Weep No More, My Lady

She jogged into Carmel. The New York papers would be on the stands there. Once again it was a glorious late-summer day. Sleek limousines and Mercedes convertibles followed each other on the road to the golf course. Other joggers waved at her amiably. Privacy hedges protected the estate homes from the curious eyes of the tourists, but in between, glimpses of the Pacific could be seen. A glorious day to be alive, Elizabeth thought, and she shuddered at the mental image of Sammy's body in the morgue.

Over coffee in a breakfast shop on Ocean Avenue, she read the Globe. Someone had snapped that picture at the end of the memorial service. She had started to weep. Ted was beside her. His arm had come around her and he'd turned her to him. She tried not to remember how it had felt to be in his arms.

With a surge of heartsick contempt for herself, she laid money on the table and left the restaurant.

On the way out she tossed the paper into a waste-basket. She wondered who at the Spa had tipped off the Globe. It could have been one of the staff, Min and Helmut were plagued with leaks. It could have been one of the guests who in exchange for personal publicity fed items to the columnists. It also could have been Cheryl.

When she got back to her bungalow, Scott was sitting on the porch waiting for her. 'You're an early bird,' she told him.

There were circles under his eyes. 'I didn't do much sleeping last night. Something about Sammy falling backward into that pool just doesn't sit right with me.'

Elizabeth winced as she thought of Sammy's bloodstained head.

'I'm sorry,' Scott told her.

'It's all right. I feel exactly the same way. Did you find any more of those letters in the mailbags?'

'No. I've got to ask you to go through Sammy's personal effects with me. I don't know what I'm looking for, but you might spot something I'd miss.'

'Give me ten minutes to shower and change.'

'You're sure it won't upset you too much?'

Elizabeth leaned against the porch railing and ran her hand through her hair. 'If that letter had been found, I could believe Sammy might have had some sort of attack and wandered into the bathhouse. But with the letter gone… Scott, if someone pushed her or frightened her so that she backed away, that person is a murderer.'

The doors of the bungalows around them were opening. Men and women in identical ivory terry-cloth robes headed for the spa buildings. 'Treatments start in fifteen minutes,' Elizabeth said. 'Massages and facials and steam baths and God knows what-all. Isn't it incredible to think that one of the people being pampered here today left Sammy to die in that god-awful mausoleum?'

* * *

Craig's early-morning call was from the private investigator, and it was obvious he was troubled. 'Nothing more on Sally Ross,' he said, 'but the word is that the burglar who was picked up in her building claims he has information about Leila La-Salle's death. He's trying to make a deal with the district attorney.'

'What kind of information? This might be the break we're looking for.'

'My contact doesn't get that feeling.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'The district attorney is happy. You have to conclude his case is stronger, not weaker.'

Craig phoned Bartlett and reported the conversation. 'I'll put my office on it,' Bartlett said. 'My people may be able to find out something. We'll have to sit tight until we find out what's up. In the meantime I intend to see Sheriff Alshorne. I want a full explanation of those 'poison-pen' letters he talked about. You're sure Teddy wasn't involved with another woman, somebody he may be protecting? He doesn't seem to realize how much that could help his case. Maybe you might mention that to him.'

Syd was about to leave for the hike when his telephone rang. Something told him it would be Bob Koenig. He was wrong. For three endless minutes he pleaded with a loan shark for a little more time to pay the rest of his debts. 'If Cheryl gets this part, I can borrow against my commissions,' he argued. 'I swear she has the edge over Margo Dresher… Koenig told me himself… I swear…'

When he hung up the receiver, he sat on the edge of the bed trembling. He had no choice. He had to go to Ted and use what he knew to get the money he needed.

Time had run out.

* * *

There was something indefinably different about Sammy's apartment. Elizabeth felt it was as though her aura as well as her physical being had departed. Her plants had not been watered. Dead leaves rimmed the planters. 'Min was in touch with Sammy's cousin about the funeral arrangements,' Scott explained.

'Where is her body now?'

'It will be picked up from the morgue tomorrow and shipped to Ohio for burial in the family plot.'

Elizabeth thought of the concrete dust that had smudged Sammy's skirt and cardigan. 'Can I give you clothes for Sammy?' she asked. 'Is it too late?'

'It's not too late.'

The last time she'd performed this service had been for Leila. Sammy had helped her select the dress in which Leila would be buried. 'Remember, the casket won't be open,' Sammy had reminded her.

'It isn't that,' Elizabeth had said. 'You know Leila. If she ever wore anything that didn't feel right, she was uncomfortable all evening even if everyone else thought she looked great. If there's such a thing as knowing…'

Sammy had understood. And together they had decided on the green chiffon-and-velvet gown Leila had worn the night she won the Oscar. They were the only two who had seen her in the casket. The undertaker had skillfully covered the bruises, had reconstructed the beautiful face, now curiously peaceful at last. For a time they had sat together reminiscing, Sammy holding Elizabeth's hand, finally reminding her that it was time to allow the fans to file past the bier, that the funeral director needed time to close the casket and drape it in the floral blanket that Elizabeth and Ted had ordered.

Now, with Scott watching her, Elizabeth examined the closet. 'The blue tie silk,' she murmured, 'the one Leila gave her for her birthday two years ago. Sammy used to say that if she'd had clothes like this when she was young, her whole life might have been different.'

She packed a small overnight case containing underthings, stockings, shoes and the inexpensive pearl necklace Sammy always wore with her 'good dresses.'

'At least that's one thing I know I can do for her,' she told Scott. 'Now let's get about the business of finding what happened to her.'

Sammy's dresser drawers revealed only personal items. Her desk held her checkbook, daily memo pad, personal stationery. On a shelf of the closet, pushed back behind a stack of sweaters, they found a year-old appointment book and a bound copy of Merry-Go-Round by Clayton Anderson.

'Leila's play,' Elizabeth said. 'I never did get to read it.' She opened the folder and flipped through the pages. 'Look, it's her working script. She always made so many notes and changed lines so that they sounded right for her.'

Scott watched as Elizabeth ran her fingers over the ornate penmanship that dotted the margins of the pages. 'Why don't you take that?' he asked.

'I'd like to.'

He opened the appointment book. The entries were in the same curlicued handwriting. 'This was Leila's too.' There were no entries after March 31. On that page Leila had printed Opening night! Scott flipped through the earlier pages. Most of them had the daily entry marked Rehearsal with a line drawn through.

There were appointments indicated for the hairdresser, for costume fittings, visit Sammy at Mount Sinai, send flowers, Sammy, publicity appearances. In the last six weeks, more and more of the extraneous appointments had