We'll Meet Again, Page 5

  He wore that tie for the first time that last day, Fran thought. At dinner, Mom had teased him about saving it for my graduation. Had there been anything symbolic about his wearing something so extravagantly expensive when he knew he was going to kill himself because of money problems?

  The exit for Greenwich was coming up. Fran left I-95, reminding herself again that the Merritt would be a more direct route; then she began watching for the local streets that after two miles would lead her to the neighborhood where she had spent four years of her life. She found herself shivering, despite the warmth in the car.

  Four formative years, she told herself. And they certainly were.

  When she drove past Barley Arms, she resolutely kept her eyes on the road, not permitting herself even a glance at the partially concealed parking lot where her father had sat in the backseat of the family car and fatally shot himself.

  She deliberately avoided as well the street on which she had lived those four years. There’ll be another time for that, she thought. A few minutes later she was pulling up to Molly’s house, a two-story ivory stucco with dark brown shutters.

  A plump woman in her sixties with a cap of gray hair and bright birdlike eyes opened the door almost before Fran’s finger left the doorbell. Fran recognized her face from the newspaper clippings of the trial. She was Edna Barry, the housekeeper who had given such damaging evidence against Molly. Why would Molly rehire her? Fran wondered in astonishment.

  As she was taking off her coat, steps sounded on the stairs. A moment later, Molly came into view and hurried across the foyer to greet her.

  For a moment they studied each other. Molly was wearing denim jeans and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her hair was twisted up and casually pinned so that tendrils fell around her face. As Fran had noticed at the prison, Molly looked too thin, and fine lines were starting to show around her eyes.

  Fran had worn her favorite daytime outfit, a wellcut pin-striped pants suit, and she felt suddenly overdressed. Then she brusquely reminded herself that if she was to do a good job on this assignment, she had to separate her present self from the insecure adolescent she’d been all those years ago at Cranden.

  Molly was the first to speak: “Fran, I was afraid you’d change your mind. I was so surprised to see you at the prison yesterday and so impressed when I saw you on the news last night. That’s when I got this crazy idea that maybe you could help me.”

  “Why would I have changed my mind, Molly?” Fran asked.

  “I’ve seen the True Crime program. In prison it was very popular with all of us, and I could tell they don’t do many open-and-shut cases. But obviously my fears were unfounded—you’re here. Let’s get started. Mrs. Barry made coffee. Would you like some?”

  “I’d love a cup.”

  Dutifully, Fran followed Molly down a hallway on the right. She managed to get a good look at the living room, noticing the quiet, tasteful, and obviously expensive furnishings.

  At the door of the study, Molly stopped. “Fran, this was Gary’s study. It’s where he was found. It just occurred to me that before we sit down, I’d like you to see something.”

  She walked into the study and stood beside the couch. “Gary’s desk was here,” she explained. “It was facing the front windows, which means his back was to the door. They say that I came in, grabbed a sculpture from the side table that was there”—again she pointed—“and smashed Gary’s head with it.”

  “And you agreed to a plea bargain because you and your lawyer felt a jury would convict you of doing just that,” Fran said quietly.

  “Fran, stand here where the desk used to be. I’m going to the foyer. I’m going to open and close the front door. I’m going to call your name. Then I’m going to come back here. Please, just bear with me.”

  Fran nodded and walked into the room, stopping at the spot Molly had indicated.

  The hallway was not carpeted, and she could hear Molly’s steps as she went down the hall, and a moment later she heard Molly calling her name.

  What she’s saying is that if Gary had been alive, he should have heard her, Fran thought.

  Molly was back. “You could hear me calling, couldn’t you, Fran?”

  “Yes.”

  “Gary phoned me at the Cape. He begged me to forgive him. I wouldn’t talk to him then, though. I said I’d see him Sunday night at about eight. I was a little early, but even so he would have been waiting for me. Don’t you think if he had been able, he would have gotten up or at least turned his head when he heard me? It doesn’t make sense that he would have ignored me. The floor wasn’t covered with wall-to-wall carpeting the way it is now. Even if he hadn’t heard me call his name, he absolutely would have heard me once I was in the room. And he would have turned around. I mean, who wouldn’t?”

  “What did your lawyer say when you told him that?” Fran asked.

  “He said that Gary might simply have dozed off sitting at his desk. Philip even suggested that that story could work against me, that it could look as though I came home and was infuriated that Gary wasn’t anxiously watching for me.”

  Molly shrugged. “All right, I’ve done my bit. Now I’ll let you ask the questions. Shall we stay in here, or would you be more comfortable in another room?”

  “I think that’s your decision, Molly,” Fran said.

  “Then let’s stay here. The scene of the crime.” She said it matter-of-factly, without a smile.

  They sat together on the couch. Fran took out her tape machine and put it on the table. “I hope you don’t mind, but I have to record this.”

  “I expected it.”

  “Please keep this in mind, Molly—the only way I can hurt you when we do this program is by concluding it with a statement like, ‘The overwhelming evidence suggests that even though Molly Lasch claims she cannot remember causing the death of her husband, there seems to be no other possible explanation.’ ”

  For an instant, Molly’s eyes brightened with tears. “That wouldn’t shock anyone,” she said flatly. “It’s what they all believe now.”

  “But if there is another answer, Molly, I’ll only be able to help you find it if you’re absolutely candid with me every step of the way. Please don’t hedge or hold back, no matter how uncomfortable you may feel about a question.”

  Molly nodded. “After five and a half years in prison, I’ve learned what total lack of privacy is all about. If I could survive that, I can handle your questions.”

  Mrs. Barry brought in coffee. Fran could see by the set of her mouth that the woman disapproved of their staying in this room. She had the sense that the housekeeper was protective of Molly; yet at the trial she had given damaging evidence against her. Mrs. Barry is definitely on the list of people I want to interview, she thought.

  For the next two hours, Molly Lasch answered Fran’s questions, seemingly without hesitation. From Molly’s responses, Fran learned that the girl she had known mostly from a distance had become a woman who shortly after graduating from college had fallen in love with and married a handsome doctor ten years her senior.

  “I was working at an entry-level job at Vogue,” Molly said. “I loved it and began moving up pretty fast. But then, when I got pregnant, I had a miscarriage. I thought maybe the tight schedules and the commuting had something to do with it, so I quit the job.”

  She paused. “I wanted a baby so much,” she continued, her voice soft. “I tried to get pregnant for another four years, and then when I finally did, I lost that baby too.”

  “Molly, what was your relationship with your husband like?”

  “Once, I would have said perfect. Gary was so supportive after I had the second miscarriage. He always spoke about what an asset I was to him, that he couldn’t have launched Remington Health Management without my help.”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “My connections, I guess. My father’s connections. Jenna Whitehall was a big help. She was Jenna Graham—you probably remember her
from Cranden.”

  “I remember Jenna.” Another member of the in crowd, Fran thought. “She was president of our class in the senior year.”

  “That’s right. We were always best friends. Jenna introduced Gary and Cal to me at a reception at the country club. Later Cal joined Gary and Peter Black as a business partner. Cal’s a financial wizard and was able to steer some important companies into signing up with Remington.” She smiled. “My dad was a big help, too.”

  “I’ll want to talk to both the Whitehalls,” Fran said. “Will you help me arrange it?”

  “Yes, I want you to talk to them.”

  Fran hesitated. “Molly, let’s talk about Annamarie Scalli. Where is she now?”

  “I have no idea. I understand the baby was born that summer after Gary died, and I understand it was put up for adoption.”

  “Did you suspect that Gary was involved with another woman?”

  “Never. I trusted him absolutely. The day I found out, I was upstairs and picked up the phone to make a call. Gary was talking, and I would have hung up, but then I heard him say, ‘Annamarie, you’re being hysterical. I’ll take care of you, and if you decide to keep the baby, I’ll support it.’ ”

  “How did he sound?”

  “Angry and nervous. Almost panicky.”

  “How did Annamarie respond?”

  “She said something like, ‘How could I have been such a fool?’ and hung up.”

  “What did you do, Molly?”

  “I was shocked, stunned. I came racing downstairs. Gary was here at his desk, just about to leave for work. I’d met Annamarie at the hospital. I confronted him with what I had overheard. He readily admitted that he’d gotten involved with her, but he said it was a crazy, foolhardy thing to do and he regretted it bitterly. He was almost in tears and begged me to forgive him. I was furious. Then he had to leave for the hospital. The last time I saw him alive was when I slammed the door after him. Terrific memory to keep for the rest of my life, isn’t it?”

  “You loved him, didn’t you?” Fran asked.

  “I loved him and trusted him and believed in him, or at least I told myself I did. Now I’m not so sure; sometimes I wonder.” She sighed and shook her head. “Anyway, I am sure that the night I came back from the Cape, I was much more hurt and sad than angry.” As Fran watched, an expression of utter, profound sadness filled Molly’s eyes. She hugged her arms across her chest and sobbed, “Don’t you see why I have to prove I didn’t kill him?”

  Fran left a few minutes later. Every instinct told her that Molly’s outburst was the key to her search for exoneration. This is slam-dunk, she thought. She loved her husband, and she’ll do anything to get someone to tell her that there’s a possibility she didn’t kill him. I think she probably genuinely doesn’t remember, but I still think she did it. It’s a waste of time and money for NAF-TV to try to raise even a serious doubt about her guilt.

  I’ll tell Gus that, she thought, but before I do, I’m going to find out everything I can about Gary Lasch.

  On impulse she detoured on the way to the Merritt Parkway to drive past Lasch Hospital, which had replaced the private clinic founded by Jonathan Lasch, Gary’s father. This was where her father had been taken after he shot himself and where he died seven hours later.

  She was astonished to see that the hospital was now twice the size that she remembered. There was a traffic light outside the main entrance, and she slowed the car enough to miss the green light. As she waited at the red signal, she studied the facility, noting the wings that had been added to the main structure, the new building on the righthand side of the property, the elevated parking garage.

  With a stab of pain she searched out the window of the waiting room on the third floor where she remembered standing while she waited for news about her father, knowing instinctively that he was beyond help.

  This will be a good place to come and talk to people, Fran thought. The light changed, and five minutes later she was on the approach to the Merritt Parkway. As she drove south through the swiftly flowing traffic, she mulled over the fact that Gary Lasch had met and become involved with Annamarie Scalli, a young nurse at the hospital, and that reckless indiscretion had cost him his life.

  But was that his only indiscretion? she wondered suddenly.

  Chances were, it would probably turn out that he’d made one colossal mistake, like her father, but otherwise was the upstanding citizen, fine doctor, and devoted health-care provider that people knew and remembered.

  But maybe not, Fran reminded herself as she passed the state line between Connecticut and New York. I’ve been in this business long enough to expect the unexpected.

  11

  After she saw Fran Simmons to the door, Molly returned to the study. Edna Barry looked in on her at 1:30. “Molly, unless there’s something else you want me to do, I’ll be leaving now.”

  “Nothing else, thank you, Mrs. Barry.”

  Edna Barry stood uncertainly at the door. “I wish you’d let me get you some lunch before I go.”

  “I’m not hungry yet, really.”

  Molly’s voice was muffled. Edna could tell she had been crying. The guilt and fear that had haunted Edna Barry every waking hour for nearly six years suddenly deepened. Oh God, she begged. Please understand. I couldn’t do anything else.

  In the kitchen she put on her parka and fastened a scarf under her chin. From the counter she picked up her key ring, stared at it for a moment, and with a convulsive gesture, folded her fist around it.

  Not twenty minutes later she was in her modest Cape Cod–style home in Glenville. Her thirty-year-old son, Wally, was watching television in the living room. He did not take his eyes off the set when she came in, but at least he seemed calm. Some days, even when he’s on the medicine, he can be so agitated, she thought.

  Like that terrible Sunday when Dr. Lasch had died. Wally had been so angry that day because Dr. Lasch had scolded him earlier in the week when he came to the house, went into the study, and picked up the Remington sculpture.

  Edna Barry had omitted one detail from her account of what had happened that Monday morning. She had not told the police that her key to the Lasch house was not on her key ring where it belonged, that she had had to let herself in with the key Molly kept hidden in the garden, and that later she had found the missing key in Wally’s pocket.

  When she asked him about it, he started to cry and ran into his room, slamming the door. “Don’t talk about it, Mama,” he had sobbed.

  “We must never, never talk about this to anybody,” she had told him firmly, and had made him promise that he wouldn’t. And he never had, not to this day.

  She always had tried to convince herself it probably had been just a coincidence. After all, she had found Molly covered with blood. Molly’s fingerprints were on the sculpture.

  But suppose Molly did start to remember details of that night?

  Suppose she really had seen someone in the house?

  Had Wally been there? How could she ever be sure? Mrs. Barry wondered.

  12

  Peter Black drove through the darkened streets to his home on Old Church Road. Once it had been the carriage house of a large estate. He had bought it during his second marriage, which, like his first, had ended within a few years. His second wife, however, unlike his first, had had exquisite taste, and after she left him, he had made no effort to change the decor. His only alteration was to add a bar and stock it plentifully. His second wife had been a teetotaler.

  Peter had met his late partner, Gary Lasch, at medical school, and they had become friends. It was after the death of Gary’s father, Dr. Jonathan Lasch, that Gary had come to Peter with a proposition.

  “Health management is the new wave of medicine,” he had said. “The nonprofit clinic my father opened can’t go on like this. We’ll expand it, make it profitable, start our own HMO.”

  Gary, blessed with a distinguished name in medicine, had taken his father’s place as head of the clinic,
which later became Lasch Hospital. The third partner, Cal Whitehall, came on board when together they founded the Remington Health Management Organization.

  Now the state was on the verge of approving Remington’s acquisition of a number of smaller HMOs. Everything was going well, but it wasn’t a done deal yet. They had reached the last step on the tightrope. The only problem they could see was that American National Insurance was fighting to acquire the companies too.

  But everything still could go wrong, Peter reminded himself as he parked at his front door. He knew he had no intention of going out again tonight, but it was cold, and he wanted a drink. Pedro, his longtime live-in cook and housekeeper, would put the car away later.

  Peter let himself in and went directly to the library. The room was always welcoming, with the fire burning and the television set tuned to the news station. Pedro appeared immediately, asking the nightly question: “The usual, sir?”

  The usual was scotch on the rocks, except when Peter decided on a change of pace and asked for bourbon or vodka.

  The first scotch, sipped slowly and appreciatively, began to calm Peter’s nerves. A small plate of smoked salmon likewise appeased his slight feeling of hunger. He did not like to dine for at least an hour after reaching home.

  He took the second scotch with him while he showered. Carrying the rest of the drink into the bedroom, he dressed in chinos and a long-sleeved cashmere shirt. Finally, almost relaxed, and with the worrisome sense that something was going wrong somewhat abated, he went back downstairs.

  Peter Black frequently dined with friends. In his renewed status as a single man, he was showered with invitations from attractive and socially desirable women. The evenings he was at home he usually brought a book or magazine to the table. Tonight, though, was an exception. As he ate baked swordfish and steamed asparagus and sipped a glass of Saint Emilion, he sat in silent reflection, thinking through the meetings that were still to come concerning the mergers.

  The ring of the telephone in the library did not interrupt his thought process. Pedro knew enough to tell whoever it was that he would return the call later. That was why, when Pedro came into the dining room, the cell phone in his hand, Peter Black raised his eyebrows in annoyance.