We'll Meet Again

It was when she was going through those pictures, tears blurring her vision and burning her eyes, that Lucy received a call from Fran Simmons.

“I know who you are,” Lucy snapped, her voice charged with angry emotion. “You’re that reporter who wants to air that dirty business all over again. Well, leave me alone, and leave my sister to rest in peace.”

Speaking from Manhattan, Fran said, “I’m very sorry for your loss, but I have to warn you-Annamarie won’t rest in peace if the case against Molly Lasch comes to trial. Molly’s lawyer will have no choice but to portray Annamarie in the darkest possible terms.”

“That’s not fair!” Lucy wailed. “She was no home wrecker. She was just a kid when she met Gary Lasch.”

“So was Molly,” Fran said. “The more I hear, the sorrier I am for both of them. Mrs. Bonaventure, I’m flying to Buffalo tomorrow morning, and I want to meet you. Please trust me. I’m only trying to learn the truth about what happened, not just the night Annamarie died, but six or more years ago at the hospital where she worked. I also want to know why Annamarie was so frightened. She was frightened, you know.”

“Yes, I know. Something happened at the hospital not long before Gary Lasch died,” Lucy said dully. “I’m flying down tomorrow to clear out Annamarie’s apartment in Yonkers. You don’t have to fly up here. I’ll meet you there, Miss Simmons.”

60

On Thursday afternoon, Edna Barry called Molly and asked if she could come by and see her for just a few minutes.

“Certainly, Mrs. Barry,” Molly said, her tone intentionally cool. Edna Barry had been positive about the spare key, and not only that, she also had been actually hostile in her insistence that Molly didn’t remember what had transpired. I wonder if she wants to apologize, Molly thought, as she returned to sorting through the stacks of material she had laid out on the floor of the study.

Gary had been meticulously neat and precise in everything he did. Now, thanks to the police, his personal files and medical reference materials were scattered and mixed, having been taken apart and haphazardly replaced. What does it matter? she thought. I have nothing if not time.

She had already begun to put aside a stack of pictures that she was planning to send to his mother. None with me in them, of course, she thought wryly, just the ones of Gary with various VIPs.

I never was close to Mrs. Lasch, she thought, and I don’t blame her for hating me. I’m sure I would hate the woman I believed murdered my only child. Hearing about Annamarie Scalli’s death must have brought it all back to her, and chances are the media have been trying to get to her as well.

She flashed momentarily to Annamarie and to their conversation. I wonder who adopted Gary ’s son, she thought. I was so desperately hurt when I found out that Annamarie was pregnant. I hated her and I envied her. But even knowing what I do now, about how Gary scorned me, I long for the baby I lost.

Maybe someday I’ll have another chance, she told herself.

Molly was sitting cross-legged on the floor as that last thought registered. She paused, almost shocked at the idea that perhaps someday a different life would be open to her. What a joke, she told herself, shaking her head. Even Jenna, my best friend, made it clear that she thinks my only options are a prison cell or an institution. How could I even imagine that this nightmare will ever end?

But still, she did have that hope, and she knew why. It was because bits of memory were breaking through; moments of the past buried deeply in her subconscious were starting to come to the fore. Something happened last night when I was locking the door, she thought, remembering the odd sensation that had coursed through her. I don’t know what it was, but it was there.

She began to sort the medical and scientific journals and magazines that she remembered Gary had kept in careful chronological order on the bookshelves. The publications were varied, but Gary obviously had had a reason for keeping them. A glance inside a few of them showed that in virtually all he had checked at least one article in the table of contents. They all probably can be thrown out, Molly decided, but out of curiosity I’ll at least glance through them when I get organized here. It will be interesting to see what Gary found worth saving and referencing.

The kitchen doorbell rang, and then she heard Mrs. Barry call. “Molly, it’s me.”

“I’m in the study,” she called out as she continued to stack the magazines, then paused as she listened to the footsteps coming down the hallway. Hearing them, she remembered how often it had crossed her mind that Mrs. Barry had a heavy foot. She never wore anything except orthopedic, rubber-soled shoes, which always made a firm, squishing sound on the floors.

“Molly, I’m sorry.” Edna Barry was barely inside the room before she began to speak.

Molly looked up and knew immediately that Mrs. Barry was not apologizing. Her expression was determined, her mouth set in a firm line. She was dangling the house key in her hand. “I know it’s not a nice thing to do after all these years, but I can’t work for you anymore. And I need to stop right away.”

Bewildered, Molly pushed herself up from the floor and stood. “Mrs. Barry, you don’t have to quit because of the thing about that key. We both think we’re right about whether or not I brought it in from the garden, but I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation, and I’m confident that Fran Simmons will find it. You must understand why this point is so important to me. If somebody else used that key to come into the house, then it was that person and not me who left it in the drawer. Suppose someone who somehow knew about the key’s hiding place out back came in that Sunday night?”

“I don’t think anyone came in that night,” Edna Barry said, her voice shrill. “And I’m not quitting because of the key. Molly, I’m sorry to say this, but I’m afraid to work for you.”

“Afraid!” Stunned, Molly stared at the housekeeper. “Afraid of what?”

Edna Barry averted her eyes.

“You’re not…afraid…of me? Oh dear God.” Shocked, Molly reached out her hand. “I’ll take the key, Mrs. Barry. Please leave. Now.”

“Molly, you’ve got to understand. It’s not your fault, but you did kill two people.”

“Get out, Mrs. Barry!”

“Molly, get help. Please get help.”

With something between a groan and a sob, Edna Barry turned and rushed away. Molly waited until she saw the woman’s car turn from the driveway and onto the road before she sank to her knees and buried her face in her hands. As she rocked back and forth, low whimpering sounds escaped from inside her.

She’s known me since I was a baby, and she believes I’m a killer. What chance have I got? she asked herself. What chance have I got?

A few streets away, as she waited for the light to change, a distraught Edna Barry was reminding herself over and over that she had no choice but to give that reason to Molly for quitting. It strengthened her story about the spare key, and it kept people like Fran Simmons from getting too curious about Wally. I’m sorry, Molly, Edna thought, remembering the hurt she’d seen in Molly’s eyes, but you’ve got to understand, blood is thicker than water.

61

Between bites of the lunch the housekeeper had served on a tray in his office, Calvin Whitehall barked orders to Lou Knox. He’d been in a foul mood all morning, partly, Lou suspected, because the Fran Simmons situation was getting under his skin. Lou knew that she was persistently calling for an interview and was refusing to be put off by Cal ’s vague promises of trying to set up something. From the talk he had overheard between Jenna and Cal, Lou also knew that Simmons had been scheduled to see Peter Black at noon that day.

When the private phone rang at 12:30, Lou had a feeling it would be Black, calling to report on the meeting.