We'll Meet Again (6 page)

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.

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.

Pedro covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “Excuse me, Doctor, but I thought you might want to take this call. It is Mrs. Lasch. Mrs. Molly Lasch.”

Peter Black paused, then downed his glass of wine in a single gulp-allowing himself none of the customary time to savor the delicate taste-and reached for the phone. His hand was trembling.

Molly had given Fran a list of people she might want to begin interviewing. First on the list was Gary ’s partner, Dr. Peter Black. “He never said a word to me after Gary ’s death,” she’d told her.

Then Jenna Whitehall: “You’ll remember her from Cranden, Fran.”

Jenna’s husband, Cal: “When they needed a cash reserve to start Remington, Cal arranged the financing,” she explained.

Molly’s lawyer, Philip Matthews: “Everyone thinks he was wonderful because he got me a light sentence and then fought for early parole. I’d like him better if I thought he had even an ounce of doubt about my guilt,” she’d said.

Edna Barry: “Everything was in perfect order when I got home yesterday. It was almost as though the past five and a half years hadn’t even happened.”

Fran had asked Molly to speak to each of them and let them know she would be calling. But when Edna Barry looked in on her before she left, Molly did not feel like mentioning it to her.

Eventually Molly had gone into the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator. She saw that Mrs. Barry had stopped at the delicatessen on her way in. The rye bread with caraway seeds, Virginia ham, and Swiss cheese she had requested were there. She took them out and with careful pleasure made a sandwich, then opened the refrigerator again and found the spicy mustard she loved.

And a pickle, she thought. I haven’t wanted to eat a pickle in years. Smiling unconsciously, she brought the plate to the table, made a cup of tea, then looked around for the local newspaper she had not bothered to open earlier.

She flinched when she saw a picture of herself on the front page. The caption read “Molly Carpenter Lasch released after five and a half years in prison.” The account rehashed the details of Gary ’s death, the plea bargain, and her declaration of innocence at the prison gate.

Hardest to read was the coverage given to the background of her family. The article included a profile of her grandparents, longtime pillars of Greenwich and Palm Beach society, listing their achievements and charities. It also discussed her father’s sterling business career, Gary ’s father’s distinguished history in medicine, and the model health maintenance organization Gary had cofounded with Dr. Peter Black.

All of them good people, their accomplishments impressive, but everything is turned into juicy gossip because of me, Molly thought. No longer hungry, she pushed away the sandwich. As it had earlier in the day, the feeling of fatigue and sleepiness was overwhelming her. The psychiatrist at the prison had treated her for depression and had urged her to see the doctor who had treated her while she was awaiting trial.

“You told me you liked Dr. Daniels, Molly. You said you felt comfortable with him because he believed you when you said you had no memory of Gary ’s death. Remember, extreme fatigue can be a sign of depression.”

As Molly rubbed her forehead in an effort to ward off the beginning of a headache, she remembered that she liked Dr. Daniels very much and that she should have included his name with those she had given Fran. Maybe she would try to get an appointment with him. More important, she’d phone and tell him that if Fran Simmons called, he had permission to speak freely about her.

Molly got up from the table, dumped the rest of the sandwich in the compactor, and started upstairs, carrying her tea. The ringer on the phone was turned off, but she decided she should check the answering machine for messages.

She now had a new unlisted phone number, so only a few people knew it. They included her parents, Philip Matthews, and Jenna. Jenna had called twice. “Moll, I don’t care what you say, I’m coming over tonight,” her message said. “I’m bringing dinner over at eight.”

Once she’s here, I’ll be glad to see her, Molly acknowledged to herself as she started up the stairs again. In the bedroom, she finished the tea, kicked off her shoes, lay down on top of the coverlet, and pulled it around her. She fell asleep immediately.

Her dreams were fragmented. In them, she was in the house. She was trying to talk to Gary, but he wouldn’t acknowledge her. Then there was a sound-what was it? If she could only recognize it, then everything would be clear. That sound.
That sound
. What
was
it?

She woke at 6:30 to find tears running down her cheeks. Maybe it’s a good sign, she thought. This morning, when she spoke to Fran, had been the first time she had cried since that week she spent on Cape Cod nearly six years ago, when she’d done nothing
except
cry. When she first learned that Gary was dead, it was as though something inside her dried up, became permanently arid. From that day to this one, she had been tearless.

Reluctantly she got up, splashed water on her face, brushed her hair, and changed from the jeans and cotton shirt to a beige sweater and slacks. As an afterthought she put on earrings and light makeup. When Jenna had visited her in prison, she had prodded her to wear makeup in the visiting room. “Best foot forward, Moll; remember our motto.”

Downstairs again, Molly lit the gas fire in the family room off the kitchen. Family room for the family of one, she thought. On the evenings they had been home, Gary and she had loved watching old movies together. His collection of classic films still filled the shelves.

She thought of the people she had to call to ask them to cooperate with Fran Simmons. She was unsure of one of them. She did not want to call Peter Black in his office, but she
did
want him to agree to talk to Fran, so she decided to call him at home. And rather than putting it off, she’d do it tonight. No, she’d do it right now.

She had scarcely thought of Pedro in nearly six years, but when she heard his voice, memories of the small dinner parties Peter used to have came rushing back. Often they included just the six of them-Jenna and Cal, Peter and his current wife or date, herself and Gary.

She didn’t blame Peter for wanting nothing to do with her. She knew she probably would feel that way if someone hurt Jenna. Old friend, best friend. That was the litany they used to singsong to each other.

She half expected to be told that Peter was not available and was surprised when he did take her call. Hesitantly, then quickly, Molly said what she needed to say: “Tomorrow, Fran Simmons from NAF-TV is going to call to make an appointment with you. She’s doing a piece for the
True Crime
program, on Gary ’s death. I don’t care what you say about me, Peter, but
please
see her. I’d better warn you that Fran said it would be much better if she had your cooperation, but if not, she’d find a way to work around you.”

She waited. After a long pause, Peter Black said quietly, “I would think you would have the decency to leave well enough alone, Molly.” His voice was tight, though his words were ever so slightly slurred. “Don’t you think Gary ’s reputation deserves better than to have the Annamarie Scalli story revived? You paid a very small price for what you did. I warn you, you will be the ultimate loser if a cheap television show reenacts your crime for a national audience…”

The click of the receiver as he hung up was almost drowned out by the ringing of the front doorbell.

For the next two hours, Molly felt as though life was almost normal again. Jenna had brought not only dinner but a bottle of Cal ’s best Montrachet. They sipped wine in the family room, then ate their meal at the coffee table there. Jenna dominated the conversation as she mapped out the plans she had made for her friend. Molly was to come in to New York, spend a few days in the apartment, go shopping and to the hot new salon Jenna had discovered, where she could have a complete one-stop makeover. “Hair, face, nails, the bod, the works,” Jenna said triumphantly. “I’ve already planned to take time off to be with you.” She grinned at Molly. “Tell the truth. I look pretty good, don’t you think?”

“You’re a walking ad for whatever regimen you’re on,” Molly agreed. “At some point I’ll take you up on that. But for now, no.”

She put down her demitasse cup. “Jen, Fran Simmons was here today. You probably remember her. She went to Cranden with us.”

“Her father shot himself, right? He was the guy who embezzled all that money from the library.”

“That’s right. She’s an investigative reporter now, for NAF-TV. She’s going to do a show about Gary ’s death for the network’s
True Crime
program.”

Jenna Whitehall did not attempt to hide her dismay: “Molly, no!”

Molly shrugged. “I didn’t expect even you to understand, so I know you won’t understand this next thing either. Jenna, I need to see Annamarie Scalli. Do you know where she is?”

“Molly, you’re crazy! Why in God’s name would you want to see that woman? When you think…” Jenna’s voice trailed off.

“When you think that if she hadn’t fooled around with my husband, he might still be alive today? That’s what you mean-right? I agree, but I simply must see her. Does she still live in town?”

“I haven’t a clue where she is. From what I understand, she accepted that settlement from Gary, got out of town, and hasn’t been heard from since. She would have been called as a witness at the trial, but that wasn’t necessary after the plea bargain.”

“Jen, I want you to ask Cal to get his people onto finding her. We all know Cal can do anything, or at least get someone to do it for him.”

Cal ’s “can do” attitude had been a kind of running joke between them for years. Jenna, however, didn’t laugh.

“I’d rather not,” she said, her voice suddenly strained.

Molly thought she understood the reason for Jenna’s reluctance. “Jenna, you’ve got to understand something. I’ve paid the price for Gary ’s death, whether I was responsible for it or not. I believe that at this point I have earned the right to know what really happened that night and why. I need to try to understand my own actions and reactions. Maybe after that I’ll be able to go on. I have to try to put together for myself something that will resemble a normal life.”

Molly got up, went into the kitchen, and returned with the morning paper. “Maybe you’ve seen this. It’s the kind of thing that will follow me throughout my life.”

“I’ve seen it.” Jenna pushed the paper aside and took Molly’s hands. “Molly, a hospital, like a person, can lose its reputation because of a scandal. All the stories about Gary ’s death, including disclosure of his affair with a young nurse, followed by your trial, hurt Lasch Hospital
badly
. It’s doing a good job for the community, and Remington Health Management is flourishing at a time when a lot of other HMOs are in deep trouble. Please, for your sake, for the sake of the hospital, call off Fran Simmons and forget about finding Annamarie Scalli.”

Molly shook her head.

“Just
consider
it, Molly,” Jenna urged. “Look, you know I’ll back you up no matter what, but please at least
consider
Plan A.”

“We go in to the city, and I get a makeover. Right?”

Jenna smiled. “You bet.” She stood. “Okay, I’d better be on my way. Cal will be looking for me.”

Arm in arm they walked to the front door. With her hand on the knob, Jenna hesitated, then said, “Sometimes I wish we could go back to Cranden and start all over, Moll. Life was a lot easier then. Cal is different from you and me. He doesn’t play by the same rules. Anything or anyone that causes him to lose money becomes the enemy.”

“Including
me?”
Molly asked.

“I’m afraid so.” Jenna opened the door. “Love you, Molly. Be sure to lock up and turn the security system on.”