Their assailant had fainted during his tumble, and was now a deadweight. With superhuman strength, Fran assumed most of the burden but still managed, with Dr. Lowe’s help, to pull Lou Knox nearly twenty feet before the explosion Calvin Whitehall had planned so carefully took place.
They headed for safety as flames leaped skyward and debris rained around them.
After Fran left, Molly went upstairs and into the bathroom, where she stood in front of the mirror, studying her face. It looked unfamiliar, as if she were looking at a stranger-one she didn’t particularly care to meet. “You used to be Molly Carpenter, didn’t you?” she asked her mirror image. “Molly Carpenter was a very lucky person, privileged even. Well, guess what? She’s not here anymore, and you can’t go back to pretending to be her. You can only go back to being a number who lives in a cell block. Doesn’t sound like a lot of fun, does it? And maybe it’s not such a great idea.”
She turned on the taps to fill the Jacuzzi, tossed in scented bath salts, and walked into the bedroom.
Jenna had said she was going to stop at a cocktail party before coming over. Her housekeeper would deliver dinner. Jenna will look gorgeous, Molly thought. Then she made a decision. I’ll surprise her-tonight I’m going to have my one last fling at being Molly Carpenter.
An hour later, her hair washed and shining, makeup camouflaging the circles under her eyes, dressed in pale green silk slacks and a matching cowl-neck shirt, Molly waited for Jenna to arrive.
She got there at 7:30, looking every bit as beautiful as Molly had expected. “I’m late,” she wailed. “I was at the Hodges’. They’re clients of the firm. All the big guns came from New York, so I just couldn’t get away any faster.”
“I wasn’t going anywhere,” Molly said quietly.
Jenna stood back and looked at her. “Molly, you look
terrific
. Molly, you’re wonderful!”
Molly shrugged. “I don’t know about that. Hey, does your husband expect us to get blotto? When dinner arrived, it was accompanied by three bottles of that great wine he brought the other night.”
Jenna laughed. “That’s Cal. If one bottle would be a pleasant remembrance, three bottles will remind you what an important guy he is. Not the worst trait, I’d say.”
“Not at all,” Molly agreed.
“Let’s test it,” Jenna suggested. “Let’s get a buzz on. Let’s pretend that we’re still the girls who set the tone for this town.”
“We
did,
didn’t we?” Molly thought. I’m glad I got dressed up. It may be my last hurrah, but it will be fun, I know what I have to do tonight. No more will I be the prisoner in the dock. Fran had a nerve to come in here and make me feel guilty. What does
she
know about it? She remembered Fran’s words: “
I am angry at my father… I’m furious… Believe in Philip. It may not even be important to you, but that guy loves you…”
They stood at the bar built into an alcove in the hallway that ran between the kitchen and family room. Jenna rummaged in the drawer, found the corkscrew, and opened a bottle of the wine. She scanned the shelves and selected two delicate crystal glasses. “My grandmother had these glasses as well,” she said. “Remember how our grandmother’s wills read? You got this house and God knows what else. I got six glasses. That’s about what Gran was down to when she departed this earth.”
Jenna poured the wine, handed one glass to Molly and said, “Bottoms up.”
As they clinked glasses, Molly had the disturbing sensation that she was seeing something in Jenna’s eyes that she didn’t quite understand, something new and entirely unexpected.
She couldn’t imagine what it meant.
Lou should have been back by 9:30. As he did with everything, Calvin Whitehall had calculated the precise amount of time it would take for his henchman to go to West Redding, take care of business, and return. As he watched the clock in his library with intense awareness, he acknowledged to himself that unless Lou returned soon, something must have gone terribly wrong.
Too bad, because this was an all-or-nothing game. There was no such thing as cutting his losses if he failed.
By ten o’clock he had begun to consider how quickly he could distance himself from his aide-de-camp, Lou Knox.
At ten minutes after ten the front doorbell rang. He had told the housekeeper to take the night off, something he frequently did. It annoyed him to have household help around all the time. Cal understood that, of course, this feeling was the product of his origins. In most cases, no matter how much you achieve in life, humble beginnings trigger humble responses, he thought.
He headed down the hall toward the door, catching his reflection in a mirror along the way. What he saw was a barrel-chested man with a ruddy complexion and thinning hair. For some reason a remark he had heard about himself when he was fresh out of Yale flashed into his mind. The mother of one of his Yale friends had whispered, “ Cal does not look comfortable in his Brooks Brothers suit.”
He was not surprised to find not one but four people at the door. The spokesman said, “Mr. Whitehall, I’m Detective Burroughs from the prosecutor’s office. You are under arrest for conspiracy to murder Frances Simmons and Dr. Adrian Lowe.”
Conspiracy to murder, he thought, letting the phrase echo in his mind.
It was worse than he expected.
Cal stared at Detective Burroughs, who cheerfully returned his gaze. “Mr. Whitehall, for your information, your coconspirator, Lou Knox, is singing like a bird from his hospital bed. And another piece of good news-Dr. Adrian Lowe is making a statement at the police station right now. It seems he can’t praise you enough for all you did to make his criminal research possible.”
At seven o’clock, Philip Matthews was parked in front of the Hilmers’ house, hoping that perhaps they’d get home early.
However, it was ten minutes past nine when they pulled into their driveway. “I’m so terribly sorry,” Arthur Hilmer said. “We knew there was a good chance that someone would be waiting for us here, but our granddaughter was in a play, and… well, you know how that is.”
Philip smiled. A nice man, he thought.
“Of course you don’t know how it is,” Hilmer corrected himself. “Our son is forty-four. You’re probably about that yourself, I’d say.”
Philip smiled. “Do you read tea leaves?” He then introduced himself, explaining briefly about Molly’s being in danger of having to return to prison, and how they could be important to him in defending her case.
They went into the house. Jane Hilmer, an attractive, well-preserved woman in her mid-sixties, offered Philip a soft drink, a glass of wine, or coffee, all of which he refused.
Arthur Hilmer obviously understood that he needed to get down to business. “We talked to Bobby Burke at the Sea Lamp today,” he said. “You could have bowled the two of us over when we heard what had happened there that Sunday night. We’d caught a movie at the mall and then gone to the diner for a sandwich.”
“We left first thing the next morning to visit our son in Toronto,” Jane Hilmer volunteered. “We only just got back last night. Today, we stopped at the diner for lunch on our way to Janie’s play, and that’s when we heard.” She looked at her husband.
“As I said, we were bowled over. We told Bobby that of course we wanted to help in any way we could. Bobby probably told you that we got a pretty good look at the guy in the sedan in the parking lot.”
“Yes, he did,” Philip confirmed. “I’m going to ask you to make a statement to the prosecutor’s office tomorrow morning, and then I want you both to get together with the police artist. A sketch of the man you saw in that sedan would be very helpful.”
“Glad to do that,” Arthur Hilmer said. “But I can be even more help to you, I think. You see, we paid particular attention to both of the women when they left. We’d seen the first woman go by our table, and it was obvious that she was upset. Then that classy-looking blond lady, who I now understand is Molly Lasch, left. She was crying. I heard her call out, ‘Annamarie!’ ”
Philip tensed. Don’t give me bad news, he silently begged.
“It was obvious the other woman didn’t hear her,” Arthur Hilmer said flatly. “There’s a little oval window over the cashier’s desk. From where I was sitting I could see out clearly into the parking lot, or at least to the part closest to the diner. The first woman must have crossed the lot over to the darker side-I couldn’t see her. But I’m certain I saw that second lady-I mean Molly Lasch-go straight to her car and take off. I can swear there’s no way in heaven or hell she could have walked across the parking lot to that Jeep and plunged a knife into the other woman, not in the time between when I saw her walk out the diner and when she drove away in her car.”
Philip didn’t know that his eyes had moistened until he brushed them with the back of his hand in a reflex gesture. “I can’t begin to find words,” he said, then stopped. He sprang up. “I’ll try to find the right words to thank you tomorrow,” he said. “Right now, I’ve got to get to Greenwich.”
Dr. Peter Black stood at the window of his upstairs bedroom, a glass of scotch in his hand. He watched with blurring eyes as two unfamiliar cars pulled into his driveway. He did not need to observe the businesslike manner in which the four large men emerged, and came walking up his cobblestone walk to know that it was all over. Cal the Mighty has finally crashed, he thought with a trace of humor. Unfortunately, he’s taking me with him.
Always have a contingency plan-that was one of Cal ’s favorite mottoes. I wonder if he has one now? Peter Black thought. Truthfully, though, I never liked the guy, so I really don’t care.
He crossed to his bed and opened the drawer of his night table. Then he took out a leather case and extracted a hypodermic needle, already filled with fluid.
With a look of suddenly personal curiosity, he studied the instrument. How many times had he, with compassion in his face, given that injection, knowing that the trusting eyes gazing up at him would soon lose their focus and then would close forever?
According to Dr. Lowe, this drug not only left no trace in the blood, there was also no pain attached to its effect.
Pedro was knocking at the bedroom door, to announce the uninvited guests.
Dr. Peter Black stretched out on his bed. He took a final sip of scotch and then plunged the needle into his arm. He sighed as he briefly thought that at least Dr. Lowe had been right about there being no pain.
“I am all right,” Fran insisted. “I know there’s nothing broken.” She had refused to go to the hospital, and was taken instead in a squad car to the prosecutor’s office in Stamford as was Dr. Lowe. From there she’d called Gus Brandt at home, filling her boss in on the events of the evening. Using the phone hookup, he’d gotten Fran’s breaking story on the air, with file-tape footage providing the background.
When the police-both state and local-had arrived at the scene of the explosion, Dr. Lowe announced that he wanted to surrender to the authorities and make a full statement about the medical breakthroughs his research had achieved.
Standing in the field, the fire still burning fiercely behind him, his files clutched in his arms, he apologized to Fran. “I could have died tonight, Miss Simmons. Everything I have accomplished would have gone with me. I must go on record immediately.”
“Doctor,” Fran had said, “I can’t help observing that while you yourself are well into your seventies, you certainly were less than philosophical when somebody tried to end your life.”
The state troopers had transported them to the state attorney’s office in Stamford. Fran had made her statement to an assistant prosecutor, RudyJacobs. “I had Dr. Lowe on tape,” she told him. “If only I had thought to grab my recorder before the place blew up…”
“Ms. Simmons, we won’t need it,” Jacobs told her. “They tell me the good doctor is talking his head off. We’re getting him on camera and on tape.”
“Have you identified the man who tried to kill us?”
“We sure have. His name is Lou Knox. He’s from Greenwich, where he lives and works as Calvin Whitehall’s chauffeur, and apparently takes care of a whole variety of other jobs.”
“How badly was he hurt?”
“He took a few pellets in his shoulder and arm, and he’s got some burns, but he’ll be okay. I hear he also is spilling his guts. He knows we have him cold, and his only hope for some kind of break is full cooperation.”
“Has Calvin Whitehall been arrested?”
“They’ve just brought him in. He’s being processed as we speak.”
“Could I get a look at him?” Fran asked with a wry smile. “I went to school with his wife, but I’ve never met him. It would be interesting to see the guy who tried to have me blown to bits.”
“I don’t see why not. Follow me.”
The sight of the barrel-chested, balding, coarse-featured man in a wrinkled wool sports shirt surprised Fran. Just as Dr. Lowe had not looked anything like the pictures she had seen of him, there was nothing in this rumpled man to suggest “ Cal the Mighty,” as Jenna called her husband. In fact, it was hard to picture Jenna-beautiful, elegant, refined-married to someone so coarse in appearance.
Jenna!
How awful this is going to be for her, Fran thought. She was supposed to be with Molly tonight. I wonder if she has even heard?
Jenna’s husband would surely go to prison, Fran thought as she considered the immediate future. Molly may still be headed back to prison too. Unless, of course, some of what I’ve uncovered tonight about misdeeds at Lasch Hospital can help her somehow. My father killed himself rather than face prison. What a strange bond for us Cranden Academy girls to have-all three in some way impacted by the reality of prison.
She turned to the assistant prosecutor. “Mr. Jacobs, I’m starting to feel all my aches and pains. I guess I will take you up on that ride home now.”
“Sure, Ms. Simmons.”
“But first could I use the phone again for a minute? I’d like to check my messages.”
“Of course. Let’s go back to my office.”
There were two messages. Bobby Burke, the counterman at the Sea Lamp Diner, had phoned at four o’clock to tell her he had located the couple who’d been in the diner Sunday night at the same time that Molly was meeting with Annamarie Scalli.
Great news, Fran thought.
The second call was from Edna Barry and had come in at six o’clock: “Ms. Simmons, this is very hard for me, but I feel like I have to make a clean breast of everything. I lied about the spare key to Molly’s house because I was afraid my son might have… might have been
involved
in Dr. Lasch’s death. Wally is very troubled.”
Fran pressed the receiver more firmly against her ear. Edna Barry was sobbing so much it was hard to understand her words.
“Ms. Simmons, sometimes Wally tells wild stories. He hears things in his head and thinks they’re true. That’s why I was so afraid for him.”
“Are you okay, Ms. Simmons?” Jacobs asked, noting her look of concerned concentration.
Fran raised her finger to her lips as she strained to hear Edna Barry’s faltering voice. “I wouldn’t let Wally talk. I’ve kept shushing him when he tried. But he said something just now that, if it’s true, might be very, very important.
“Wally claims he saw Molly come home the night Dr. Lasch died. He says he saw her go in the house and turn on the light in the study. By then he was standing at the study window, and when she turned on the light, he saw Dr. Lasch was covered with blood.
“This next part is what is so important, if it’s true, and Wally’s not just imagining things. He swears he saw the front door to the house open, and a woman start to come out. She spotted him, though, and jumped back inside. He didn’t see her face and doesn’t know who she is, and he ran as soon as he saw her.”
There was a pause and more sobbing before she began again: “Ms. Simmons, I should have let him be questioned, but he never told me about this woman before. I didn’t mean to hurt Molly-I was just so afraid for my son.” The sound of sobbing filled Fran’s head for several long moments. Then Mrs. Barry composed herself enough to continue; “That’s all I can tell you. I guess you or Molly’s lawyer will want to talk to us tomorrow. We’ll be here. Good-bye.”
Stunned, Fran replaced the receiver in its cradle. Wally says he saw Molly come home, she thought. Of course, he’s not well. He may not be a reliable witness.
But,
if he is telling the truth, and if he did see a woman coming out of Molly’s house…
Fran thought back to what Molly had told her of her memory of that night. Molly had said she was sure there was someone else in the house. She had talked about hearing a clicking sound…
But
what
woman? Annamarie? Fran shook her head. No, I don’t believe that… Another nurse he was fooling around with…?
A
clicking sound
. I’ve heard a clicking sound in Molly’s house myself, Fran realized. I heard it yesterday when I stopped by and Jenna was there. It was the click her high heels made in the hallway.
Jenna.
“Good friend. Best friend.”
Oh my God, was it possible?There was no forced entry, no struggle. Wally saw a woman leaving the house. Gary had to have been killed by a woman he knew. Not Molly. Not Annamarie. All those pictures. The way Jenna looked at him in them.