Mary Clark - Weep No More, My Lady

"A Marilyn Monroe defense," Syd suggested. "With all the wild stories about Monroe 's death, everyone has pretty well conceded that she committed suicide."

"Exactly." Bartlett favored Syd with a friendly smile. "Now the question is motive. Syd, tell me about the play."

Syd shrugged. "It was perfect for her. It could have been written about her. She loved the script. The rehearsals started like a cakewalk. I used to tell her we could open in a week. And then something happened. She came into the theater smashed at nine in the morning. After that it was all downhill."

"Stage fright?"

"Lots of people get stage fright. Helen Hayes threw up before every performance. When Jimmy Stewart finished a movie, he was sure no one would ever ask him to be in another one. Leila threw up and worried. That's show biz."

"That's just what I don't want to hear on the stand," Henry said sharply. "I intend to paint the picture of a woman with a drinking problem who was experiencing severe depression."

A teenager was standing over Cheryl. "Could I please have your autograph?" He plunked a menu in front of her.

"Of course." Cheryl beamed and scrawled her signature.

"Is it true you're going to be Amanda in that new series?"

"Keep your fingers crossed. I think so." Cheryl's eyes drank in the adolescent's homage.

"You'll be great. Thank you."

"Now, if we just had a tape of this to send to Bob Koenig," Syd said drily.

"When will you know?" Craig asked.

"Maybe in the next few days."

Craig held up his glass. "To Amanda."

Cheryl ignored him and turned to Ted. "Aren't you going to drink to that?"

He raised his glass. "Of course." He meant it. The naked hope in her eyes was in an odd way touching. Leila had always overshadowed Cheryl. Why had they kept up the farce of friendship? Was it because Cheryl's endless quest to become bigger than Leila had been a challenge for Leila, a constant prod that she welcomed, that kept her on her mettle?

Cheryl must have seen something in his face, because her lips brushed his cheek. He did not pull away.

It was over coffee that Cheryl leaned her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands. The champagne she had drunk had clouded her eyes so that they now seemed to smolder with secret prom-ises. Her voice was slightly blurred as she half-whispered to Bartlett, "Suppose Leila believed that Ted wanted to dump her for another woman? What would that do to help the suicide theory?"

"I was not involved with another woman," Ted said flatly.

"Darling, this isn't True Confessions. You don't have to say a word," Cheryl chided. "Henry, answer my question."

"If we had proof that Ted was interested in someone else, and that Leila knew it, we give Leila a reason to be despondent. We damage the prosecutor's claim that Ted killed Leila because she rejected him. Are you telling me there was something going on between you and Ted before Leila died?" Bartlett asked hopefully.

"I'll answer that," Ted snapped. "No!"

"You didn't listen," Cheryl protested. "I said I may have proof that Leila thought Ted was ready to dump her for someone else."

"Cheryl, I suggest you shut up. You don't know what you're talking about," Syd told her. "Now let's get out of here. You've had too much to drink."

"You're right," Cheryl said amiably. "You're not often right, Syd, dear, but this time you are."

"Just a minute," Bartlett interrupted. "Cheryl, unless this is some sort of game, you'd better put your cards on the table. Anything that clarifies Leila's state of mind is vital to Ted's defense. What do ou call 'proof?"

"Maybe something that wouldn't even interest you," Cheryl said. "Let me sleep on it."

Craig signaled for a check. "I have a feeling this conversation is a waste of time."

It was nine thirty when the limousine dropped them at the Spa. "I want Ted to walk me to my place." Now Cheryl's voice had an edge on it.

"I'll walk you," Syd snapped.

"Ted will walk me," Cheryl insisted.

She leaned against him as they went down the path toward her bungalow. Other guests were just beginning to leave the main house. "Wasn't it fun to be out together?" Cheryl murmured.

"Cheryl, is this 'proof talk one of your games?" Ted pushed the cloud of black hair away from her face.

"I like it when you touch my hair." They were at her bungalow. "Come in, darling."

"No. I'll say good night."

She pulled his head down until their lips were barely apart. In the starlight her eyes blazed up at him. Had she faked the business of acting tight? he wondered. "Darling," she whispered feverishly, "don't you understand that I'm the one who can help you walk out of that courtroom a free man?"

Craig and Bartlett said good night to Syd and made their way to their bungalows. Henry Bartlett was visibly satisfied. "Teddy looks as if he's finally getting the message. Having that little lady in his corner at the trial will be important. What do you think she meant by that mumbo jumbo about Ted being involved with another woman?"

"Wishful thinking. She probably wants to volunteer for the part."

"I see. If he's smart, he'll accept."

They reached Craig's bungalow. "I'd like to come in for a minute," Bartlett told him. "It's a good chance to talk alone." Inside the bungalow, he glanced around. "This is a different look."

"It's Min's masculine, rustic effect," Craig explained. "She didn't miss a trick-pine tables, wide-planked floors. The bed even has a cord spring. She automatically puts me in one of these units. I think she subconsciously views me as the simple type."

"Are you?"

"I don't think so. And even though I lean to king-size beds with box springs, this is a hell of a step up from Avenue B and Eighth Street, where my old man had a deli."

Bartlett studied Craig carefully. "Bulldog" was an apt description for him, he decided. Sandy hair, neutral complexion, cheeks that would fold into jowls if he let himself put weight on. A solid citizen. A good person to have in your corner. "Ted is lucky to have you," he said. "I don't think he appreciates it."

"That's where you're wrong. Ted has to rely on me now to front for him in the business, and he resents it. To clarify that, he only thinks he resents me. The problem is, my very presence in his place is a symbol of the jam he's in."

Craig went to the closet and pulled out a suitcase. "Like you, I carry my private supply " He poured Courvoisier into two glasses, handed one of them to Bartlett and settled on the couch, leaning forward, turning his glass in his hand. "I'll give you the best example I can. My cousin was in an accident and flat on her back in the hospital for nearly a year. Her mother knocked herself out taking care of the kids. You want to know something? My cousin 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?"