Mary Clark - Weep No More, My Lady

Elizabeth turned to leave, but Craig held her arm. "I'll bet you didn't have any breakfast." He signaled to the headwaiter.

Over coffee they surveyed each other. "If there's no sign of her when we get back, we'll insist on calling the police," he told her.

"Something's happened to her."

"You can't be sure of that. Tell me exactly when you saw her, whether she said anything about going out."

Elizabeth hesitated. She was not sure if she wanted to tell Craig about the letter Sammy was going to copy or about the letter that had been stolen. She did know that the deep concern on his face was a tremendous comfort, that if it became necessary, he would put the awesome power of Winters Enterprises into the search for Sammy. Her response was careful. "When Sammy left me, she said she was going back to the office for a while."

"I can't believe that she's so overworked she has to burn midnight oil."

Elizabeth half-smiled. "Not quite midnight. Nine thirty." To avoid further questions, she gulped the rest of the coffee. "Craig, do you mind if we go back now? Maybe there's been some word."

But there was not. And if the maids, the gardener and the chauffeur could be believed, every inch of the grounds had been searched. Now even Helmut agreed not to wait until noon, that it was time to phone in a missing-person report.

"That's not good enough," Elizabeth told them. "I want you to ask for Scott Alshorne."

She waited for Scott at Sammy's desk. "Do you want me to hang around?" Craig asked.

"No."

He glanced at the trash bags. "What's all that?"

"Leila's fan mail. Sammy was answering it."

"Don't start going through it. It will only upset you." Craig glanced into Min and Helmut's office. They were sitting side by side on the Art Deco wicker couch, speaking in low tones. He leaned over the desk. " Elizabeth, you have to know I'm between a rock and a hard place. But when this is over, no matter how it ends, we've got to talk. I've missed you terribly." In a surprisingly agile move, he was around the desk; his hand was on her hair, his lips on her cheek. "I'm always here for you," he whispered. "If anything has happened to Sammy and you need a shoulder or an ear… You know where to find me."

Elizabeth clutched at his hand and for an instant held it against her cheek. She felt its solid strength, its warmth, the width of his blunt fingers. And incongruously thought of Ted's long-fingered graceful hands. She dropped his hand and pulled away. "Watch out or you'll get me crying." She tried to make her voice light, to dispel the intensity of the moment.

Craig seemed to understand. He straightened up and said matter-of-factly, "I'll be in Ted's bungalow if you need me."

Waiting was the hardest. It was like the night when she'd sat in Leila's apartment hoping, praying that Leila and Ted had made up, had gone off together and knowing with every nerve in her body that something was wrong. Sitting at Sammy's desk was agony. She wanted to run in a dozen different directions; to walk along the road and ask people if they'd seen her; to search the Crocker Woodland in case she'd wandered in there in a daze.

Instead, Elizabeth opened one of the bags of fan mail and brought out a handful of envelopes. At least she could accomplish something.

She could search for more anonymous letters.

Sheriff Scott Alshorne had been a lifelong friend of Samuel Edgers, Min's first husband, the man who had built the Cypress Point Hotel. He and Min had liked each other from the start, and it had pleased him to see that Min kept her part of her bargain. She gave the ailing and cantankerous octogenarian a new lease on life for the five years she was married to him.

Scott had watched with mingled curiosity and awe as Min and that titled jerk she married next had taken a comfortable, profitable hotel and turned it into a self-consuming monster. Min now invited him at least once a month to dinner at the Spa, and in the last year and a half he'd come to know Dora Samuels well. That was why when Min called with the news of her disappearance, he instinctively feared the worst.

If Sammy had had some kind of stroke and started wandering around, she'd have been noticed. Old sick people didn't get overlooked on the Monterey Peninsula. Scott was proud of his jurisdiction.

His office was in Salinas, the seat of Monterey County and twenty-two miles from Pebble Beach. Crisply he issued instructions for the posting of a missing-person notice and directed that deputies from the Pebble Beach area meet him at the Spa.

He was silent on the drive. The deputy who chauffeured him noticed there were unusually deep creases in his boss's forehead, that the craggy, tanned face under the wealth of unmanageable white hair was furrowed in thought. When the chief looked like this, it meant he anticipated a big problem.

It was ten thirty when they drove through the gates. The houses and grounds had an air of tranquillity. There were few people walking around. Scott knew that most of the guests were in the spas, working out, being pummeled and patted and scrubbed and plucked so that when they went home at the end of their stay, their families and friends would gush over how marvelous they looked. Or they were in the clinic having one of Helmut's sophisticated and ultra-expensive treatments.

He had heard that Ted Winters' private jet had landed at the airport on Sunday afternoon and that Ted was here. He'd debated with himself as to whether or not to call him. Ted was under indictment for second-degree murder. He was also the kid who used to delight in sailing with his grandfather and Scott.

Knowing that Ted was booked at the Spa caused Scott to register openmouthed astonishment when he saw Elizabeth sitting at Sammy's desk. She had not heard him come up the stairs, and he took a moment to study her unobserved. She was deathly pale, and her eyes were red-rimmed. Strands of hair had slipped from the knot on top of her head and curled around her face. She was pulling letters from envelopes, glancing at them and tossing them aside impatiently. Clearly she was searching for something. He noticed that her hands were trembling.

He knocked loudly on the open door and watched her jump up. Relief and apprehension mingled in her expression. Spontaneously she ran around the desk and with outstretched arms hurried toward him. Just before she reached him, she stopped abruptly. "I'm sorry… I mean, how are you, Scott? It's good to see you."

He knew what she was thinking. Because of his longtime friendship with Ted, he might regard her as the enemy. Poor kid. He gathered her in a quick bear hug. To disguise his own emotion, he said gruffly, "You're too skinny. I hope you're not on one of Min's celebrity diets."

"I'm on a get-fat-fast. Banana splits and brownies."

"Good."

Together they went into Min's office. Scott raised his eyebrows when he saw the haggard expression on Min's face, the wary, veiled eyes of the Baron. They were both worried, and somehow he felt it went beyond concern for Sammy. His direct questions garnered the information he needed. "I'd like to take a look at Sammy's apartment."

Min led the way. Elizabeth and Helmut trailed behind. Somehow Scott's presence gave Elizabeth a faint touch of hope. At least something would be done. She had seen the disapproval in his face at the realization they had waited so long to phone him.

Scott glanced around the sitting room and walked into the bedroom. He pointed to the suitcase on the floor near the closet. "Was she planning to go somewhere?"

"She just got back," Min explained, then looked puzzled. "It's not like Sammy not to unpack immediately."

Scott opened the bag. There was a cosmetic case on top filled with pill bottles. He read the directions: "One every four hours; twice a day; two at bedtime." He frowned. "Sammy was careful about her medication. She didn't want another siege. Min, show me the condition of the office as you found it."