We'll Meet Again

  They smiled when she said that, but their smiles were benign, and she took them as encouragement.

  “Then that really classy-looking lady came in, and right away you could tell there was no love lost between the two of them.”

  Detective Green held up a picture. “Is this the woman who joined Annamarie Scalli?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “What exactly was their attitude to each other, Gladys? Think carefully—this could be important.”

  “They were both nervous,” she said emphatically. “When I brought the tea to the second lady, I heard the other one call her Mrs. Lasch. I couldn’t hear what they said to each other, except little bits of talk when I brought the tea and when I tidied up a table near them.”

  Gladys could tell that this information had disappointed the detectives, so she rushed to add, “But business was real slow, and since I was just moping around and there was something about those two women that made me curious, I sat on a stool at the counter and watched them. Of course, later I realized I’d seen Molly Lasch’s picture in the paper last week.”

  “What did you observe going on between Molly Lasch and Annamarie Scalli?”

  “Well, the dark-haired woman, I mean the one named Annamarie Scalli, started looking more and more nervous. Honest to God, it was almost like she was afraid of Molly Lasch.”

  “Afraid, Gladys?”

  “Yeah, I mean it. She wouldn’t look her in the eye, and, actually, I don’t blame her. The blonde, I mean Mrs. Lasch—well, believe me, as Annamarie Scalli talked, you should have seen the look on Mrs. Lasch’s face. Cold, like an iceberg. She sure didn’t like what she was hearing.

  “Then I saw Ms. Scalli start to get up. You could tell she wanted to be a million miles away from there. So I headed over to see if they wanted anything more—you know, refills.”

  “Did she say anything?” Detective Green and Assistant State Attorney Victor Packwell asked in unison.

  “Let me explain,” Gladys said. “Annamarie Scalli got up. Mrs. Lasch grabbed her wrist so she couldn’t leave. Then Ms. Scalli broke away from her and rushed to get out. Practically knocked me down, she was in such a hurry.”

  “What did Mrs. Lasch do?” Packwell demanded.

  “She couldn’t leave fast enough either,” Gladys said firmly. “I gave her the check. It was for a dollar thirty. She tossed five dollars down and went running after Ms. Scalli.”

  “Did she seem upset?” Packwell asked.

  Gladys narrowed her eyes in a dramatic effort to remember and to describe Molly Lasch as she had appeared at that moment. “I would say she had a funny look on her face, kinda like she’d been punched in the gut.”

  “Did you see Mrs. Lasch get in her car?”

  Gladys shook her head emphatically. “No, I did not. When she opened the door leading out to the parking lot, she seemed to be talking to herself, and then I heard her call out, ‘Annamarie,’ and I figured she still had something to say to the other woman.”

  “Do you know if Annamarie Scalli heard her?”

  Gladys sensed that the detectives would be terribly disappointed if she said she couldn’t be sure. She hesitated. “Well, I’m pretty sure that she must have gotten her attention, because Mrs. Lasch called her name again, and then called out ‘Wait.’ ”

  “She called for Annamarie to wait!”

  It was like that, wasn’t it? Gladys asked herself. I was half expecting Mrs. Lasch to come back looking for change, but then I could tell that all she cared about was to catch up with the other woman.

  Wait.

  Did Molly Lasch say that, or did that couple who had just taken a table call Waitress?

  Gladys saw the excitement on the detectives’ faces. She did not want this moment to end. This was part of what she had waited for. All her life. Finally it was her turn. She looked again at the eager faces. “What I mean is, she called Annamarie’s name twice, then when she said ‘Wait,’ I got the feeling that she’d attracted her attention. I remember thinking that Annamarie Scalli had probably waited out in the parking lot to talk to Mrs. Lasch.”

  That was kind of the way it was, Gladys told herself, as the two men smiled broadly.

  “Gladys, you’re very important to us,” Victor Packwell said gratefully. “I have to tell you that down the line you’ll be needed for further testimony.”

  “I’m glad to help,” Gladys assured him.

  Within the hour, having read and signed her statement, Gladys was on her way back to Rowayton in Detective Green’s car. The only thing that marred her happiness was Green’s response to her probing about his father’s marital status.

  His parents had just celebrated their fortieth wedding anniversary.

  At the same time, at the courthouse in Stamford, assistant state attorney Tom Serrazzano was appearing before a judge to request a search warrant authorizing them to search Molly Carpenter Lasch’s home and automobile.

  “Judge,” Serrazzano said, “we have probable cause to believe that Molly Lasch murdered Annamarie Scalli. We believe that evidence relevant to this crime may be found in these two locations. If there are bloodstains or hairs or fibers on her clothes or on a weapon or in her car, we want to seize them before she cleans or otherwise disposes of them.”

  40

  On the drive back to New York from Greenwich, Fran systematically reviewed the events of the morning.

  The media had arrived at Molly’s house in time to catch the detectives from the state attorney’s office as they were leaving. Gus Brandt had run file tape on Molly’s release from prison, as Fran did a live voice-over by phone from Molly’s house.

  As the Merritt became the Hutchinson River Parkway, Fran replayed her report in her mind: “In a stunning development, it has been confirmed that the woman found stabbed to death last night in the parking lot of the Sea Lamp Diner in Rowayton, Connecticut, has been identified as Annamarie Scalli. Ms. Scalli was the so-called other woman in the Dr. Gary Lasch murder case, which was in the headlines six years ago and then again last week, when Molly Carpenter Lasch, the wife of Dr. Lasch, was released from prison where she had been serving time for killing her husband.

  “Although details are sketchy at this time, the police have indicated that Mrs. Lasch was seen last evening at the Rowayton diner, apparently meeting with the murder victim.

  “In a prepared statement, Lasch’s lawyer, Philip Matthews, explained that Molly Lasch had requested a meeting with Ms. Scalli to bring closure to a painful chapter in her life, and that she and Scalli had an honest and frank exchange. Annamarie Scalli left the diner first, and Molly Lasch never saw her again. She extends her sympathy to the Scalli family.”

  After she’d completed the telecast, Fran had gotten in her car, planning to head immediately back to the city, but Mrs. Barry had come running out of the house to get her. Once she was inside, a grim-faced and disapproving Philip Matthews had asked her to come into the study. She had entered the room to find Molly sitting on the sofa, her hands clasped together, her shoulders drooping. The immediate impression Fran had gotten was that the jeans and blue cable-knit sweater Molly was wearing suddenly had jumped a size—she seemed so small inside them.

  “Molly assures me that as soon as I leave she is going to tell you everything she told me,” Matthews had said. “As her attorney, I can only advise her. Unfortunately, I can’t compel her to take my advice. I realize Molly considers you a friend, Fran, and I believe you do care about her, but the fact is that if it came to a subpoena you might be forced to answer questions we may not want answered. It is for that reason I have advised her not to tell you the events of last night. But again, I can only advise her.”

  Fran had cautioned Molly that what Philip said was absolutely true, but Molly had insisted that she wanted Fran to know what happened anyway.

  “Last night I met Annamarie. We spoke for fifteen or twenty minutes,” Molly had said. “She left ahead of me, and I came home. I did not see her in the parking lot. A car was p
ulling out as I left the diner, and I called, thinking it might be her. Whoever was in the car, however, either didn’t hear me call or didn’t want to hear.”

  Fran had asked if it was possible that it had been Annamarie in that car, and suggested that perhaps she might have come back to the parking lot later, but Philip pointed out that Annamarie was found in her Jeep; Molly was sure that the vehicle she saw leaving the lot was a sedan.

  Having heard about their leave-taking, Fran asked Molly what she and Annamarie had talked about. On that aspect of the meeting, Fran felt that Molly had been less forthcoming. Is there something she doesn’t want me to know? she thought. If so, what was it, and why was Molly being secretive? Was Molly trying to use her somehow?

  As Fran steered her car onto the Cross County Parkway, which would lead her to the West Side Highway in Manhattan, she reviewed a few other unanswered questions she had regarding Molly Lasch, among them: why did Molly go back to bed after she’d showered and dressed this morning?

  A shiver of doubt ran up Fran’s spine. Was I right in the first place? she asked herself. Did Molly really kill her husband?

  And perhaps the biggest question of all: Who is Molly, and what kind of person is she?

  * * *

  It was the exact question Gus Brandt tossed at Fran when she got back to her office. “Fran, this looks like it’s gonna turn into another O.J. Simpson case, and you’ve got the inside track with Molly Lasch. If she keeps knocking people off, by the time you feature her on the series, we’ll need two episodes to tell the whole story.”

  “You’re convinced that Molly stabbed Annamarie Scalli?” she asked.

  “Fran, we’ve been looking at the tapes of the crime scene. The driver’s window of the Jeep was open. Figure it out. Scalli heard Lasch call her and rolled it down.”

  “That would have to mean Molly went to that diner having planned it all out, including carrying a knife,” Fran said.

  “Maybe she couldn’t find a sculpture that would fit in her purse,” he said with a shrug.

  Fran walked back to her office, her hands shoved in the pockets of her slacks. It reminded her suddenly of how her stepbrothers used to tease her about the habit. “When Franny’s hands are quiet, her brain is working overtime,” they would say.

  It’s going to be the same scenario as the last time, she thought. Even if they can’t find a single shred of hard evidence to tie Molly to Annamarie Scalli’s death, it won’t matter—she’s already been judged guilty of a second murder. Only yesterday I was thinking that six years ago nobody ever bothered to look for another explanation for Gary Lasch’s death. The exact same thing is happening now.

  “Edna Barry,” she said aloud, as she entered her office.

  “Edna Barry? What about her?”

  Startled, Fran turned. Tim Mason was right behind her. “Tim, I just realized something. This morning, Molly Lasch’s housekeeper, Edna Barry, came running downstairs to tell Philip Matthews and me that Molly had gone back to bed. She said, ‘Dear God, it’s just like the last time.’ ”

  “What do you mean, Fran?”

  “There’s something that has been bothering me. More than what Edna Barry said, it was the way she said it, Tim, like she was glad to find Molly that way. Why in the name of God would it please that woman to see Molly duplicate her reaction to Gary Lasch’s death?”

  41

  “Molly’s not answering the phone. Take me directly to her place, Lou.”

  Irritated and impatient that she had been unable to get away from her office due to a long-standing meeting scheduled for lunchtime, Jenna had caught the 2:10 train to Greenwich, where Lou Knox had been instructed to wait for her at the station.

  Lou narrowed his eyes as he looked into the rearview mirror. Having noted her bad mood, he knew this was not the time to cross Jenna, but he had no choice. “Ms. Whitehall, your husband wants you to come directly home.”

  “Well, that’s just too bad, Lou. My husband can wait. Take me over to Molly’s house and drop me off. If he needs the car, you can come back for me later, or I’ll call a cab.”

  They were at the intersection. A right turn would take them to Molly’s house. Lou flicked on the left-turn indicator and got the reaction he’d expected.

  “Lou, are you deaf?”

  “Ms. Whitehall,” Lou said, hoping he sounded sufficiently obsequious, “you know I can’t cross Mr. Whitehall.” Only you can get away with that, he thought.

  When Jenna entered the house, she slammed shut the front door with such force that the sound reverberated throughout the entire structure. She found her husband seated at the desk in his second-floor office. Tears of outrage in her eyes, her voice trembling with emotion at being treated so cavalierly, Jenna walked up to the desk and leaned on it with both hands. Looking directly down into her husband’s eyes, she said, “Since when do you have the absurd notion that toadying lackey of yours can tell me where I may or may not go?”

  Calvin Whitehall looked at his wife, his eyes frosty. “That ‘toadying lackey,’ as you call Lou Knox, had no choice but to follow my orders. So your quarrel is with me, my dear, not him. I only wish that I could inspire the same devotion in all our help.”

  Jenna sensed she had gone too far and backed off. “Cal, I’m sorry. It’s just that my dearest friend is alone. Molly’s mother called me this morning. She’d heard about Annamarie Scalli, and she begged me to be with Molly. She doesn’t want Molly to know, but Molly’s dad had a slight stroke last week, and the doctors won’t hear of him traveling. Otherwise they would fly up to be with her through all this.”

  The anger left Calvin Whitehall’s face as he stood and came around the desk. He put his arms around his wife and spoke softly into her ear. “We do seem to be at cross-purposes, don’t we, Jen? I didn’t want you to go to Molly’s now because an hour ago, I got a tip. The prosecutor’s office has secured a search warrant for her house and will also impound her car. So, you see, it would be no help to her, and it could be a disaster for the Remington merger if someone as prominent as Mrs. Calvin Whitehall were to be publicly connected to Molly while the search is underway. Later, I want you to be with her, of course. Okay?”

  “A search warrant! Cal, why a search warrant?” Jenna pulled out of her husband’s embrace and turned to face him.

  “For the very good reason that the circumstantial evidence against Molly in the death of that nurse is mounting up to the point that it’s becoming overwhelming. My source tells me that more facts are coming out. Apparently the waitress at the diner in Rowayton has been talking to the prosecutors, and she’s pretty much put the finger on Molly. She’s the reason they got a search warrant so quickly. But my source also has other information. For example, Annamarie Scalli’s pocketbook was clearly visible on the seat beside her. It had several hundred dollars in it. If the motive had been robbery, it certainly would have been taken.” He pulled his wife toward him and put his arms around her again. “Jen, your friend still is the girl you went to school with, the sister you never had. Love that person, sure; but understand also there are forces working within her that have caused her to become a murderer.”

  The phone rang. “That’s probably the call I’ve been expecting,” Cal said as he released Jenna with a final pat on her shoulder.

  Jenna knew that when Cal said he was expecting a call, it was her signal to leave him alone and to close the door behind her.

  42

  This isn’t happening! Molly told herself. It’s a bad dream. No, not a bad dream. It’s a bad nightmare! Is there such a thing, she wondered, or is “bad nightmare” like saying “to reiterate again”?

  Since that morning her mind had been a muddle of conflicting thoughts and half-remembered moments. Trying to concentrate on the question of grammatical redundancy seemed as practical an exercise as any she could imagine. As she considered the question of a “bad nightmare,” she sat on the couch in the study, her back propped against the arm, her knees drawn up, her hands clasped aroun
d them, her chin resting on her hands.

  Almost a fetal position, she thought. Here I am, huddled like this in my own home, while total strangers tear apart and examine everything in it. Her mind flashed to how she and Jen used to joke and say “Assume the fetal position” whenever something was just too overwhelming.

  But that had been a long time ago, back when a broken fingernail or a lost tennis match was a big deal. Suddenly “overwhelming” had taken on a whole new meaning.

  They told me to wait in here, she thought. I thought that once I was freed from prison, I’d never have to take orders about where I could come and go, never again. One week ago I was still locked up. But now I’m home. Yet even though this is my home, I can’t make these terrible people go away.

  Surely I’ll wake up and it will be over, she told herself, closing her eyes. But of course it didn’t help a bit.

  She opened them and looked about her. The police had finished searching this room, had lifted the cushions of the couch and opened all the drawers of the side tables, had run their hands down the window draperies in case something was hidden in the folds.

  She realized they were spending a long time in the kitchen, no doubt going through every drawer, every cabinet. She had overheard someone say they should collect any carving knives they found.

  She had overheard the older investigator tell the younger officer to seize the outfit and shoes that the waitress had described her as wearing.

  Now she could only wait. Wait for the police to leave, and wait for her life to return to normal—whatever that might be.

  But I can’t just sit here, Molly thought. I have to get out of here. Where can I go that people won’t point fingers at me, won’t whisper about me, and where the media will leave me alone?

  Dr. Daniels. I need to talk to him, Molly decided. He’ll help me.

  It was five o’clock. Would he still be in his office? she wondered. Funny, I still remember his number, she thought. Even though it’s been nearly six years.