would be declared mentally incompetent . . .

But Elizabeth was sticking to her story, the eyewitness was adamant about her testimony and the trial was looming. Ted had been shocked when he realized his first lawyer was virtually conceding a guilty verdict. That was when he had hired Henry Bartlett.

“All right, let's put this aside until later,” Henry Bartlett said stiffly. He turned to Craig. “If Ted doesn't want a drink, I do.”

Ted accepted the beer Craig held out to him and stared out the window. Was Bartlett right? Was it crazy to come here instead of just working from Connecticut or New York? But somehow whenever he was at the Spa, he had a sense of calm, of well-being. It came from all the summers he'd spent on the Monterey Peninsula when he was a kid.

The car stopped at the gate to Pebble Beach onto the Seventeen Mile Drive, and the chauffeur paid the toll. The estate homes overlooking the ocean came into view. Once he had planned to buy a house here. He and Kathy had agreed it would be a good vacation place for Teddy. And then Teddy and Kathy were gone.

On the left side, the Pacific sparkled, clear and beautiful in the bright afternoon sun. It wasn't safe for swimming here—the undertow was too strong—but how good it would feel to dive in and let the salty water wash over him! He wondered if he would ever feel clean again, ever stop seeing those pictures of Leila's broken body. In his thoughts they were always there, gigantically enlarged, like billboards on a highway. And in these last few months, the doubts had begun.

“Quit thinking whatever you're thinking, Ted,” Craig said mildly.

“And stop trying to read my thoughts,” Ted snapped. Then he managed a weak smile. “Sorry.”

“No problem.” Craig's tone was hearty and genial.

Craig had always had a knack for defusing situations, Ted thought. They'd met at Dartmouth as freshmen. Craig had been chunky then. At seventeen, he'd looked like a big blond Swede. At thirty-four he was trim, the chunkiness hardened into solid muscle. The strong, heavy features were more becoming to a mature man than to a kid. Craig had had a partial scholarship to college but had worked his backside off at every job
he could get—as a dishwasher in the kitchen, as a room clerk in the Hanover Inn, as an orderly in the local hospital.

And still he's always been around for me, Ted reminded himself. After college, he'd been surprised to bump into Craig in the washroom at the executive office of Winters Enterprises. “Why didn't you ask
me
if you wanted a job here?” He hadn't been sure he was pleased.

“Because if I'm any good, I'll make it on my own.”

You couldn't argue with that. And he'd made it, clear up to executive vice-president. If I go to prison, Ted thought, he gets to run the show. I wonder how often he thinks about that. A sense of disgust at his own mental processes washed over him. I think like a cornered rat. I
am
a cornered rat!

They drove past the Pebble Beach Lodge, the golf course, the Crocker Woodland, and the grounds of Cypress Point Spa came into view. “Pretty soon you'll understand why we wanted to come here,” Craig told Henry. He looked directly at Ted. “We're going to put together an airtight defense. You know this place has always been lucky for you.” Then, as he glanced out the side window, he stiffened. “Oh, my God, I don't believe it. The convertible—Cheryl and Syd are here!”

Grimly he turned to Henry Bartlett. “I'm beginning to think you're right. We should have gone to Connecticut.”

MIN HAD ASSIGNED ELIZABETH THE BUNGALOW WHERE Leila had always stayed. It was one of the most expensive units, but Elizabeth was not sure that she was flattered. Everything in these rooms shouted Leila's name: the slipcovers in the shade of emerald green Leila loved, the deep armchair with the matching ottoman. Leila used to sprawl on that after a strenuous exercise class—”My God, Sparrow, if I keep this up they can measure me for a thin shroud”; the exquisite inlaid writing desk—”Sparrow, remember the furniture in poor Mama's place? Early Garage Sale.”

In the short time Elizabeth had been with Min and Helmut, a maid had unpacked her bags. A blue tank suit and ivory terry-cloth robe were lying on the bed. Pinned to the robe was the schedule of her afternoon appointments: four o'clock, massage; five o'clock, facial.

The building housing the women's spa facilities was at one end of the Olympic pool—a rambling, self-contained one-story structure built to resemble a Spanish adobe. Placid from the outside, it was usually a whirlwind of activity within as women of all ages and shapes hurried along the tiled floors in terry-cloth robes, rushing to their next appointments.

Elizabeth braced herself to see familiar faces—some of the regulars who came to the Spa every three months or so and whom she had gotten to know well during her summers working here. She knew that inevitably condolences would be offered, heads shaken: “I never would have believed Ted Winters capable . . .”

But she did not see one single familiar face in the array of women padding from exercise classes to beauty treatments. Nor did the spa seem as busy as usual. At peak it accommodated about sixty women; the men's spa held about the same number. There were nothing like that many.

She reminded herself of the color coding of the doors: pink for facial rooms; yellow for massage; orchid for herbal wraps; white for steam
cabinets; blue for sloofing. The exercise rooms were beyond the indoor pool and seemed to have been enlarged. There were more individual Jacuzzis in the central solarium. With a touch of disappointment, Elizabeth realized it was too late to soak in one of them for even a few minutes.

Tonight, she promised herself, she'd go for a long swim.

The masseuse who had been assigned to her was one of the old-timers. Small of frame but with powerful arms and hands, Gina was clearly delighted to see her. “You're coming back to work here, I hope? Of course not. No such luck.”

The massage rooms had obviously been done over. Did Min never stop spending money on this place? But the new tables were luxuriously padded, and under the expert hands of Gina she could feel herself begin to relax.

Gina was kneading her shoulder muscles. “You're in knots.”

“I guess I am.”

“You have plenty of reason.”

Elizabeth knew that that was Gina's way of expressing her sympathy. She knew too that unless she began a conversation, Gina would be silent. One of Min's firm rules to her help was that if guests wanted to talk, it was all right to converse with them. “But don't you be yakking about your own problems,” Min would say at the weekly staff meetings. “Nobody wants to hear them.”

It would be helpful to get Gina's impressions of how the Spa was doing. “It doesn't seem to be too busy today,” she suggested. “Is everybody on the golf course?”

“I wish. Listen, this place hasn't been busy in nearly two years. Relax, Elizabeth, your arm feels like a board.”

“Two years! What's happened?”

“What can I say? It started with that stupid mausoleum. People don't pay these prices to look at mounds of dirt or listen to hammering. And that place still isn't finished. Will you tell me why they needed a Roman bath here?”

Elizabeth thought of Leila's remarks about the Roman bath. “That's what Leila used to say.”

“She was right. l'll need to have you turn over now.” Expertly the masseuse re-draped the sheet. “And listen, you brought up her name. Do you realize how much glamour Leila gave this place? People wanted to be
around her. They'd come here hoping to see her. She was a one-woman ad for the Spa. And she always talked about meeting Ted Winters here. Now—I don't know. There's something so different. The Baron spends money like a maniac—you saw the new Jacuzzis. The interior work on that bathhouse goes on and on. And Min is trying to cut corners. It's a joke. He puts in a Roman bath, and she tells us not to waste towels!”

The facialist was new, a Japanese woman. The unwinding that had begun with the massage was completed by the warm mask she applied after the cleansing and steaming. Elizabeth drifted off to sleep. She was awakened by the woman's soft voice. “Have you had a nice nap? I left you an extra forty minutes. You looked so peaceful, and I had plenty of time.”

WHILE THE MAID UNPACKED HER BAGS, ALVIRAH MEEHAN investigated her new quarters. She went from room to room, her eyes darting about, missing nothing. In her mind she was composing what she would dictate into her brand-new recording machine.

“Will that be all, madame?”

The maid was at the door of the sitting room. “Yes, thank you.” Alvirah tried to imitate the tone of her Tuesday job, Mrs. Stevens. A little hoity-toity, but still friendly.

The minute the door closed behind the maid, she raced to get her recorder out of her voluminous pocketbook. The reporter from the
New York Globe
had taught her how to use it. She settled herself on the couch in the living room and began:

“Well, here I am at Cypress Point Spa and buhlieve me it's the cat's meow. This is my first recording and I want to start by thanking Mr. Evans for his confidence in me. When he interviewed me and Willy about winning the lottery and I told him about my lifelong ambition to come to Cypress Point Spa, he said that I clearly have a sense of the dramatic and the
Globe
readers would love to know all about the goings-on in a classy spa from my point of view.