We'll Meet Again

  “That’s the way I feel. Marta, it’s good to have a friend like you I can talk to. I’ve been so upset, and I had to get it off my chest.”

  “I’m always here for you, Edna. Get to bed early and get a good night’s sleep.”

  Satisfied at having accomplished her purpose, Edna got up, turned off the kitchen light, and went into the den. Wally was watching the all-news channel. Edna’s heart sank when she saw a tape of Molly at the prison gate. The anchorman was saying, “It was only ten days ago that Molly Carpenter Lasch was released from Niantic Prison after serving five and a half years for killing her husband, Dr. Gary Lasch. Since then she has been arrested for the murder of her husband’s lover, Annamarie Scalli, and Prosecutor Tom Serrazzano is pressing to have her parole revoked.”

  “Wally, why don’t you switch channels?” Edna suggested.

  “Are they going to put Molly back in prison, Mom?”

  “I don’t know, dear.”

  “She looked so scared when she found him. I was sorry for her.”

  “Wally, don’t say that. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, I do, Mom. I was there, remember?”

  Panicked, Edna grabbed her son’s face with both hands and forced him to look up at her. “Do you remember how the police scared you when Dr. Morrow was killed? How they kept asking you questions about where you were on the night he died? Do you remember, before they came I made you put your walking cast back on and use your crutches so they’d leave you alone?”

  Afraid, he tried to pull away. “Mom, let go of me.”

  Edna held eye contact with her son. “Wally, you must never talk about Molly or that night. Not ever again, do you understand that?”

  “I won’t.”

  “Wally, I’m not going to work for Molly anymore. In fact, you and I are going on a trip. We’ll drive far away somewhere, maybe to the mountains, or maybe even to California. Would you like that?”

  He looked doubtful. “I think so.”

  “Then swear you’ll never talk about Molly again.”

  There was a long pause before he said quietly, “I swear, Mom.”

  66

  Even though Molly tried, Dr. Daniels would not let her put him off a second day. He told her he was coming over at six o’clock, and promptly at six he rang the bell.

  “You have such courage to be alone with me,” she murmured as she closed the door. “But if I were you, I’d be careful. Don’t turn your back on me. I might be dangerous.”

  The doctor was taking off his coat as she said this. He paused, one arm still in the sleeve, and he studied her carefully. “What’s that supposed to mean, Molly?”

  “Come inside. I’ll tell you about it.” She brought him into the study. “Show and tell,” she said, indicating the stacks of files and magazines on the floor, the pictures and albums on the sofa. “You can see I wasn’t just sitting here brooding.”

  “I’d say you were housecleaning,” Dr. Daniels observed.

  “Housecleaning in a way, yes, but it’s actually a little more than that, Doctor. It’s called ‘a fresh start,’ or maybe ‘a new chapter,’ or ‘bury the past.’ Take your pick.”

  Daniels crossed to the sofa. “May I?” he asked, indicating the photographs.

  “Look at any of the photos, Doctor. The ones on the left, I’ll send to Gary’s mother. The ones on the right go into the circular file.”

  “You’re throwing them out?”

  “I think that’s healthy, Doctor, don’t you?”

  He was flipping through them. “There seem to be quite a few with the Whitehalls.”

  “Jenna’s my best friend. As you know, Cal and Gary and Peter Black ran Remington together. There are a fair number of photos of Peter and his two ex-wives in there somewhere.”

  “I know you’re very fond of Jenna, Molly. What about Cal? Are you fond of him too?”

  He looked up and saw the hint of a smile on her lips.

  “Doctor, Cal isn’t likable,” she replied. “I doubt if anybody really likes him, including his schoolmate-chauffeur-general factotum, Lou Knox. People don’t like Cal so much as they are fascinated by him. He can be marvelously amusing. And he’s very smart. I remember we once were at a dinner in his honor attended by some six hundred impressively important people. You know what Jenna whispered to me? ‘Ninety-nine percent of them are here out of fear.’ ”

  “Do you think that bothered Jenna?”

  “Heavens no. Jenna loves Cal’s power. Although, of course, she’s strong herself. Nothing stands in her way. That’s why she’s already a partner in a prestigious law firm. She did that on her own.” Molly paused. “I, on the other hand, am a cream puff. I always have been. Jenna has been great. Cal, on the other hand, would love to see me disappear off the face of the earth.”

  I agree with that, John Daniels thought. “Is Jenna coming by tonight?” he asked.

  “No. She had a dinner to attend in New York, but she called this afternoon. I was glad she did. After Mrs. Barry left I really needed a lift.”

  Daniels waited. As he watched, Molly’s expression changed. A look of sorrow mixed with disbelief came over her face. Her voice was even, her tone almost a monotone, as she told him about Edna Barry and her parting words.

  “I called my mother this afternoon,” Molly said. “I asked her if she and my father were afraid to be with me too; I asked if that was why they were staying away when I needed them. You see, I didn’t want anyone around last week. When I got home, I felt the way I guess a burn victim must feel: ‘Don’t touch me! Leave me alone!’ But after Annamarie’s body was found, I wanted them. I needed them.”

  “What did they say?”

  “That they can’t come. Dad will be all right, but he had a ministroke. That’s why they’re not here. They called Jenna and told her about it, and they asked her to be with me. And of course she has been. You saw that.”

  Molly looked past Dr. Daniels. “It was important that I talk to them. I needed to know they were there for me. They’ve suffered so much over all this. After Mrs. Barry left today, if I thought they had abandoned me too, I would have . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Would have what, Molly?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Yes, you do, Daniels thought. Rejection by your parents would have pushed you over the edge.

  “Molly, how do you feel now?” he asked gently.

  “Embattled, Doctor. If my parole is revoked, and they send me back to prison, I don’t think I can handle it. I need more time, because I swear to you: I am going to remember exactly what happened after I came back to the house from the Cape that night.”

  “Molly, we could try hypnosis. It didn’t work before, but that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t work now. It may be that the memory block is like an iceberg and is breaking up. I could help you.”

  She shook her head. “No, I have to do it myself. There’s—” Molly stopped. It was too soon to tell Dr. Daniels that all afternoon, one name kept coming up over and over in her head: Wally.

  But why?

  67

  Barbara Colbert opened her eyes. Where am I? she wondered blearily. What happened? Tasha. Tasha! She remembered that Tasha had spoken to her before she died.

  “Mom.” Walter and Rob, her sons, were standing over her, sympathetic, strong.

  “What happened?” she whispered.

  “Mom, you know that Tasha is gone?”

  “Yes.”

  “You passed out. Shock. Exhaustion. Dr. Black gave you a sedative. You’re in the hospital. He wants you to stay here for a day or two. For observation. Your pulse wasn’t that great.”

  “Walter, Tasha came out of the coma. She talked to me. Dr. Black must have heard her. The nurse too; ask her.”

  “Mom, you’d sent the nurse into the other room. You talked to Tasha, Mom. She didn’t talk to you.”

  Barbara fought against sleepiness. “I may be old, but I am not a fool,” she said. “My daughter came out
of her coma. I know she did. She spoke to me. I remember clearly what she said. Walter, listen to me. Tasha said, ‘Dr. Lasch, it was so stupid, I tripped on my shoelace and went flying.’ Then she recognized me, and she said, ‘Hi, Mom.’ And then she begged me to help her. Dr. Black heard her asking for help. I know he did. Why didn’t he do something? He just stood there.”

  “Mom, Mom, he did everything he could for Tasha. It’s better this way, really.”

  Barbara tried to struggle to a sitting position. “I repeat—I am not a fool. I did not imagine that Tasha came out of the coma,” she said, her anger giving her voice its customary tone of authority. “For some terrible reason Peter Black is lying to us.”

  Walter and Rob Colbert grasped their mother’s hands as Dr. Black, who had been standing out of the range of her view, stepped forward and pricked her arm with a needle.

  Barbara Colbert felt herself sinking into warm, enveloping darkness. She fought against it momentarily, then succumbed.

  “The most important thing is that she rest,” Dr. Black assured her sons. “No matter how prepared we think we are to lose a loved one, when the moment of saying good-bye comes, the shock can be overwhelming. I’ll look in on her later.”

  * * *

  When Black got to his office after making rounds, there was a message waiting from Cal Whitehall. He was to call him immediately.

  “Have you convinced Barbara Colbert that she was hallucinating last night?” Cal demanded.

  Peter Black knew the situation was desperate and that it would do no good to lie to Cal. “I had to give her another sedative. She’s not going to be easily convinced.”

  For a long minute Calvin Whitehall did not respond. Then he said quietly, “I trust you realize what you’ve brought on all of us.”

  Black did not answer.

  “As if Mrs. Colbert is not a big enough problem, I just heard from West Redding. Having endlessly reviewed the tape, the doctor is demanding that his project be disclosed to the media.”

  “Doesn’t he know what that will mean?” Black asked, dumbfounded.

  “He doesn’t care. He’s nuts. I insisted he wait until Monday, so we can agree on a proper presentation. I will have taken care of him by then. In the meantime, I suggest you make Mrs. Colbert your responsibility.”

  Cal hung up the phone with a bang, leaving no doubt in Peter Black’s mind that he expected to be obeyed.

  68

  Lucy Bonaventure took an early morning plane from Buffalo to New York’s La Guardia Airport and by ten o’clock was entering Annamarie’s garden apartment in Yonkers. In the nearly six years that Annamarie had lived there, Lucy had never seen the place. Annamarie had told her the apartment was small—it had only one bedroom, and besides, it was always more convenient for Annamarie to drive to Buffalo for visits.

  Lucy knew that the police had searched the apartment after Annamarie died, and she understood that was why it had a disheveled appearance. The bric-a-brac on the coffee table was shoved together; books were piled haphazardly on the shelves, as if they’d been pulled out and replaced at random. In the bedroom it was obvious that the contents of drawers had been examined, then just tossed back carelessly by uncaring hands.

  She had arranged for the manager of the condo units to handle the sale of the apartment. All Lucy had to do was to clear it out. She would like to get that done in one day, but realistically she knew it would be at least an overnight job. It was painful for her even to be there, to see Annamarie’s favorite perfume on the dresser, to see the book she’d been reading still on the night table, to open the closet and see her suits and dresses and uniforms, and to know she would never wear them again.

  All the clothing, as well as the furniture, would be picked up by charities. At least, Lucy reasoned, some needy people would be helped. It was small comfort, but it was something.

  Fran Simmons, the reporter, was due to arrive at 11:30. While she waited for her, Lucy began clearing out Annamarie’s dresser, folding the contents neatly, then placing them in cartons the handyman had given her.

  She wept over the photographs she found in a bottom drawer, showing Annamarie holding her infant son, pictures obviously taken minutes after he was born. She looked so young in the photos and was looking at the baby so tenderly. There were other pictures of him, each marked on the back, “first birthday,” “second birthday,” until the last one, the fifth. He was a beautiful child, with sparkling blue eyes, dark brown hair, and a warm merry smile. It broke Annamarie’s heart to give him up, Lucy thought. She deliberated over whether to show the photos to Fran Simmons, then decided she would. They might help her to understand Annamarie and the terrible price she had paid for her mistakes.

  Fran rang the doorbell promptly at 11:30, and Lucy Bonaventure invited her in. For a moment the two women took each other’s measure. Fran saw a buxom woman in her mid-forties, with swollen eyes, even features, and skin that seemed blotched from weeping.

  Lucy saw a slender woman in her early thirties with collar-length, light brown hair and blue-gray eyes. As she explained to her daughter the next day, “It wasn’t that she was all dressed up—she had on a dark brown pants suit with a brown and yellow and white scarf at her neck, and simple gold earrings—but she looked so New York. She had a nice way about her, and when she told me how sorry she was about Annamarie, I knew it wasn’t just talk. I’d made coffee, and she said she’d like a cup, so we sat down at Annamarie’s little dinette table.”

  Fran knew it would be wise to get straight to the point. “Mrs. Bonaventure, I began to investigate Dr. Lasch’s murder because Molly Lasch, whom I knew from school, asked me to do a show on the case for the True Crime program I work with. She wants to uncover the truth about these murders as much as you do. She has spent five and a half years in prison for a crime she doesn’t remember and, I have come to believe, she did not commit. There are far too many unanswered questions about Dr. Lasch’s death. No one ever really investigated it at the time, and I’m trying to do it now.”

  “Yes, well, her lawyer tried to make it look as if Annamarie killed Dr. Lasch,” Lucy said with remembered anger.

  “Her lawyer did what any good lawyer would do. He pointed out that Annamarie said she was alone in her apartment in Cos Cob the night of the murder, but that she had no one who could corroborate it.”

  “If that trial hadn’t been stopped, he was going to cross-examine Annamarie and try to make her out to be a murderer. I know that was his plan. Is he still Molly Lasch’s lawyer?”

  “Yes, he is. And a good one. Mrs. Bonaventure, Molly did not kill Dr. Lasch. She did not kill Annamarie. She certainly did not kill Dr. Jack Morrow, whom she hardly knew. Three people are dead, and I believe the same person is responsible for their murders. Whoever took their lives should be punished, but it was not Molly. That person is the reason Molly went to prison. That person is the reason she has been arrested for Annamarie’s murder. Do you want Molly Lasch sent to prison for something she didn’t do, or do you want to find your sister’s murderer?”

  “Why did Molly Lasch track down Annamarie and ask to meet her?”

  “Molly had believed she had a happy marriage. Obviously she did not, or Annamarie wouldn’t have been in the picture. Molly was trying to find the answer to why her husband was murdered, and to why her marriage failed. Where better than to start with the woman who had been her husband’s lover? This is where you can help. Annamarie was afraid of someone, or of something. Molly saw that when they met that night, but you must have seen it long before then. Why did she change her name and take your mother’s maiden name? Why did she give up hospital nursing? From everything I hear she was a marvelous bedside nurse and loved doing it.”

  “Yes, she was,” Lucy Bonaventure said sadly. “She was punishing herself when she gave it up.”

  But what I need to know is why she gave it up, Fran thought. “Mrs. Bonaventure, you said that something had happened in the hospital—something that was terribly upsetting to Annamari
e. Have you any idea what it was, or when it happened?”

  Lucy Bonaventure sat silently for a moment, obviously struggling with her desire to protect Annamarie versus the fervent need to punish her murderer.

  “I know it was not long before Dr. Lasch was murdered,” she said, speaking slowly, “and it was over a weekend. Something went wrong with a young woman patient. Dr. Lasch and his partner, Dr. Black, were involved. Annamarie thought Dr. Black had made a terrible mistake, but she didn’t report it because Dr. Lasch begged her to keep quiet, saying that if word of the mishap got out, it would destroy the hospital.”

  Lucy held up the coffeepot and gave Fran a questioning look. Fran shook her head, and Lucy poured more coffee into her own cup. She replaced the pot on the burner and sat staring into her coffee cup a few moments before speaking again. Fran knew she was trying to choose her words carefully.

  “Honest mistakes do happen in hospitals, Ms. Simmons. We all know that. According to what Annamarie told me, the young woman had been running when she was injured and was dehydrated when they brought her in to the hospital. Dr. Black gave her some kind of experimental drug instead of the normal saline solution, and she slipped into a vegetative state.”

  “How awful!”

  “It was Annamarie’s duty to report it, and she didn’t, having been asked not to by Dr. Lasch. But then a few days later, she overheard Dr. Black say to Dr. Lasch, ‘I gave it to the right person this time. It took her right out.’ ”

  “You mean they were deliberately experimenting on patients?” Fran asked, shocked at this revelation.

  “I can only tell you what I’ve put together from the little bit Annamarie told me. She wouldn’t talk about any of it much, and usually only if she had a couple of glasses of wine and needed to unburden herself.” Lucy paused and sat once more staring into her cup.

  “Was there something else?” Fran asked gently, anxious to get the woman to talk, but not wanting to prod her too hard.