As the cab sped toward the city, Elizabeth read the story-a rehash of the details of Leila's death and the evidence against Ted. Pictures of Leila were splashed over the next three pages of the paper: Leila at a premiere, with her first husband; Leila on safari, with her second husband; Leila with Ted; Leila accepting her Oscar-stock publicity shots. One of them caught Elizabeth 's eye. In it, Leila had a hint of softness in her smile, a suggestion of vulnerability that contrasted with the arrogant tilt of her chin, the mocking expression in her eyes. Half the young girls in America had imitated that expression, copied Leila's way of tossing her hair back, of smiling over her shoulder…
'Here we are, lady.'
Startled, Elizabeth looked up. The cab had stopped in front of the Hamilton Arms, at Fifty-seventh Street and Park Avenue. The paper slid off her lap. She forced herself to try to sound calm. 'I'm so sorry. I gave you the wrong address. I want to go to Eleventh and Fifth.'
'I already turned off the meter.'
'Then start a new fare.' Her hands shook as she fumbled for her wallet. She sensed the doorman was approaching and did not raise her eyes. She did not want to be recognized. Unthinkingly she had given Leila's address. This was the building where Ted had murdered Leila. Here, in a drunken rage, he had pushed her off the terrace of her apartment.
Elizabeth began to shiver uncontrollably at the image she could not banish from her mind: Leila's beautiful body, wrapped in the white satin pajamas, her long red hair cascading behind her, plummet-fog forty stories to the concrete courtyard.
And always the questions… Was she conscious? How much did she realize?
How awful those last seconds must have been for her!
If I had stayed with her, Elizabeth thought, it never would have happened…
Two
After a two-month absence, the apartment felt close and stuffy. But as soon as she opened the windows, a breeze blew in, carrying the peculiarly satisfying combination of scents that was so specially New York: the pungent aura of the small Indian restaurant around the corner, a hint of the flowers from the terrace across the street, the acrid smell of fumes from the Fifth Avenue buses, a suggestion of sea air from the Hudson River. For a few minutes Elizabeth breathed deeply and felt herself begin to unwind. Now that she was here, it was good to be home. The job in Italy had been another escape, another temporary respite. But never out of her mind was the realization that eventually she would have to go to court, as a prosecution witness against Ted.
She unpacked quickly and placed her plants in the sink. It was clear that the superintendent's wife had not honored her promise to water them regularly. After plucking away the dead leaves, she turned to the mail that was stacked on the dining-room table. Rapidly she skimmed through it, tossing out ads and coupons, separating personal letters from bills. She smiled eagerly at the beautiful handwriting on one envelope and the precise return address in the upper corner:
The letter was brief. It was a confirmation that she would phone Assistant District Attorney William Murphy upon her return on August 29 and make an appointment to review her testimony.
Even reading the newspaper and giving Leila's address to the cabbie had not prepared her for the shock of this official notice. Her mouth went dry. The walls seemed to close in around her. The hours she had testified at the grand jury hearings flashed through her mind. The time she had fainted on the stand after being shown the pictures of Leila's body. Oh, God, she thought, it was starting all over again…
The phone rang. Her 'Hello' was barely audible.
' Elizabeth,' a voice boomed. 'How are you? You're on my mind.'
It was Min von Schreiber! Of all people! Elizabeth instantly felt wearier. Min had given Leila her first modeling job, and now she was married to an Austrian baron and owned the glamorous Cypress Point Spa in Pebble Beach, California. She was an old and dear friend; but Elizabeth didn't feel up to her today. Still, Min was one of the people Elizabeth could never say no to.
Elizabeth tried to sound cheerful. 'I'm fine, Min. A little tired, maybe. I just got home a few minutes ago.'
'Don't unpack. You're coming to the Spa tomorrow morning. There's a ticket waiting at the American Airlines counter. The usual flight. Jason will pick you up at the airport in San Francisco.'
'Min, I can't.'
Elizabeth almost laughed. Leila had always said those were the three hardest words for Min to utter. 'But, Min-'
'No 'buts.' When I saw you in Venice you looked too thin. That damn trial will be hell. So come. You need rest. You need pampering.'
Elizabeth could see Min, her raven-black hair coiled around her head, always assuming in her imperious way that what she wanted was automatically granted. After more futile protests in which she listed all the reasons why she should not come, could not, she heard herself agreeing to Min's plans.
'Tomorrow, then. It will be good to see you, Min.' She was smiling when she put the receiver down.
Three thousand miles away, Minna von Schreiber waited for the connection to break, then immediately began to dial another number. When she reached her party, she whispered, 'You were right. It was easy. She agreed to come.
Her husband entered the room as she was talking. He waited until the call was completed, then burst out, 'You did invite her, then?'
Min looked up, defiantly. 'Yes, I did.'
Helmut von Schreiber frowned. His china-blue eyes darkened. 'After all my warnings? Minna, Elizabeth could pull this house of cards down around our ears. By the end of the week, you will regret that invitation as you have never regretted anything in your life.'
Elizabeth decided to get her call to the district attorney over with immediately. William Murphy was obviously glad to hear from her. 'Miss Lange, I just started to sweat you out.'
'I told you I'd be back today. I wouldn't have expected to find you in on Saturday.'
'There's a lot of work. We definitely go to trial on September eighth.'
'I read that.'
'I'll need to review your testimony with you so it will be fresh in your mind.'
'It's never
'I understand. But I have to discuss the kind of questions the defense attorney will ask you. I suggest you come in on Monday for several hours and then let's plan to have long sessions next weekend. You
'I'm leaving tomorrow morning,' she told him. 'Can't we talk about everything on Friday?'
She was dismayed at the answer. 'I'd rather have one preliminary meeting. It's only three o'clock. You could be down here in a cab in fifteen minutes.'
