We'll Meet Again

Edna turned to see Wally standing behind her, his hair disheveled, his eyes bright with anger.

“Now don’t say things like that, Wally,” she said nervously.

“The statue of the horse and cowboy I picked up that time, remember that?”

“Wally, don’t talk about it, please don’t.”

“I just want to tell you about it is all,” he said petulantly.

“Wally, we’re not going to talk about it.”

“But everybody’s talking about it, Mom. Just now, in my room, they were yelling in my head-all of them. They talked about the statue. It wasn’t too heavy for me because I’m strong, but it was too heavy for Molly to lift.”

The voices that tormented him were back, Edna thought with dismay. The medicine wasn’t working.

Edna got up, went to her son, and pressed her hands to his temples. “Shhh,” she said soothingly. “No more talk about Molly or the statue. You know how mixed-up your voices get you, dear. Promise me you won’t say another word about the statue or about Dr. Lasch or Molly. Okay? Now let’s get you one more pill.”

48

Fran finished her segment of the broadcast and turned off her microphone. Tonight, Pat Lyons, a young cameraman, had come up from New York to tape her at the Sea Lamp Diner. “I like this town,” he said. “Here by the water it reminds me of a fishing village.”

“It is a nice town,” Fran agreed, remembering how when she was younger she occasionally had visited a friend in Rowayton. Although it’s a cinch the Sea Lamp isn’t where the elite meet to eat, she thought as she looked at the somewhat seedy-looking diner. Nevertheless she intended to go in there for dinner. Despite the events of the last couple of days, and the presence of the crime scene tape and yellow chalk marks to indicate the location of Annamarie Scalli’s car, the place was open for business.

Fran already had ascertained that Gladys Fluegel, the waitress who waited on Molly and Annamarie Scalli, was on duty tonight. She’d have to be sure to get one of her tables.

She was surprised to find the diner was half full, but then she realized it probably was because of the curiosity generated by the murder and all the ensuing publicity. She stood for a moment in the entrance, wondering if she was more likely to have a chance to chat with Fluegel if she sat at the counter. The problem was solved, however, by the waitress herself, who came rushing up to her. “You’re Fran Simmons. We were watching you doing the broadcast. I’m Gladys Fluegel. I waited on Molly Lasch and Annamarie Scalli the other night. They were sitting right there.” She pointed to an empty booth at the far end of the diner.

It was obvious to Fran that Gladys was more than anxious to tell her story. “I’d really like to have a few words with you,” Fran said. “Maybe if I take that same table you can join me. Do you have a break coming up?”

“Give me ten minutes,” Fluegel said. “I’ll light a fire under them.” She nodded to an elderly couple at a window table. “She’s mad because he wants veal parmigiana, and she says it always gives him gas. I’ll tell them to make up their minds; once I get their order in, I’ll sit down with you.”

Fran paced the distance as she walked to the end booth. About forty feet from the entrance, she decided. While she waited for Gladys to be free, she studied the interior of the diner. It was poorly lit to begin with, and the table was in the shadows, which made it a natural choice for someone who didn’t want to be noticed. Molly had told Philip that Annamarie seemed fearful when they talked, but not of her. What was it she was afraid of? Fran wondered.

And why did Annamarie change her name? Was it just because she thought that the notoriety surrounding Gary Lasch’s murder would follow her? Or did she have another reason for trying to drop out of sight?

According to Molly, Annamarie had left the diner first, then Molly paid the check and followed her. How much time did that take? It couldn’t have been long, because otherwise it was logical for Molly to believe that Annamarie would have driven away already. But it had to be long enough for Annamarie to cross the parking lot and to get in her Jeep.

Molly says she called to her from the door, Fran thought. Did she catch up with her?

“Guess what they’re both having?” Gladys said, pointing her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the elderly couple. “Broiled flounder and spinach. She ordered for both of ‘em. He’s having a fit, poor guy.”

She dropped a menu in front of Fran. “Specials tonight are fricasseed chicken breast and Hungarian goulash.”

I’ll have a hamburger at P. J. Clarke’s when I get back to New York, Fran decided, then murmured something about having a late dinner date and ordered a roll and coffee.

When Gladys returned with the order, she sat down. “I’ve got about two minutes,” she said. “This is where Molly Lasch was sitting. That Annamarie Scalli was in your seat. As I told the detectives yesterday, Scalli was nervous-I swear she was afraid of Lasch. Then, when Scalli got up to go, Molly Lasch grabbed her wrist. Scalli had to pull away from her, and then she got out of here real fast, like she was afraid Molly Lasch would chase her, which of course is what she did. I mean how many women toss down a five-dollar bill to pay for a cup of tea and a coffee that cost a dollar thirty? I tell you, it gives me nightmares to think that just seconds after she left my table, that Scalli woman was dead.” She sighed. “I guess I’m just going to have to face being a witness at the trial.”

You’re dying to testify, Fran thought. “Were there other waitresses here on Sunday night?” she asked.

“Honey, on Sunday night in this joint you don’t need two waitresses. Actually I’m supposed to be off Sundays, but the regular girl called in sick, and guess who got stuck? On the other hand, it was very interesting to be here with so much going on.”

“What about a chef or someone at the counter? There must have been that kind of help in here.”

“Oh sure, the chef was around, although I tell you, it stretches the meaning of the word to call that bird a ‘chef.’ But he wasn’t out here-he’s always in the back. See no evil, hear no evil. If you get what I mean.”

“Who was behind the counter?”

“Bobby Burke, a college kid. He works on weekends.”

“I’d like to talk to him.”

“He lives on Yarmouth Street in Belle Island. That’s just over the little bridge down two blocks from here. He’s Robert Burke, Jr. They’re in the phone book. Did you want to interview me on television or something?”

“When I am taping the program on Molly Lasch, I would like to talk to you,” Fran said.

“It will be my pleasure to oblige you.”

I bet it will be, Fran thought.

Fran called the Burke residence from her car phone. At first Bobby Burke’s father flatly refused to allow her to speak with his son. “Bobby has made a statement to the police that contained everything he had to say. He hardly noticed either woman come or go. He could not see the parking lot from the counter.”

“Mr. Burke,” Fran begged. “I’m going to be flat-out honest with you. I’m only five minutes away. I just spoke to Gladys Fluegel and I’m concerned that her interpretation of the meeting between Molly Lasch and Annamarie Scalli may be a little distorted. I’m a reporter, but I’m also a friend of Molly Lasch’s. We went to school together. In the name of simple fairness, I appeal to you. She needs help.”

“Hold on.”

When Burke got back on the phone, he said, “Okay, Ms. Simmons, you can come over and talk to Bobby, but I insist on staying in the room with you. Let me give you directions to the house.”

He’s the kind of kid any parent would be proud of, Fran thought as she sat with Bobby Burke in the living room of his modest home. He was a skinny eighteen-year-old, with a shock of light brown hair and intelligent brown eyes. His manner was diffident, and he occasionally glanced at his father for guidance, but there was a hint of humor in his eyes when he answered some of Fran’s questions, and especially when he spoke about Gladys.

“It wasn’t busy, so I did see the two ladies come in,” he said. “I mean, they came in separately, just a few minutes apart. It was kind of funny. Gladys always tries to put people at a table near the counter so she doesn’t have to carry the order too far, but the first lady wasn’t having any of that. She pointed to the back booth.”