The traffic on I-95 is getting into the California freeway class, Fran thought as she craned her neck, looking for a chance to change lanes. Almost immediately she had regretted not taking the Merritt Parkway. The semitrailer ahead of her was rumbling so loudly that it sounded like a bombing attack was underway, but it was traveling ten miles below the speed limit, making the experience of being stuck behind it doubly irritating.
Overnight, the skies had cleared, and as the noncommittal weatherman on CBS put it, “Today will be partly sunny and partly cloudy, with a chance of rain.”
That covers just about every possible situation, Fran decided, then realized she was concentrating on the weather and the driving conditions because she was nervous.
As every rotation of the tires brought her nearer to Greenwich and her meeting with Molly Carpenter Lasch, she felt her thoughts insistently returning to the night her father shot himself. She knew why. On the way to Molly’s house she would be passing Barley Arms, the restaurant to which he’d taken her mother and her for what turned out to be their final family dinner together.
Details she had not thought of in years came back to her, odd little facts that for some reason stuck in her memory. She thought of the tie her father had been wearing-blue background with a small green check pattern. She remembered that it had been very expensive-her mother had commented on it when the bill came in. “Is it sewn with gold thread, Frank? That’s a crazy price to pay for a tiny strip of cloth.”
He wore that tie for the first time that last day, Fran thought. At dinner, Mom had teased him about saving it for my graduation. Had there been anything symbolic about his wearing something so extravagantly expensive when he knew he was going to kill himself because of money problems?
The exit for Greenwich was coming up. Fran left I-95, reminding herself again that the Merritt would be a more direct route; then she began watching for the local streets that after two miles would lead her to the neighborhood where she had spent four years of her life. She found herself shivering, despite the warmth in the car.
Four formative years, she told herself. And they certainly were.
When she drove past Barley Arms, she resolutely kept her eyes on the road, not permitting herself even a glance at the partially concealed parking lot where her father had sat in the backseat of the family car and fatally shot himself.
She deliberately avoided as well the street on which she had lived those four years. There’ll be another time for that, she thought. A few minutes later she was pulling up to Molly’s house, a two-story ivory stucco with dark brown shutters.
A plump woman in her sixties with a cap of gray hair and bright birdlike eyes opened the door almost before Fran’s finger left the doorbell. Fran recognized her face from the newspaper clippings of the trial. She was Edna Barry, the housekeeper who had given such damaging evidence against Molly. Why would Molly rehire her? Fran wondered in astonishment.
As she was taking off her coat, steps sounded on the stairs. A moment later, Molly came into view and hurried across the foyer to greet her.
For a moment they studied each other. Molly was wearing denim jeans and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her hair was twisted up and casually pinned so that tendrils fell around her face. As Fran had noticed at the prison, Molly looked too thin, and fine lines were starting to show around her eyes.
Fran had worn her favorite daytime outfit, a well-cut pin-striped pants suit, and she felt suddenly overdressed. Then she brusquely reminded herself that if she was to do a good job on this assignment, she had to separate her present self from the insecure adolescent she’d been all those years ago at Cranden.
Molly was the first to speak: “Fran, I was afraid you’d change your mind. I was so surprised to see you at the prison yesterday and so impressed when I saw you on the news last night. That’s when I got this crazy idea that maybe you could help me.”
“Why would I have changed my mind, Molly?” Fran asked.
“I’ve seen the
True Crime
program. In prison it was very popular with all of us, and I could tell they don’t do many open-and-shut cases. But obviously my fears were unfounded-you’re here. Let’s get started. Mrs. Barry made coffee. Would you like some?”
“I’d love a cup.”
Dutifully, Fran followed Molly down a hallway on the right. She managed to get a good look at the living room, noticing the quiet, tasteful, and obviously expensive furnishings.
At the door of the study, Molly stopped. “Fran, this was Gary ’s study. It’s where he was found. It just occurred to me that before we sit down, I’d like you to see something.”
She walked into the study and stood beside the couch. “ Gary ’s desk was here,” she explained. “It was facing the front windows, which means his back was to the door. They say that I came in, grabbed a sculpture from the side table that was there”-again she pointed-“and smashed Gary ’s head with it.”
“And you agreed to a plea bargain because you and your lawyer felt a jury would convict you of doing just that,” Fran said quietly.
“Fran, stand here where the desk used to be. I’m going to the foyer. I’m going to open and close the front door. I’m going to call your name. Then I’m going to come back here. Please, just bear with me.”
Fran nodded and walked into the room, stopping at the spot Molly had indicated.
The hallway was not carpeted, and she could hear Molly’s steps as she went down the hall, and a moment later she heard Molly calling her name.
What she’s saying is that if Gary had been alive, he should have heard her, Fran thought.
Molly was back. “You could hear me calling, couldn’t you, Fran?”
“Yes.”
“ Gary phoned me at the Cape. He begged me to forgive him. I wouldn’t talk to him then, though. I said I’d see him Sunday night at about eight. I was a little early, but even so he would have been waiting for me. Don’t you think if he had been able, he would have gotten up or at least turned his head when he heard me? It doesn’t make sense that he would have ignored me. The floor wasn’t covered with wall-to-wall carpeting the way it is now. Even if he hadn’t heard me call his name, he absolutely would have heard me once I was in the room. And he would have turned around. I mean, who
wouldn’t?”
“What did your lawyer say when you told him that?” Fran asked.
“He said that Gary might simply have dozed off sitting at his desk. Philip even suggested that that story could work against me, that it could look as though I came home and was infuriated that Gary wasn’t anxiously watching for me.”
Molly shrugged. “All right, I’ve done my bit. Now I’ll let you ask the questions. Shall we stay in here, or would you be more comfortable in another room?”
“I think that’s your decision, Molly,” Fran said.
“Then let’s stay here. The scene of the crime.” She said it matter-of-factly, without a smile.
They sat together on the couch. Fran took out her tape machine and put it on the table. “I hope you don’t mind, but I have to record this.”
“I expected it.”
“Please keep this in mind, Molly-the only way I can hurt you when we do this program is by concluding it with a statement like, ‘The overwhelming evidence suggests that even though Molly Lasch claims she cannot remember causing the death of her husband, there seems to be no other possible explanation.’ ”
For an instant, Molly’s eyes brightened with tears. “That wouldn’t shock anyone,” she said flatly. “It’s what they all believe now.”
“But if there
is
another answer, Molly, I’ll only be able to help you find it if you’re absolutely candid with me every step of the way. Please don’t hedge or hold back, no matter how uncomfortable you may feel about a question.”
Molly nodded. “After five and a half years in prison, I’ve learned what total lack of privacy is all about. If I could survive that, I can handle your questions.”
Mrs. Barry brought in coffee. Fran could see by the set of her mouth that the woman disapproved of their staying in this room. She had the sense that the housekeeper was protective of Molly; yet at the trial she had given damaging evidence against her. Mrs. Barry is
definitely
on the list of people I want to interview, she thought.
For the next two hours, Molly Lasch answered Fran’s questions, seemingly without hesitation. From Molly’s responses, Fran learned that the girl she had known mostly from a distance had become a woman who shortly after graduating from college had fallen in love with and married a handsome doctor ten years her senior.
“I was working at an entry-level job at
Vogue
,” Molly said. “I loved it and began moving up pretty fast. But then, when I got pregnant, I had a miscarriage. I thought maybe the tight schedules and the commuting had something to do with it, so I quit the job.”
She paused. “I wanted a baby so much,” she continued, her voice soft. “I tried to get pregnant for another four years, and then when I finally did, I lost that baby too.”
“Molly, what was your relationship with your husband like?”
“Once, I would have said perfect. Gary was so supportive after I had the second miscarriage. He always spoke about what an asset I was to him, that he couldn’t have launched Remington Health Management without my help.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“My connections, I guess. My father’s connections. Jenna Whitehall was a big help. She was Jenna Graham-you probably remember her from Cranden.”
“I remember Jenna.” Another member of the in crowd, Fran thought. “She was president of our class in the senior year.”
“That’s right. We were always best friends. Jenna introduced Gary and Cal to me at a reception at the country club. Later Cal joined Gary and Peter Black as a business partner. Cal ’s a financial wizard and was able to steer some important companies into signing up with Remington.” She smiled. “My dad was a big help, too.”
“I’ll want to talk to both the Whitehalls,” Fran said. “Will you help me arrange it?”
“Yes, I want you to talk to them.”
Fran hesitated. “Molly, let’s talk about Annamarie Scalli. Where is she now?”
“I have no idea. I understand the baby was born that summer after Gary died, and I understand it was put up for adoption.”
“Did you suspect that Gary was involved with another woman?”
“Never. I trusted him absolutely. The day I found out, I was upstairs and picked up the phone to make a call. Gary was talking, and I would have hung up, but then I heard him say, ‘Annamarie, you’re being hysterical. I’ll take care of you, and if you decide to keep the baby, I’ll support it.’ ”
“How did he sound?”
“Angry and nervous. Almost panicky.”
“How did Annamarie respond?”
“She said something like, ‘How could I have been such a fool?’ and hung up.”
“What did you do, Molly?”
“I was shocked, stunned. I came racing downstairs. Gary was here at his desk, just about to leave for work. I’d met Annamarie at the hospital. I confronted him with what I had overheard. He readily admitted that he’d gotten involved with her, but he said it was a crazy, foolhardy thing to do and he regretted it bitterly. He was almost in tears and begged me to forgive him. I was furious. Then he had to leave for the hospital. The last time I saw him alive was when I slammed the door after him. Terrific memory to keep for the rest of my life, isn’t it?”
“You loved him, didn’t you?” Fran asked.
“I loved him and trusted him and believed in him, or at least I told myself I did. Now I’m not so sure; sometimes I wonder.” She sighed and shook her head. “Anyway, I
am
sure that the night I came back from the Cape, I was much more hurt and sad than angry.” As Fran watched, an expression of utter, profound sadness filled Molly’s eyes. She hugged her arms across her chest and sobbed, “Don’t you see why I have to prove I didn’t kill him?”
Fran left a few minutes later. Every instinct told her that Molly’s outburst was the key to her search for exoneration. This is slam-dunk, she thought. She loved her husband, and she’ll do anything to get someone to tell her that there’s a possibility she didn’t kill him. I think she probably genuinely doesn’t remember, but I still think she did it. It’s a waste of time and money for NAF-TV to try to raise even a serious doubt about her guilt.
I’ll tell Gus that, she thought, but before I do, I’m going to find out everything I can about Gary Lasch.
On impulse she detoured on the way to the Merritt Parkway to drive past Lasch Hospital, which had replaced the private clinic founded by Jonathan Lasch, Gary ’s father. This was where her father had been taken after he shot himself and where he died seven hours later.
She was astonished to see that the hospital was now twice the size that she remembered. There was a traffic light outside the main entrance, and she slowed the car enough to miss the green light. As she waited at the red signal, she studied the facility, noting the wings that had been added to the main structure, the new building on the righthand side of the property, the elevated parking garage.
With a stab of pain she searched out the window of the waiting room on the third floor where she remembered standing while she waited for news about her father, knowing instinctively that he was beyond help.
This will be a good place to come and talk to people, Fran thought. The light changed, and five minutes later she was on the approach to the Merritt Parkway. As she drove south through the swiftly flowing traffic, she mulled over the fact that Gary Lasch had met and become involved with Annamarie Scalli, a young nurse at the hospital, and that reckless indiscretion had cost him his life.
But was that his only indiscretion? she wondered suddenly.
Chances were, it would probably turn out that he’d made one colossal mistake, like her father, but otherwise was the upstanding citizen, fine doctor, and devoted health-care provider that people knew and remembered.
But maybe not, Fran reminded herself as she passed the state line between Connecticut and New York. I’ve been in this business long enough to expect the unexpected.