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, Rudy Jacobs. “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.
90
“No more, Jenna, that’s definitely enough. I swear to you I’m getting a buzz on.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Moll, you’ve had a glass and a half.”
“I thought this was at least my third.” She shook her head as if trying to clear it. “You know, this wine is potent.”
“What’s the difference? With all you have on your mind, you might as well relax. You hardly touched dinner.”
“I ate plenty, and it was good. I’m just not very hungry.” She raised her hand in protest as Jenna poured more wine into her glass. “No, I can’t drink any more. My head is spinning.”
“Let it spin.”
They were seated in the study, both with their heads back, their bodies sunk into comfortable, overstuffed chairs that faced each other across a small, low table. For several minutes they sat in silence, while a jazz piano CD played softly in the background.
In a pause between songs, Molly spoke. “You know what, Jen? Last night I had a nightmare. It was very unsettling. I thought I saw Wally Barry at the window.”
“Good Lord!”
“I wasn’t scared, just startled. Wally would never hurt me; I know that. But after seeing him at the window, I turned back and all of a sudden this room looked the way it did that night when I came home and found Gary dead at his desk. And I think I’ve figured out why I made that connection—I believe Wally really was here that night.”
Molly had kept her head back while she spoke. She was starting to feel so sleepy. She tried to ke
ep her eyes open and to raise her head. What had she just said? Something about finding Gary.
Finding Gary.
Suddenly her eyes were fully open, and she sat forward.
“Jen, I just said something important!”
Jenna laughed. “Everything you say is important, Molly.”
“Jen, this wine tastes funny.”
“Well, I won’t tell the mighty Cal you said that. He would be insulted.”
“Click, snap. That’s another sound I heard.”
“Molly, Molly, you’re getting hysterical.” Jenna stood and crossed to her friend. Standing behind the chair, she put her arms around her and bent her head forward so that her cheek was resting against Molly’s head.
“Fran thinks I’m going to commit suicide.”
“Are you?” Jenna asked calmly, relaxing her embrace and standing back, then moving to sit on the table in front of Molly.
“I thought I was. I planned to. That’s why I got all dressed up. I wanted to look classy when they found me.”
“You always look classy, Molly,” Jenna said softly. She slid Molly’s wineglass closer to her. Molly reached for it and knocked it over.
“Not classy to be clumsy,” she murmured, slumping back in her chair. “Jen, I did see Wally at the window that night. I’m sure of it. It may have been a dream last night, but it wasn’t before. Call him, okay? Ask him to come over and talk to me.”
“Molly, be reasonable,” Jenna chided. “It’s ten o’clock.” Grabbing their cocktail napkins, she mopped the spilled wine from the tabletop. “I’ll get you a refill.”
“Noo . . . no . . . no. I’ve had enough.”
My head hurts, Molly thought. Click, snap. “Click, snap,” she said.
“What are you talking about?”
“The sound I heard that night. Click . . . snap . . . click, click, click.”
“You heard that, dear?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Molly, I swear you are getting your memory back. You should have gotten a buzz on sooner. You just sit there and relax. I’ll get you that refill.”
Molly yawned as Jenna picked up the empty glass and hurried to the kitchen.
“Click, click, click,” Molly said aloud, in synch with the clicking sound Jenna’s high heels made on the hallway floor.
91
As he drove to Greenwich, Philip decided that he should at least give Molly a few minutes’ warning before he arrived on her doorstep. He dialed her house and waited in anticipation for either her or Jenna to answer.
He listened with growing concern as the telephone rang seven, eight, ten times. Either Molly was in such a dead sleep that she couldn’t hear the phone, or she had turned off the ringer.
But she wouldn’t turn it off, Philip decided. Very few people have her number, and she surely wouldn’t want to be out of touch with any one of us at this point.
He remembered his conversation with her that afternoon. Molly had sounded so listless, so depressed then—maybe she is already asleep. No, Jenna is with her, Philip reminded himself as he turned into Molly’s street at the intersection.
But maybe Jenna left early. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard: ten o’clock. It’s not that early, he thought. Maybe she’s finally getting a decent night’s sleep. Should I just turn around and go home? he wondered.
No. Even if he had to rout Molly out of bed to tell her about the Hilmers’ testimony, he was going to do it. Nothing short of a miracle would ease her mind more than that news. It would be worth waking her up for.
As he neared Molly’s house, a squad car with its lights flashing sped past him. Horrified, he watched as it turned into Molly’s driveway.
92
Jenna came back to the study with a fresh glass of wine for Molly. “Hey, what are you up to?” she asked.
Molly had moved to the sofa, where she had spread out all the photographs they had been going through earlier.
“Memory lane,” she replied, her words slurred. She took the glass and lifted it in a mock toast. “Lord, look at the four of us,” she said, tossing a photo on the coffee table in front of the sofa. “We were happy then . . . or at least, I thought so.”
Jenna smiled. “We were happy, Molly. The four of us made quite a showing for ourselves. It’s too bad it had to end.”
“Uh-huh.” Molly took a sip of wine and yawned. “My eyes are closing. Sorry . . .”
“The best thing in the world for you right now is to finish that wine and get a good, long sleep.”
“The four of us,” Molly said, her tone groggy. “I like to be with you, Jenna, but not with Cal.”
“You don’t like Cal, do you, Molly?”
“You don’t like him either. In fact I think you hate him. That’s why you and Gary . . .”
Molly was vaguely aware of the glass being taken from her hand, then of Jenna’s arm around her, of Jenna holding the glass to her lips, of Jenna whispering soothingly, “Swallow, Molly, just keep swallowing . . .”
93
“There’s Jenna’s car,” Fran Simmons said to Assistant Prosecutor Jacobs as they pulled into the driveway in front of Molly Lasch’s house. “We have to hurry—she’s in there with Molly!”
Jacobs had ridden in the squad car with Fran and two police officers. Even before the vehicle had come to a complete stop, Fran had the door on her side open. As she jumped out, she saw another car racing up the driveway behind them.
Unmindful of the steady throb of pain emanating from her ankle, she ran up the steps to the house and pressed her finger on the bell.
“Fran, what’s going on?”
Fran turned to see Philip Matthews racing up the steps. Was he afraid for Molly too? she wondered fleetingly.
Inside, she could hear chimes echoing through the house.
“Fran, did something happen to Molly?” Philip was beside her now, flanked by the police officers.
“Philip! It’s Jenna. It was her! It’s got to be. She was the other person here the night Gary Lasch was murdered. She doesn’t dare let Molly get her memory back. She knows Molly heard her running out of the house that night. She’s desperate. We’ve got to stop her! I know I’m right.”
“Break in the door,” Jacobs ordered the policemen.
The door, made of solid mahogany, took a precious full minute before their battering ram dislodged it from its hinges and crashed to the floor.
As they ran into the entrance hall, a new sound echoed through the house—Jenna’s hysterical screams for help.
* * *
They found her kneeling beside the couch in the study, where Molly was slumped over, her head partially covering a picture of her murdered husband, Gary Lasch. Molly’s eyes were open and staring. Her hand dangled limply over the side of the couch. A wineglass lay on the carpet, its contents soaking into the deep pile.
“I didn’t know what she was doing!” Jenna wailed. “Every time she left the room she must have been putting sleeping pills in the wine.” She threw her arms around Molly’s supine body, weeping as she rocked her. “Oh, Molly! Wake up, wake up . . .”
“Get away from her.” With abrupt force, Philip Matthews grabbed Jenna and shoved her aside. Roughly he pulled Molly up. “You can’t die, now! Not now!” he shouted. “I won’t let you die.”
Before anyone could move to assist him, he had lifted her in his arms. Moving swiftly he plunged through the door that led from the study into the downstairs guest bathroom. Jacobs and one of the officers followed him inside.
Within seconds Fran heard the sound of the shower running, followed moments later by the retching, gagging sound of Molly emptying her stomach of the wine that Jenna had laced with the sleeping pills.
Jacobs emerged from the bathroom. “Get the oxygen from the car!” he ordered one of the policemen. “Send for an ambulance,” he told the other.
“She kept saying over and over again that she wanted to die,” Jenna babbled. “She kept going into the kitchen and refilling her glass.
She was imagining weird things. She said you were angry, that you wanted to kill her, Fran. She’s crazy. She’s out of her mind.”
“If Molly was ever crazy, Jenna, it was when she trusted you,” Fran said quietly.
“Yes, I was.” Molly, supported by Philip and one of the policemen, was being helped back into the room. She was soaking wet from the shower and still heavily sedated, but there was no mistaking the total condemnation in her eyes and voice.
“You killed my husband,” she said. “You tried to kill me. It was you I heard that night. Your heels running down the hall. I had locked the front door. I had pushed the bolt down. That was the sound I heard. The click of your heels in the hallway. You pushing up the bolt, unlocking the door.”
“Wally Barry saw you, Jenna,” Fran said. He saw a woman, she thought. He didn’t see Jenna’s face, but maybe she’ll believe me.
“Jenna,” Molly cried, “you let me spend five and a half years in prison for the crime you committed. You would have let me go back to prison. You wanted me to be convicted of Annamarie’s death. Why, Jenna? Tell me why.”
Jenna looked from one to the other, at first with almost pleading eyes. “Molly, you’re wrong,” she began.
Then she stopped, knowing it was useless. Knowing she was trapped. Knowing it was over.
“Why, Molly?” she asked. “Why?” Her voice began to rise. “WHY? Why did your family have money? Why did Gary and I need to marry what you and Cal could offer us? Why did I introduce Gary to you? Why all the foursomes? So that Gary and I could be together as much as possible, never mind all the times we were alone together over the years.”
“Mrs. Whitehall, you have the right to remain silent,” Jacobs began.
Jenna ignored him. “From the time we laid eyes on each other, we were in love. And then you told me that Sunday afternoon that Gary had been having an affair with that nurse and that she was pregnant.” She laughed bitterly.
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