Weep No More, My Lady

was jealous of her mother. She said her mother was enjoying her children and she should be the one with them. It's like that with Ted and me. The minute my cousin got out of the hospital, she was singing her mother's praises for the good job she did. When Ted is acquitted, things will be back to normal between us. And let me tell you, I'd a lot rather put up with his outbursts than be in his boots.'

Bartlett realized that he had been too quick to dismiss Craig Babcock as a glorified lackey. The problem, he told himself sourly, of being too cocky. He chose his response carefully. 'I see your point, and I think you're quite perceptive.'

'Unexpectedly perceptive?' Craig asked with a half-smile.

Bartlett chose to ignore the bait. 'I also am starting to feel somewhat better about this case. We might be able to put together a defense that will at least create reasonable doubt in a jury's mind. Did you take care of the investigative agency?'

'Yes. We've got two detectives finding out everything they can about the Ross woman. We've got another detective trailing her. Maybe that's overkill, but you never know.'

'Nothing that helps is overkill.' Bartlett moved to the door. 'As you can certainly see, Ted Winters resents the hell out of me for probably the same reason he's jumping at you. We both want him to walk out of that courtroom a free man. One line of defense that I hadn't considered before tonight is to convince the jury that shortly before Leila LaSalle died, he and Cheryl had gotten back together, and the money he put in the play was a kiss-off for Leila.'

Bartlett opened the door and glanced back over his shoulder. 'Sleep on it, and come back to me in the morning with a game plan.'

He paused. 'But we've got to prevail on Teddy to go along with us.'

* * *

When Syd reached his bungalow the message light on the phone was flashing. He sensed immediately that it was Bob Koenig. The president of World Motion Pictures was famed for his habit of placing after-hours calls. It could only mean that a decision had been made about Cheryl and the role of Amanda. He broke into a cold sweat.

With one hand he reached for a cigarette, with the other for the phone. As he barked 'Syd Melnick,' he cradled the receiver against his shoulder and lit the cigarette.

'Glad you reached me tonight, Syd. I had a six-o'clock call in to you in the morning.'

'I'd have been awake. Who can sleep in this business?'

'I sleep like a top, myself. Syd, I've got a couple of questions.'

He had been sure that Cheryl had lost the part. Something about the flashing light had signaled doom. But Bob had questions. No decision had been made.

He could visualize Bob at the other end of the line, leaning back in the leather swivel chair in his library at home. Bob hadn't gotten to be head of the studio by making sentimental decisions. Cheryl's test was great, Syd told himself hopefully. But then what? 'Shoot,' he said, trying to sound relaxed.

'We're still battling it out between Cheryl and Margo Dresher. You know how tough it is to launch a series. Margo's a bigger name. Cheryl was good, damn good-probably better than Margo, even though I'll deny having said that. But Cheryl hasn't done anything big in years, and that fiasco on Broadway kept coming up at the meeting.'

The play. Once again the play. Leila's face drifted across Syd's mind. The way she'd screamed at him in Elaine's. He had wanted to bludgeon her then, to drown out that cynical, mocking voice forever…

'That play was a vehicle for Leila. I take full blame for rushing Cheryl into it.'

'Syd, we've been through all that. I'm going to be absolutely candid with you. Last year, as all the columnists reported, Margo had a little drug problem. The public is getting damn sick of stars who spend half their lives in drug-rehab centers. I want it straight. Is there anything about Cheryl that could embarrass us, if we choose her?'

Syd gripped the phone. Cheryl had the inside track. A burst of hope made his pulse fluctuate wildly. Sweat poured from his palms. 'Bob, I swear to you-'

'Everybody swears to me. Try telling me the truth instead. If I put myself on the line and decide on Cheryl, will it backfire on me? If it ever does, Syd, you're finished.'

'I swear. I swear on my mother's grave…'

Syd hung up the phone, hunched over and put his face in his hands. Clammy perspiration broke over his entire body. Once again the golden ring was within his grasp.

Only this time it was Cheryl, not Leila, who could screw it up for him…

Nine

When she left Elizabeth, Dora carried the plastic-wrapped anonymous letter in the pocket of her cardigan. They had decided that she would make a copy of the letter on the office machine, and in the morning Elizabeth would take the original to the sheriffs office in Salinas.

Scott Alshorne, the county sheriff, was a regular dinner guest at the Spa. He'd been friendly with Min's first husband and was always discreetly helpful when a problem, like missing jewelry, arose. Leila had adored him.

'Poison-pen letters aren't the same as missing jewelry,' Dora warned Elizabeth.

'I know, but Scott can tell us where to send the letter for analysis, or if I should just give it to the district attorney's office in New York. Anyway, I want a copy myself.'

'Then let me make it tonight. Tomorrow, when Min is around, we can't risk having her reading it.'

As Dora was leaving, Elizabeth wrapped her in her arms. 'You don't believe Ted is guilty, do you, Sammy?'

'Of calculated murder? No, I simply can't believe that. And if he was interested in another woman, there was no motive for him to kill Leila.'

* * *

Dora had to go back to the office anyhow. She'd left mail scattered on the desk and the unsearched plastic bags on the floor of the reception room. Min would have a fit if she saw them.

Her dinner tray was still on a table near her desk, almost untouched. Funny how little appetite she had these days. Seventy-one really wasn't that old. It was just that between the operation and losing

Leila, there was a spark gone, the old zest that Leila had always teased her about;

The copy machine was camouflaged by a walnut cabinet. She opened the top of the cabinet and turned on the machine, took the letter from her pocket and slipped it free of the plastic bag, carefully touching it only by the edges. Her movements were quick. There was always the worry that Min might take it into her head to come down to the office. Helmut was undoubtedly locked in his study. He was an insomniac and read late into the night.

She happened to glance out the half-open window. Just the sound of the Pacific-its truculent roar -and the smell of the salty breeze were invigorating. She did not mind the rush of cool air that caused her to shiver. But what had caught her attention?

All the guests were settled by now. Lights were visible from behind the curtained windows of the bungalows. Just against the horizon she could see the outlines of the umbrella tables around the Olympic pool. To the left, the silhouette of the Roman bathhouse loomed against the sky. The night was starting to turn misty. It was getting harder to see. Then Dora leaned forward. Someone was walking not on the path, but in the shadows of the cypress trees, as though afraid of being seen. She adjusted her glasses and was astonished to realize that whoever was there was wearing a scuba-diving outfit. What ever was he doing on the grounds? He seemed to be heading toward the Olympic pool.