We'll Meet Again

  Now the living room and bedroom were paneled with bleached white oak. Shelves lined the walls, although one would not call them bookshelves, since Lou Knox was not a reader. Instead, his television, state-of-the-art stereo, and CD and video collections filled the shelves.

  They were also excellent cover-ups for the large and ever-growing collection of incriminating evidence he had accumulated for possible use against Calvin Whitehall.

  He was fairly certain that he would never need any of it, since he and Cal Whitehall had long ago reached an understanding on what his duties were to be. Besides, Lou knew that to use that evidence would be to incriminate himself as well. Therefore, that was a hand that Lou had no intention of ever showing except as a last resort. To do that would be to cut off your nose to spite your face, as the grandmother who raised him used to say when he complained about the butcher for whom he’d worked as a delivery boy.

  “Does he pay you regular?” his grandmother would demand.

  “Yes, but he asks his customers to put the tip on the bill,” Lou used to protest, “and then he counts it as part of my salary.”

  All these years later it gave Lou satisfaction to remember how he had gotten back at the butcher. On his way to deliver an order, he’d open the package and take out part of it—a piece of the chicken, or a slice from the filet mignon, or enough chopped sirloin for a good hamburger.

  His grandmother, who worked the four-to-midnight shift as a telephone operator at a motel ten miles away, would have left him a meal of canned spaghetti and meatballs, or something else he would find equally unappetizing. So on those days he had managed to filch some of the customers’ meat, he’d come home from his after-school job and feast on beef or chicken. Then he’d throw out whatever his grandmother had left him, and no one was the wiser.

  The only person who ever caught on to what Lou was up to was Cal. One evening when Cal and he were sophomores, Cal stopped over just as he was frying a steak he’d taken from a package the butcher had sent to one of his best customers.

  “You’re a jerk,” Cal had said. “You broil steak, you don’t fry it.”

  That night forged an alliance between the two young men: Cal, the son of the town drunks, and Lou, the grandson of Bebe Clauss, whose only daughter had eloped with Lenny Knox and returned to town two years later just long enough to deposit her son with her mother. That burden out of her life, she’d disappeared again.

  Despite his background, Cal had gone off to college, helped by his cunning and a drive to succeed. Lou drifted from job to job, in between serving thirty days in the town jail for shoplifting, and three years in the state penitentiary for aggravated assault. Then, almost sixteen years ago, he’d received a call from Cal, now known as Mr. Calvin Whitehall, of Greenwich, Connecticut.

  Gotta go kiss the feet of my old buddy, was the way Lou characterized the summons to Greenwich. Cal had made it eminently clear that their reunion was based solely on Lou’s potential value to him as a kind of all-purpose handyman.

  Lou moved to Greenwich that day, into a spare bedroom in the house Cal had bought. The house was far smaller than the one he lived in now, but it was definitely in the right location.

  Cal’s courtship of Jenna Graham was an eye-opener for Lou. Here was a classy, drop-dead beauty being pursued by a guy who looked like an exprizefighter. What on earth could she be expected to see in him?

  Even as he asked the question, Lou figured out the answer. Power. Raw, naked power. Jenna loved the fact that Cal had it, and she was fascinated by the way he used it. He might not have had her pedigree, and he might not have come from her kind of world, but the guy could handle himself in any situation; her world was soon his home. And no matter what some of the old guard might think of Cal Whitehall, they knew better than to cross him.

  Cal’s parents were never invited to visit their son. When they died within a short time of each other, Lou was the one sent to make arrangements and to rush their bodies to the crematorium as fast as possible. Cal was no sentimentalist.

  Over the years, Lou’s value to Cal had increased significantly—he knew that. Even so, he had no doubt that if at any point it suited Calvin Whitehall to dispose of him, he, Lou Knox, would be thrown to the wolves. So it was with a certain degree of grim amusement that he remembered how jobs he had carried out for Cal were planned in such a way that Cal could wash his hands of any involvement. So if anyone was left holding the bag, guess who that would be?

  Well, two could play that game, he thought with a sly smile.

  Now it was up to him to see if Fran Simmons was going to be merely a nuisance, or if she was becoming dangerous. It should be interesting, he decided. Like father, like daughter?

  Lou smiled as he remembered Fran’s father, that eager-to-please jerk whose mother never taught him not to trust the Calvin Whitehalls of this world. So when he finally learned his lesson, it was a little too late.

  53

  Dr. Peter Black seldom made the trip to West Redding during the day. It was about a forty-minute drive from Greenwich, even when traffic was light, but more important, he made the trip frequently enough that he worried about becoming too familiar a face in the area. His destination was a remote farmhouse equipped with a state-of-the-art laboratory on its second floor.

  On the tax rolls of the county, the structure was listed as a private home owned and occupied by Dr. Adrian Logue, a retired ophthalmologist. In fact, the property and the laboratory belonged to Remington Health Management, and when supplies were needed there, they traveled from the main lab in the trunk of Peter Black’s car.

  By the time he had pulled up in front of the farmhouse, Black’s palms were sweating. He was dreading the inevitable argument ahead of him; moreover he knew it was one he would not win.

  When he left less than half an hour later, he was carrying a package, the weight of which did not justify the strain he felt as he put it in the trunk of his car and started home.

  54

  Edna Barry could tell immediately that Molly had had company the night before. Even though the kitchen was tidy and the CLEAN signal was lit on the dishwasher, the subtle differences were there. Salt and pepper shakers were on the sideboard rather than on the counter, the fruit bowl was on the cutting board instead of the table, the coffeemaker was still out, uncovered, on the counter next to the stove.

  The prospect of restoring the customary orderliness of the kitchen was a soothing prospect to Edna. I like my job, she thought as she hung her coat in the closet near the door. I’m going to hate having to give it up again.

  It was inevitable, however. When Molly knew she was about to be released from prison, she had had her parents hire Edna to come in and spruce up the house and stock the kitchen. Now that she had been coming to Molly’s house regularly again, Wally had started being a problem. He’d hardly mentioned Molly while she was in prison, but her return had done something to him, had set him off. He kept talking about her and Dr. Lasch. And each time he talked about them, he became angry.

  If I’m not in and out of here three times a week, it won’t be on his mind so much, Edna reasoned as she tied an apron over her matching polyester shirt and slacks. The apron was her own choice. Molly’s mother had always furnished a uniform, but Molly had said, “Oh, Edna, that isn’t necessary.”

  Again this morning there was no sign that Molly had made coffee for herself, no sign, for that matter, that she was even awake yet. I’ll go upstairs and check on her, Edna decided. Maybe after all she’s gone through, she’s sleeping in. And she has gone through a lot. Why, since I was here Monday, Molly has been arrested again for murder and then released on bail. It’s just like six years ago. As much as I hate to even think this, maybe she’d be better off if she were put away.

  Marta thinks I should stop working here because Molly is dangerous, Edna thought as she climbed the stairs, once again reminded of the arthritis in her knees.

  You’re glad she thinks that, a voice whispered inside her head. Let the police
focus on Molly and not think about Wally.

  But Molly’s always been so kind to you, another voice suggested. You could help her, but you won’t. Wally was here that night—you know that. Maybe he could help her to remember what happened. But you can’t risk it. You can’t take a chance on what he might say.

  Edna arrived upstairs just as Molly was getting out of the shower, and when she came into the bedroom in her thick terry bathrobe, her hair wrapped in a towel, she reminded Edna of the little girl Molly once had been, always so polite, who would say, “Good morning, Mrs. Barry,” in her soft, low voice.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Barry.”

  With a start, Edna realized that it was not an echo of memory; it was Molly, a grown woman, talking to her now.

  “Oh, Molly, for just a moment there, I swear I was seeing you as a ten-year-old! Sounds like I’m losing it, doesn’t it?”

  “Not you,” Molly said. “Me maybe, but surely not you. I’m sorry you had to come looking for me. I’m not as lazy as I look, though. I went to bed early enough, but then I didn’t fall asleep until almost dawn.”

  “That’s not good, Molly. Can’t you get the doctor to give you something to help you sleep?”

  “I did the other night, and it was a big help. I’ll see if I can’t get some more of the same. The trouble is that Dr. Daniels doesn’t really believe in pills.”

  “I have some sleeping pills the doctor gave me to give to Wally in case he gets restless. They’re not too strong. Would you want some to keep on hand?”

  Molly sat at her dressing table and reached for the hair dryer. Then she turned and looked directly at Edna Barry. “I really would like that, Mrs. Barry,” she said slowly. “Have you an extra bottle that I can replace?”

  “Oh, you don’t want a full bottle. There’re about forty in the one I have in the medicine cabinet.”

  “Then split them with me, okay? The way things are going, I may need one a night for the next several weeks.”

  Edna had not known whether or not to let on that she knew Molly had been arrested again.

  “Molly, I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened. You know.”

  “Yes, I do. Thank you, Mrs. Barry. And now would you please bring me a cup of coffee?” She picked up the hair dryer and turned it on.

  When she was sure Edna Barry was on her way downstairs, Molly turned off the dryer and let her damp hair fall on her neck. The warmth of the shower was gone, and the strands of hair felt cold and wet against her skin.

  You don’t really intend to take an overdose of pills, do you? she asked herself. She looked at the face in the mirror—it seemed to her someone she hardly recognized. Isn’t it more like being in a strange place and looking for the exit, just in case you need to get out in a hurry? She leaned in closer to the mirror and stared into the eyes she saw there. Having asked the questions, she wasn’t sure of the answers.

  * * *

  An hour later, Molly was in the study going through one of the boxes she had brought down from the attic. The prosecutors had two cracks at these papers, she thought. They confiscated them after Gary died, returned them after the trial, then went through them again yesterday. I guess now they’ve given up looking for anything interesting in them.

  But what am I looking for? she asked herself.

  I’m looking for something that might make me understand what Annamarie Scalli meant when she told me as a doctor Gary wasn’t worth the price I paid for killing him. I don’t even care anymore about his infidelity.

  There were some framed pictures in the box. She pulled one of them out and looked at it closely. It was a photograph of her and Gary taken at the Heart Association Charity Ball the year they were married. She studied it dispassionately. She remembered how Gran used to say that Gary reminded her of Tyrone Power, the movie star who had been her heartthrob sixty years before.

  I guess I never saw beyond the looks and the charm, she thought. Clearly at some point Annamarie did. But how did she find out? And what did she learn?

  At 11:30, Fran phoned. “Molly, I’d like to stop by for just a few minutes. Is Mrs. Barry there?”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “Good. See you in ten minutes.”

  When Fran arrived, she went directly to Molly and put an arm around her. “I gather you had a lovely afternoon yesterday.”

  “Never a better one.” She managed a wan smile.

  “Where’s Mrs. Barry, Molly?”

  “In the kitchen, I guess. She seems to be determined to fix lunch for me, even though I tell her I’m not hungry.”

  “Come on in with me. I have to talk to her.”

  Edna Barry’s heart sank when she heard Fran Simmons’s voice. Help me, please, dear Lord, she prayed. Don’t let her go asking me about Wally. It’s not his fault he’s the way he is.

  Fran came directly to the point: “Mrs. Barry, Dr. Morrow was your son’s doctor, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, that’s right. He saw a psychiatrist as well, but Dr. Morrow was his primary physician,” Edna replied, trying not to let her growing unease show in her face.

  “Your neighbor Mrs. Jones told me the other day that Wally was very upset when Dr. Morrow died.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I gather Wally was in a cast around that time?” Fran asked.

  Edna Barry bristled, then nodded stiffly. “Toe-to-knee cast,” she said. “He wore it for a week after they found poor Dr. Morrow.”

  I shouldn’t have said that, she thought. She didn’t accuse Wally of anything.

  “What I was going to ask, Mrs. Barry, is if you or Wally ever overheard Dr. Morrow talk about either Dr. Gary Lasch or Dr. Peter Black, or maybe refer to the two of them as a pair of murderers?”

  Molly gasped.

  “I don’t remember anything like that,” Edna Barry said softly, her distress apparent in the way she kept wiping her hands on her apron. “What is that all about?”

  “I don’t think that if you had heard a statement like that it would be easily forgotten, Mrs. Barry. I know it certainly would make a lasting impression on me. On the way over in the car I called Mr. Matthews, Molly’s lawyer, and asked him about the spare key to this house that is kept in the garden. According to his notes, you gave it to the police the morning Dr. Lasch was found murdered in his study, and you told them it had been in the kitchen drawer for a long time. You said that Molly had forgotten her house key one day and had taken the spare from the hiding place, and it had never been put back.”

  “But that is not true,” Molly protested. “I never once forgot my house key, and I know the spare was in the garden the week before Gary died. I was out in back and happened to check on it. Why would you say it had been in the house for a long time because of me, Mrs. Barry? I don’t understand.”

  55

  On the evening news hour, Fran wrapped up her report on the latest developments in the Annamarie Scalli murder investigation with an appeal: “According to Bobby Burke, the counterman on duty in the Sea Lamp Diner the night of the murder, a couple came in the diner and took a table near the door moments before Annamarie Scalli hurried out. Molly Lasch’s lawyer, Philip Matthews, is appealing to that couple to come forward and give a statement as to what they may have observed in the parking lot before they came into the diner or may have overheard in the diner itself. Attorney Matthews’s number is 212-555-2800, or you can call me at this station at 212-555-6850.”

  The camera focused on Fran went dark. “Thanks for that report, Fran,” Bert Davis, the news anchor, said crisply. “Coming up: sports with Tim Mason, followed by the weather with Scott Roberts. But first, some messages.”

  Fran unfastened the mike from her jacket and removed the earpiece. She stopped at Tim Mason’s desk on the way out of the studio. “Can I buy you a hamburger when you’re finished?” she asked.

  Tim raised his eyebrows. “I was all set for a steak, but if it’s a hamburger you want, then I still accept with pleasure.”

  “Nope.
A steak is fine. I’ll be in my office.”

  While she waited for Tim, Fran reviewed the events of the day. First there was the meeting with Dr. Roy Kirkwood, then her call to Philip Matthews, then Edna Barry’s flustered reaction during the discussion of the spare key. Mrs. Barry had claimed that she was almost certain the spare key had been in the drawer for months, and when Molly denied it, Barry said, “Molly must be mistaken; but then, she was so confused at that time.”

  Driving back to the city, Fran had called Philip again and had told him that she had become more and more certain that Edna Barry had something to hide and that it had to do with that spare key. She certainly hadn’t been forthcoming when Fran questioned her about it, however, so Fran suggested that Philip might have to lean on her to tell the truth.

  Philip had promised to study every word of Edna Barry’s statements to the police and testimony at the trial, then he had asked about Molly’s reaction to Mrs. Barry’s statement.

  Fran told him that it clearly startled her, maybe even unsettled her. After Mrs. Barry went home, Molly had said something like, “I guess I must have been out of it even before the shock of finding out about Annamarie. I would have sworn that key was in the garden a few days before I overheard her call to Gary.”

  And I bet you’re right, Molly, Fran said to herself angrily as Tim knocked, then poked his head around the door. She waved him in. “Let’s go,” he said. “I’ve made a reservation at Cibo’s on Second Avenue.”

  “Good choice. I love it there.”

  * * *

  As they walked down Fifth Avenue to Forty-first Street, Fran lifted her arms in a salute to the buildings and the bustle around them. “My town,” she said with a sigh. “I love it. It’s so good to be back.”

  “Me too,” Tim agreed, “and I’m also glad you’re back.”