Weep No More, My Lady

'The warm hose treatment is another word for crowd control. I mean they turn these powerful hoses on you while you're standing in the buff, and you hang on to a metal bar hoping you won't get washed away. But supposedly it breaks down fatty cells, and if so, I'm ready for two treatments a day.

'The clinic is a very interesting building. From the outside it looks just like the main house, but inside it's totally different. All the treatment rooms have private entrances, with high hedges leading to them. The idea is that people don't bump into each other coming and going for appointments. I mean, I really don't care that the whole world knows I'm going to have some collagen injections to fill out the lines around my mouth, but I can well understand why someone like Cheryl Manning would be very upset if that was general knowledge.

'I had my interview with Baron von Schreiber about my collagen injections this morning. The Baron is a charming man. So handsome, and the way he bowed over my hand made me very fluttery. If I were his wife, I think I'd be pretty nervous about holding him, especially if I had fifteen years on him. I think it is fifteen years, but I'll check that when I write my article.

'The Baron examined my face under a strong light and said that I had remarkably tight skin and the only treatment he would suggest besides the regular facials and a peeling mask would be the collagen injections. I explained to him that when I made my reservations, his receptionist, Dora Samuels, suggested that I have a test to see if I'd be allergic to collagen, and I did. I'm not allergic, but I told the Baron how scared I am of needles, and how many would he have to use?

'He was so nice. He said that a lot of people feel that way about needles, and when I go for my treatment the nurse will give me a double-strength Valium, and by the time he's ready to start the injections, I'll think I'm just getting a couple of mosquito bites.

'Oh, one more thing. The Baron's office has lovely paintings in it, but I was really fascinated by the ad for the Spa that has appeared in magazines like Architectural Digest and Town and Country and Vogue. He told me there's a copy of it on the wall in all the bungalows. It's so cleverly worded.

'The Baron seemed pleased that I noticed. He said he'd had a hand in creating it.'

Five

Ted spent the morning working out in the gym in the men's spa. With Craig at his side, he rowed stationary boats, pedaled stationary bicycles and methodically made his way through the aerobics machines.

They decided to finish with a swim and found Syd pacing laps in the indoor pool. Impulsively, Ted challenged him and Craig to a race. He had been swimming daily in Hawaii, but finished barely ahead of Craig. To his surprise, even Syd was only a few feet behind him. 'You're keeping in shape,' he told him. He had always thought of Syd as sedentary, but the man was surprisingly strong.

'I've had time to keep in shape. Sitting in an office waiting for the phone to ring gets boring.' With unspoken consent, they walked to deck chairs far enough away from the pool to avoid being overheard.

'I was surprised to find you here, Syd. When we talked last week, you didn't tell me you were coming.' Craig's eyes were cold.

Syd shrugged. 'You didn't tell me you people were coming either. This place isn't my idea. Cheryl made the decision.' He glanced at Ted. 'She must have found out you'd be around.'

'Min would know better than to blab-'

Syd interrupted Craig. With one finger, he beckoned to the waiter who was going from table to table offering soft drinks. 'Perrier.'

'Make it three,' Craig said.

'Do you want to swallow it for me too?' Ted snapped. 'I'll have a Coke,' he told the waiter.

'You never drink colas,' Craig commented mildly. His light hazel eyes were tolerant. He amended the order. 'Bring two Perriers and an orange juice.'

Syd chose to ignore the byplay. 'Min wouldn't blab, but don't you think there are people on the staff who get paid to tip the columnists? Bettina Scuda called Cheryl yesterday morning. She probably put the bug in her ear that you were on the way. What's the difference? So she makes a play for you again. Is that new? Use it. She's dying to be a witness for you at the trial. If anyone can convince a jury how nutty Leila acted in Elaine's, Cheryl can. And I'll back her up.'

He put a friendly hand on Ted's shoulder. 'This whole thing stinks. We're going to help you beat it. You can count on us.'

* * *

'Translated, that means you owe him one,' Craig commented as they walked back to Ted's bungalow. 'Don't fall for it. So what if he lost a million bucks in that goddamn play? You lost four million, and he talked you into investing.'

'I invested because I read the play and felt that someone had managed to capture the essence of Leila; created a character who was funny and vulnerable and willful and impossible and sympathetic all at the same time. It ought to have been a triumph for her.'

'It was a four-million-dollar mistake,' Craig said. 'Sorry, Ted, but you do pay me to give you good advice.'

* * *

Henry Bartlett spent the morning in Ted's bungalow reviewing the transcript of the grand jury hearing and on the phone to his Park Avenue office. 'In case we go for a temporary-insanity defense, we'll need plenty of documentation of similar successful pleas,' he told them. He was wearing an open-necked cotton shirt and baggy khaki walking shorts. The Sahib! Ted thought. He wondered if Bartlett wore knickers on the golf course.

The library table was covered with annotated piles of paper. 'Remember how Leila and Elizabeth and you and I used to play Scrabble at this table?' he asked Craig.

'And you and Leila always won. Elizabeth was stuck with me. As Leila put it, 'Bulldogs can't spell''

'What's that supposed to mean?' Henry asked.

'Oh, Leila had nicknames for all her close friends,' Craig explained. 'Mine was Bulldog.'

'I'm not sure I'd have been flattered.'

'Yes, you would have. When Leila gave you a nickname, it meant you were part of her inner circle.'

Was that true? Ted wondered. When you looked up the definitions of the nicknames Leila bestowed, there was always a double edge to them. Falcon: a hawk trained to hunt and kill. Bulldog: a short-haired, square-jawed, heavily built dog with a tenacious grip.

'Let's order lunch,' Henry said. 'We've got a long afternoon of work ahead of us.'

Over a club sandwich, Ted described his encounter with Elizabeth. 'So you can forget yesterday's suggestion,' he told Henry. 'It's just as I thought. If I admit the possibility that I went back to Leila's apartment, when Elizabeth gets through testifying I'll be on my way to Attica.'

It was a long afternoon. Ted listened as Henry Bartlett explained the theory of temporary insanity. 'Leila had publicly rejected you; she had quit a play in which you invested four million dollars. The next day you pleaded with her for a reconciliation. She continued to insult you, to demand that you match her drink for drink.'

'I could afford the tax write-off,' Ted interrupted.

'You know that. I know it. But the guy on the jury who's behind in his car payments won't believe it.'

'I refuse to concede that I might have killed Leila. I won't even consider it.'

Bartlett 's face was becoming flushed. 'Ted, you'd better understand I'm trying to help you. All right, you were smart to get a reading on Elizabeth Lange's reaction today. So we can't admit you might have gone back upstairs. If we don't claim a total blackout on your part, we have to destroy both Elizabeth Lange's testimony and the eyewitness'. One or the other: maybe. I've told you this before. Both: no.'