We'll Meet Again

“Did you think she seemed nervous?”

“I really couldn’t tell.”

“You say you weren’t busy?”

“That’s right. There were just a few people at the counter. Although just before the women left, a couple came in and took a table. Gladys was back with the women when this couple showed up.”

“Was she still waiting on them?”

“Writing the check. But she took her sweet time. She’s naturally nosy and likes to know what’s going on. I remember that the new couple started getting annoyed and called to her. That was just as the second lady was leaving.”

“Bobby, did you think the first woman to leave-the one who then was killed in the parking lot-ran out as though she was nervous, or afraid?”

“She was moving pretty fast, but she wasn’t really running.”

“What about the second woman? You must know that her name is Molly Lasch?”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Did you see her leave?”

“Yes.”

“Was she running?”

“She was moving pretty fast too. But I got the impression it was because she was starting to cry, and I just figured she didn’t want anyone to see her. I felt sorry for her.”

She was starting to cry, Fran thought. That doesn’t sound like a woman in a homicidal rage.

“Bobby, did you hear her call a name as she left?”

“I thought I heard her call out to someone, but I didn’t catch the name.”

“Did she call a second time? Did she call ‘Annamarie, wait’?”

“I didn’t hear her call a second time. But then I was pouring coffee, so maybe I didn’t notice.”

“I just left the diner, Bobby. The counter is near the door. Don’t you think if Molly Lasch had called out loudly enough for someone in a car across the parking lot to hear her, you’d have heard her too?”

He thought for a moment.

“I guess so.”

“Did the police ask you about this?”

“Not really. They asked if I heard Mrs. Lasch call to the other lady at the door, and I said I thought I did.”

“Bobby, who was at the counter at that time?”

“By then it was just two guys who stop in once in a while. They’d been bowling. But they were talking to each other, not paying attention to anyone else.”

“Bobby, who were the people who came in and took a table and called to Gladys?”

“I don’t know their names. They’re about Dad and Mom’s age; I see them in there once in a while. I think they go to the movies, or something, and then eat on the way home.”

“Bobby, if they come in again, will you get their names and phone number for me, or if they won’t give you that information, will you give them my card and ask them to phone me?”

“You bet, Ms. Simmons,” Bobby said with a smile. “I like your reports on the news, and I always watch the True Crime program. It’s great.”

“I just started working on True Crime, but thank you,” Fran said. “The Lasch case will be the subject of my first program.” She got up and turned to Robert Burke, Sr. “You’ve been very kind to allow me to talk with Bobby,” she said.

“Well, the truth is, I’ve been watching the news some,” he said, “and I get the feeling there’s a terrible rush to judgment going on in this case; obviously you feel the same way.” He smiled. “Of course, I may be prejudiced. I’m a public defender.”

He walked Fran to the door and opened it. “Ms. Simmons, if you’re a friend of Molly Lasch, you should know something else. Today, when the police questioned Bobby, I got the feeling that all they wanted to hear was a verification of what Gladys Fluegel had told them, and I can tell you that that woman is hungry for attention. I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t start to remember all sorts of things. I know her type. She’ll tell the police anything they want to hear, and you can bet that none of it will help Molly Lasch.”

49

She’d been arraigned. Fingerprinted. Photographed. She heard Philip Matthews say, “My client pleads not guilty, Your Honor.” The prosecutor arguing that she might disappear and requesting house arrest. The judge saying one million dollars bail and confining her to her home.

Shivering in the holding cell. The bail paid. Like an obedient child, Molly, listless and detached, did as she was told, until finally she was in the car with Philip, who was driving her home.

His arm around her, he half carried her into the house and to the family room. He made her lie down on the sofa, put one of the decorative pillows under her head, then went hunting for a blanket and tucked it around her.

“You’re shivering. Where’s the starter for the fire?” he asked.

“On the mantel.” She was not aware she was answering a question until she heard her own voice.

A moment later the fire blazed up, warm and comforting.

“I’m staying,” Philip said. “I have my briefcase; I can work on the kitchen table. You close your eyes.”

When she opened them with a start, it was seven o’clock, and Dr. Daniels was sitting beside her. “You okay, Molly?”

“Annamarie,” she gasped. “I was dreaming about her.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Annamarie knew something terrible was going to happen to her. That was why she hurried out of the diner. She wanted to escape her fate. Instead, she ran into it.”

“You think Annamarie knew she was going to die, Molly?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why do you think Annamarie knew that?”

“Doctor, that was part of the dream. You know the fable of the man who was told he was going to meet death that night in Damascus, so he rushed to Samara to hide? And a stranger came up to him in the street there and said, ‘I am Death. I thought our appointment was in Damascus ’?” She grasped Dr. Daniels’s hands. “It was all so real.”

“You mean there was no way Annamarie could save herself?”

“No way at all. I can’t save myself either.”

“Tell me about that, Molly.”

“I don’t really know,” she whispered. “When I was in the holding cell today, and they locked that door, I kept hearing another door being locked or unlocked. Isn’t that odd?”

“Was it a prison door?”

“No. But I don’t know yet what door it is. The sound is part of what happened the night Gary died.” She sighed and, pushing the blanket away, sat up. “Oh God, why can’t I remember? If I could, maybe I’d have a chance.”

“Molly, it’s a good sign that you’re retrieving specific incidents or sounds.”

“Is it?” she said wanly.

The doctor studied Molly carefully. He could see the effects of the recent stress in her face: lethargic, depressed, withdrawn; sure that her own fate was sealed. Clearly she did not want to talk any longer.

“Molly, I’d like to get together with you every day for a while. All right?”

He had expected that she might protest, but she nodded indifferently.

“I’ll tell Philip I’m leaving,” he said.

“He should go home too. I’m so grateful to both of you. There’re not too many people hanging around these days. My father and mother, for example. They’ve been noticeably absent.”