Mary Clark - We'll Meet Again

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.

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.”