We'll Meet Again (12 page)

There is nothing like Sunday morning in Manhattan, Fran decided as she opened the apartment door at 7:30 to find the Sunday
Times
, thick and inviting, awaiting her. She fixed juice and coffee and a muffin, settled in her big chair, planted her feet on the ottoman, and picked up the first section of the paper. A few minutes later she put it down, realizing she had absorbed very little of what she had read.

“I’m worried,” she said aloud, then reminded herself that it was a bad habit to talk to yourself.

She had not slept well the night before and was sure that her restlessness had something to do with Molly’s cryptic statement that she might have some very interesting news for her. What kind of news could be “very interesting”? she wondered.

If Molly is conducting some kind of private investigation of her own, she could be getting in over her head, Fran thought. Pushing aside the newspaper, she got up, poured a second cup of coffee, and returned to the chair, this time to read Molly’s trial transcript.

For the next hour she went through the testimony, line by line. There was testimony from the first police officers to arrive on the scene, as well as from the medical examiner. That was followed by testimony from Peter Black and the Whitehalls, describing their final meeting with Gary Lasch, a few hours before he died.

Clearly it had been like pulling teeth to get Jenna to say anything negative, Fran thought, as she carefully studied her testimony.

PROSECUTOR: Did you speak to the defendant in the week before her husband’s death, while she was at her home on Cape Cod?

JENNA: Yes, I did.

PROSECUTOR: How would you characterize her emotional side?

JENNA: Sad. She was very sad.

PROSECUTOR: Was she angry at her husband, Mrs. Whitehall?

JENNA: She was upset.

PROSECUTOR: You didn’t answer my question. Was Molly Carpenter Lasch angry at her husband?

JENNA: Yes, I guess you would say so.

PROSECUTOR: Did she express
great
anger at her husband?

JENNA: Will you repeat the question?

PROSECUTOR: Surely, and will Your Honor direct the witness to answer without equivocation?

JUDGE: The witness is directed to answer the question.

PROSECUTOR: Mrs. Whitehall, during your telephone conversations with Molly Carpenter Lasch in that week before her husband’s death, did she express great anger at him?

JENNA: Yes.

PROSECUTOR: Did you know the reason Molly Carpenter Lasch was angry at her husband?

JENNA: No, not initially. I asked her, but she wouldn’t tell me at first. That Sunday afternoon she did.

When she read through Calvin Whitehall’s testimony, Fran decided that, intentionally or otherwise, he had been an extremely damaging witness. The state attorney must have loved
him
, she thought.

PROSECUTOR: Mr. Whitehall, you and Dr. Peter Black visited Dr. Gary Lasch on Sunday afternoon, April 8th. Is that correct?

CALVIN WHITEHALL: Yes, we did.

PROSECUTOR: What was the purpose of your visit?

CALVIN WHITEHALL: Dr. Black had told me he was very concerned about Gary. He said it had been obvious to him all week that Gary was deeply worried, so we decided to go see him.

PROSECUTOR: By “we,” you mean…?

CALVIN WHITEHALL: Dr. Peter Black and myself.

PROSECUTOR: What happened when you got there?

CALVIN WHITEHALL: It was about five o’clock. Gary brought us into the family room. He had put out a plate of cheese and crackers and opened a bottle of wine. He poured a glass for each of us and said, “I’m sorry to say this, but it’s time for true confessions.” Then he admitted to us that he had been having an affair with a nurse at the hospital named Annamarie Scalli and that she was pregnant.

PROSECUTOR: Was Dr. Lasch concerned over your possible reaction?

CALVIN WHITEHALL: Of course. That nurse was only in her early twenties. We were afraid of the ramifications-a sexual harassment suit, for example. Gary was the head of the hospital, after all. The Lasch name, thanks to his father’s legacy, is a symbol of integrity that, of course, spilled over to the hospital and then to Remington Health Management. We were deeply distressed at the prospect of that image changing because of a scandal.

Fran continued to read the trial transcript for another hour. When she put it down, she kneaded her forehead, hoping to prevent the beginning of a headache she could feel coming on.

Gary Lasch and Annamarie Scalli certainly seem to have managed to keep their affair under wraps, she thought. What jumps out of these pages is absolute shock on the part of Molly, Peter Black, and the Whitehalls, the people closest to him, when they learned about it.

She remembered the wide-eyed astonishment expressed by Susan Branagan, the volunteer at the hospital coffee shop. She had said that everyone had assumed Annamarie Scalli was falling for that nice Dr. Morrow.

Dr. Jack Morrow, who was murdered just a short time before Gary Lasch, Fran reminded herself.

It was ten o’clock. She debated going for a run but then decided she really didn’t feel like doing that today. Maybe I’ll see what’s playing at the cinema, she thought. I’ll take in a movie, as Dad would say.

The phone rang just as she had picked up the entertainment section of the newspaper to begin her search for the right film, at the right theater, at the right time.

It was Tim Mason. “Surprise,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind. I called Gus, and he gave me your phone number.”

“Not at all. If this is a sports survey, even though I lived in California for fourteen years, the Yankees are my team. I also want Ebbets Field to be rebuilt. And I have to say that between the Giants and Jets, it’s close, but given a choice at the altar, I’d choose the Giants.”

Mason laughed. “That’s what I like-a woman who can make up her mind. Actually I called to see if, by any chance, you might have nothing better to do and would therefore consider meeting me for brunch at Neary’s.”

Neary’s Restaurant was virtually around the corner from Fran’s apartment, on Fifty-seventh Street.

Fran realized that she was not only surprised but pleased at the invitation. She had resented the way, when they met, Mason’s eyes had reflected his awareness of who she was and who her father had been, but then she had told herself she had to expect that reaction. It wasn’t
his
fault that he knew her father was a thief.

“Thank you. I’d like that,” she said sincerely.

“Noon?”

“Great.”

“Please don’t dress up.”

“I wasn’t planning to dress up. Day of rest and all that.”

After Fran hung up she talked aloud to herself for the second time that morning: “Now what is
this
all about?” she asked. “It sure as blazes isn’t old-fashioned boy-meets-girl.”

Fran arrived at Neary’s to find Tim Mason deep in conversation with the bartender. He was wearing an open-necked sport shirt, dark green corduroy jacket, and tan slacks. His hair was rumpled, and his jacket felt cold when she touched his arm.

“I get the feeling you didn’t take a cab,” she said as he turned to look at her.

“I don’t like all those reminders about buckling your seatbelt,” he said. “So I walked. Good to see you, Fran.” He smiled down at her.

Fran was wearing ankle boots with low heels and realized that she felt the way she had in the first grade-short.

A smiling Jimmy Neary gave them one of his four corner tables, which immediately signaled to Fran that Tim Mason must be a favorite regular patron. In the weeks since she had moved to New York, she had come here once before, with a couple from her apartment building. They’d been given a corner table then, too, and they had explained its significance to her.

Over bloody marys, Tim talked about himself. “My folks left Greenwich when they got divorced,” he told her. “It was the year after college, and I was working for the
Greenwich Time
. The editor called me a cub reporter, but actually I was mostly a gofer. That was the last time I lived there.”

“How many years ago was that?” Fran asked.

“Fourteen.”

She made a quick mental calculation. “That’s why, when we met, you recognized my name. You knew about my father.”

He shrugged. “Yes.” His smile was apologetic.

The waitress handed them menus, but they both ordered eggs Benedict without even looking at the options. When the waitress was gone, Tim took a sip of his bloody mary, then said, “You haven’t asked, but I’m going to give you the story of my life, which I think you’ll find particularly enthralling since you obviously know your sports.”

We’re actually not too dissimilar, Fran thought as she listened to Tim talking about his early job, broadcasting the high school games in a small town she had never heard of in upstate New York. Then she told him about being an intern at a local cable system in a town located near San Diego, where the most exciting event was the town council meeting.

“Starting out, you take whatever job you can get,” she said as he nodded in agreement.

He, too, was an only child, but unlike her, he did not have stepsiblings.

“After the divorce my mother moved to Bronxville,” he explained. “That’s where both she and my father had been raised. She bought a townhouse. Guess what? My father bought one in the same complex. They never got along when they were married, but now they go out on dates, and on holidays we go to his place for cocktails and hers for dinner. It confused me at first, but it seems to work for them.”

“Well, I’m pleased to say my mother is very happy, and with good reason,” Fran said. “She’s been remarried for eight years. She figured that I’d be coming back to New York eventually and suggested I take my stepfather’s name. You certainly know how much publicity there was about my father.”

He nodded. “Yes, there was. Were you tempted to do that?”

Fran folded and unfolded her cocktail napkin. “No, never.”

“Are you sure it’s wise for you to be the one to research a program set in Greenwich?”

“Probably not wise, but why do you ask?”

“Fran, I was at a wake in Greenwich last night, for a woman I knew growing up. She died of a heart attack at Lasch Hospital. Her son is my friend, and he’s terribly angry. Seems to feel more could have been done for her and thinks that, while you’re at it, you should investigate the treatment they give patients at the hospital.”

“
Could
more have been done for his mother?”

“I don’t know. He may have been just crazy with grief, although I wouldn’t be surprised if you hear from him. His name is Billy Gallo.”

“Why would he call me?”

“Because he heard you were seen in the coffee shop at Lasch Hospital on Friday. I bet by now everyone in town has heard you were there.”

Fran shook her head in disbelief. “I didn’t think I’d been on air long enough for people to recognize me so easily. I’m sorry about that,” she said with a shrug. “I did pick up an interesting piece of information though, just by chatting with a volunteer in the coffee shop. She probably would have clammed up if she had known I was a reporter.”

“Was this visit connected to the program you’re doing on Molly Lasch?” he asked.

“Yes, although mostly for background,” she said, not anxious to go into the Molly Lasch investigation. “Tim, do you know Joe Hutnik at the
Greenwich Time?
”

“Yes. Joe was there when I was on the staff. A good guy. Why do you ask?”

“Joe doesn’t think much of HMOs in general, but he seems to think that Remington Health Management is no worse than the rest of them.”

“Well, Billy Gallo doesn’t think so.” He saw a look of concern on her face. “But don’t worry. He’s really a nice guy-just very upset right now.”

As the table was cleared and coffee served, Fran looked around. Almost every table was taken now, and there was a cheerful bustle in the cozy pub. Tim Mason is a really nice guy, she thought. Maybe his friend is going to call me, and maybe he isn’t. Tim’s real message is that I’m in the spotlight in Greenwich, and that the old stories-and jokes-about my father’s death are being revived.

As Fran looked around the room, she did not see Tim Mason’s compassionate glance, nor did she realize that the expression in her eyes brought back to him vividly the image of the teenage girl mourning her father.

Annamarie Scalli had agreed to meet Molly at eight o’clock at a diner in Rowayton, a town ten miles northeast of Greenwich.

The location and the hour had been Annamarie’s suggestion. “It’s not fancy, and it’s quiet on Sunday, especially that late,” she had said. “And I’m sure neither one of us wants to bump into anyone we know.”

At six o’clock-much too early, she knew-Molly was ready to leave. She had changed clothes twice, feeling too dressed up in the black suit she first put on, then too casual in denims. She finally settled on dark blue wool slacks and a white turtleneck sweater. She twisted her hair into a chignon and pinned it up, remembering how Gary had liked her to wear it that way, especially liked the tendrils that escaped and fell loosely on her neck and ears. He said it made her look real.

“You always look so perfect, Molly,” he would tell her. “Perfect and elegant and well bred. You manage to make a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt look like formal dress.”

At the time she thought he’d been teasing her. Now she wasn’t sure. It was what she needed to find out. Husbands talk to their girlfriends about their wives, she thought. I need to know what Gary told Annamarie Scalli about me. And while I’m asking questions, there’s something else I want to talk to her about: what she was doing the night Gary died. After all, she had a good reason to be very, very angry with him too. I heard the way she spoke to him on the phone.

At seven o’clock, Molly decided it finally was reasonable to leave for Rowayton. She took her Burberry from the downstairs closet and was headed toward the door when, as a last-minute thought, she went back up to her bedroom, took a plain blue scarf from the drawer, and searched until she found a pair of oversized Cartier sunglasses, a style that had been fashionable six years ago but probably was dated now. Well, at least they will give me a
sense
of being disguised, she decided.

At one time the three-car garage had held her BMW convertible, Gary ’s Mercedes sedan, and the black van he had bought two years before he died. Molly remembered how surprised she’d been when Gary showed up with it one day. “You don’t fish, you don’t hunt, you wouldn’t be caught dead on a campground. You’ve got a big trunk in the Mercedes, easily big enough for your golf clubs. So what’s with the van?”

It had not occurred to her at the time that, for his own purposes, Gary might have wanted a vehicle that looked exactly like dozens of other vans in the area.

After Gary ’s death, his cousin had arranged for his cars to be picked up. When Molly went to prison, she had asked her parents to sell hers. As soon as her parole was granted they had celebrated by buying her a new car, a dark blue sedan she’d selected from the sales brochures they sent.

She had looked at the car the day she came home, but now she got in it for the first time, enjoying the smell of the new leather. It had been nearly six years since she had driven, and suddenly she found the feel of the ignition key in her hand to be very liberating.

The last time she had been behind the steering wheel of a car was that Sunday she had returned from Cape Cod. With her hands on the wheel now, Molly could visualize that drive. I was gripping the wheel so tightly that my hands hurt, she remembered as she backed out of the garage, then used the remote to close the door. She drove slowly down the long driveway and onto the street. Normally I’d have put the car in the garage, but I remember that night I stopped right in front of the house and just left it there. Why did I do that? she wondered, straining to remember. Was it because I had the suitcase and, that way, wouldn’t have to carry it as far?

No, it was because I was frantic to talk to Gary face to face. I was going to ask him then the same questions I’m going to ask Annamarie Scalli now. I needed to know how he felt about me, why he was away so much, why, if he wasn’t happy in our marriage, he hadn’t been honest and told me instead of letting me waste so much time and so much effort in trying to be a good wife to him.

Molly felt her lips tighten, felt the old anger and resentment surge through her body. Stop it! she told herself. Stop it right now, or turn around and go home!

Annamarie Scalli arrived at the Sea Lamp Diner at twenty after seven. She knew she was ridiculously early for her meeting with Molly Lasch, but she wanted very much to be the first to arrive. The shock of actually speaking to Molly, of having her actually track her down, had not set in until after she had agreed to the meeting.

Her sister Lucy had argued strenuously against keeping the date. “Annamarie, that woman was so upset about you that she bludgeoned her husband to death,” she had said. “What makes you think she won’t attack you? The very fact that she may be telling the truth when she says she doesn’t remember killing him tells you she’s a mental case. And you’ve always been afraid because you know too much about what was going on at the hospital. Don’t meet her!”

The sisters had argued all evening, but Annamarie had been determined to go through with it. She had reasoned that since Molly Lasch had tracked her down, it would be better to go ahead and meet with her face to face at the diner rather than to risk having her show up at her home in Yonkers, maybe even stalking her as she tried to take care of her clients.

Once inside the diner, Annamarie had headed for a corner booth at the far end of the long, narrow room. A few people were sitting at the counter, their expressions glum. Equally malcontent was the waitress, who had become annoyed when Annamarie had refused the front table at which she’d tried to place her.

The gloom of the diner only added to the feeling of foreboding and despondency that had come over Annamarie on the long drive back from Buffalo. She could feel fatigue settling into her bones. I’m sure that’s why I feel so low and depressed, she told herself without conviction, sipping the tepid coffee the waitress had slapped down in front of her.

She knew much of the problem stemmed from the argument that had raged between her and her sister. While she did love her sister dearly, Lucy was not shy about hitting her where it hurt most, and her litany of “if onlys” finally had gotten to her.

“Annamarie, if
only
you’d married Jack Morrow. As Mama used to say, he was one of the nicest men who ever walked in shoe leather. He was
crazy
about you. And he was a doctor, and a good one at that! Remember, Mrs. Monahan came in to say hello that weekend you brought him up here? Jack said he didn’t like her color. If he hadn’t persuaded her to go for those tests and that tumor hadn’t been found, she wouldn’t be alive today.”

Annamarie had continued to give the same answer she’d been giving Lucille the past six years. “Look, Lucy, give it a rest. Jack knew that I wasn’t in love with him. Maybe under other circumstances, I could’ve loved him. Maybe it would’ve worked out if things had been different, but they weren’t. The fact was, I was only in my early twenties and on my first job. I was just starting to live. I wasn’t
ready
for marriage. Jack understood that.”

Annamarie remembered that the week before Jack was killed, he had quarreled with Gary. She’d been on her way to Gary ’s office but was stopped in the reception room by the sound of angry voices. The secretary had whispered, “Dr. Morrow is in there with Dr. Lasch. He’s
terribly
upset. I haven’t been able to make out what it’s about, but I suppose it’s the usual-a procedure he wanted done for a patient has been canceled.”

I remember at the time being terrified that they might be arguing about me, Annamarie thought. I ran rather than risk having Jack confront me there; I was that sure Jack had found out.

But later, when Jack had stopped her in the corridor, he had given no indication of being angry with her. Instead, he had asked if she was going to visit her mother soon. When Annamarie told him she would be driving up the weekend after next, he said that he was going to copy a very important file he had compiled, and he asked if she please would keep the copy in her mother’s attic. He’d get it from her later.

I was so relieved he hadn’t found out about Gary and me and so tortured over what I knew about the hospital that I wasn’t even curious about what was in the file, Annamarie thought. He said he’d give it to me soon and made me promise that I wouldn’t tell anyone about it. But he never did give it to me, and a week later he was dead.

“Annamarie?”

Startled, Annamarie looked up. She’d been so immersed in thought that she had not seen Molly Lasch come in. One glance at the other woman and she suddenly felt heavy and unattractive. The oversized sunglasses could not hide Molly’s exquisite features. The hands that untied the belt of her coat were long and slim. When she pulled the scarf from her head, her hair was darker than Annamarie remembered, but still fine and silky.

Molly studied Annamarie as she slid into the seat opposite her. She’s not what I expected, Molly thought. She’d seen Annamarie Scalli in the hospital a few times and remembered her as being very pretty, with a provocative figure and a mass of dark hair.

There was nothing provocative about this plainly dressed woman across from her. Her hair was short now, and while her face was still pretty, it was somewhat puffy. She was heavier than Molly remembered. But her eyes were lovely, deep brown with dark lashes, although the expression Molly saw in them was one of unhappiness and fear.

She’s afraid of me, Molly thought, amazed that she might have that effect on someone.

The waitress reappeared, friendlier now. Annamarie could see that she was impressed by Molly.

“Tea with lemon, please,” Molly said.

“And more coffee for me, if it’s not too much trouble,” Annamarie added as the waitress turned away.

Molly waited until they were alone before she said, “I’m grateful you agreed to meet me. I know this is probably as awkward for you as it is for me, and I promise I won’t keep you too long, but you can help me if you’ll be honest with me.”

Annamarie nodded.

“When did your relationship with Gary begin?”

“A year before he died. My car wouldn’t start one day, and he gave me a ride home. He came in for a cup of coffee.” Annamarie looked steadily at Molly. “I knew he was getting ready to hit on me. A woman can always tell, can’t she?” She paused for a moment, looking down at her hands. “The truth is, I had a huge crush on him, and so I made it easy for him.”

He was getting ready to hit on her, Molly thought. Was she the first? Probably not. The tenth? she wondered. She’d never know. “Was he involved with any other nurses?”

“None that I knew of, but then I’d only been working at the hospital a few months when I became involved with him. He
did
stress the need for absolute discretion, which suited me fine. I come from a strict Italian Catholic family, and my mother would have been heartbroken if she’d known I was carrying on with a married man.

“Mrs. Lasch, I want you to know-” Annamarie stopped as the waitress returned with the tea and more coffee. She didn’t slam the cup down in front of Molly Lasch, Annamarie noticed.

When the waitress was out of earshot, she continued: “Mrs. Lasch, I want you to know that I absolutely, profoundly regret what happened. I know it destroyed your life. It ended Dr. Lasch’s life. I gave up my baby because I wanted him to have a clean start with people who would give him a happy, two-parent home. Maybe someday, when he’s an adult, he’ll want to see me. If he does, I hope he’ll be able to understand and even forgive me. You may have taken his father’s life, but my actions set this entire tragedy in motion.”

“Your actions?”

“If I hadn’t gotten involved with Dr. Lasch, none of this ever would have happened. If I hadn’t called him at home, you probably would never have known.”

“Why
did
you call him at home?”

“Well, first of all, he told me that you and he had been discussing divorce, but that he didn’t want you to know there was another woman in the picture. He said it would complicate things for him with the divorce, and it would just make you jealous and vindictive.”

So that’s what my husband was telling his girlfriend about me? Molly thought. He said that we were talking about divorce, and that I was jealous and vindictive?
That’s
the man I went to prison for killing?

“He said it was just as well that you lost the baby; he said a baby would only have complicated the breakup.”

Molly sat in stunned silence. Dear God, could Gary really have said that? she thought.
He said it was just as well I lost the baby
.

“But when I told him
I
was pregnant, he freaked out. Told me to get rid of it. He stopped coming to see me and even ignored me at the hospital. His lawyer phoned and offered a settlement, provided I signed a nondisclosure statement. I called your home because I had to talk to him, and he wouldn’t see me at the hospital. I was desperate; I wanted to discuss with him whether or not he planned to be involved with his child. At that time I had no intention of giving it up for adoption.”

“And I picked up the phone and overheard the call.”

“Yes.”

“Did my husband ever talk about me to you, Annamarie? I mean, other than to say we were talking about divorce?”

“Yes.”

“Please, tell me what he said. I have to know.”

“I realize now that anything he said to me about you then was because he thought it was what I wanted to hear.”

“I’d still like to know exactly what that was.”

Annamarie paused uncertainly, then looked directly at the woman across from her, a woman who at first she had disdained, then hated, and now, finally, was beginning to feel some compassion for. “He called you a boring Stepford wife.”

A boring Stepford wife
, Molly thought. For a moment it seemed to her that she was once more in prison, eating the tasteless food, hearing the click of locks, lying awake for sleepless night after sleepless night.

“As a husband-
and
as a doctor-he wasn’t worth the price you paid for killing him, Mrs. Lasch,” Annamarie said quietly.

“Annamarie, you’ve made it very clear that you believe I killed my husband, but, you see, I’m not so sure myself. I genuinely don’t know what happened. I’m not convinced that I won’t regain some memory of that night. At least, that’s what I’m working toward. Tell me, where were you on that Sunday evening?”