We'll Meet Again

He drove home slowly, sadly, to his very late dinner.

43

When Fran reached the office on Tuesday morning, she found a message marked “urgent” from Billy Gallo. It stated simply that he was Tim Mason’s friend, and he would like her to please call him on a very important matter.

When she called him back, Gallo picked up on the first ring and got directly to the point. “Ms. Simmons, my mother was buried yesterday. She died from a major heart attack that could and should have been prevented. I hear that you’re doing a story on the murder of Dr. Gary Lasch, and I wanted to ask you to expand it to include an investigation into the so-called medical insurance plan he started.”

“Tim told me about your mother, and I’m truly sorry for your loss,” Fran said, “but I’m sure there is a procedure whereby you can register a complaint if you feel that she wasn’t cared for properly.”

“Oh, but you know the runaround you get when you try to register complaints, Ms. Simmons,” Billy Gallo said. “Look, I’m a musician and I can’t afford to lose my job, which unfortunately is with a show in Detroit. I’ve got to get back there soon. I talked to Roy Kirkwood, my mother’s primary care physician, and he told me he had made an urgent recommendation that further tests be done. But guess what? The request was denied. He strongly believed that more could have been done for my mother, but they wouldn’t even let him try. Please talk to him, Ms. Simmons. I went in to his office ready to bash his head in, and I came out feeling sorry for him. Dr. Kirkwood is only in his early sixties, but he told me he’s closing his practice and taking early retirement. That’s how disgusted he is with Remington Health Management.”

Bash his head in, Fran thought. The wild thought went through her mind that there just might be one chance in a million that a relative of some patient might have felt that way about Gary Lasch.

“Give me Dr. Kirkwood’s phone number and address,” she said. “I’ll talk to him.”

At eleven o’clock that morning she was once again turning off the Merritt Parkway into Greenwich.

Molly had agreed to have lunch with her at one o’clock, but despite Fran’s pleading, she would not leave the house. “I can’t,” she said simply. “I feel too exposed. Everyone would just stare at me. It would be awful. I can’t do it.”

She accepted Fran’s offer to pick up a quiche at the bakery in town and bring it with her. “Mrs. Barry isn’t here on Tuesday,” she’d explained, “and the police towed my car, so I can’t get out to shop.”

The only good news so far, Fran thought, is that Mrs. Barry won’t be hanging around when Molly and I have lunch. It would be nice for once to talk to Molly without that woman marching in and out of the room every two minutes.

But she did want to see Edna Barry, and her first stop once she reached Greenwich was an unannounced visit to her home.

I’m going to be direct with her, Fran decided as she consulted her directions to Barry’s house. For some unknown reason Edna Barry is hostile to Molly and afraid of me. Maybe I can find out what her problem is.

The best laid plans of mice and men, she thought as she stood on the narrow top step of Edna Barry’s home and rang the doorbell. There was no answer, and Barry’s red Subaru was not in the driveway.

Disappointed, Fran debated the wisdom of slipping a note under the door that stated that she had stopped by because it was important they talk. She knew such a message would upset Mrs. Barry, and that was fine. It was her intention to get the woman rattled.

Then again, would a note only serve to warn her and make her even more wary? she wondered. There’s no question she’s holding something back, and it could be terribly important. I don’t want to risk scaring her off.

As Fran debated what to do, a call rang out:

“Yoo-hoooo.”

She turned to see a woman in her fifties with a beehive hairdo and harlequin glasses rushing across the lawn from the house next door.

“Edna should be back soon,” the woman explained breathlessly as she reached Fran. “Her son, Wally, was feeling pretty upset today, so Edna took him to the doctor. When Wally doesn’t take his medicine, he’s a real problem. Why don’t you just wait for her in my house? I’m Marta Jones, Edna’s neighbor.”

“That’s very nice of you,” Fran said sincerely. “Mrs. Barry wasn’t expecting me, but I really would like to wait for her.” And I would love to talk with you, she added to herself. “I’m Fran Simmons.”

Marta Jones suggested they wait in the television room, which obviously had originally been part of the porch. “It’s so nice and cheerful, and we’ll be able to see Edna when she comes home,” she explained as she brought in steaming cups of freshly brewed coffee.

“I like coffee best when it’s made in the old-fashioned percolator,” she explained. “Doesn’t taste the same from all those new machines.” She settled back in the armchair opposite Fran. “It’s just too bad Edna had to take Wally to the doctor today. At least she didn’t have to take time off from her job. She works for Molly Lasch three mornings a week-Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”

Fran nodded, happy to store that bit of information in her head.

“You may have heard about Molly Lasch,” Marta Jones said. “She’s the woman who just got out of prison after serving time for killing her husband, and now the rumor is that she’s going to be arrested for killing her husband’s girlfriend. Have you heard of her, Ms… I’m sorry, I didn’t get your last name.”

“It’s Simmons, Fran Simmons.”

She saw the look in Marta Jones’s eyes and knew what was going through her head. Fran Simmons. She’s that television reporter and the daughter of the man who stole the library fund money and shot himself. Fran braced herself, but Marta Jones’s expression changed to one of sympathy. “I won’t pretend I don’t know about your father,” she said quietly. “I was so sorry for you and your mother at that time.”

“Thank you.”

“And now you’re on television, and you’re doing a program on Molly. So of course you know all about her.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, maybe Edna will listen to you. Is it okay if I call you Fran?”

“Of course.”

“I laid awake all last night, wondering if it isn’t dangerous for Edna to work for Molly Lasch. I mean, it was one thing for her to kill her husband. That was temporary insanity, I’m sure. I mean, he was cheating on her that way and everything. But if less than a week after she gets out of prison she stabs her husband’s girlfriend to death, I say she’s out of control.”

Fran thought of what Gus Brandt had said about Molly. The idea that she’s a crazed, out-of-control killer is going to reach epidemic proportions, she realized.

“I’ll tell you this,” Marta continued. “I wouldn’t want to be alone for hours in a house with that kind of person. This morning when I talked to Edna-when she was on her way to the doctor with Wally-I said, ‘Edna, what would happen to Wally if Molly Lasch goes nuts and hits you over the head or stabs you to death? Who would take care of him?’ ”

“Does Wally require much care?”

“As long as he takes his medicine, he’s pretty good. But when he doesn’t take it and gets balky, well, Wally becomes a different person, sometimes a little out of control. Just yesterday he took the key to Molly Lasch’s house off Edna’s key ring. He wanted to go visit her. Of course Edna made him put it right back.”

“He took the key to Molly’s Lasch’s house?” Fran tried to keep her voice level. “Has he ever done that before?”