People such as that Fran Simmons.
Late on Friday afternoon, just as he was about to leave for the weekend, his secretary announced a call from Simmons.
Philip considered not taking the call, but then decided he might as well speak to her. His greeting, however, was cool.
Fran got right to the point: “Mr. Matthews, you must have a transcript of Molly Lasch’s trial. I’d like to have a copy of it as soon as possible.”
“Ms. Simmons, I understand you went to school with Molly. So as an old friend, I wish you would consider calling off this program. We both know it can only hurt Molly.”
“Would it be possible to have a copy of the transcript on Monday, Mr. Matthews?” Fran asked crisply, then added, “You must know that I am planning this program with Molly’s complete cooperation. In fact, it’s even at her request that I undertook it in the first place.”
Philip decided to try a different approach. “I can do better than Monday. I’ll have a copy run off and delivered to you tomorrow, but I’m going to ask you to consider something. I believe Molly is much more fragile than anyone realizes. If during the course of your investigation, you become convinced of her guilt, then I ask you to give her a break and cancel this program. Molly is not going to get the public vindication she wants. Don’t destroy her with a guilty-as-charged verdict just so you can get higher ratings from the mindless couch potatoes out there who want to see someone eviscerated.”
“Let me give you my address for your messenger,” Fran said, biting off her words, hoping she sounded as furious as she felt.
“I’ll put my secretary on. Good-bye, Ms. Simmons.”
Once Fran had replaced the receiver, she got up and walked to the window. She was due in makeup right now but knew she needed to take a moment to calm down first. Without having met him, she thoroughly disliked Philip Matthews, although she could not help feeling that he was passionately sincere in his desire to shield Molly.
She found herself wondering suddenly if anyone had ever considered searching for another explanation for Gary Lasch’s death. Molly’s parents and friends, Philip Matthews, the Greenwich police, and the state attorney who prosecuted her-all of them must have begun with the presumption of her guilt.
Which is exactly what I’ve been doing as well, Fran thought. Maybe it’s time to start with the opposite approach.
27
On Friday afternoon, Annamarie Scalli went straight home after taking care of her last patient. The weekend loomed ahead of her, and already she knew it was going to be a difficult one. Since Tuesday morning, when Molly Lasch’s release from prison had received so much television coverage, half of Annamarie’s patients had mentioned the case to her.
She understood that it was only coincidence, that they had no awareness of her connection to the case. Her patients were homebound, and they saw the same repetitious programs, mostly soap operas, all the time. Having a more-or-less-local crime like this was simply something new and different to mull over-a privileged young woman claiming that she didn’t believe she murdered her husband, even though she had plea-bargained to a lesser charge and had spent time in prison for his death.
The comments varied from crusty old Mrs. O’Brien saying that he got what any husband who cheated deserved, to Mr. Kunzman’s comment that if Molly Lasch had been black and poor, she’d be serving twenty years.
Gary Lasch wasn’t worth having her serve even one day in prison, Annamarie thought as she opened the door of her garden apartment. Too bad I was too much of a fool to realize it then.
Her kitchen was so tiny that she always said it made the galley of an airplane look roomy. But she had made the most of it by painting the ceiling a sky blue and sketching a lattice with flowers on the walls; as a result the meager space became her indoor garden.
This evening, however, it failed to raise her spirits. Having to revisit painful old memories had made her feel depressed and lonely, and she knew she had to get away. There was one place she could go that would help. Her older sister, Lucy, lived in Buffalo, in the home where they had been raised. Annamarie did not visit there regularly since her mother’s death, but this weekend she would make the trek. After she put away the last of the groceries she reached for the phone.
Forty-five minutes later she threw a hastily packed duffel bag in the backseat of her car and, with brightened spirits, turned on the ignition. It was a long trip, but she didn’t mind. Driving gave her a chance to think. Much of the time was spent regretting. Regretting not listening to her mother. Regretting being so foolish. Definitely despising herself for her affair with Gary Lasch. If only she could have willed herself into really loving Jack Morrow. If only she had realized how much she had begun to care for him.
She remembered with renewed shame the trust and love she had seen in his eyes. She had fooled Jack Morrow like everyone else, and he neither knew nor suspected that she was involved with Gary Lasch.
Even though it was past midnight when she arrived, her sister Lucy had heard the car when it drove up and was opening the door. With a rush of renewed joy, Annamarie reached into the back for her bag. A moment later she was hugging her sister, glad to be where, at least for the weekend, she would be able to force away the distressing thoughts of what might have been.
28
On Saturday morning, Edna Barry awoke with a nervous start. Today that reporter was coming to see her, and she had to make sure Wally wasn’t around when Fran Simmons got there. He had been moody for several days, and since seeing Molly on television had kept talking about wanting to visit her. Last night he’d announced that he wasn’t going to the club, where he usually spent Saturday mornings. The club, run by Fairfield County for outpatients like Wally, was usually one of his favorite places to go.
I’ll ask Marta to keep him at her place, Edna thought. Marta Gustafson Jones had been her neighbor for thirty years. They’d seen each other through illness and widowhood, and Marta doted on Wally. She was one of the few people who could handle him and calm him down when he became upset.
When Fran rang Edna’s bell at eleven o’clock, Wally was safely out of the way, and Edna was able to manage a reasonably pleasant greeting and even offered her coffee, which Fran accepted. “Why don’t we just sit in the kitchen?” she suggested, as she unbuttoned her coat.
“If you like.” Edna was justifiably proud of her spotless kitchen, with its brand-new maple dinette set she’d bought on sale.
At the table, Fran fished her recorder out of her shoulder bag. Casually she laid it on the tabletop. “You know, Mrs. Barry, I’m here because I want to help Molly, and I’m sure you do too. That’s why, with your permission, I need to record you. There may just be something that will come up that might prove to be helpful to Molly. I’m sure that she’s become more and more convinced she wasn’t the one responsible for her husband’s death. In fact, she’s beginning to remember things about that night, and one of them is that there was someone else in the house when she arrived home from the Cape. If that could be proven, it might mean her conviction would be overturned, or at least that the investigation would be reopened. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
Edna Barry was pouring water into the coffeemaker. “Yes, of course, it would,” she said. Then, “Oh, dear.”
Fran’s eyes narrowed as she saw that Mrs. Barry had splashed water on the counter. Her hand is trembling, Fran thought. There’s something about all this that’s bothering her. I could tell she was nervous the other day
