We'll Meet Again

“Oh, I don’t think so. Edna doesn’t allow him to go there. Dr. Lasch was so fussy about his collection of early- American art. Some of it apparently was quite valuable. I do know though that Wally stopped in there once and picked up something he shouldn’t have, and Edna was a wreck. He didn’t break anything, but it was a valuable piece, and apparently Dr. Lasch just went on like a mad man about it, yelling and ordering him out of the house.Wally didn’t like that at all…Oh look, there’s Edna now.”

They caught up with Edna Barry as she was opening her front door. The stricken look on Mrs. Barry’s face when she saw Fran with Marta Jones was further confirmation to Fran that the woman had something to hide.

“Go inside, Wally,” she snapped at her son.

Fran barely got a glimpse at the tall, good-looking man in his thirties before Edna shoved him into the house and pulled the door closed.

When she turned to face Fran, anger flushed her cheeks and made her voice tremble. “Miss Simmons,” she said, “I don’t know why you’re here, but it’s been a very difficult morning for me, and I can’t talk to you now.”

“Oh, Edna,” Marta Jones asked, “isn’t Wally any calmer?”

“Wally’s fine,” Edna Barry said sharply, her voice registering a mixture of fear and anger. “Marta, I hope you haven’t been filling Miss Simmons’s ears with mean gossip about him.”

“Edna, how can you say that? Nobody’s a better friend to Wally than I am.”

Tears filled Edna Barry’s eyes. “I know. I know. It’s just so hard…You have to excuse me. I’ll call you, Marta.”

For a moment Fran and Marta Jones stood on the steps, looking at the door Edna Barry had just closed in their faces. “Edna’s not a rude person,” Marta said quietly. “It’s just that she’s had a hard time of it. First Wally’s father died, and then Dr. Morrow. Then right after that, Dr. Lasch was murdered, and-”

“Dr. Morrow?” Fran queried, interrupting Marta Jones. “What did he have to do with Edna Barry?”

“Oh, he was Wally’s primary care physician and was really great at handling him. He was also real nice. If Wally started refusing to take his medicine, or made any kind of trouble, all Edna had to do was call Dr. Morrow.”

“Dr. Morrow,” Fran said. “You are talking about Dr. Jack Morrow?”

“Yes. Did you know him?”

“Yes, I did.” Fran thought again about the kind young man who, fourteen years earlier, had embraced her when he broke the news of her father’s death.

“If you remember, he was murdered in a robbery only two weeks before Dr. Lasch died,” Marta said sadly.

“I imagine that upset Wally?”

“Don’t ask. It was awful. And I guess it was right after that when Dr. Lasch yelled at him. Poor Wally. People don’t understand. It’s not his fault he’s the way he is.”

No, Fran thought as she thanked Marta Jones for her hospitality and got into her car. But people not only don’t understand; they may not even know about the extent of Wally’s problems. Could Edna Barry be covering up something? Is it conceivable that she allowed Molly to be convicted of a crime her son actually committed?

Was it possible that it had happened that way?

44

The sleeping pill Dr. Daniels had given Molly had been highly effective. She had taken it at ten o’clock the night before, and she’d slept until eight this morning. It had been a deep, heavy sleep, from which she emerged somewhat groggy, but refreshed.

She put on a robe and set out to get coffee and juice, which she would bring upstairs to bed; once settled in, she would try to put everything in focus. But even before she reached the kitchen, she realized that first she had to take care of the disorder she saw all about her in the house.

Though they had made an effort to put things right, the police had changed the whole feeling of the house. It was subtle, but Molly recognized all the changes. Everything they had touched or moved was askew, out of order, not right.

The harmony of her home, the remembrance of which had been her surcease in those days and nights in prison, was gone and had to be restored.

After a quick shower, she donned jeans, sneakers, and an old sweatshirt and was ready for work. The temptation to call Mrs. Barry and ask her to help came and went swiftly. It’s my house, Molly told herself. Let me put it back together myself.

My life may be out of control, she despaired as she filled the sink with hot water and poured in liquid soap, but I can still get myself together enough to reclaim my house.

It isn’t that there are terrible stains anywhere, just some finger marks and smudges, she thought as she rearranged the dishes they had moved and straightened the pots and pans so that they were again lined up just so.

Having the police run roughshod through the house was like a surprise inspection of my cell, she thought. She remembered the strident sound of feet marching down the cell block corridor, the order to stand against the wall, being made to watch as her bed was taken apart as they searched for drugs.

She did not realize that she had started crying until she rubbed her cheek with the back of her hand and a soap bubble got in her eye.

There’s another reason for being glad Mrs. Barry is off today, she thought. I don’t have to bury my emotions. I can let it out. Dr. Daniels would give me an A plus.

She’d been polishing the foyer table with butcher’s wax when Fran Simmons called at 9:30.

Why did I agree to have lunch with her? Molly asked herself as she replaced the receiver.

But she knew why. Despite what Philip had cautioned, she wanted to tell Fran that for some reason Annamarie Scalli had seemed afraid.

And not of me, Molly thought. She wasn’t afraid of me, even though she was convinced I killed Gary.

O God, O God, why are You letting this happen to me? she asked silently as she collapsed onto one of the bottom stairs.

Now she heard her own sobs. I am so alone, she thought, so alone. She remembered her mom on the phone yesterday: “Dear, you’re right, it’s better we don’t come up yet.”

I wanted Mom to say they were on their way to be with me, Molly thought. I need them here, now. I need someone to help me.

At 10:30 the doorbell rang. She tiptoed to the door, leaned against it and waited. I’m not going to answer it, she thought. Whoever is there has got to think I’m not home.

Then she heard a voice. “Molly, open up. It’s me.”

With a sob of relief, Molly unlocked the door and a moment later began crying uncontrollably as she was hugged by Jenna.

“Good friend, best friend,” Jenna said, tears of sympathy in her eyes. “What can I do to help?”

Still sobbing, Molly nonetheless managed a laugh. “Turn the clock back a dozen years,” she said, “and don’t introduce me to Gary Lasch. Failing that, just be around for me.”

“Philip isn’t here yet?”

“He said he surely would be here at some point. He had to go to court.”

“Molly, you’ve got to call him. Cal got a tip. They found a trace of Annamarie Scalli’s blood on the ankle boots you were wearing Sunday night, and also in your car. I’m sorry. Cal hears that the prosecutor is going to have you arrested.”