Free Weep No More My Lady by Mary Higgins Clark Page A

Syd, with his cynical eyes and mournful face. She knew he’d put a million dollars of his own money into Leila’s play—money he had probably borrowed. Leila had called him “the Dealer.” “Sure, he works hard for me, Sparrow, but that’s because I make a lot of money for him. The day I quit being an asset to him, he’ll walk over my dead body.”
    Elizabeth felt a chill as Syd gave her a perfunctory show-business kiss. “You look good; I may have to steal you from your agent. I didn’t expect to see you till next week.”
    Next week. Of course. The defense was probably going to use Cheryl and Syd to testify to Leila’s emotional state that night in Elaine’s.
    â€œAre you filling in for one of the instructors?” Cheryl asked.
    â€œElizabeth is here because I invited her,” Min snapped.
    Elizabeth wondered why Min seemed so terribly nervous. Min’s eyes were darting around, and her hand was still gripping Elizabeth’s elbow as though she were afraid of losing her.
    â€œCocktails” were offered to the newcomers. Friends of the Countess drifted over to join them. The host of a famous talk show greeted Syd genially. “Next time you want us to book one of your clients, make sure he’s sober.”
    â€œThat one’s never sober.”
    Then she heard a familiar voice coming from behind her, an astonished voice: “Elizabeth, what are you doing here?”
    She turned and felt Craig’s arms around her—the solid, dependable arms of the man who had rushed to her when he heard the news flash, who had stayed with her in Leila’s apartment, listening as she babbled outher grief, who had helped her to answer the questions of the police, who had finally located Ted. . . .
    She’d seen Craig three or four times in the last year. He’d look her up when she was filming. “I can’t be in the same city without at least saying hello,” he’d say. By tacit agreement they avoided discussing the impending trial, but they never got through a dinner without some reference to it. It was through Craig that she’d learned that Ted was staying in Maui, that he was jumpy and irritable, that he was practically ignoring business and out of touch with his friends. It was from Craig, inevitably, that she’d heard the question “Are you sure?”
    The last time she’d seen him, she’d burst out, “How can anyone be sure of anything or anybody?” and asked him not to contact her again until after the trial. “I know where your loyalty has to be.”
    But what was he doing here now? She’d have thought he’d be with Ted preparing for the trial. And then as she stepped back from his embrace, she saw Ted coming up the steps of the veranda.
    She felt her mouth go dry. Her arms and legs trembled; her heart beat so wildly she could hear its pounding in her ears. Somehow in these months she had managed to bar his image from her conscious mind, and in her nightmares, he was always shadowy—she’d seen only the murderous hands, pushing Leila over the railing, the merciless eyes watching her fall. . . .
    Now he was walking up these stairs with his usual commanding presence. Andrew Edward Winters III, his dark hair contrasting with the white dinner jacket, his strong, even features deeply tanned, looking all the better for his self-imposed exile in Maui.
    Outrage and hatred made Elizabeth want to lunge at him; to push him down those steps as he had pushed Leila, to scratch that composed, handsome face as Leila had scratched it, trying to save herself. The brackish taste of bile filled her mouth and she gulped, trying to fight back nausea.
    â€œThere he is!” Cheryl cried. In an instant she was sliding through the clusters of people on the veranda, her heels clattering, the scarf of her red silk evening pajamas trailing behind herThinking of that note, of the others