We'll Meet Again (16 page)

The sleeping pill Dr. Daniels had given Molly had been highly effective. She had taken it at ten o’clock the night before, and she’d slept until eight this morning. It had been a deep, heavy sleep, from which she emerged somewhat groggy, but refreshed.

She put on a robe and set out to get coffee and juice, which she would bring upstairs to bed; once settled in, she would try to put everything in focus. But even before she reached the kitchen, she realized that first she had to take care of the disorder she saw all about her in the house.

Though they had made an effort to put things right, the police had changed the whole
feeling
of the house. It was subtle, but Molly recognized all the changes. Everything they had touched or moved was askew, out of order, not right.

The harmony of her home, the remembrance of which had been her surcease in those days and nights in prison, was gone and had to be restored.

After a quick shower, she donned jeans, sneakers, and an old sweatshirt and was ready for work. The temptation to call Mrs. Barry and ask her to help came and went swiftly. It’s
my
house, Molly told herself. Let me put it back together myself.

My life may be out of control, she despaired as she filled the sink with hot water and poured in liquid soap, but I can still get myself together enough to reclaim my house.

It isn’t that there are terrible stains anywhere, just some finger marks and smudges, she thought as she rearranged the dishes they had moved and straightened the pots and pans so that they were again lined up just so.

Having the police run roughshod through the house was like a surprise inspection of my cell, she thought. She remembered the strident sound of feet marching down the cell block corridor, the order to stand against the wall, being made to watch as her bed was taken apart as they searched for drugs.

She did not realize that she had started crying until she rubbed her cheek with the back of her hand and a soap bubble got in her eye.

There’s another reason for being glad Mrs. Barry is off today, she thought. I don’t have to bury my emotions. I can let it out. Dr. Daniels would give me an A plus.

She’d been polishing the foyer table with butcher’s wax when Fran Simmons called at 9:30.

Why did I agree to have lunch with her? Molly asked herself as she replaced the receiver.

But she knew why. Despite what Philip had cautioned, she wanted to tell Fran that for some reason Annamarie Scalli had seemed afraid.

And not of me, Molly thought. She wasn’t afraid of me, even though she was convinced I killed Gary.

O God, O God, why are You letting this happen to me? she asked silently as she collapsed onto one of the bottom stairs.

Now she heard her own sobs. I am
so
alone, she thought,
so
alone. She remembered her mom on the phone yesterday: “Dear, you’re right, it’s better we don’t come up yet.”

I wanted Mom to say they were on their way to be with me, Molly thought. I need them here,
now
. I need someone to help me.

At 10:30 the doorbell rang. She tiptoed to the door, leaned against it and waited. I’m not going to answer it, she thought. Whoever is there has got to think I’m not home.

Then she heard a voice. “Molly, open up. It’s me.”

With a sob of relief, Molly unlocked the door and a moment later began crying uncontrollably as she was hugged by Jenna.

“Good friend, best friend,” Jenna said, tears of sympathy in her eyes. “What can I do to help?”

Still sobbing, Molly nonetheless managed a laugh. “Turn the clock back a dozen years,” she said, “and don’t introduce me to Gary Lasch. Failing that, just be around for me.”

“Philip isn’t here yet?”

“He said he surely would be here at some point. He had to go to court.”

“Molly, you’ve got to call him. Cal got a tip. They found a trace of Annamarie Scalli’s blood on the ankle boots you were wearing Sunday night, and also in your car. I’m sorry. Cal hears that the prosecutor is going to have you arrested.”

After Calvin Whitehall got a call tipping him off that traces of Annamarie Scalli’s blood had been found on Molly Lasch’s shoe and in her car, he went immediately to Dr. Peter Black’s office.

“We’ve got a brand-new three-ring circus in the making,” he announced to Black, then paused as he scrutinized him closely. “You don’t seem that upset about it.”

“Am I upset that Annamarie Scalli, a potential troublemaker, isn’t out there anymore? No, I’m not,” Peter said, a look of smug satisfaction on his face.

“You told me there wasn’t a shred of proof of anything, and that if she had talked, she would have incriminated herself in the process.”

“Yes, I did say that, and it’s still accurate. Nevertheless, I find myself suddenly very grateful to Molly. Sordid as all this publicity will become, it has nothing to do with either one of us, or the hospital, or Remington Health Management.”

Whitehall considered his partner’s words.

Peter Black always had been intrigued by Cal ’s ability to sit both very still and very quiet when he was concentrating. It was as though his powerful body became rocklike in its stillness.

Finally, Cal Whitehall nodded in assent. “That’s an excellent point, Peter.”

“How is Jenna taking all this?”

“Jenna is with Molly right now.”

“Is that wise?”

“Jenna understands that I will not tolerate photographs of her linked arm-in-arm with Molly showing up in the newspapers at this time. Once the merger is complete, she can be as helpful to Molly as she chooses. Until then, she’s got to keep a certain distance.”

“How much help
can
she be, Cal? If Molly goes to trial again, even that hotshot lawyer won’t be able to get her the kind of deal he got from the prosecutor last time.”

“I’m aware of that. But you must understand, Jenna and Molly are like sisters. I admire Jenna’s loyalty, even while I have to keep it reined in at the moment.”

Black looked at his watch impatiently. “When did he say he’d call?”

“It should be any minute now.”

“It had better be. Roy Kirkwood is coming in. He lost a patient the other day and blames it on the system. The patient’s son is on the warpath.”

“ Kirkwood is immune to a lawsuit. He did want extra tests. We can handle the patient’s son.”

“It isn’t about money.”

“Everything’s
about money, Peter.”

Peter Black’s private phone rang. He picked up the receiver, listened for a moment, then touched the conference button and lowered the volume. “ Cal is here, and we’re ready, Doctor,” he said, his tone respectful.

“Good morning, Doctor,” Cal ’s commanding voice had no trace of its customary arrogance.

“Congratulations, gentlemen. I believe we have achieved another breakthrough,” the voice on the other end of the line said, “and if I’m right, all other accomplishments will pale by comparison.”

When Fran arrived at Molly’s home at one o’clock, it was immediately obvious to her that Molly had been crying. Her eyes were swollen, and even though she was wearing light makeup, there were traces of blotches on her cheeks.

“Come in, Fran. Philip got here a little while ago. He’s in the kitchen, watching me make a salad.”

So Philip’s here, Fran thought. I wonder what brought him up here in such a hurry? Whatever it is, I bet he won’t be happy to see me on the scene.

As they walked down the hall to the kitchen, Molly said, “Jenna was here this morning. She had to leave just a few minutes ago to meet Cal for lunch, but you know what she did, Fran? She pitched in and helped me get the house cleaned up. Maybe the police should have to take a course in how to execute a search warrant without leaving a mess.”

Molly’s voice was brittle. She sounds like she’s on the verge of hysteria or a breakdown, Fran thought.

It was obvious that Philip Matthews had come to the same conclusion. His eyes followed Molly constantly as she moved about the room, as she took the quiche from the box and put it in the oven. The entire time, she continued to speak in the same rapid, edgy voice. “Apparently they found Annamarie’s blood on the boots I was wearing Sunday night, Fran. And a trace of her blood in my car.”

Fran exchanged a heartsick glance with Philip Matthews, certain that his expression of concern was a mirror of her own.

“Who knows? Maybe this will be my last meal in this house for a while-isn’t that right, Philip?” Molly asked.

“No, it isn’t,” he replied, his voice tense.

“Meaning that after I’m arrested, I’ll get out on bail again. Well, that’s the nice thing about having money, isn’t it? Lucky people like me can just write a check.”

“Stop
it, Molly,” Fran snapped. She crossed to her friend and grabbed her shoulders. “I started my investigation with the premise that you killed your husband,” she said. “Then I began to have doubts. I felt that the police should have done more digging in their investigation of Gary ’s death, perhaps considered a couple of other possibilities. But I admit I was troubled that you were so intent on finding Annamarie Scalli. And then you found her, and now she’s dead. So while I’m still not
sure
if you’re a pathological killer, I continue to have very real doubts. I think there is some crazy web of intrigue going on around here, and you’ve been caught in it, like someone trapped in a maze. Of course, I may be wrong. You
may
be what ninety-nine percent of the world seems to think you are, but I swear to you I’m in the one percent zone. I’m going to go for broke to prove you are innocent of the deaths of both Gary Lasch and Annamarie Scalli.”

“And if you’re wrong?” Molly asked.

“If I’m wrong, Molly, I’ll do my best to see that you are placed in a facility where you can be comfortable and secure and be treated.”

Molly eyes brightened with unshed tears. “I will not get weepy again,” she said. “Fran, you’re the first and only person who has indicated any willingness to pursue the possibility that I may be innocent.” She glanced over at Philip. “Including you, my dear Philip, who I know would slay tigers for me. And including Jenna, who would put her hand in the fire for me, and including my parents, who if they thought I was innocent would be here right now, raising hell. I think-and hope-I am innocent of these two deaths. If I’m not, I can promise you I won’t be around to trouble people much longer.”

Fran and Philip Matthews exchanged glances. By unspoken agreement they did not comment on what to both of them was an implied suicide threat.

Grace under pressure, Fran thought as Molly served the quiche from an exquisite Limoges plate with a slender stem and gold base. The delicately patterned floral place mats on the breakfast room table matched the wall hanging.

The wall facing the garden had a large bay window. A few green shoots visible outside hinted at the approaching end of winter. At the hilly end of the deep property, Fran noticed the rock garden and was reminded of something she wanted to discuss with Molly.

“Molly, I asked you something about house keys the other day. Did you say something about a spare key?”

“We always hid one back there.” Molly gestured in the direction of the rock garden. “One of those rocks is a phony. Clever, don’t you think? At least it beats having a ceramic Peter Rabbit with a detachable ear perched on the porch, in charge of the ‘in case’ key.”

“ ‘In case’?” Philip queried.

“In case you forget the key.”

“Did you ever forget your key, Molly?” Fran asked casually.

“Fran, you know I’m a good girl,” Molly replied with a mock-serious smile. “I always do everything right. Why, everybody always said so. You must remember that from school.”

“Yes, and they said it because it was true,” Fran responded.

“I used to wonder what it would be like if the path hadn’t been made so smooth for me. I understood that it was, you know. I knew that I had it easy, that I was privileged. I admired you so much when we were in school, because you worked for things you wanted. I remember that when you started playing basketball, you were still a runt, but you were so fast and determined, and you made the team.”

Molly Carpenter admired
me!
Fran thought. I didn’t think she even knew I was alive.

“And then, when your father died, I felt so terrible for you. I knew people always defer to my father, and they should-he naturally attracts and deserves respect; he was and is a wonderful father. But your dad was able to
show
how proud he was of you. It was both in him to do that, and you gave him the opportunity-which was never the case for me. God, I remember the look on your father’s face when you scored the winning basket that last game of our senior year. It was great!”

Don’t,
Molly, Fran wanted to beg. Please don’t.

“I’m sorry so many things went wrong for him, Fran. Maybe it was like it is for me. A chain of events that we can’t control.” Molly put down her fork. “Fran, the quiche is wonderful. I’m just not hungry.”

“Molly, did Gary ever forget his key?” Fran asked. Without looking at him, she felt Philip Matthews’s stare, his unspoken command to not pester Molly with questions.

“ Gary? Forget? Heavens no. Gary was perfect. He used to tell me that one of the things he loved about me was that I was so predictable. Unlike most women, I was never late, never locked the keys in the car, never forgot my key ring. I got an A plus for that.” She paused, then smiled faintly, as though remembering. “Funny, did you notice how today I’m thinking in school terms? Grades. Marks. Plus or minus.”

Molly pushed back her chair and began to shiver. Alarmed, Fran rushed to her side. Just then the phone rang.

“It’s got to be Mother and Dad, or Jenna.” Molly’s voice was almost too low to be understood.

Philip Matthews picked up the phone. “It’s Dr. Daniels, Molly. He wants to know how you are.”

Fran answered for Molly. “She needs help. Ask him if he can come over and talk to her.”

After a few moments of a whispered exchange, Matthews hung up the receiver and turned to the two women. “He’ll be right over,” he promised. “Molly, why don’t you lie down until he gets here. You look pretty shaky.”

“I
feel
pretty shaky.”

“Come on.” Philip Matthews put an arm around Molly and pulled her against him as he led her from the breakfast room.

I might as well clean up, Fran thought as she looked at the mostly untouched meal. I’m certain nobody is going to want to eat anything now.

When Matthews came back, she asked, “What’s going to happen?”

“If the lab tests on any of the items they took connect her in any way to Annamarie’s death, she’ll be arrested. We should know very soon.”

“Oh, dear God.”

“Fran, I bullied Molly into keeping back most of her conversation with Annamarie Scalli. Some of it was terribly hurtful and would sound like reason for her to hate Annamarie. I’m going to take a gamble now and tell you everything she told me, in hopes that you may help her. I believe you when you say you’re out to prove her innocence.”

“Which you yourself are not convinced of, right?” Fran said levelly.

“I’m convinced she isn’t responsible for either death.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Fran, first of all, Annamarie told Molly that Gary said he was relieved when she lost the baby; he said it would have just complicated things. Then she said she overheard Gary Lasch and Dr. Jack Morrow having a serious quarrel only a few days before Morrow was murdered. Dr. Morrow then talked to Annamarie about holding a very important file for him for safekeeping, but he died before he gave it to her. Molly told me that she had the distinct impression Annamarie knew something she wasn’t telling, and that she was very fearful.”

“Fearful for her
own
safety?”

“That’s Molly’s impression.”

“Well, it’s something to go on. And I’ve got something else I want to look into. Mrs. Barry’s son, Wally, a young man with deep emotional and mental problems, was desperately upset by Dr. Morrow’s death, and for some reason I haven’t yet uncovered, he also was very angry at Gary Lasch. In addition he seems to have a particular interest in Molly. Only yesterday he took the key to this house off his mother’s key ring.”

The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” Fran said. “It’s probably Dr. Daniels.”

She opened the door to find two men holding out their shields and ID cards for her to read. The older one said, “We have a warrant for the arrest of Molly Carpenter Lasch. Will you take us to her, please?”

Fifteen minutes later the first cameramen were on the scene to record Molly Lasch, her hands cuffed behind her, her coat thrown over her shoulders, her head down, her hair falling forward over her face, as she was led from her house to a car from the state attorney’s office. From there she was driven to the courthouse in Stamford where, in a replay of the events of nearly six years ago, she was booked on a charge of murder.