Weep No More, My Lady

Elizabeth had told her she was going swimming. An unreasoning fear gripped Dora. Shoving the letter into the pocket of her cardigan, she hurried out of the office and as swiftly as she could move her arthritic body rushed down the stairs, across the darkened foyer and out the seldom-used side door. Now the interloper was passing the Roman bathhouse. She hurried to cut him off. It was probably one of the college kids who were staying at Pebble Beach Lodge, she told herself. Every once in a while they'd sneak onto the grounds and go for a swim in the Olympic pool. But she didn't like the idea of this one coming upon Elizabeth if she was alone there.

She turned and realized that he had seen her. The lights of the security guard's golf cart were coming up the hill from near the gates. The figure in the scuba outfit ran toward the Roman bathhouse. Dora could see that the door was ajar. That fool Helmut probably hadn't bothered to close it this afternoon.

Her knees were trembling as she hurried behind him. The guard would drive by in a moment, and she didn't want the intruder to get away. Tentatively she stepped inside the doorway of the bathhouse.

The entrance foyer was a giant open expanse of marbled walls with twin staircases at the far end. There was enough light from the Japanese lanterns in the trees outside for Dora to see that this area was empty. They actually had done quite a bit more work since she'd looked in a few weeks ago.

Through the open doorway to the left, she saw the beam of a flashlight. The archway led to the lockers, and beyond was the first of the saltwater pools.

For an instant, her indignation was replaced by fear. She decided to go out and wait for the guard.

'Dora, in here!'

The familiar voice made her weak with relief. Carefully making her way across the darkened foyer, she went through the locker room and into the area of the indoor pool.

He was waiting for her, flashlight in hand. The blackness of the wet suit, the thick underwater goggles, the bend of the head, the sudden convulsive movement of the flashlight made her step back uncertainly. 'For goodness' sake, don't shine that thing at me. I can't see,' she said.

One hand, thick and menacing in the heavy black glove, stretched out toward her, reaching for her throat. The other flashed the light directly in her eyes, blinding her.

Horrified, Dora began to back up. She raised her hands to protect herself and was unaware that she had brushed the letter from her pocket. She barely felt the empty space under her feet before her body toppled backward.

Her last thought as her head smashed against the piles of jagged concrete at the bottom of the pool was that at last she knew who had killed Leila.

Ten

Elizabeth swam from one end of the pool to the other at a demanding, furious pace. The fog was just beginning to roll in-uneven bits of mist that at one moment blew like a dark vapor over the surrounding area, the next were gone. She preferred it when it was dark. She could work every inch of her body knowing that the punishing physical effort somehow would diffuse the built-up emotional anxiety.

She reached the north end of the pool, touched the wall, inhaled, turned, pivoted and with a furious breaststroke began racing toward the opposite end. Now her heart was pounding with the strain of the pace she had set herself. It was crazy. She wasn't in condition for this kind of swimming. But still she raced, trying with the expenditure of physical energy to outrun her thoughts.

At last she felt herself begin to calm down, and flipping onto her back, she began to tread water, her arms rotating in even, sweeping motions.

The letters. The one they had; the one someone had taken; the others they might find in the unopened mail. The ones Leila had probably seen and destroyed. Why didn't Leila tell me about them? Why did she shut me out? She always used me as a sounding board. She always said I could snap her out of taking criticism too seriously.

Leila hadn't told her because she had believed that Ted was involved with someone else, that there was nothing she could do about it. But Sammy was right: If Ted was involved withsomeone else, he had no motive to kill Leila.

But I wasn't mistaken about the time of the call.

Suppose Leila had fallen-had slipped from his grasp-and he'd blacked out? Suppose those letters had driven her to suicide? I've got to find out who sent them, Elizabeth thought.

It was time to go in. She was dead tired, and at last somewhat calmer. In the morning, she'd go through the rest of the mail with Sammy. She'd take the letter they'd found to Scott Alshorne. He might want her to take it directly to the district attorney in New York. Was she handing Ted an alibi? And whom had he been involved with?

As she climbed the ladder from the pool, she shivered. The night air was chilly now, and she'd stayed longer than she'd realized. She slipped on her robe and reached into the pocket for her wristwatch. The luminous dial showed that it was half-past ten.

She thought she heard a rustling sound from behind the cypress trees that bordered the patio. 'Who's there?' She knew her voice sounded nervous. There was no answer, and she walked to the edge of the patio and strained her eyes to see past the hedges and between the scattered trees. The silhouettes of the cypress trees seemed grotesque and ominous in the dark, but there was no movement other than the faint rustling of the leaves. The cool sea breeze was becoming more forceful. That was it, of course.

With a gesture of dismissal, she wrapped the robe around her and pulled the hood over her hair.

But somehow the feeling of uneasiness persisted, and her footsteps quickened along the path to her bungalow.

He hadn't touched Sammy. But there would be questions. What was she doing in the bathhouse? He cursed the fact that the door had been open, that he had run in there. If he had simply gone around it, she'd never have caught him.

Something so simple could betray him.

But the fact that she had the letter with her, that it had fallen from her pocket- that had been simple good luck. Should he destroy it? He wasn't sure. It was a double-edged sword.

Now the letter was buried against his skin inside the wet suit. The door of the bathhouse was snap-locked. The guard had made his desultory rounds and wouldn't be back tonight. Slowly, with infinite caution, he made his way toward the pool. Would she be there? Probably. Should he take the chance tonight? Two accidents. Was that more risky than letting her live? Elizabeth would demand answers when Sammy's body was found. Had Elizabeth seen that letter?

He heard the lapping of the water in the pool. Cautiously he stepped from behind the tree and watched the swiftly moving body. He would have to wait until she slowed down. By then she would be tired. It might be the time to go ahead. Two unrelated accidents in one night. Would the ensuing confusion keep people off the track? He took a step forward toward the pool.

And saw him. Standing behind the shrubbery. Watching Elizabeth. What was he doing there? Did he suspect she was in danger? Or had he too decided she was an unacceptable risk?

The wet suit glistened with mist as its wearer slipped behind the sheltering branches of cypress and vanished into the night.

Tuesday, September 1