We'll Meet Again

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 around 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