Mary Clark - Weep No More, My Lady

They'd been heartsick when Leila died, Elizabeth remembered. Now she wondered how much of Min's grief had resulted from guilt. She scribbled a note to Helmut and sealed it. "Please give this to the Baron as soon as he comes back."

She glanced at the copy machine. Sammy had been using that machine when for some reason she'd wandered into the bathhouse. Suppose she really had had some sort of attack that disoriented her. Suppose she had left that letter in the copier. Min had come down early the next morning. Min might have found it and destroyed it.

Wearily, Elizabeth went back to her bungalow. She'd never know who had sent those letters. No one would ever admit it. Why was she staying here now? It was all over. And what was she going to do with the rest of her life? In his note, Ted had told her to start a new and happier chapter. Where? How?

Her head was aching-a dull, steady pounding. She realized that she had skipped lunch again. She'd call and inquire after Alvirah Meehan and then start packing. Funny, how awful it is when there's no place in the world you want to go, no single human being you want to see. She pulled a suitcase out of the closet, opened it, then stopped abruptly.

She still had Alvirah's sunburst pin. It was in the pocket of the slacks she'd been wearing when she'd gone to the clinic. When she took it out and held it, she realized it was heavier than it looked. She was no expert on jewelry, but clearly this was not a valuable piece. Turning it over, she began to study the back. It didn't have the usual safety catch. Instead, there was an enclosed device of some sort. She turned the pin again and studied the face. The small opening in the center was a microphone!

The impact of her discovery left her weak. The seemingly artless questions, the way Alvirah Meehan had fiddled with that pin-she'd been pointing the microphone to catch the voices of the people she was with. The suitcase in her bungalow with the expensive recording equipment, the cassettes there… Elizabeth knew she had to get them before anyone else did.

She rang for Vicky.

Fifteen minutes later she was back in her own bungalow, the cassettes and recorder from Alvirah Meehan's suitcase in her possession. Vicky looked flustered and somewhat apprehensive. "I hope no one saw us go in there," she told Elizabeth.

"I'm giving everything to Sheriff Alshorne," Elizabeth assured her. "I just want to be certain they won't disappear if Mrs. Meehan's husband tells anyone about them." She agreed that tea and a sandwich would taste good. When Vicky returned with the tray, she found Elizabeth, earphones on her head, her notebook in her lap, a pen in her hands, listening to the tapes.

Scott Alshorne did not like having a suspicious death and a suspicious near-death unresolved. Dora Samuels had suffered a stroke just before her death. How long before? Alvirah Meehan had had a drop of blood on her face which suggested an injection. The lab report showed a very low blood sugar, possibly the result of an injection. The Baron's efforts had fortunately saved her life. So where did that leave him?

Mrs. Meehan's husband had not been located last night until late evening-one A.M. New York time. He'd chartered a plane and arrived at the hospital at seven A.M. local time. Early in the afternoon, Scott went there to talk to him.

The sight of Alvirah Meehan, ghostly pale, barely breathing, hooked to machines, was incredible to Scott. People like Mrs. Meehan weren't supposed to be sick. They were too hearty, too filled with life. The burly man whose back was to him didn't seem to notice his presence. He was bending over, whispering to Alvirah Meehan.

Scott touched his shoulder. "Mr. Meehan, I'm Scott Alshorne, the sheriff of Monterey County. I'm sorry about your wife."

Willy Meehan jerked his head toward the nurses' station. "I know all about how they think she is. But I'm telling you, she's going to be just fine. I told her that if she up and died on me, I was going to take that money and spend it on a blond floozy. She won't let that happen-will you, honey?" Tears began to stream from his eyes.

"Mr. Meehan, I have to speak with you for just a few minutes."

She could hear Willy talking to her, but she couldn't reach him. Alvirah had never felt so weak. She couldn't even move her hand, she was so tired.

And there was something she had to tell them. She knew what had happened now. It was so clear. She had to make herself talk. She tried moving her lips, but she couldn't. She tried to wiggle her finger.

Willy's hand was covering hers, and she couldn't get up the strength to make him understand that she was trying to reach him.

If she could just move her lips, just get his attention. He was talking about the trips they were going to take. A tiny stab of irritation flared through her mind. Keep quiet and listen to me, she wanted to shout at him… Oh, Willy, please listen…

The conversation in the corridor outside the intensive-care unit was unsatisfactory. Alvirah was "healthy as a horse." She was never sick. She was on no medication. Scott did not bother to ask if there was a possibility that she used drugs. There wasn't, and he wouldn't insult this heartbroken man with the question.

"She was looking forward so much to this trip," Willy Meehan said as he put his hand on the door of the intensive-care unit. "She was even writing articles about it for the Globe . You should have seen how excited she was when they were showing her how to record people's conversations…"

" She was writing articles !" Scott exclaimed. "She was recording people?"

He was interrupted. A nurse rushed out. "Mr. Meehan, will you come in? She's trying to talk again. We want you to speak to her."

Scott rushed in behind him. Alvirah was straining to move her lips. " Voi … voi …"

Willy grasped her hand. "I'm here, honey, I'm here."

The effort was so much. She was getting so tired. She was going to fall asleep. If she could just get even one word out to warn them. With a terrible effort, Alvirah managed that word. She said it loud enough that she could hear it herself.

She said, "Voices."

The afternoon shadows deepened as, unmindful of time, Elizabeth listened to Alvirah Meehan's tapes. Sometimes she stopped and rewound a segment of the tape and listened to it several times. Her lined pad was filled with notes.

Those questions that had seemed so tactless had actually been so clever. Elizabeth thought of how she had sat at the table with the Countess, wishing she could overhear the conversations at Min's table. Now she could. Some of the talk was muffled, but she could hear enough to detect stress, evasion, attempts to change the subject.

She began to systematize her notations, creating a separate page for everyone at the table. At the bottom of each page she scribbled questions as they came to mind. When she finished the third tape, it seemed to her that she merely had a jumble of confusing sentences.

Leila, how I wish you were here. You were too cynical, but so many times you were right about people. You could see through their facades. Something is wrong, and I'm missing it. What is it?

It seemed to her that she could hear Leila's answer, as if she were in the room. For heaven's sake, Sparrow, open your eyes! Stop seeing what people want you to see. Start listening. Think for yourself. Didn't I teach you that much ?

She was just about to put the last cassette from Alvirah's sunburst pin into the recorder when the phone rang. It was Helmut. "You left a note for me."

"Yes, I did. Helmut, why did you go to Leila's apartment the night she died?"