We'll Meet Again

“Speaking,” Annamarie Scalli said quietly.

30

When she left Edna Barry’s house, Fran embarked on a pilgrimage through Greenwich, a further trip down memory lane. This time she drove to the Stationhouse Pub, with the idea of having lunch there. We used to come here for a quick dinner before going to the movies, she remembered nostalgically.

Turkey on rye was what Fran ordered. It used to be her mother’s favorite. She looked about the dining room. It was unlikely that her mother ever would set foot in Greenwich again. The memories for her were just too painful. The joke that last summer had been that instead of a new library, the town was stuck with a different lending institution: “Simmons Trust.” Some joke, she thought bitterly.

She had considered the possibility of driving past the house where they’d lived for those four years but realized she wasn’t up to it. Not today, Fran thought, as she signaled for her check.

When she got back to the city and her apartment building, Fran saw that Philip Matthews had kept his word. A bulky package was waiting for her at the lobby desk. She opened it to find that it was the entire transcript of Molly Lasch’s trial.

She looked at it longingly, anxious to get started, but she knew it would have to wait. Errands needed to be run first, she reminded herself. She simply had to do some food shopping, then get to the dry cleaner, then try to hit Bloomingdale’s for hosiery and cosmetics.

It was 4:30 when she was finally able to put everything else aside and make a cup of tea, then settle into her deep club chair, prop her feet on the ottoman, and open the transcript.

The text did not make for pretty reading. The prosecutor presented a strong and chilling argument: Is there evidence of a struggle? No… gaping wound in the head of Dr. Gary Lasch… skull caved in… He was bludgeoned while sitting at his desk, his back to his assailant…totally defenseless… The evidence will show that Molly Lasch’s fingerprints, clear and bloody, were on that sculpture, that Gary Lasch’s blood was on her face and hands and clothing… that there was no sign of forced entry…

“No evidence of forced entry,” Fran thought. Obviously the police did check the doors. They don’t say anything about them being unlocked, though. Did Philip Matthews follow up on that? she wondered. She highlighted that section of testimony with a yellow marker.

Molly Lasch did not kill her husband, Gary Lasch. I’m beginning to believe that could be true, Fran thought. Now let’s take it one step further. Let’s assume that someone else killed Gary Lasch and was lucky enough that when Molly came in and found her husband, she was so traumatized that inadvertently she did everything possible to incriminate herself. She handled the murder weapon that killed her husband, touched his face and head, splattered herself with his blood.

Splattered herself with his blood, Fran thought. If Gary Lasch was still alive when Molly found him, is it possible that he was able to say anything to her? If there was someone in the house, then Molly could have arrived home moments after Gary was attacked.

Did Molly come home, go to the study, find her husband mortally injured but still alive? Fran asked herself. It would explain why she would have been touching him, why her mouth and face were covered with blood. Did she try to resuscitate him when she found him?

Or had she tried to resuscitate him only after she realized what she had done to him?

If we go with the idea that she’s innocent, then somebody right now is terribly, terribly nervous, Fran realized.

A certainty that Molly Lasch was in grave danger washed over Fran. If Gary Lasch had been alone in a house-a house that the evidence showed had been locked-and had not heard his assailant come into the study, as appearances would indicate, then the same thing could happen to Molly, Fran thought.

She reached for the phone. She’ll think I’m crazy, but I’m going to call her.

Molly’s greeting sounded hurried. “Fran. It seems to be reunion time,” she explained. “Philip Matthews is coming to dinner, and Jenna and Cal insisted on stopping by for a cocktail. And I just got a call from Peter Black. He was not happy when I told him earlier that you wanted to see him, but he sounded quite civil just now. He’s stopping over too.”

“Then I won’t keep you,” Fran said, “but I had a quick thought. I gathered from Mrs. Barry that the doors have the same locks they’ve had since you bought the house?”

“That’s right.”

“Look, I think it would be a great idea to change them.”

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

“How many people have a set of keys?”

“It’s not a set. Just one key, really. The front door and the kitchen door have the same lock. The patio and basement doors are always bolted from the inside. There were only four keys. Gary ’s. Mine. Mrs. Barry’s. And the one we hide in the garden.”

“Who knows about the one in the garden?”

“I don’t think anyone knows. It was just for emergencies and never used. Gary never forgot his keys and neither did I. Mrs. Barry never forgets anything. Fran, you’re going to have to forgive me, but I have to go.”

“Molly, call a locksmith on Monday. Please.”

“Fran, I’m not in danger, unless…”

“Unless you had the hard luck to arrive on a murder scene and become traumatized, and now someone could be afraid of what you’ll remember.”

Fran heard Molly’s gasp. Then, with a catch in her voice, Molly said, “That’s the first time in six years I’ve heard anyone suggest that I might be innocent.”

“So you see why I want you to change your locks? Let’s plan to get together on Monday.”

“Yes, let’s do. I may have some very interesting news for you,” Molly said.

Now what did she mean by that? Fran wondered as she replaced the receiver.

31

Tim Mason had planned to get in one last weekend of skiing at Stowe in Vermont, but a call from his cousin Michael, who still lived in Greenwich, changed his plans. The mother of Billy Gallo, an old school friend of both men, had died of a heart attack, and Michael thought Tim might want to stop in at the wake.

That was why on Saturday evening Tim was on the Merritt Parkway, driving to southern Connecticut and thinking of the high school years when he and Billy Gallo had played together in the band. Billy was a real musician even then, Tim reflected. He remembered how they had tried to start their own group when they were seniors and how the group always practiced at Billy’s house.

Mrs. Gallo, a warm, hospitable woman, was always urging them to stay for dinner, and it never took much persuasion. Her kitchen tantalized them with aromas of baking bread, garlic, and simmering tomato sauce. Tim remembered how Mr. Gallo would come home from work and go straight to the kitchen, as though he were afraid his wife wouldn’t be there. The minute he spotted her, a big smile would come over his face and he’d say, “Josie, you’re opening cans again.”

Somewhat wistfully, Tim thought of his own parents and of the years before they divorced, when he had been glad to escape the escalating coolness between them.

Mr. Gallo never failed to deliver that corny line, he thought, and Mrs. Gallo would always laugh as though it were the first time she had heard it. They clearly were crazy about each other. Mr. Gallo, though, was never close to Billy. He thought Billy was wasting his time trying to be a musician.

As Tim drove and thought of those earlier days, he remembered another funeral he had gone to in Greenwich. He’d been out of school then, already working as a reporter.