Weep No More, My Lady

by Mary Higgins Clark

  Tomorrow night. There was still a chance to get to her here. If not, a different kind of accident would have to be arranged.

  Like Alvirah Meehan, she had picked up the scent and was leading Scott Alshorne along the trail.

  * * *

  That scraping noise. It had been the sound of a chair grating against the patio tiles. The air had become cool but was very still. There was no breeze to set anything in motion. She’d turned quickly and for just an instant had thought she’d seen someone moving. But that was foolish. Why would anyone bother to stand in the shadows of the trees?

  Even so, Elizabeth quickened her steps and was glad to be back in the bungalow with the door locked. She phoned the hospital. There was no change in Mrs. Meehan’s condition.

  It took a long time to fall asleep. What was eluding her? Something that had been said, something she ought to have seized on. Finally she drifted off. . . .

  * * *

  She was searching for someone. . . . She was in an empty building with long, dark halls. . . . Her body was aching with need. . . . Her arms were outstretched. . . . What was that poem she’d read somewhere? “Is there yet one, oh eyes and lips remembered, who turns and reaches for me in the night?” She whispered it over and over. . . . She saw a staircase. . . . She hurried down it. . . . He was there. His back to her. She threw her arms around him. He turned and caught her and held her. His mouth was on hers. “Ted, I love you, I love you,” she said, over and over again. . . .

  Somehow she managed to wake up. For the rest of the night, miserable and despairing, she lay numbly in the bed where Leila and Ted had so often slept together, determined not to sleep.

  Not to dream.

  Thursday,

  September 3

  QUOTE FOR THE DAY:

  The power of beauty, I remember yet.

  —DRYDEN

  DEAR CYPRESS POINT SPA GUEST,

  A cheery good morning to you. I hope as you read this you are sipping one of our delicious fruit-juice eye-openers. As some of you know, all the oranges and grapefruits are specially grown for the Spa.

  Have you shopped in our boutique this week? If not, you must come and see the stunning fashions we have just received for both men and women.

  One-of-a-kind only, of course. Each of our guests is unique.

  A health reminder. By now you may be feeling muscles you’d forgotten you had. Remember, exercise is never pain. Mild discomfort shows you are achieving the stretch. And whenever you exercise, keep your knees relaxed.

  Are you looking your very best? For those tiny lines that time and life’s experience trace on our face, remember, collagen, like a gentle hand, is waiting to smooth them away.

  Be serene. Be tranquil. Be merry. And have a pretty day.

  Baron and Baroness Helmut von Schreiber

  1

  LONG BEFORE THE FIRST RAYS OF THE SUN PROCLAIMED yet another brilliant day on the Monterey Peninsula, Ted lay awake thinking about the weeks ahead. The courtroom. The defendant’s table where he would sit, feeling the eyes of the spectators on him, trying to get a sense of the impact of the testimony on the jurors. The verdict: Guilty of Murder in the Second Degree. Why Second Degree? he had asked his first lawyer. “Because in New York State, First Degree is reserved for killing a peace officer. For what it’s worth, it amounts to about the same, as far as sentencing goes.” Life, he told himself. A life in prison.

  At six o’clock he got up to jog. The morning was cool and clear, but it would be a hot day. Without a sense of where he wanted to run, he let his feet follow whatever roads they chose and was not surprised to find himself after forty minutes in front of his grandfather’s house in Carmel. It was on the ocean block. It used to be white, but the present owners had painted it a moss green—attractive enough, but he preferred the way the white paint used to gleam in the afternoon sun. One of his earliest memories was of this beach. His mother helped him to build a castle; laughing, her dark hair swirling around her face, so happy to be here instead of New York, so grateful for the reprieve. That bloody bastard who was his father! The way he’d ridiculed her, mimicked her, hammered at her. Why? What gives anyone a streak of cruelty like that? Or was it simply alcohol that brought out something savage and evil in his father, until he was drinking so much that the savage streak became his personality, all there was, the bottle and the fists? And had he inherited the same savage streak?

  Ted stood on the beach, staring at the house, seeing his mother and grandmother on the porch, seeing his grandparents at his mother’s funeral, hearing his grandfather say, “We should have made her leave him.”

  His grandmother whispered, “She wouldn’t leave him—it would have meant giving up Ted.”

  Had it been his fault? he wondered as a child. He still asked himself the same question. There was still no answer.

  There was someone watching him from a window. Quickly he continued to jog down the beach.

  * * *

  Bartlett and Craig were waiting in his bungalow. They’d already had breakfast. He went to the phone and ordered juice, toast, coffee. “I’ll be right back,” he told them. He showered and put on shorts and a T-shirt. The tray was waiting when he came out. “Quick service here, isn’t it? Min really knows how to run a spa! It would have been a good idea to franchise this place for new hotels.”

  Neither man answered him. They sat at the library table watching him, seeming to know that he neither expected nor wanted comment. He swallowed the orange juice in one gulp and reached for the coffee. “I’m going to the spa for the morning,” he said. “I might as well have a decent workout. We’ll leave for New York tomorrow. Craig, call an emergency board meeting for Saturday morning. I’m resigning as president and chairman of the company, and appointing you in my place.”

  His expression warned Craig not to argue. He turned to Bartlett, his eyes ice-cold. “I’ve decided to plea-bargain, Henry. Give me the best and worst possible scenarios of what kind of sentence I can expect to get.”

  2

  ELIZABETH WAS STILL IN BED WHEN VICKY BROUGHT IN her breakfast tray. She set it down next to the bed and studied Elizabeth. “You’re not feeling well.”

  Elizabeth propped her pillows against the headboard and sat up. “Oh, I guess I’ll survive.” She attempted a smile. “One way or another, we have to, don’t we?” She reached over and picked up the vase with the single flower from the tray. “What’s that you always say about carrying roses to fading flowers?”

  “I don’t mean you.” Vicky’s angular face softened. “I was off the last two days. I just heard about Miss Samuels. What a nice lady she was. But will you tell me what she was doing in the bathhouse? She once told me just looking at that place gave her the creeps. She said it reminded her of a tomb. Even if she wasn’t feeling well, that would be the last place she’d go . . .”

  After Vicky left, Elizabeth picked up the schedule that was on the breakfast tray. She hadn’t intended to go to the Spa for either treatments or exercise, but changed her mind. She was slated for a massage with Gina at ten o’clock. Employees talk. Just now Vicky had underscored her own belief that Sammy would never have gone into the bathhouse on her own. When she had arrived on Sunday and had the massage, Gina had gossiped about the financial problems of the Spa. She might be able to hear more gossip if she asked the right questions.

  As long as she was going there, Elizabeth decided to go through the full schedule. The first exercise class helped her to limber up, but it was hard not to look across the room to the place in the front row where Alvirah Meehan had been the other day. She had labored so hard to bend and twist that at the end of the class she had been puffing furiously, her face bright red. “But I kept up!” she had told Elizabeth proudly.

  She ran into Cheryl in the corridor leading to the facial rooms. Cheryl was wrapped in a terry-cloth robe. Her finger-and toenails were painted a brilliant bluish-pink. Elizabeth would have passed her without speaking, but Cheryl grasped her arm. “Elizabeth, I’ve got to
talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “Those poison-pen letters. Is there any chance of finding any more of them?” Without waiting for an answer, she rushed on: “Because if you have any more, or find any more, I want them analyzed, or tested, or fingerprinted, or whatever you and the world of science can do to trace them back to the sender. I did not send them! Got it?”

  Elizabeth watched her sweep down the corridor. As Scott had commented, she sounded convincing. On the other hand, if she was reasonably sure that those last two letters were the only ones likely to be found, it would be the perfect attitude for her to take. How good an actress was Cheryl?

  * * *

  At ten o’clock Elizabeth was on the massage table. Gina came into the room. “Pretty big excitement around this place,” she commented.

  “I would say so.”

  Gina wrapped Elizabeth’s hair in a plastic cap. “I know. First Miss Samuels, then Mrs. Meehan. It’s crazy.” She poured cream on her hands and began to massage Elizabeth’s neck. “The tension’s there again. This has been a lousy time for you. I know you and Miss Samuels were close.”

  It was easier not to talk about Sammy. She managed to murmur, “Yes, we were,” then asked, “Gina, did you ever have Mrs. Meehan for a treatment?”

  “Sure did. Monday and Tuesday. She’s some character. What happened to her?”

  “They’re not sure. They’re trying to check her medical history.”

  “I’d have thought she was sound as a dollar. A little chunky, but good skin tone, good heartbeat, good breathing. She was scared of needles, but that doesn’t give anyone cardiac arrest.”

  Elizabeth felt the soreness in her shoulders as Gina’s fingers kneaded the tight muscles.

  Gina laughed ruefully. “Do you think there was anyone in the Spa who didn’t know Mrs. Meehan was having a collagen injection in treatment room C? One of the girls overheard her ask Cheryl Manning if she’d ever had collagen there. Can you imagine?”

  “No, I can’t. Gina, the other day you told me the Spa hasn’t been the same since Leila died. I know she attracted the celebrity-watchers, but the Baron used to bring in a pretty healthy bunch of new faces every year.”

  Gina poured more cream into her palms. “It’s funny. About two years ago that dried up. Nobody can figure out why. He was making enough trips, but most of them were in the New York area. Remember, he used to work the charity balls in a dozen major cities, personally present the certificate for a week at the Spa to whoever came up with the winning ticket, and by the time he got finished talking, the lucky winner had three of her friends going along for the ride—as paying guests.”

  “Why do you think it stopped?”

  Gina lowered her voice. “He was up to something. No one could figure out what—including Min, I guess. . . . She started to travel with him a lot. She was getting plenty worried that His Royal Highness, or whatever he calls himself, had something going in New York. . . .”

  Something going? As Gina kneaded and pounded her body, Elizabeth fell silent. Was that something a play called Merry-Go-Round? And if so, had Min guessed the truth long ago?

  3

  TED LEFT THE SPA AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK. AFTER TWO HOURS of using the Nautilus equipment and swimming laps, he’d had a massage and then sat in one of the private open-air Jacuzzis that dotted the enclosure of the men’s spa. The sun was warm; there was no breeze; a flock of cormorants drifted overhead, like a floating black cloud in an otherwise cloudless sky. Waiters were setting up for lunch service on the patio. The striped umbrellas in soft tones of lime green and yellow that shaded the tables complemented the colorful slates on the ground.

  Again Ted was aware of how well the place was run.

  If things were different, he’d put Min and the Baron in charge of creating a dozen Cypress Point Spas all over the world. He almost smiled. Not completely in charge—all the Baron’s proposed expenditures would be monitored by a hawk-eyed accountant.

  Bartlett had probably been on the phone with the district attorney. By now he would have some idea of the kind of sentence he might expect. It still seemed absolutely incredible. Something he had no memory of doing had forced him to become a totally different person, had forced him to lead a totally different life.

  He walked slowly to his bungalow, nodding distantly to the guests who’d cut the last exercise class and were lazing by the Olympic pool. He didn’t want to get into a conversation with them. He didn’t want to face the discussions he would have with Henry Bartlett.

  Memory. A word that haunted him. Bits and pieces. Going back up in the elevator. Being in the hall. Swaying. He’d been so goddamn drunk. And then what? Why had he blotted it out? Because he didn’t want to remember what he had done?

  Prison. Confinement in a cell. It might be better to . . .

  There was no one in his bungalow. That, at least, was a break. He’d expected to find them again around the library table. He should have given Bartlett this unit and taken the smaller one himself. At least then he’d have more peace. The odds were they’d be back for lunch.

  Craig. He was a good detail man. The company wouldn’t grow with him at the helm, but he might be able to keep it on a holding course. He should be grateful for Craig. Craig had stepped in when the plane with eight top company executives had crashed in Paris. Craig had been indispensable when Kathy and Teddy died. Craig was indispensable now. And to think . . .

  How many years would he have to serve? Seven? Ten? Fifteen?

  There was one more job he needed to do. He took personal stationery from his briefcase and began to write. When he had finished he sealed the envelope, rang for a maid and asked her to deliver it to Elizabeth’s bungalow.

  He would have preferred to wait until just before he left tomorrow; but perhaps if she knew there wouldn’t be any trial, she might stay here a little longer.

  * * *

  When she returned to her bungalow at noon, Elizabeth found the note propped on the table. The sight of the envelope, white bordered in cerise, the flag colors of Winters Enterprises, with her name written in the firm, straight hand that was so familiar, made her mouth go dry. How many times in her dressing room had a note on that paper, in that handwriting, been delivered between acts? “Hi, Elizabeth. Just got into town. How about late supper—unless you’re tied up? First act was great. Love, Ted.” They’d have supper and call Leila from the restaurant. “Watch my guy for me, Sparrow. Don’t let some painted bitch try to stake him out.”

  They’d both have their ears pressed to the phone. “You staked me out, Star,” Ted would say.

  And she would be aware of his nearness, of his cheek grazing hers, and dig her fingers into the phone, always wishing she’d had the courage not to see him.

  She opened the envelope. She read two sentences before she let out a stifled cry and then had to wait before she could force herself to go back to finishing Ted’s letter.

  Dear Elizabeth,

  I can only tell you that I am sorry, and that word is meaningless. You were right. The Baron heard me struggling with Leila that night. Syd saw me on the street. I told him Leila was dead. There’s no use any longer in trying to pretend I wasn’t there. Believe me, I have absolutely no memory of those moments, but in light of all the facts, I am going to enter a plea of guilty to manslaughter when I return to New York.

  At least, this will bring this terrible affair to a conclusion and spare you the agony of testifying at my trial and being forced to relive the circumstances of Leila’s death.

  God bless and keep you. Long ago Leila told me that when you were a little girl and leaving Kentucky to come to New York, you were frightened and she sang that lovely song to you . . . “Weep no more, my lady.”

  Think of her as singing that song to you now, and try to begin a new and happier chapter in your life.

  Ted

  For the next two hours Elizabeth sat hunched up on the couch, her arms locked around her knees, her eyes staring ahead unseeingly. Thi
s was what you wanted, she tried to tell herself. He’s going to pay for what he did to Leila. But the pain was so intense it gradually retreated into numbness.

  When she got up, her legs were stiff, and she moved with the cautious hesitancy of the old. There was still the matter of the anonymous letters.

  Now she would not rest until she had found out who had sent them and precipitated this tragedy.

  It was past one o’clock when Bartlett phoned Ted. “We have to talk right away,” Henry said shortly. “Get over as soon as you can.”

  “Is there any reason we can’t meet here?”

  “I’ve got some calls from New York coming in. I don’t want to risk missing them.”

  When Craig opened the door for him, Ted did not waste time on preliminaries. “What’s up?”

  “Something you won’t like.”

  Bartlett was not at the oval dinette table he used as a desk in this suite. Instead, he was leaning back in an armchair, one hand on the phone as though expecting it to leap into his hand. He had a meditative expression, Ted decided, not unlike that of a philosopher confronted with a problem too difficult to solve.

  “How bad is it?” Ted asked. “Ten years? Fifteen years?”

  “Worse. They won’t take a plea. A new eyewitness has come forward.”

  Briefly, even brusquely, he explained. “As you know, we put private investigators on Sally Ross. We wanted to discredit her in every way possible. One of the investigators was in her apartment building night before last. A thief was caught red-handed trying to rob the apartment one floor above Mrs. Ross’s. He’s been making a deal of his own with the district attorney. He was in that apartment once before. The night of March twenty-ninth. He claims he saw you push Leila off the terrace!”

  He watched the sickly pallor that stole over Ted’s face change his deep tan to a muddy beige. “No plea bargain,” Ted whispered. His voice was so low that Henry had to lean forward to catch the words.