Weep No More, My Lady

* * *

Syd did not hedge. 'Ted, I'm in trouble. Big trouble. With guys who play rough. It all began with that damn play. I borrowed too much. I thought I could sweat it out. If Cheryl gets this part, I'm on my way up again. But I can't stall them anymore. I need a loan. Ted, I mean a loan. But I need it now.'

'How much?'

'Six hundred thousand dollars. Ted, it's small change for you, and it's a loan. But you owe it to me.'

'I owe it to you?'

Syd looked around and then stepped closer. His mouth was within inches of Ted's ear. 'I'd never have said this… never even told you I knew… But Ted, I saw you that night. You ran past me, a block from Leila's apartment. Your face was bleeding. Your hands were scratched. You were in shock. You don't remember, do you? You didn't even hear me when I called you. You just kept running.' Syd's voice dropped to a whisper. 'Ted, I caught up with you. I asked what had happened and you told me Leila was dead, that she had fallen off the terrace. Ted, then you said to me… I swear to God… you said to me, 'My father pushed her, my father pushed her.' You were like a little kid, trying to blame what you did on someone else. You even sounded like a little kid.'

Ted felt waves of nausea. 'I don't believe you.'

'Why would I lie? Ted, you ran into the street. A cab came along. You nearly got run over stopping it.

Ask that cabbie who took you to Connecticut. He's going to be a witness, isn't he? Ask him if he didn't almost sideswipe you. Ted, I'm your friend. I know how you felt when Leila went nuts in Elaine's. I know how I felt. When I saw you, I was on my way to try to talk sense to Leila. I was mad enough to kill her myself. Have I mentioned this once to you, to anyone? I wouldn't do it now, except I'm desperate. You've got to help me! If I don't come up with that money in forty-eight hours-I'm finished.'

'You'll have the money.'

'Oh, Christ, Ted, I knew I could count on you. God, thanks, Ted.' Syd put his hands on Ted's shoulders.

'Get away from me.' Ted's voice was almost a shout. The swimmers looked at them curiously. Ted shook himself free, grabbed his towel and ran blindly out of the pool area.

Three

Scott questioned Cheryl in her bungalow. This one was furnished in a splashy yellow-and-green-and-white print, with white carpeting and white walls. Scott felt the thickness of the carpet under his feet. All wool. Top quality. Sixty… seventy dollars a yard? No wonder Min had that haunted look! Scott knew exactly how much old Samuel had left her. There couldn't be much left, after what she'd poured into this place…

Cheryl was not happy about having been paged in the spa to meet him. She was wearing her own version of the standard tank suit, a skimpy scrap of material which did not quite cover her breasts and arched up on either side of her hipbones. The terry-cloth robe was slung on her shoulders. She did not attempt to conceal her impatience. 'I'm due in a calisthenics class in ten minutes,' she told him.

'Well, let's hope you make it,' he said. His throat muscles tightened as the active dislike he felt for Cheryl swelled within him. 'Your chances will improve a lot if you give me some straight answers. Like did you write some pretty nasty letters to Leila before she died?'

As he had anticipated, the interrogation was, at first, fruitless. Cheryl cleverly dodged his questions. Anonymous letters? Why would she be interested in sending them? Break up Ted and Leila? What difference would it have made if they had ended up married? It wouldn't have lasted. Leila didn't have it in her to stick with one man. She had to hurt men before they hurt her. The play? She had no idea of how the rehearsals for Leila's play had gone. Frankly, she hadn't been that interested.

Finally Scott had had enough. 'Listen, Cheryl, I think there's something you'd better realize. I'm not satisfied that Sammy's death was from natural causes. The second anonymous letter she was carrying is missing.

'You went to Sammy's desk. You left a bill marked Paid in full. An anonymous letter was on top of the desk with other fan mail. And then the letter disappeared. Granted someone else may have entered the reception area so quietly that even though the door was open, neither Min nor the Baron nor Sammy heard anyone come in. But that's a bit unlikely, isn't it?' He did not share with Cheryl the fact that Min and the Baron both had had access to the desk, out of Sammy's presence. He was rewarded by a faint glow of alarm in Cheryl's eyes. She licked her lips nervously.

'You're not suggesting I had anything to do with Sammy's death?'

'I'm suggesting that you took that first letter from Sammy's desk, and I want it now. That is state's evidence in a murder trial.'

She looked away, and as Scott studied her, he saw an expression of naked panic come over her face. He followed her gaze and saw a sliver of charred paper wedged under the baseboard. Cheryl lunged from the couch to pick it up, but he was too quick for her.

On the ragged piece of cheap paper were pasted three words:

Learn your lines.

Scott took out his wallet and carefully inserted the tiny scrap in it. 'So you did steal that letter,' he said. 'Destroying evidence is a felony, punishable by imprisonment. What about the second letter? The one Sammy was carrying? Did you destroy that one too? And how did you get it from her? You'd better get yourself a lawyer, lady.'

Cheryl clutched his arm. 'Scott, my God, please. I swear I didn't write those letters. I swear the only time I saw Sammy was in Min's office. All right. I took this letter from Sammy's desk. I thought it might help Ted. I showed it to Syd. He said people would think I wrote it. He tore it up; I didn't. I swear that's as much as I know.' Tears were spilling down her cheeks. 'Scott, any publicity, any publicity about this at all could kill my chances of being Amanda. Scott, please.'

Scott heard the contempt in his voice. 'I really don't give a damn how publicity affects your career, Cheryl. Why don't we make a bargain? I'll hold off bringing you in for formal questioning and you do some hard thinking. Maybe your memory will suddenly get better. For your sake, I hope so.'

Four

In a state of dazed relief, Syd headed back to his bungalow. Ted was going to lend him the money. It had been so tempting to make the story stronger, to say that Ted had outright admitted killing Leila. But at the last instant, he'd changed his mind and quoted Ted exactly. God, Ted had sounded creepy when he'd rambled about his father that night. Syd still felt a violent wrench in his gut whenever he thought of running after Ted. It had been immediately obvious that Ted had been in some sort of psychotic state. After Leila's death, he'd waited to see whether Ted would ever sound him out about that meeting. His reaction today proved he had no memory of it.

He cut across the lawn, deliberately avoiding the path. He didn't want to make small talk with anyone. There'd been some new arrivals yesterday. One of them he recognized as a young actor who'd been leaving his photos at the agency and phoning constantly. He wondered what old broad was paying his way. Today of all days, Syd didn't want to spend his time dodging eager would-be clients.

His first move when he reached the privacy of his own place was to make a drink. He needed one. He deserved one. His second was to phone his early-morning caller. 'I'll have the money to you by the weekend,' he said, with newfound confidence.

Now if he could just hear from Bob Koenig. The phone rang before he could complete the thought. The operator asked him to hold on for Mr. Koenig. Syd felt his hands begin to tremble. He caught a look at his