Mary Clark - Weep No More, My Lady

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 been crossed out. There were also notations: Sparrow, L.A.; Ted, Budapest; Sparrow, Montreal ; Ted, Bonn … "She seems to have kept both your schedules right in front of her."

"She did. So she'd know where to reach us."

Scott stopped at one page. "You two were in the same city that night." He turned the pages more slowly. "Actually, Ted seems to have shown up fairly regularly in the same cities where your play was booked."

"Yes. We'd go out for supper after the performance and call Leila together."

Scott scrutinized Elizabeth 's face. For just an instant something else had come over it. Was it possible that Elizabeth had fallen in love with Ted and refused to face that fact? And if so, was it possible that a sense of guilt was subconsciously demanding that Ted be punished for Leila's death, knowing that she would be punishing herself at the same time? It was a disquieting thought. He tried to dismiss it. "This appointment book probably doesn't have any bearing on the case, but I still think the district attorney in New York should have it," he said.

"Why?"

"No particular reason. But it could be considered an exhibit."

There was nothing more to be found in Sammy's apartment. "I've got a suggestion," Scott told her. "Go over to the spa and follow whatever schedule you had planned. As I told you, there are no more anonymous letters in that fan mail. My boys went through everything in those bags last night. Our chance of finding out who sent them is remote. I'll talk to Cheryl, but she's pretty cagey. I don't think she'll give herself away."

Together they walked down the long hall that led to the main house. "You haven't gone through Sammy's desk in the office, have you?" Scott asked.

"No." Elizabeth realized how tightly she was gripping the script. Something was compelling her to read it. She'd only seen that one terrible performance. She'd heard it was a good vehicle for Leila. Now she wanted to judge for herself. Reluctantly she accompanied Scott to the office. That had become another place she wanted to avoid.

Helmut and Min were in their private office. The door was open. Henry Bartlett and Craig were with them. Bartlett lost no time in demanding an explanation for the anonymous letters. "They may very well contribute to my client's defense," he told Scott. "We have a right to be fully briefed on them."

Elizabeth watched Henry Bartlett as he absorbed Scott's explanation of the anonymous letters. His look grew intense. His face was all sharp planes; his eyes were hard. This was the man who would be cross-examining her in court. He looked like a predator watching for prey.

"Let me get this straight," Bartlett said. "Miss Lange and Miss Samuels agreed that Leila LaSalle may have been profoundly upset by poison-pen letters suggesting that Ted Winters was involved with someone else? Those letters have now disappeared?

On Monday night Miss Samuels wrote her impressions of the first letter? Miss Lange has transcribed the second one? I want copies."

"I see no reason why you can't have them," Scott told him. He placed Leila's appointment book on Min's desk. "Oh, for the record, this is something else I'm sending on to New York," he said. "It was Leila's calendar for the last three months of her life."

Without asking for permission, Henry Bartlett reached for it. Elizabeth waited for Scott to protest, but he did not. Watching Bartlett thumb through Leila's personal daily diary, she felt an enormous sense of intrusion. What business had he? She threw an angry glance at Scott. He was looking at her impassively.

He's trying to prepare me for next week, she thought bleakly, and realized that maybe she should be grateful. Next week, all that Leila was would be laid out for twelve people to analyze; her own relationship with Leila, with Ted-nothing would be hidden, no privacy beyond violation. "I'll look through Sammy's desk," she said abruptly.

She was still holding the script of the play. She laid it on Sammy's desk and quickly went through the drawers. There was absolutely nothing personal in them. Spa letterheads; Spa publicity folders; Spa follow-up memos; the usual office paraphernalia.

Min and the Baron had followed her out. She glanced up to see them standing in front of Sammy's desk. Both of them were staring at the leather-bound folder with the bold title Merry-Go-Round on the cover.

"Leila's play?" Min asked.

"Yes. Sammy kept Leila's copy. I'll take it now."

Craig, Bartlett and the sheriff came out of the private office. Henry Bartlett was smiling-a self-satisfied, smug, chilly smile. "Miss Lange, you've been a great help to us today. But I think I should warn you that the jury won't take kindly to the fact that as a woman scorned, you put Ted Winters through this hellish nightmare."

Elizabeth stood up, her lips white. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the fact that in her own handwriting, your sister made the connection between you and Ted 'happening' to be in the same city so often. I'm talking about the fact that someone else also made that connection and tried to warn her with those letters. I'm talking about the look on your face when Ted put his arms around you at the memorial service. Surely you've seen this morning's paper? Apparently what may have been a mild flirtation for Ted was serious to you, and so when he dropped you, you discovered a way to take your revenge."

"You filthy liar!" Elizabeth did not know she had thrown the copy of the play at Henry Bartlett until it struck him in the chest.

His expression was impassive, even pleased. Bending, he picked up the script and handed it back to her. "Do me a favor, young lady, and stage that kind of outburst in front of the jury next week," he said. "They'll exonerate Ted."

While Craig and Bartlett went to confront the sheriff, Ted worked out with the Nautilus equipment in the men's spa. Each piece of equipment he used seemed to emphasize his own situation. The row-boat that went nowhere; the bicycle that no matter how furiously pedaled, stayed in place. On the surface he managed to exchange pleasantries with some of the other men in the gym-the head of the Chicago stock exchange, the president of Atlantic Banks, a retired admiral.

He sensed in all of them a wariness: they didn't know what to say to him, didn't want to say "Good luck." It was easier for them-and for him-when they got busy with the machines and concentrated on building muscles.

Men in prison tended to get pretty soft. Not enough exercise. Boredom. Pallid skin. Ted studied his own tan. It wouldn't last long behind bars.

He was supposed to meet Bartlett and Craig in his bungalow at ten o'clock. Instead, he went for a swim in the indoor pool. He'd have preferred the Olympic pool, but there was always the chance Elizabeth might be there. He didn't want to run into her.

He had swum about ten laps when he saw Syd dive in at the opposite end of the pool. They were six lanes apart, and after a brief wave, he ignored Syd. But after twenty minutes, when the three swimmers between them had left, he was surprised to see that Syd was keeping pace with him. He had a powerful backstroke and moved with swift precision from one end of the pool to the other. Ted deliberately set out to beat him. Syd obviously caught on. After six laps they were in a dead heat.