Weep No More, My Lady

Nine

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 gem-stones 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 canap6s 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 half-smile 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, cherie.'

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