We'll Meet Again

by Mary Higgins Clark

  18

  There is no one I can count on, was Molly’s first waking thought. She glanced at the clock. Ten past six. Not bad, she decided. She had gone to bed shortly after Jenna left, so that meant she’d slept seven hours.

  In prison there were many nights when she didn’t sleep at all, when sleep was like a chunk of ice pressing between her eyes as she willed it to melt and flow through her.

  She stretched, and her left arm touched the empty pillow beside her. She had never visualized Gary next to her on the narrow prison bed, but now she was constantly aware of his absence, even after all these years. It was as though the entire time had been simply a dream sequence. Dream? No—nightmare!

  She had felt so totally one with him; “We’re joined at the hip” had been her favorite expression in those days. Had she been deluding herself?

  I sounded smug and self-satisfied back then, Molly thought, and perhaps I was. Obviously I was stupid as well. She sat up, fully awake now. I’ve got to know, she thought. How long did that affair with the nurse go on? How long was my life with Gary a lie?

  Annamarie Scalli was the only person who could give her the answers she needed.

  At nine she phoned Fran Simmons’s office and left Dr. Daniels’s name. At ten she phoned Philip Matthews. She had only been in his office a few times, but she could visualize it clearly. He had a view of the Statue of Liberty from his World Trade Center office. When she had been there, listening to him plan her defense, it had seemed incongruous to her—clients in danger of going to prison, observing the symbol of liberty.

  Molly remembered telling Philip that, and he’d said that he considered the view of the statue to be a harbinger: when he took on a client, his goal was liberty for them.

  Philip might very well have Annamarie Scalli’s last address because she’d been scheduled to testify at the trial, Molly reasoned. At least it would be a place for her to start.

  * * *

  Philip Matthews had been debating whether or not to phone Molly, so when his secretary announced her call, he quickly reached for the receiver. From the moment she walked out of prison she had consumed his thoughts. It had not helped that two nights ago he’d been at a dinner party where the entertainment was to have your fortune told. As a guest there was no way he could avoid going along with the games, even though he lumped all fortune-telling—palmistry, astrology, tarot cards, Ouija boards—in the same category: hocus-pocus.

  But the fortune-teller actually had made him uneasy. She had studied the cards he selected, frowned, reshuffled, and had him pick others, then flatly said, “Someone close to you, a woman I think, is in grave danger. Do you know who that could be?”

  Philip tried to tell himself the woman was referring to a client who was charged with vehicular homicide and would undoubtedly serve some time, but every instinct in his bones told him that the fortune-teller was talking about Molly.

  Now, Molly confirmed his fears that she had no intention of letting her parents come back to Greenwich to stay with her.

  “Not yet, anyway,” she said firmly. “Philip, I want to find Annamarie Scalli. Do you have her last address?”

  “Molly, let all this go. Please. It’s over. You need to get on with your life.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do. And that’s why I’ve got to talk to her.”

  Philip sighed. “Her last known address was the apartment she lived in at the time of Gary’s death. I have no idea where she is now.”

  He could tell that she was about to hang up, and he was anxious to keep her on the phone. “Molly, I’m coming up. If you don’t agree to go out to dinner with me, I’ll just stand there and knock on your door until the neighbors get annoyed.”

  Somehow Molly could visualize him doing just that. The same intensity that she had seen at her trial when he was cross-examining witnesses was in his voice now. He was obviously a determined man, used to getting his way. Still, she did not want to see him yet. “Philip, I need a little more time to myself. Look, it’s Thursday. Why don’t you come to dinner on Saturday? I don’t want to go out. I’ll cook something.”

  After a moment he accepted her invitation, deciding to be satisfied with that for now.

  19

  Edna Barry was in the process of basting a chicken. It was one of Wally’s favorite dinners, especially when she made her own stuffing. The truth was she used prepared stuffing mix, but the secret was to add sautéed onions and celery and extra poultry seasoning.

  The inviting fragrance filled the house, and the act of cooking calmed Edna. It reminded her of the years when her husband, Martin, was alive and Wally was a bright, normal little boy. The doctors said that Martin’s death was not what triggered the change in her son. They said that schizophrenia was a mental illness that frequently surfaced in teenage years or early adulthood.

  Edna didn’t believe that was the answer. “Wally has always been lonely for his dad,” she would tell people.

  Sometimes Wally talked about getting married and having a family, but she knew now that probably wasn’t going to happen. People didn’t want to be around him. He was too touchy, lost his temper too easily.

  What would happen to Wally after she died was a ceaseless worry for Edna. But at least while she was around she could take care of him, this son of hers who had been so badly treated by life. She could make him take his medicine, although she knew he sometimes would spit it out.

  Wally had been so responsive to Dr. Morrow—if only he were still alive.

  As Edna closed the oven door, she thought of Jack Morrow, the dynamo young doctor who had been so good with people like Wally. He’d been a GP and had his office on the ground floor of his modest home only three blocks from here. He had been found shot to death just two weeks before Dr. Lasch died.

  Of course the circumstances were totally different. Dr. Morrow’s medicine cabinet had been broken into and emptied. The police were sure it was a drug-related crime. They had questioned all his patients. Edna always told herself that it was a funny thing to be grateful that your son had broken his ankle shortly before that. She had made him put his walking cast back on before the police came to talk to him.

  She knew after only one day that she should never have gone back to work for Molly Lasch. It was too dangerous. There was always the chance that Wally would find his way over to Molly’s house, as he had a few days before Dr. Lasch died. She’d told him to wait in the kitchen, but then he’d gone into Dr. Lasch’s study and picked up the Remington sculpture.

  Was there any end to worrying? Edna wondered. Never, she told herself as she sighed and began to set the table.

  “Mama, Molly’s home, isn’t she?”

  Edna looked up. Wally stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his dark hair falling forward over his forehead. “Why do you want to know, Wally?” she asked sharply.

  “Because I want to see her.”

  “You must not go over to her house, ever.”

  “I like her, Mama.” Wally’s eyes narrowed as though trying to remember something. As he gazed over Edna’s shoulder, he said, “She wouldn’t yell at me like Dr. Lasch did, would she?”

  Edna felt a chill go through her. Wally hadn’t brought up that incident in years, not since she forbade him to talk about Dr. Lasch or the house key she’d found in Wally’s pocket the day after the murder.

  “Molly is very kind to everyone,” she said firmly. “Now, we’re not going to talk about Dr. Lasch ever again, are we?”

  “All right, Mama. I’m glad Dr. Lasch is dead, though. He won’t yell at me anymore.” His voice was without emotion.

  The phone rang. Nervously, Edna picked it up. Her hello was delivered in a voice that quivered with anxiety.

  “Mrs. Barry, I hope I’m not disturbing you. This is Fran Simmons. We met yesterday at Molly Lasch’s home.”

  “Yes. I remember.” Edna Barry realized suddenly how abrupt she sounded. “Of course, I remember,” she said, her voice warmer.

  “
I’m wondering if I could come by and spend a little time with you on Saturday.”

  “Saturday?” Edna Barry frantically searched for a reason to refuse to see Fran.

  “Yes. Unless Sunday or Monday would be better.”

  Why bother to postpone it? she decided. Clearly there would be no putting the woman off. “Saturday will be all right,” Edna said stiffly.

  “Is eleven too early?”

  “No.”

  “Fine, let me just be sure I have the right address.”

  * * *

  When Fran hung up the phone, she thought, That woman is a nervous wreck. I could hear the tension in her voice. She was on edge yesterday too, when I was at Molly’s house. What has she got to be so nervous about? she wondered.

  Edna Barry was the person who had found Gary Lasch’s body. Was it possible that Molly’s decision to rehire her was tied into some vague intuition Molly had about the housekeeper’s version of events?

  Interesting prospect, Fran thought as, after checking the refrigerator, she put on her coat again with the idea of walking down the block to P. J. Clarke’s to get a hamburger.

  As she moved briskly along Fifty-sixth Street, she thought of the interesting possibility that perhaps Molly might not be the only one suffering from retrospective memory falsification.

  20

  “Jenna, I know you’re an intelligent woman. So I should think therefore that you could understand that I mean what I say when I tell you that Annamarie Scalli has for all intents and purposes dropped off the face of the earth. And even if I could locate her, which I cannot, I assure you I would not furnish information on her whereabouts to Molly Lasch, of all people!”

  The spots of red on Calvin Whitehall’s cheekbones were a warning to his wife of his growing impatience, but Jenna chose to ignore them. “Cal, what possible objection could you have to Molly trying to get in touch with that woman? It might help her, might give her some sort of closure.”

  They were having coffee and juice in the sitting room off their bedroom. Jenna was ready to leave for work, her coat and bag on a nearby chair. Calvin slammed down his coffee cup. “I don’t care about Molly. What needs closure is the negotiations I have been working on for three years for the benefit of both of us.” He took a deep breath. “Now you’d better catch your train. Even Lou won’t be able to get you to the station in time if you wait much longer.”

  Jenna got up. “I think I’ll stay over in the apartment tonight.”

  “As you wish.”

  They stared at each other for a moment, then Calvin Whitehall’s expression changed, and he smiled. “Darling girl, I wish you could see your expression. I’ll bet if you had that horse-and-cowboy sculpture at hand you’d do the same thing to me that Molly did to Gary. You girls from Cranden Academy certainly have strong feelings.”

  Jenna paled. “You really are worried about your negotiations, aren’t you, Cal? You’re not usually that cruel.”

  “I’m not usually in danger of having a multibillion-dollar deal slip through my fingers either. Jen, you’re the one person who seems to have Molly’s ear. As soon as possible, persuade her to go in to New York with you. Talk sense to her. Remind her that in trying to convince herself and the world that she didn’t kill Gary, she’s only besmirching his memory further and probably further harming herself in the process.”

  Without responding, Jenna put on her coat and picked up her purse. As she walked toward the staircase, her husband called, “Multibillion-dollar deal, Jen. Admit it. You don’t want it messed up either.”

  Lou Knox, Cal’s longtime chauffeur and aide-de-camp, jumped out of the car when he saw Jenna emerge from the house. He held the car door open, closed it behind her, and was back behind the wheel in seconds.

  “Good morning, Ms. Whitehall. Looks as if we’re cutting it close today. Well, I can always drive you in if we miss the train.”

  “No, Cal wants the car, and I don’t want the traffic,” Jenna said sharply. Sometimes Lou’s cheery observations grated on her, but he had come with the territory. He had been a classmate of Cal’s at the godforsaken high school they’d attended, and Cal had brought him with him when he arrived in Greenwich fifteen years ago.

  Jenna was the only one who knew about the beginning of their relationship. “Needless to say, Lou understands that it need not be general knowledge that we sang school songs together,” was the way Cal put it.

  She had to give Lou credit. He responded to her moods. He immediately sensed that she did not want to talk and quickly tuned the radio to her favorite classical music station, keeping the volume low. That was her standard request, unless for some reason she wanted to listen to the all-news station.

  Lou was Cal’s age, forty-six, and even though he was in good physical shape, Jenna had always felt there was something unhealthy about him. He was a little too subservient for her taste, a little too anxious to please. She didn’t trust him. Even now, during the short ride to the station, she had the feeling that his eyes were studying her in the rearview mirror, gauging her mood.

  I did my best, she told herself, thinking about her discussion with her husband. There’s no way Cal will help Molly locate Annamarie Scalli. Instead of feeling anger, however, she realized that underneath her resentment at his tone, her usual grudging admiration for him was setting in.

  Cal was a powerful man, and he had the charisma that went with it. He had built himself up from that first computer company, which he referred to as a mom-and-pop-candy-store operation, to a man whose name commanded respect. Unlike the showy entrepreneurs who grabbed headlines as they made and lost fortunes, Cal preferred to remain essentially in the background, though known and respected as a major figure of the financial world, and feared by anyone who got in his way.

  Power—it was what had attracted Jenna to him in the first place. It also was what continued to enthrall her. She enjoyed her job as a partner in a prestigious law firm. It was something she had achieved on her own. If Cal had never come along, she still would have had a successful career, and that knowledge gave her a feeling of having her private territory. “Jenna’s little acre,” Cal called it, but she knew he respected her for it.

  At the same time, however, she loved being Mrs. Calvin Whitehall, with all the prestige that continued to accumulate around that name. Unlike Molly, she had never yearned for children or the elitist suburban life her mother and Molly’s mother had always enjoyed.

  They were approaching the station. The train was sounding its horn. “Just in time,” Lou said pleasantly as he stopped, jumped out, and opened her door. “Shall I pick you up this evening, Ms. Whitehall?”

  Jenna hesitated, then said, “Yes, I’ll be in at the regular time. You can tell my husband to expect me.”

  21

  “Good morning, Doctor.”

  Peter Black looked up from his desk. The uncertainty on his secretary’s face warned him that whatever she was about to say would not be welcome. As a person, Louise Unger was timid, but as a secretary she was extremely efficient. Her timidity annoyed him; her efficiency, he valued. His eyes flickered to the clock on the wall. It was only 8:30. She had arrived at work early, as she often did.

  He murmured a greeting and waited.

  “Mr. Whitehall was on the phone, Doctor. He had to take another call but asks you to be available.” Louise Unger hesitated. “I think he’s very upset.”

  Peter Black had long ago learned to control his facial muscles so that his emotions were not reflected in his expression. With a faint smile, he said, “Thanks for the warning, Louise. Mr. Whitehall is often upset. We know that, don’t we?”

  The woman nodded eagerly, her birdlike eyes shining as she bobbed her head. “Just wanted to give you advance warning, Doctor.”

  For her, this was a bold statement. Peter Black chose to ignore it. “Thank you, Louise,” he said smoothly.

  The phone on his desk rang. He nodded, indicating that she should pick up the receiver.

  She began to
say, “Dr. Black’s office,” but got no further than “Doctor—” “It’s Mr. Whitehall, Doctor,” she said, putting the phone on hold. She knew enough to scurry out and close the door.

  Peter Black knew that to show weakness to Calvin Whitehall was to be doomed. He had taught himself to ignore Cal’s references to his drinking and was convinced that the only reason Whitehall restricted himself to one glass of wine was to prove his superiority of will.

  He picked up the phone and spoke immediately.

  “Cal, how goes the empire?” Peter Black enjoyed asking that question. He knew it irritated Whitehall.

  “It would go a lot better if Molly Lasch weren’t out there making waves.”

  Peter Black felt as though the resonant tone of Calvin Whitehall’s voice was making the receiver tingle. Holding the phone with his left hand, Black deliberately stretched the fingers of his right hand, a trick he had picked up to relieve tension. “I thought we’d already established that she was making waves,” he responded.

  “Yes, after Jenna saw her night before last. Molly wants me to locate Annamarie Scalli. She insists she has to see her, and obviously she doesn’t intend to be put off. Jenna was hammering at me about it again this morning. I told her I had no idea where Scalli is.”

  “Nor do I.” Black knew his tone was even, his words precise. He remembered the panic in Gary Lasch’s voice: “Annamarie, for the sake of the hospital. You’ve got to help.”

  I didn’t know at the time she was involved with Gary, Peter Black thought. What if Molly did get to her now? he wondered. Suppose Annamarie decided to tell what she knew. What then?

  He became aware that Cal was still talking. What was he asking?