Mary Clark - Weep No More, My Lady

"People under stress can do some pretty funny things."

"No. No. If I'd killed Leila, I'd have done it some other way. I know that. To say that drunk or sober, I could hold her over the railing… Syd swears I told him that my father pushed Leila off the terrace; he may have known that story about my father. Maybe everybody's lying to me. Scott, I've got to remember what happened that night."

With compassionate eyes, Scott studied Ted, taking in the exhausted droop of his shoulders, the fatigue that emanated from his body. He'd been walking all afternoon, trying to make himself stand at the edge of a cliff, battling his own personal demon in search of the truth. "Did you tell them this when they began questioning you about Leila's death?"

"It would have sounded ridiculous. I build hotels where we make people want terraces. I've always been able to avoid going out on them without making an issue of it."

Darkness was setting in. Beads of perspiration like unchecked tears were running down Ted's cheeks. Scott switched on a light. The room with its comfortable overstuffed furniture, the pillows Jeanie had embroidered, the tall-backed rocking chair, the pine bookcase came to life. Ted did not seem to notice. He was in a world where he was trapped by other people's testimony, on the verge of being confined to prison for the next twenty or thirty years. He's right, Scott decided. His only hope is to go back to that night. "Are you willing to have hypnosis or sodium pentothal?" he asked.

"Either… both… it doesn't matter."

Scott went to the phone and called John Whitley at the hospital again. "Don't you ever go home?" he asked.

"I do get there, now and again. In fact, I'm on my way now."

"I'm afraid not, John. We have another emergency…"

Craig and Bartlett walked together toward the main house. They had deliberately skipped the "cocktail" hour and could see the last of the guests leaving the veranda as the muted gong announced dinner. A cool breeze had come up from the ocean, and the webs of lichen hanging from the giant pines that formed the border of the north end of the property swayed in a rhythmic, solemn movement that was accentuated by the tinted lights scattered throughout the grounds.

"I don't like it," Bartlett told Craig. "Elizabeth Lange is up to something pretty strange when she asks to have dinner with us. I can tell you the district attorney isn't going to like it one damn bit if he hears his star witness is breaking bread with the enemy."

"Former star witness," Craig reminded him.

"Still star witness. That Ross woman is a total nut. The other one is a petty thief. I won't mind being the one to cross-examine those two on the stand."

Craig stopped and grabbed his arm. "You mean you think Ted may still have a chance?"

"Hell, of course not. He's guilty. And he's not a good enough liar to help himself."

There was a placard in the foyer. Tonight there would be a flute-and-harp recital. Bartlett read the names of the artists. "They're first-rate. I heard them in Carnegie Hall last year. You ever go there?"

"Sometimes."

"What kind of music do you like?"

"Bach fugues. And I suppose that surprises you."

"Frankly, I never thought about it one way or another," Bartlett said shortly. Christ, he thought, I'll be glad when this case is over. A guilty client who doesn't know how to lie and a second-in-command with a chip on his shoulder who would never get over his inferiority complex.

Min, the Baron, Syd, Cheryl and Elizabeth were already at the table. Only Elizabeth seemed perfectly relaxed. She, rather than Min, had somehow assumed the role of hostess. The place on either side of her was vacant. When she saw them approaching, she reached out her hands to them in a welcoming gesture. "I saved these seats specially for you."

And what the hell is that supposed to mean? Bartlett wondered sourly.

Elizabeth watched as the waiter filled their glasses with nonalcoholic wine. She said, "Min, I don't mind telling you that when I get home I'll enjoy a good, stiff drink."

"You should be like everyone else," Syd told her. "Where's your padlocked suitcase?"

"Its contents are much more interesting than liquor," she told him. Throughout dinner she led the conversation, reminiscing on the times they had been together at the Spa.

Once dessert was served, it was Bartlett who challenged her. "Miss Lange, I've had the distinct impression that you're playing some sort of game, and I for one don't believe in participating in games unless I know the rules."

Elizabeth was raising a spoonful of raspberries to her lips. She swallowed them, then put down the spoon. "You're quite right," she told him. "I wanted to be with all of you tonight for a very specific reason. You should all know that I no longer believe Ted is responsible for my sister's death."

They stared at her, their faces shocked.

"Let's talk about it," Elizabeth said. "Someone deliberately destroyed Leila by sending those poison-pen letters to her. I think it was you or you." She pointed at Cheryl, then at Min.

"You are absolutely wrong," Min said indignantly.

"I told you to come up with more letters and trace them." Cheryl spat out the words.

"I may do just that," Elizabeth told her. "Mr. Bartlett, did Ted tell you that both Syd and the Baron were around my sister's apartment house the night she died?" She seemed to enjoy his look of astonishment. "There is more to my sister's death than has come out. I know that. One, maybe two of you know that. You see, there's another possible scenario. Syd and Helmut had money in that play. Syd knew Helmut was the playwright. They went together to plead with Leila. Something went wrong and Leila died. It would have been considered an accident if it hadn't been for that woman who swore she saw Ted struggling with Leila. At that point, my testimony that Ted had come back trapped him."

The waiter was hovering over them. Min waved him away. Bartlett realized that people at the surrounding tables were watching them, sensing the tension. "Ted doesn't remember anything about going back to Leila's apartment," Elizabeth said, "but suppose he did go back; suppose he left immediately; suppose one of you struggled with Leila. You're all about the same size. It was raining. That Ross woman might have seen Leila struggling, and simply assumed it was Ted. You two agreed to let Ted take the blame for Leila's death and concocted the stories you told him. It's possible, isn't it?"

"Minna, this girl is crazy," the Baron sputtered. "You must know-"

"I deny absolutely that I was in that apartment that night," Syd said.

"You admit you ran after Ted. But from where? The apartment? Because he'd seen you pushing Leila? It would have been a stroke of luck if he was so traumatized that he blocked it out.

"The Baron claims he heard Leila and Ted quarreling. But I heard them too. I was on the telephone. And I did not hear what he claims he heard !"

Elizabeth leaned her elbows on the table and looked searchingly from one angry face to the next.

"I'm very grateful for this information," Henry Bartlett told her. "But you seem to have forgotten there's a new witness."

"A very convenient new witness," Elizabeth said. "I spoke to the district attorney this afternoon. This witness turns out not to be very bright. The night he claims he was in that apartment watching Ted drop Leila off the terrace, he was in jail." She stood up. "Craig, would you walk me to my place? I've got to finish packing, and I want to get a swim in. It may be a long time before I'm here again… if ever."

Outside, the darkness was now absolute. The moon and stars were again covered with a misty fog; the Japanese lanterns in the trees and bushes were hazy dots of light. Craig put his arm around her shoulders. "That was quite a performance," he said.