“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.”
9
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!
10
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 dra
nk 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.
“Sheriff Alshorne. He just came back. He’s talking to Elizabeth now.” Min bit her lip. “Please. We all know how sad we feel about losing Sammy, but I think it would be better if we do not discuss it during dinner.”
“Why does the sheriff want to talk to Elizabeth Lange?” Alvirah Meehan asked. “He doesn’t think there’s anything funny about Miss Samuels dying in that bathhouse, does he?”
Seven stony pairs of eyes discouraged further questions.
The soup was chilled peach and strawberry, a specialty of the Spa. Alvirah sipped hers contentedly. The Globe would be interested to learn that Ted Winters was very clearly concerned about Elizabeth.
She could hardly wait to meet the sheriff.
11
ELIZABETH STOOD AT THE WINDOW OF HER BUNGALOW and glanced at the main house just in time to see the guests drifting inside for dinner. She had insisted that Nelly leave: “You’ve had a long day, and I’m perfectly all right now.” She’d propped herself up in bed for the tea and toast, then showered quickly, hoping that the splashing cold water would clear her head. The sedative had left her groggy.
An off-white cable-knit sweater and tan stretch pants were her favorite comfortable clothes. Somehow, wearing them, her feet bare, her hair twisted up casually, she felt like herself.
The last of the guests had disappeared. But as she watched, she saw Scott cut across the lawn in her direction.
* * *
They sat across from each other, leaning slightly forward, anxious to communicate, wary of how to begin. Looking at Scott with his kind, questioning eyes made Elizabeth remember how Leila had once said, “He’s the kind of guy I would have liked for a father.” Last night Sammy had suggested that they take the anonymous letter to him.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t wait until the morning to see you,” Scott told her. “But there are too many things about Sammy’s death that trouble me. From what I’ve learned so far, Sammy drove six hours from Napa Valley yesterday, arriving at about two o’clock. She wasn’t due till late evening. She must have been pretty tired, but she didn’t even stop to unpack. She went directly to the office. She claimed she wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t come down to the dining room for dinner, but the maid tells me she had a tray in the office and was busily going through bags of mail. Then she came to visit you and left around nine thirty. Sammy should have been pretty beat by then, but she apparently went back to the office and turned on the copy machine. Why?”
Elizabeth got up and walked into the bedroom. From her suitcase she took the letter from Sammy that had been waiting for her in New York. She showed it to Scott. “When I realized Ted was here I would have left immediately, but I had to wait and see Sammy about this.” She told him about the letter that had been taken from Sammy’s office and showed him the transcript Sammy had made from memory. “This is pretty much the text of it.”
Her eyes filled as she looked at Sammy’s graceful penmanship. “She found another poison-pen letter in one of those sacks last evening. She was going to make a copy for me, and we were planning to give the original to you. I’ve written it down as I remembered. We had hoped the original could be traced. The typeface for magazines is coded, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Scott read and re-read the transcripts of the letters. “Stinking business.”
“Somebody was systematically trying to destroy Leila,” Elizabeth said. “Somebody doesn’t want those letters found. Somebody took one from Sammy’s desk yesterday afternoon and perhaps the other one from Sammy’s body last night.”
“Are you saying that you think Sammy may have been murdered?”
Elizabeth flinched, then looked directly at him. “I simply can’t answer that. I do know that someone was worried enough about those letters to want them back. I do know that a series of those letters would have explained Leila’s behavior. Those letters precipitated that quarrel with Ted, and those letters have something to do with Sammy’s death. I swear this to you, Scott. I’m going to find out who wrote them. Maybe there’s no criminal prosecution possible, but there has to be a way of making that person pay. It’s someone who was very close to Leila, and I have my suspicions.”
Fifteen minutes later Scott left Elizabeth, the transcripts of both anonymous letters in his pocket. Elizabeth believed Cheryl had written those letters. It made sense. It was Cheryl’s kind of trick. Before he went into the dining room, he walked around to the right side of the main house. Up there was the window where Sammy had stood when she turned on the copy machine. If someone had been on the steps of the bathhouse and signaled to her to come down. . . .
It was possible. But, of course, he tol
d himself sadly, Sammy wouldn’t have come down except for someone she knew. And trusted.
The others were halfway through the main course when he joined them. The empty seat was between Craig and a woman who was introduced as Alvirah Meehan. Scott took the initiative in greeting Ted. Presumption of innocence. Ted had always had outstanding looks. It was no wonder that a woman would go to any extreme to separate him from another woman. Scott did not miss the way Cheryl constantly managed to touch Ted’s hand, to brush her shoulder against his.
He helped himself to lamb chops from the silver tray the waiter was offering him.
“They’re delicious,” Alvirah Meehan confided, her voice barely a whisper. “They’ll never go broke in this place from the size of the portions, but I’m telling you when you’re finished you feel as though you’ve had a big meal.”
Alvirah Meehan. Of course. He’d read in the Monterey Review about the forty-million-dollar lottery winner who was going to realize her fondest dream by coming to Cypress Point Spa. “Are you enjoying yourself, Mrs. Meehan?”
Alvirah beamed. “I sure am. Everyone has been just wonderful, and so friendly.” Her smile encompassed the entire table. Min and Helmut attempted to return it. “The treatments make you feel like a princess. The nutritionist said that in two weeks I should be able to lose five pounds and a couple of inches. Tomorrow I’m having collagen to get rid of the lines around my mouth. I’m scared of injections, but Baron von Schreiber will give me something for my nerves. I’ll leave here a new woman feeling . . . like . . . like a butterfly floating on a cloud.” She pointed to Helmut. “The Baron wrote that. Isn’t he a real author?”
Alvirah realized she was talking too much. It was just that she felt kind of guilty being an undercover reporter and wanted to say nice things about these people. But now she’d better be quiet and listen to see if the sheriff had anything to say about Dora Samuels’ death. But, disappointingly, no one brought it up at all. It was only when they had just about finished the vanilla mousse that the sheriff asked, not quite casually, “You people will all be around here for the next few days? No one has plans to leave?”
Weep No More, My Lady Page 16