Weep No More My Lady by Mary Higgins Clark

Syd are here!”
    Grimly he turned to Henry Bartlett. “I’m beginning to think you’re right. We should have gone to Connecticut.”

5
    MIN HAD ASSIGNED ELIZABETH THE BUNGALOW WHERE Leila had always stayed. It was one of the most expensive units, but Elizabeth was not sure that she was flattered. Everything in these rooms shouted Leila’s name: the slipcovers in the shade of emerald green Leila loved, the deep armchair with the matching ottoman. Leila used to sprawl on that after a strenuous exercise class—”My God, Sparrow, if I keep this up they can measure me for a thin shroud”; the exquisite inlaid writing desk—”Sparrow, remember the furniture in poor Mama’s place? Early Garage Sale.”
    In the short time Elizabeth had been with Min and Helmut, a maid had unpacked her bags. A blue tank suit and ivory terry-cloth robe were lying on the bed. Pinned to the robe was the schedule of her afternoon appointments: four o’clock, massage; five o’clock, facial.
    The building housing the women’s spa facilities was at one end of the Olympic pool—a rambling, self-contained one-story structure built to resemble a Spanish adobe. Placid from the outside, it was usually a whirlwind of activity within as women of all ages and shapes hurried along the tiled floors in terry-cloth robes, rushing to their next appointments.
    Elizabeth braced herself to see familiar faces—some of the regulars who came to the Spa every three months or so and whom she had gotten to know well during her summers working here. She knew that inevitably condolences would be offered, heads shaken: “I never would have believed Ted Winters capable . . .”
    But she did not see one single familiar face in the array of women padding from exercise classes to beauty treatments. Nor did the spa seem as busy as usual. At peak it accommodated about sixty women; the men’s spa held about the same number. There were nothing like that many.
    She reminded herself of the color coding of the doors: pink for facial rooms; yellow for massage; orchid for herbal wraps; white for steamcabinets; blue for sloofing. The exercise rooms were beyond the indoor pool and seemed to have been enlarged. There were more individual Jacuzzis in the central solarium. With a touch of disappointment, Elizabeth realized it was too late to soak in one of them for even a few minutes.
    Tonight, she promised herself, she’d go for a long swim.
    The masseuse who had been assigned to her was one of the old-timers. Small of frame but with powerful arms and hands, Gina was clearly delighted to see her. “You’re coming back to work here, I hope? Of course not. No such luck.”
    The massage rooms had obviously been done over. Did Min never stop spending money on this place? But the new tables were luxuriously padded, and under the expert hands of Gina she could feel herself begin to relax.
    Gina was kneading her shoulder muscles. “You’re in knots.”
    â€œI guess I am.”
    â€œYou have plenty of reason.”
    Elizabeth knew that that was Gina’s way of expressing her sympathy. She knew too that unless she began a conversation, Gina would be silent. One of Min’s firm rules to her help was that if guests wanted to talk, it was all right to converse with them. “But don’t you be yakking about your own problems,” Min would say at the weekly staff meetings. “Nobody wants to hear them.”
    It would be helpful to get Gina’s impressions of how the Spa was doing. “It doesn’t seem to be too busy today,” she suggested. “Is everybody on the golf course?”
    â€œI wish. Listen, this place hasn’t been busy in nearly two years. Relax, Elizabeth, your arm feels like a board.”
    â€œTwo years! What’s happened?”
    â€œWhat can I say? It started with that stupid mausoleum. People don’t pay these prices to look at