We'll Meet Again (13 page)

“In my apartment, packing.”

“Was anyone with you at the time?”

Annamarie’s eyes widened. “Mrs. Lasch, you’re wasting your time if you came here with the purpose of suggesting I had anything to do with your husband’s death.”

“Do you know of anyone who might have had a reason to kill him?” Molly could see the startled look in the eyes of the other woman. “Annamarie, you’re afraid of something. What is it?”

“No I’m not. I don’t know anything more. Look, I have to go now.” Annamarie put her hand on the table, preparing to stand.

Molly reached over and grasped her wrist. “Annamarie, you were only in your early twenties then. Gary was a sophisticated man. He wronged both of us, and we both had reason to be angry. But I don’t think I killed him. If you have
any
reason to think there was someone else who might have had a grudge against him, please,
please
, tell me who it is. At least it would give me a starting point. Did he quarrel with anyone?”

“There was one quarrel I know of. With Dr. Jack Morrow.”

“Dr. Morrow? But he died before Gary.”

“Yes, and before he died, Dr. Morrow was acting strange and asked me to hold a copy of a file for him. But he was murdered before he gave it to me.” Annamarie pulled her hand away from Molly’s grasp. “Mrs. Lasch, I don’t know whether you did or didn’t kill your husband, but if you didn’t, then you’d better be very careful how you go around asking questions.”

Annamarie almost crashed into the waitress, who was returning to offer refills. Instead, Molly asked for the check and hastily paid it, hating the lively curiosity in the woman’s eyes. Then she quickly grabbed her coat, anxious to catch up with Annamarie. Boring Stepford wife, she thought bitterly as she hurried from the diner.

As she drove back to Greenwich, Molly mentally reviewed the short talk with Annamarie Scalli. She knows something she’s not telling me, Molly thought. It’s almost as if she were afraid. But of what…?

That night, Molly stared in shock at the breaking story on the CBS eleven o’clock news, of the just-discovered body of an unidentified woman who had been stabbed to death in her car in the parking lot of the Sea Lamp Diner in Rowayton.

Assistant State Attorney Tom Serrazzano had not been the one who prosecuted Molly Carpenter Lasch, but he’d always wished he’d had the chance. It was obvious to him that she’d been guilty of murder, and that because of who she was, she’d been given the sweetheart deal of all sweetheart deals-only five and a half years served for taking her husband’s life.

Tom had been in the office when Molly had been prosecuted for Gary Lasch’s death. He had been appalled when the trial prosecutor had allowed a plea to the manslaughter charge. He believed that any prosecutor worth his salt would have continued the trial and gone for the murder conviction.

It particularly bugged him when the perpetrators had money and connections, like Molly Carpenter Lasch.

In his late forties, Tom’s entire legal career had been spent in law enforcement. After clerking for a judge, he had joined the state attorney’s office and, over a period of time, had earned the reputation of being a tough prosecutor.

On Monday morning the stabbing of a young woman, first identified as Annamarie Sangelo, from Yonkers, took on new meaning when the investigation revealed that her real name was Annamarie Scalli, the “other woman” in the Dr. Gary Lasch murder case.

The statement given by the waitress from the Sea Lamp Diner, describing the woman Scalli had met there, sealed it for Serrazzano. He saw it already as an open-and-shut case.

“Only this time she won’t plea-bargain,” he said grimly to the detectives working on the case.

It’s terribly important that I’m absolutely accurate in what I tell them, Molly said to herself over and over through the night.

Annamarie left the diner before me. I paid the check. When I was walking from the table to the door, it felt as though my head was spinning. All I could hear was Annamarie’s voice, saying that Gary was relieved I’d lost my baby, that he thought of me as a boring Stepford wife. I suddenly felt as if I were suffocating.

There were only a few cars in the lot when I got to the diner. One of them was a Jeep. I noticed it was still there when I left. A car was pulling away as I came out. I
thought
it was Annamarie, and I called to her. I remember that I wanted to ask her something.
But what?
What could I have wanted to ask her?

The waitress will describe me. They’ll know who I am. They’ll ask questions. I’ve got to call Philip and explain to him what happened.

Philip thinks I killed Gary.

Did I?

Dear God, I know I didn’t hurt Annamarie Scalli, Molly thought. Will they think that? No! Not again! I can’t go through that again.

Fran. Fran will help me. She’s starting to believe that I didn’t kill Gary. I
know
she’ll help me.

The news at 7 A.M. identified the victim of the stabbing in Rowayton as Annamarie Sangelo, an employee of the Visiting Nurse Service, from Yonkers. They don’t know who she is yet, Molly thought. But they’ll work it out soon.

She made herself wait until eight o’clock to call Fran, then cringed at the distress and disbelief in Fran’s voice when she said, “Molly, are you telling me you met Annamarie Scalli last night, and now she’s been murdered?”

“Yes.”

“Have you called Philip Matthews?”

“Not yet. My God, he told me not to see her.”

Fran quickly flashed on the trial transcript she had read, including the devastating testimony Calvin Whitehall had given. “Molly, I’ll call Matthews right away.” She paused, then continued with a new urgency in her voice. “Listen to me. Don’t answer the phone. Don’t answer the door. Don’t talk to anyone, even Jenna, until Philip Matthews is with you. Swear that you won’t.”

“Fran, do you think I killed Annamarie?”

“No, Molly, I don’t, but other people will think you did it. Now sit tight. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

An hour later Fran was turning into Molly’s driveway. Molly had been watching for her and opened the door before she could knock.

She looks as though she’s in shock, Fran thought. Good God, is it possible that she really
is
guilty of two murders? Molly’s complexion was ashen, as white as the chenille robe that seemed much too large for her slender frame.

“Fran, I can’t go through this again. I’d rather kill myself,” she whispered.

“Don’t even think like that,” Fran said, taking both her hands in her own. She felt how trembling and cold they were. “Philip Matthews was in the office when I called. He’s on the way. Molly, go upstairs, take a hot shower and get dressed. I heard on the car radio that Annamarie has been identified. There’s no question that the police will be looking to talk to you. I don’t want them to see you looking like this.”

Molly nodded and, like an obedient child, turned and started up the stairs.

Fran took off her coat and looked apprehensively out the window. She knew that as soon as the news was out that Molly had met Annamarie Scalli at the diner, the media would arrive like a pack of wolves.

Here comes the first one, she thought as a small red car turned in off the street. Fran was grateful when she saw Edna Barry behind the wheel. She hurried to the kitchen to meet her and noticed there was no sign that Molly had even made coffee. Ignoring the instant hostility that came over Barry’s face when she let herself in, Fran said, “Mrs. Barry, would you please put on a pot of coffee right away and fix whatever Molly usually has for breakfast.”

“Is anything wrong with-?”

The chimes of the front doorbell cut short the question.

“I’ll get it,” Fran said. Please, God, let it be Philip Matthews, she prayed.

She was relieved to find that it was Philip, although his worried expression told her even more forcibly than she already felt that there might easily be a rush to judgment.

He did not mince words: “Ms. Simmons, I appreciate your calling me, and I appreciate that you warned Molly not to talk to anyone until I got here. Nevertheless, this situation has to be grist for the mill for you and your program. I must warn you that I will not tolerate your questioning Molly or even being around when I talk to her.”

He looks just the way he did when he tried to stop Molly from talking to the press outside the prison last week, Fran thought. He may believe that she killed Gary Lasch, but he’s still the kind of lawyer Molly needs. He’ll slay dragons for her if he has to.

It was a comforting thought. Keep your perspective, Fran warned herself. “Mr. Matthews,” she said, “I’m familiar enough with the law to know that your conversations with Molly are privileged and mine are not. I think you still are convinced that Molly killed Dr. Lasch. I started out believing that, but in the past few days I have developed some mighty serious doubts about her guilt. At the very least, I have a lot of questions I want to get answered.”

Philip Matthews continued to look at her coldly.

“I suppose you think this is a media trick,” Fran snapped. “It isn’t. As someone who likes Molly very much and wants to help her, who wants to learn the truth, however hurtful that may be, I suggest you develop an open mind where Molly is concerned; otherwise you should get the hell out of her life.”

She turned her back on him. I need a cup of coffee as much as Molly does, she decided.

Matthews followed her into the kitchen. “Look Fran… It
is
Fran, isn’t it?” he asked. “I mean, that’s what your friends call you?”

“Yes.”

“I think we’d better get on a first-name basis. Obviously when I talk to Molly, you can’t be in the room, but it would be helpful if you would fill me in on anything you know that might help her.”

The antagonism was gone from his face. The protective way he said Molly’s name hit Fran. She’s a lot more to him than just a client, she decided. It was a tremendously reassuring thought. “Actually I’d like to go over a number of things with you,” she said.

Mrs. Barry had finished preparing a tray for Molly. “Coffee, juice, and toast or a muffin is all she ever has,” she explained.

Fran and Matthews helped themselves to coffee. Fran waited until Mrs. Barry had left to go upstairs with the tray before she asked, “Did you know that everyone at the hospital was surprised when they learned of Annamarie’s affair with Gary Lasch, because they thought she was romantically involved with Dr. Jack Morrow, who was also on the staff of Lasch Hospital? And that Jack Morrow just happened to be murdered in his office two weeks before Dr. Lasch died? Did you know that?”

“No, I did not.”

“Did you ever meet Annamarie Scalli?”

“No, the case was resolved before she was scheduled to testify.”

“Do you remember if anything ever came up about a house key that was always kept hidden in the garden here?”

Matthews frowned. “Something may have come up, but it didn’t amount to anything. Quite frankly, my feeling was that, because of the circumstances of the murder and the way Molly was covered with Dr. Lasch’s blood, the investigation into his death began and ended with her.

“Fran, go upstairs and tell Molly I have to see her right away,” Matthews said. “I remember she has a sitting room in her suite. I’ll talk to her there before I let the police get near her. I’ll get Mrs. Barry to have them wait down here somewhere.”

Just then a distressed Mrs. Barry hurried into the kitchen. “When I went upstairs a moment ago with her breakfast, Molly was in bed, fully dressed and with her eyes closed.” She paused. “Dear God, it’s just like the last time!”

Dr. Peter Black invariably started his day with a quick check of the international stock market on one of the cable financial channels. He then ate a spartan breakfast-during which he insisted upon complete silence-and later listened to classical music on the car radio as he drove to work.

Sometimes when he reached the hospital grounds he would take a brisk stroll before settling down at his desk.

On Monday morning the sun was out. Overnight the temperature had risen almost twenty degrees, and Black decided a ten-minute walk this morning would clear his head.

It had been a troubled weekend. The visit to Molly Lasch on Saturday evening had been another failure, Cal Whitehall’s stupid, ill-conceived notion of the way to win the woman’s cooperation.

Peter Black frowned as he noticed a gum wrapper lying at the edge of the parking lot and made a mental note to have his secretary call the maintenance department and warn them about their sloppiness.

Molly’s stubborn insistence on pursuing this idea of her innocence in Gary ’s death infuriated him.
“I didn’t do it. The killer went thataway”
-Who did she think she was kidding? He knew what she was doing, though. He thought of it as Molly-strategy: Tell a lie loud enough, emphatically enough, often enough, and eventually some people will believe you.

It will be all right, he reassured himself. The mergers
will
go through. After all, they had the inside track to absorb the other HMOs, and the process already was underway. This is where we miss Gary, Black thought. I just don’t have the patience for the endless socializing and glad-handing needed to keep key company executives on board with us. Cal can use business leverage to keep some of them in line, he told himself, but Cal ’s kind of aggressive power plays don’t work with everyone. If we’re not careful, some might switch to other health plans.

Frowning now, his hands in his pockets, Peter Black continued his walk around the new wing of the hospital, thinking back to his early days there, and remembering with grim admiration how Gary Lasch used to seem to thrive on all the socializing. He could turn on the charm and, when necessary, his solicitous demeanor, that look of concern that he had perfected.

Gary knew what he was doing when he married Molly too, Black reflected. Molly was the perfect Martha Stewart-type hostess, with her looks and money and family connections. Important people were actually flattered to be invited to her dinner parties.

Everything had been going so smoothly, just like clockwork, Peter Black thought, until Gary was fool enough to get involved with that Annamarie Scalli. Of all the sexy-looking young women in the world, he had to go and pick a nurse who also happened to be smart.

Too smart
.

He had reached the entrance to the colonial style brick building that housed the offices of Remington Health Management Organization. He debated briefly about continuing his walk, but then decided to go in. The day was ahead of him, and he would have to deal with it sooner or later.

At ten o’clock he received a call from a nearly hysterical Jenna. “Peter, have you heard the news? A woman who was murdered last night in the parking lot of a diner in Rowayton has been identified as Annamarie Scalli, and the police are questioning Molly. On the radio they just about came out and called her a suspect.”

“Annamarie Scalli is dead?! Molly is a suspect?!” Peter Black proceeded to ask rapid-fire questions, pressing Jenna for details.

“Molly apparently met with Annamarie at the diner,” Jenna told him. “You’ll remember she said on Saturday that she wanted to see her. The waitress said Annamarie left the diner first, but that Molly followed her out less than a minute later. When the diner closed a little later still, apparently somebody noticed that a car had been in the lot for some time, and they checked it out because they’ve been having trouble with teenagers parking there and drinking. But what they found was Annamarie, stabbed to death.”

After Peter Black replaced the receiver, he leaned back, a contemplative look on his face. A moment later he smiled and heaved a great sigh, as though a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Reaching into one of the desk’s side drawers, he extracted a flask. Pouring himself a shot of whiskey, he lifted the small cup in a toast. “Thank you, Molly,” he said aloud, then drank.