Ted winced. A dive. Christ, were all lawyers so insensitive? And then the image came of Leila’s broken body; the garish police pictures. He felt perspiration break out over his entire body.
But Craig looked hopeful. “It might work. What that eyewitness saw was Ted struggling to save Leila, and when Leila fell, he blacked out. That’s when he had the psychotic episode. That explains why he was almost incoherent in the cab.”
Ted stared through the window at the ocean. It was unusually calm now, but he knew the tide would soon be roaring in. The calm before the storm, he thought. Right now we’re having a clinical discussion. In nine days I’ll be in the courtroom. The People of the State of New York v. Andrew Edward Winters III. “There’s one big hole in your theory,” he said flatly. “If I admit I went back to that apartment and was on the terrace with Leila, I’m putting my head in a noose. If the jury decides I was in the process of killing her, I’ll be found guilty of Murder Two.”
“It’s a chance you may have to take.”
Ted came back to the table and began to stuff the open files into Bartlett’s briefcase. His smile was not pleasant. “I’m not sure I can take that chance. There has to be a better solution, and at any cost I intend to find it. I will not go to prison!”
8
MIN SIGHED GUSTILY. “THAT FEELS GOOD. I SWEAR, you’ve got better hands than any masseuse in this place.”
Helmut leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Liebchen, I love touching you, even if it’s only to ease your shoulders.”
They were in their apartment, which covered the entire third floor of the main house. Min was seated at her dressing table wearing a loose kimono. She had unpinned her heavy raven-colored hair, and it fell below her shoulders. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Today she was no ad for this place. Shadows under her eyes—how long since she’d had her eyes done? Five years? Something hard to accept was happening. She was fifty-nine years old. Until this last year she could have passed for ten years younger. No more.
Helmut was smiling at her in the mirror. Deliberately, he rested his chin on her head. His eyes were a shade of blue that always reminded her of the waters in the Adriatic Sea around Dubrovnik, where she had been born. The long, distinguished face with its picture-perfect tan was unlined, the dark brown sideburns untouched by gray. Helmut was fifteen years her junior. For the first years of their marriage it hadn’t mattered. But now?
She had met him at the spa in Baden-Baden, after Samuel died. Five years of catering to that fussy old man had paid off. He’d left her twelve million dollars and this property.
She hadn’t been stupid about Helmut’s sudden attentiveness to her. No man becomes enamored of a woman fifteen years his senior unless there’s something he wants. At first she had accepted his attentions cynically, but by the end of two weeks she had realized that she was becoming deeply interested in him and in his suggestion that she convert the Cypress Point Hotel into a spa. . . . The cost had been staggering, but Helmut had urged her to consider it an investment, not an expenditure. The day the Spa opened, he had asked her to marry him.
She sighed heavily.
“Minna, what is it?”
How long had they been staring at each other in the mirror? “You know.”
He bent down and kissed her cheek.
Incredibly, they’d been happy together. She had never dared tell him how much she loved him, instinctively afraid to hand him that weapon, always watching for signs of restlessness. But he ignored the young women who flirted with him. It was only Leila who had seemed to dazzle him, only Leila who had made her churn in an agony of fear. . . .
Perhaps she had been wrong. If one could believe him, Helmut had actually disliked Leila, even hated her. Leila had been openly contemptuous of him—but then, Leila had been contemptuous of every man she knew well. . . .
The shadows had become long in the room. The breeze from the sea was sharply cooler. Helmut reached his hands under her elbows. “Rest a little. You’ll have to put up with the lot of them in less than an hour.”
Min clutched his hand. “Helmut, how do you think she’ll react?”
“Very badly.”
“Don’t tell me that,” she wailed. “Helmut, you know why I have to try. It’s our only chance.”
9
AT SEVEN O’CLOCK, CHIMES FROM THE MAIN HOUSE ANNOUNCED the arrival of the “cocktail” hour, and immediately the paths to the main house became filled with people—singles, couples, groups of three or four. All were well dressed, in semiformal wear, the women in elegant caftans or flowing tunics, the men in blazers, slacks and sport shirts. Blazing gemstones were mixed with amusing costume pieces. Famous faces greeted each other warmly, or nodded distantly. Soft lights glowed on the veranda, where waiters in ivory-and-blue uniforms served delicate canapes and alcohol-free “cocktails.”
Elizabeth decided to wear the dusty-pink silk jumpsuit with a magenta sash that had been Leila’s last birthday present to her. Leila always wrote a note on her personal stationery. The note that had accompanied this outfit was tucked in the back of Elizabeth’s wallet, a talisman of love. She’d written: “It’s a long, long way from May to December. Love and Happy Birthday to my darling Capricorn sister from the Taurus kid.”
Somehow, wearing that outfit, rereading that note made it easier for Elizabeth to leave the bungalow and start up the path to the main house. She kept a halfsmile on her face as she finally saw some of the regulars. Mrs. Lowell from Boston, who had been coming here since Min opened the place; Countess d’Aronne, the brittle, aging beauty, who was at last showing most of her seventy years. The Countess had been an eighteen-year-old bride when her much older husband was murdered. She’d married four times since then, but after every divorce petitioned the French courts to restore her former title.
“You look gorgeous. I helped Leila pick out that jumpsuit on Rodeo Drive.” Min’s voice boomed in her ear, Min’s arm was solidly linked in hers. Elizabeth felt herself being propelled forward. A scent of the ocean mingled with the perfume of roses. The well-bred voices and laughter of the people on the veranda hummed around her. The background music was Serber playing Mendelssohn’s Concerto for Violin in E minor. Leila would drop everything to attend a Serber concert.
A waiter offered her a choice of beverages nonalcoholic wine or a soft drink. She chose the nonalcoholic wine. Leila had been cynical about Min’s firm no-alcohol rule. “Listen, Sparrow, half the people who go to that joint are boozers. They all bring some stuff with them, but even so they have to cut down a lot. So they lose some weight, and Min claims credit for the Spa. Don’t you think the Baron keeps a supply in that study of his? You bet he does!”
I should have gone to East Hampton, Elizabeth thought. Anywhere—anywhere but here. It was as if she were filled with a sense of Leila’s presence, as if Leila were trying to reach her. . . .
“Elizabeth.” Min’s voice was sharp. Sharp, but also nervous, she realized. “The Countess is talking to you.”
“I’m terribly sorry.” Affectionately, she reached out to grasp the aristocratic hand that was extended to her.
The Countess smiled warmly. “I saw your last film. You’re developing into a very fine actress, chérie.”
How like Countess d’Aronne to sense she would not want to discuss Leila. “It was a good role. I was lucky.” And then Elizabeth felt her eyes widen. “Min, coming down the path. Isn’t that Syd and Cheryl?”
“Yes. They just called this morning. I forgot to tell you. You don’t mind that they’re here?”
“Of course not. It’s only . . .” Her voice trailed off. She was still embarrassed over the way Leila had humiliated Syd that night in Elaine’s. Syd had made Leila a star. No matter what mistakes he’d talked her into those last few years, they didn’t stack up against the times he’d nailed down the parts she wanted. . . .
And Cheryl? Under the veneer of friendship, she and Leila had shared an intense professional and personal rivalry. Leila had taken Ted
from Cheryl. Cheryl had almost wrecked her career by stepping into Leila’s play. . . .
Unconsciously, Elizabeth straightened her back. On the other hand, Syd had made a fortune off Leila’s earnings. Cheryl had tried every trick in the book to get Ted back. If only she’d succeeded, Elizabeth thought, Leila might still be alive. . . .
They had spotted her. They both looked as surprised as she felt. The Countess murmured, “Not that dreadful tart, Cheryl Manning . . .”
They were coming up the steps toward her. Elizabeth studied Cheryl objectively. Her hair was a tangled web around her face. It was much darker than it had been the last time she had seen her, and very becoming. The last time? That had been at Leila’s memorial service.
Reluctantly Elizabeth conceded to herself that Cheryl had never looked better. Her smile was dazzling; the famous amber-colored eyes assumed a tender expression. Her greeting would have fooled anyone who didn’t know her. “Elizabeth, my darling, I never dreamed I’d see you here, but how wonderful! Has it gone fairly well?”
Then it was Syd’s turn. Syd, with his cynical eyes and mournful face. She knew he’d put a million dollars of his own money into Leila’s play—money he had probably borrowed. Leila had called him “the Dealer.” “Sure, he works hard for me, Sparrow, but that’s because I make a lot of money for him. The day I quit being an asset to him, he’ll walk over my dead body.”
Elizabeth felt a chill as Syd gave her a perfunctory show-business kiss. “You look good; I may have to steal you from your agent. I didn’t expect to see you till next week.”
Next week. Of course. The defense was probably going to use Cheryl and Syd to testify to Leila’s emotional state that night in Elaine’s.
“Are you filling in for one of the instructors?” Cheryl asked.
“Elizabeth is here because I invited her,” Min snapped.
Elizabeth wondered why Min seemed so terribly nervous. Min’s eyes were darting around, and her hand was still gripping Elizabeth’s elbow as though she were afraid of losing her.
“Cocktails” were offered to the newcomers. Friends of the Countess drifted over to join them. The host of a famous talk show greeted Syd genially. “Next time you want us to book one of your clients, make sure he’s sober.”
“That one’s never sober.”
Then she heard a familiar voice coming from behind her, an astonished voice: “Elizabeth, what are you doing here?”
She turned and felt Craig’s arms around her—the solid, dependable arms of the man who had rushed to her when he heard the news flash, who had stayed with her in Leila’s apartment, listening as she babbled out her grief, who had helped her to answer the questions of the police, who had finally located Ted. . . .
She’d seen Craig three or four times in the last year. He’d look her up when she was filming. “I can’t be in the same city without at least saying hello,” he’d say. By tacit agreement they avoided discussing the impending trial, but they never got through a dinner without some reference to it. It was through Craig that she’d learned that Ted was staying in Maui, that he was jumpy and irritable, that he was practically ignoring business and out of touch with his friends. It was from Craig, inevitably, that she’d heard the question “Are you sure?”
The last time she’d seen him, she’d burst out, “How can anyone be sure of anything or anybody?” and asked him not to contact her again until after the trial. “I know where your loyalty has to be.”
But what was he doing here now? She’d have thought he’d be with Ted preparing for the trial. And then as she stepped back from his embrace, she saw Ted coming up the steps of the veranda.
She felt her mouth go dry. Her arms and legs trembled; her heart beat so wildly she could hear its pounding in her ears. Somehow in these months she had managed to bar his image from her conscious mind, and in her nightmares, he was always shadowy—she’d seen only the murderous hands, pushing Leila over the railing, the merciless eyes watching her fall. . . .
Now he was walking up these stairs with his usual commanding presence. Andrew Edward Winters III, his dark hair contrasting with the white dinner jacket, his strong, even features deeply tanned, looking all the better for his self-imposed exile in Maui.
Outrage and hatred made Elizabeth want to lunge at him; to push him down those steps as he had pushed Leila, to scratch that composed, handsome face as Leila had scratched it, trying to save herself. The brackish taste of bile filled her mouth and she gulped, trying to fight back nausea.
“There he is!” Cheryl cried. In an instant she was sliding through the clusters of people on the veranda, her heels clattering, the scarf of her red silk evening pajamas trailing behind herThinking of that note, of the others . Conversation stopped, heads turned as she threw herself into Ted’s arms.
Like a robot, Elizabeth stared down at them. It was as though she were looking through a kaleidoscope. Loose fragments of colors and impressions rotated before her. The white of Ted’s jacket; the red of Cheryl’s outfit; Ted’s dark brown hair, his long, well-shaped hands holding Cheryl’s shoulders as he tried to free himself.
At the grand jury hearing, Elizabeth remembered, she had brushed past him, filled with self-loathing that she had been so deceived, so taken in by his performance as Leila’s grief-stricken fiancé. Now he glanced up, and she knew he had seen her. He looked shocked and dismayed—or was that just another act? Pulling his arm away from Cheryl’s clinging fingers, he came up the steps. Unable to move, she was dimly aware of the hushed silence of the people around them, the murmurs and laughter of those farther away who did not realize what was happening, of the last strains of the concerto, of the bouquet of fragrances from the flowers and ocean.
He looked older. The lines around his eyes and mouth that had appeared at the time of Leila’s death had deepened and were now permanently etched on his face. Leila had loved him so, and he had killed her. A fresh passion of hatred surged through Elizabeth. All the intolerable pain, the awful sense of loss, the guilt that permeated her soul like a cancer because at the end she had failed Leila. This man was the cause of all of it.
“Elizabeth . . .”
How dare he speak to her? Shocked out of her immobility, she spun around, stumbled across the veranda and into the foyer. She heard the click of heels behind her. Min had followed her in. Elizabeth turned to her fiercely. “Damn you, Min. What in hell do you think you’re pulling?”
“In here.” Min’s head jerked toward the music room. She did not speak until she had closed the door behind them. “Elizabeth, I know what I’m doing.”
“I don’t.” With an acute sense of betrayal, Elizabeth stared at Min. No wonder she had seemed nervous. And she was even more nervous now—she, who always seemed impervious to stress, who always gave off the commanding air of one who could change and resolve any problem, was actually trembling.
“Elizabeth, when I saw you in Venice, you told me yourself that something in you still couldn’t believe Ted would hurt Leila. I don’t care how it looks. I’ve known him longer than you—years longer. . . . You’re making a mistake. Don’t forget, I was in Elaine’s that night too. Listen, Leila had gone crazy. There’s no other way of saying it. And you knew it! You say you set your clock the next day. You were distraught about her. Are you so infallible that maybe you didn’t set it wrong? When Leila was on the phone with you just before she died, were you watching the clock? Look at Ted these next few days as if he’s a human being, not a monster. Think about how good he was to Leila.”
Min’s face was impassioned. Her low, intense voice was more piercing than a scream. She grasped Elizabeth’s arm. “You’re one of the most honest people I know. From the time you were a little girl you always told the truth. Can’t you face the fact that your mistake means that Ted will rot in prison for the rest of his life?”
The melodious sound of chimes echoed through the room. Dinner was about to be served. Elizabeth put her hand on Min’s wrist, forcing Min to release her. Incongruously, she
remembered how a few minutes ago Ted had pulled away from Cheryl.
“Min, next week a jury will begin to decide who is telling the truth. You think you can run everything, but you’re out of your element this time. . . . Get someone to call me a taxi.”
“Elizabeth, you can’t leave!”
“Can’t I? Do you have a number where I can reach Sammy?”
“No.”
“Exactly when is she expected back?”
“Tomorrow night after dinner.” Min clasped her hands beseechingly. “Elizabeth, I beg you.”
From behind her, Elizabeth heard the door open. She whirled around. Helmut was in the doorway. He put his hands on her arms in a gesture that both embraced and restrained her. “Elizabeth.” His voice was soft and urgent. “I tried to warn Minna. She had the crazy idea that if you saw Ted you would think of all the happy times, would remember how much he loved Leila. I implored her not to do this. Ted is as shocked and upset as you are.”
“He should be. Will you please let go of me!”
Helmut’s voice became soothing, pleading. “Elizabeth, next week is Labor Day. The Peninsula is alive with tourists. There are hundreds of college kids having one last fling before school opens. You could drive around half the night and not find a room. Stay here. Be comfortable. See Sammy tomorrow night, then go if you must.”
It was true, Elizabeth thought. Carmel and Monterey were meccas for tourists in late August.
“Elizabeth, please.” Min was weeping. “I was so foolish. I thought, I believed that if you just saw Ted . . . not in court, but here . . . I’m sorry.”
Elizabeth felt her anger drain away, to be replaced by bone-weary emptiness. Min was Min. Incongruously, she remembered the time Min had sent a reluctant Leila to a casting for a cosmetics commercial. Min had stormed, “Listen, Leila, I don’t need you to tell me they didn’t ask to see you. Get over there. Force your way in. You’re just what they’re looking for. You make your breaks in this world.”
Weep No More, My Lady Page 6