We'll Meet Again

asking for help. I know he did. Why didn’t he do something? He just stood there.”

“Mom, Mom, he did everything he could for Tasha. It’s better this way, really.”

Barbara tried to struggle to a sitting position. “I repeat-I am not a fool. I did not imagine that Tasha came out of the coma,” she said, her anger giving her voice its customary tone of authority. “For some terrible reason Peter Black is lying to us.”

Walter and Rob Colbert grasped their mother’s hands as Dr. Black, who had been standing out of the range of her view, stepped forward and pricked her arm with a needle.

Barbara Colbert felt herself sinking into warm, enveloping darkness. She fought against it momentarily, then succumbed.

“The most important thing is that she rest,” Dr. Black assured her sons. “No matter how prepared we think we are to lose a loved one, when the moment of saying good-bye comes, the shock can be overwhelming. I’ll look in on her later.”

When Black got to his office after making rounds, there was a message waiting from Cal Whitehall. He was to call him immediately.

“Have you convinced Barbara Colbert that she was hallucinating last night?” Cal demanded.

Peter Black knew the situation was desperate and that it would do no good to lie to Cal. “I had to give her another sedative. She’s not going to be easily convinced.”

For a long minute Calvin Whitehall did not respond. Then he said quietly, “I trust you realize what you’ve brought on all of us.”

Black did not answer.

“As if Mrs. Colbert is not a big enough problem, I just heard from West Redding. Having endlessly reviewed the tape, the doctor is demanding that his project be disclosed to the media.”

“Doesn’t he know what that will mean?” Black asked, dumbfounded.

“He doesn’t care. He’s nuts. I insisted he wait until Monday, so we can agree on a proper presentation. I will have taken care of him by then. In the meantime, I suggest you make Mrs. Colbert your responsibility.”

Cal hung up the phone with a bang, leaving no doubt in Peter Black’s mind that he expected to be obeyed.

68

Lucy Bonaventure took an early morning plane from Buffalo to New York ’s La Guardia Airport and by ten o’clock was entering Annamarie’s garden apartment in Yonkers. In the nearly six years that Annamarie had lived there, Lucy had never seen the place. Annamarie had told her the apartment was small-it had only one bedroom, and besides, it was always more convenient for Annamarie to drive to Buffalo for visits.

Lucy knew that the police had searched the apartment after Annamarie died, and she understood that was why it had a disheveled appearance. The bric-a-brac on the coffee table was shoved together; books were piled haphazardly on the shelves, as if they’d been pulled out and replaced at random. In the bedroom it was obvious that the contents of drawers had been examined, then just tossed back carelessly by uncaring hands.

She had arranged for the manager of the condo units to handle the sale of the apartment. All Lucy had to do was to clear it out. She would like to get that done in one day, but realistically she knew it would be at least an overnight job. It was painful for her even to be there, to see Annamarie’s favorite perfume on the dresser, to see the book she’d been reading still on the night table, to open the closet and see her suits and dresses and uniforms, and to know she would never wear them again.

All the clothing, as well as the furniture, would be picked up by charities. At least, Lucy reasoned, some needy people would be helped. It was small comfort, but it was something.

Fran Simmons, the reporter, was due to arrive at 11:30. While she waited for her, Lucy began clearing out Annamarie’s dresser, folding the contents neatly, then placing them in cartons the handyman had given her.

She wept over the photographs she found in a bottom drawer, showing Annamarie holding her infant son, pictures obviously taken minutes after he was born. She looked so young in the photos and was looking at the baby so tenderly. There were other pictures of him, each marked on the back, “first birthday,” “second birthday,” until the last one, the fifth. He was a beautiful child, with sparkling blue eyes, dark brown hair, and a warm merry smile. It broke Annamarie’s heart to give him up, Lucy thought. She deliberated over whether to show the photos to Fran Simmons, then decided she would. They might help her to understand Annamarie and the terrible price she had paid for her mistakes.

Fran rang the doorbell promptly at 11:30, and Lucy Bonaventure invited her in. For a moment the two women took each other’s measure. Fran saw a buxom woman in her mid-forties, with swollen eyes, even features, and skin that seemed blotched from weeping.

Lucy saw a slender woman in her early thirties with collar-length, light brown hair and blue-gray eyes. As she explained to her daughter the next day, “It wasn’t that she was all dressed up-she had on a dark brown pants suit with a brown and yellow and white scarf at her neck, and simple gold earrings-but she looked so New York. She had a nice way about her, and when she told me how sorry she was about Annamarie, I knew it wasn’t just talk. I’d made coffee, and she said she’d like a cup, so we sat down at Annamarie’s little dinette table.”

Fran knew it would be wise to get straight to the point. “Mrs. Bonaventure, I began to investigate Dr. Lasch’s murder because Molly Lasch, whom I knew from school, asked me to do a show on the case for the True Crime program I work with. She wants to uncover the truth about these murders as much as you do. She has spent five and a half years in prison for a crime she doesn’t remember and, I have come to believe, she did not commit. There are far too many unanswered questions about Dr. Lasch’s death. No one ever really investigated it at the time, and I’m trying to do it now.”

“Yes, well, her lawyer tried to make it look as if Annamarie killed Dr. Lasch,” Lucy said with remembered anger.

“Her lawyer did what any good lawyer would do. He pointed out that Annamarie said she was alone in her apartment in Cos Cob the night of the murder, but that she had no one who could corroborate it.”

“If that trial hadn’t been stopped, he was going to cross-examine Annamarie and try to make her out to be a murderer. I know that was his plan. Is he still Molly Lasch’s lawyer?”

“Yes, he is. And a good one. Mrs. Bonaventure, Molly did not kill Dr. Lasch. She did not kill Annamarie. She certainly did not kill Dr. Jack Morrow, whom she hardly knew. Three people are dead, and I believe the same person is responsible for their murders. Whoever took their lives should be punished, but it was not Molly. That person is the reason Molly went to prison. That person is the reason she has been arrested for Annamarie’s murder. Do you want Molly Lasch sent to prison for something she didn’t do, or do you want to find your sister’s murderer?”

“Why did Molly Lasch track down Annamarie and ask to meet her?”

“Molly had believed she had a happy marriage. Obviously she did not, or Annamarie wouldn’t have been in the picture. Molly was trying to find the answer to why her husband was murdered, and to why her marriage failed. Where better than to start with the woman who had been her husband’s lover? This is where you can help. Annamarie was afraid of someone, or of something. Molly saw that when they met that night, but you must have seen it long before then. Why did she change her name and take your mother’s maiden name? Why did she give up hospital nursing? From everything I hear she was a marvelous bedside nurse and loved doing it.”

“Yes, she was,” Lucy Bonaventure said sadly. “She was punishing herself when she gave it up.”

But what I need to know is why she gave it up, Fran thought. “Mrs. Bonaventure, you said that something had happened in the hospital-something that was terribly upsetting to Annamarie. Have you any idea what it was, or when it happened?”

Lucy Bonaventure sat silently for a moment, obviously struggling with her desire to protect Annamarie versus the fervent need to punish her murderer.

“I know it was not long before Dr.Lasch was murdered,” she said, speaking slowly, “and it was over a