Weep No More, My Lady

* * *

At ten o'clock Elizabeth was on the massage table. Gina came into the room. 'Pretty big excitement around this place,' she commented.

'I would say so.'

Gina wrapped Elizabeth 's hair in a plastic cap. 'I know. First Miss Samuels, then Mrs. Meehan. It's crazy.' She poured cream on her hands and began to massage Elizabeth 's neck. 'The tension's there again. This has been a lousy time for you. I know you and Miss Samuels were close.'

It was easier not to talk about Sammy. She managed to murmur, 'Yes, we were,' then asked, 'Gina, did you ever have Mrs. Meehan for a treatment?'

'Sure did. Monday and Tuesday. She's some character. What happened to her?'

'They're not sure. They're trying to check her medical history.'

'I'd have thought she was sound as a dollar. A little chunky, but good skin tone, good heartbeat, good breathing. She was scared of needles, but that doesn't give anyone cardiac arrest.'

Elizabeth felt the soreness in her shoulders as Gina's fingers kneaded the tight muscles.

Gina laughed ruefully. 'Do you think there was anyone in the Spa who didn't know Mrs. Meehan was having a collagen injection in treatment room C? One of the girls overheard her ask Cheryl Manning if she'd ever had collagen there. Can you imagine?'

'No, I can't. Gina, the other day you told me the Spa hasn't been the same since Leila died. I know she attracted the celebrity-watchers, but the Baron used to bring in a pretty healthy bunch of new faces every year.'

Gina poured more cream into her palms. 'It's funny. About two years ago that dried up. Nobody can figure out why. He was making enough trips, but most of them were in the New York area. Remember, he used to work the charity balls in a dozen major cities, personally present the certificate for a week at the Spa to whoever came up with the winning ticket, and by the time he got finished talking, the lucky winner had three of her friends going along for the ride-as paying guests.'

'Why do you think it stopped?'

Gina lowered her voice. 'He was up to something. No one could figure out what-including Min, I guess… She started to travel with him a lot. She was getting plenty worried that His Royal Highness, or whatever he calls himself, had something going in New York…'

Something going? As Gina kneaded and pounded her body, Elizabeth fell silent. Was that something a play called Merry-Go-Round? And if so, had Min guessed the truth long ago?

Three

Ted left the Spa at eleven o'clock. After two hours of using the Nautilus equipment and swimming laps, he'd had a massage and then sat in one of the private open-air Jacuzzis that dotted the enclosure of the men's spa. The sun was warm; there was no breeze; a flock of cormorants drifted overhead, like a floating black cloud in an otherwise cloudless sky.

Waiters were setting up for lunch service on the patio. The striped umbrellas in soft tones of lime green and yellow that shaded the tables complemented the colorful slates on the ground.

Again Ted was aware of how well the place was run. If things were different, he'd put Min and the Baron in charge of creating a dozen Cypress Point Spas all over the world. He almost smiled. Not completely in charge-all the Baron's proposed expenditures would be monitored by a hawk-eyed accountant.

Bartlett had probably been on the phone with the district attorney. By now he would have some idea of the kind of sentence he might expect. It still seemed absolutely incredible. Something he had no memory of doing had forced him to become a totally different person, had forced him to lead a totally different life.

He walked slowly to his bungalow, nodding distantly to the guests who'd cut the last exercise class and were lazing by the Olympic pool. He didn't want to get into a conversation with them. He didn't want to face the discussions he would have with Henry Bartlett.

Memory. A word that haunted him. Bits and pieces. Going back up in the elevator. Being in the hall. Swaying. He'd been so goddamn drunk. And then what? Why had he blotted it out? Because he didn't want to remember what he had done?

Prison. Confinement in a cell. It might be better to…

There was no one in his bungalow. That, at least, was a break. He'd expected to find them again around the library table. He should have given Bartlett this unit and taken the smaller one himself. At least then he'd have more peace. The odds were they'd be back for lunch.

Craig. He was a good detail man. The company wouldn't grow with him at the helm, but he might be able to keep it on a holding course. He should be grateful for Craig. Craig had stepped in when the plane with eight top company executives had crashed in Paris. Craig had been indispensable when Kathy and Teddy died. Craig was indispensable now. And to think…

How many years would he have to serve? Seven? Ten? Fifteen?

There was one more job he needed to do. He took personal stationery from his briefcase and began to write. When he had finished he sealed the envelope, rang for a maid and asked her to deliver it to Elizabeth 's bungalow.

He would have preferred to wait until just before he left tomorrow; but perhaps if she knew there wouldn't be any trial, she might stay here a little longer.

* * *

When she returned to her bungalow at noon, Elizabeth found the note propped on the table. The sight of the envelope, white bordered in cerise, the flag colors of Winters Enterprises, with her name written in the firm, straight hand that was so familiar, made her mouth go dry. How many times in her dressing room had a note on that paper, in that handwriting, been delivered between acts? 'Hi, Elizabeth. Just got into town. How about late supper-unless you're tied up? First act was great. Love, Ted.' They'd have supper and call Leila from the restaurant. 'Watch my guy for me, Sparrow. Don't let some painted bitch try to stake him out.'

They'd both have their ears pressed to the phone. 'You staked me out, Star,' Ted would say.

And she would be aware of his nearness, of his cheek grazing hers, and dig her fingers into the phone, always wishing she'd had the courage not to see him.

She opened the envelope. She read two sentences before she let out a stifled cry and then had to wait before she could force herself to go back to finishing Ted's letter.

Dear Elizabeth,

I can only tell you that I am sorry, and that word is meaningless. You were right. The Baron heard me struggling with Leila that night. Syd saw me on the street. I told him Leila was dead. There's no use any longer in trying to pretend I wasn't there. Believe me, I have absolutely no memory of those moments, but in light of all the facts, I am going to enter a plea of guilty to manslaughter when I return to New York.

At least, this will bring this terrible affair to a conclusion and spare you the agony of testifying at my trial and being forced to relive the circumstances of Leila's death.

God bless and keep you. Long ago Leila told me that when you were a little girl and leaving Kentucky to come to New York, you were frightened and she sang that lovely song to you… 'Weep no more, my lady.'

Think of her as singing that song to you now, and try to begin a new and happier chapter in your life.

Ted