We'll Meet Again

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “It is here that Annamarie Scalli was stabbed to death,” Fran was saying, “a crime for which Molly Carpenter Lasch was arrested this afternoon. It has been reported that traces of Annamarie Scalli’s blood were found on the sole of one of Lasch’s shoes and in her car.”

  “Mom, is Molly all bloody again?”

  Edna turned to see Wally standing behind her, his hair disheveled, his eyes bright with anger.

  “Now don’t say things like that, Wally,” she said nervously.

  “The statue of the horse and cowboy I picked up that time, remember that?”

  “Wally, don’t talk about it, please don’t.”

  “I just want to tell you about it is all,” he said petulantly.

  “Wally, we’re not going to talk about it.”

  “But everybody’s talking about it, Mom. Just now, in my room, they were yelling in my head—all of them. They talked about the statue. It wasn’t too heavy for me because I’m strong, but it was too heavy for Molly to lift.”

  The voices that tormented him were back, Edna thought with dismay. The medicine wasn’t working.

  Edna got up, went to her son, and pressed her hands to his temples. “Shhh,” she said soothingly. “No more talk about Molly or the statue. You know how mixed-up your voices get you, dear. Promise me you won’t say another word about the statue or about Dr. Lasch or Molly. Okay? Now let’s get you one more pill.”

  48

  Fran finished her segment of the broadcast and turned off her microphone. Tonight, Pat Lyons, a young cameraman, had come up from New York to tape her at the Sea Lamp Diner. “I like this town,” he said. “Here by the water it reminds me of a fishing village.”

  “It is a nice town,” Fran agreed, remembering how when she was younger she occasionally had visited a friend in Rowayton. Although it’s a cinch the Sea Lamp isn’t where the elite meet to eat, she thought as she looked at the somewhat seedy-looking diner. Nevertheless she intended to go in there for dinner. Despite the events of the last couple of days, and the presence of the crime scene tape and yellow chalk marks to indicate the location of Annamarie Scalli’s car, the place was open for business.

  Fran already had ascertained that Gladys Fluegel, the waitress who waited on Molly and Annamarie Scalli, was on duty tonight. She’d have to be sure to get one of her tables.

  She was surprised to find the diner was half full, but then she realized it probably was because of the curiosity generated by the murder and all the ensuing publicity. She stood for a moment in the entrance, wondering if she was more likely to have a chance to chat with Fluegel if she sat at the counter. The problem was solved, however, by the waitress herself, who came rushing up to her. “You’re Fran Simmons. We were watching you doing the broadcast. I’m Gladys Fluegel. I waited on Molly Lasch and Annamarie Scalli the other night. They were sitting right there.” She pointed to an empty booth at the far end of the diner.

  It was obvious to Fran that Gladys was more than anxious to tell her story. “I’d really like to have a few words with you,” Fran said. “Maybe if I take that same table you can join me. Do you have a break coming up?”

  “Give me ten minutes,” Fluegel said. “I’ll light a fire under them.” She nodded to an elderly couple at a window table. “She’s mad because he wants veal parmigiana, and she says it always gives him gas. I’ll tell them to make up their minds; once I get their order in, I’ll sit down with you.”

  Fran paced the distance as she walked to the end booth. About forty feet from the entrance, she decided. While she waited for Gladys to be free, she studied the interior of the diner. It was poorly lit to begin with, and the table was in the shadows, which made it a natural choice for someone who didn’t want to be noticed. Molly had told Philip that Annamarie seemed fearful when they talked, but not of her. What was it she was afraid of? Fran wondered.

  And why did Annamarie change her name? Was it just because she thought that the notoriety surrounding Gary Lasch’s murder would follow her? Or did she have another reason for trying to drop out of sight?

  According to Molly, Annamarie had left the diner first, then Molly paid the check and followed her. How much time did that take? It couldn’t have been long, because otherwise it was logical for Molly to believe that Annamarie would have driven away already. But it had to be long enough for Annamarie to cross the parking lot and to get in her Jeep.

  Molly says she called to her from the door, Fran thought. Did she catch up with her?

  “Guess what they’re both having?” Gladys said, pointing her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the elderly couple. “Broiled flounder and spinach. She ordered for both of ’em. He’s having a fit, poor guy.”

  She dropped a menu in front of Fran. “Specials tonight are fricasseed chicken breast and Hungarian goulash.”

  I’ll have a hamburger at P. J. Clarke’s when I get back to New York, Fran decided, then murmured something about having a late dinner date and ordered a roll and coffee.

  When Gladys returned with the order, she sat down. “I’ve got about two minutes,” she said. “This is where Molly Lasch was sitting. That Annamarie Scalli was in your seat. As I told the detectives yesterday, Scalli was nervous—I swear she was afraid of Lasch. Then, when Scalli got up to go, Molly Lasch grabbed her wrist. Scalli had to pull away from her, and then she got out of here real fast, like she was afraid Molly Lasch would chase her, which of course is what she did. I mean how many women toss down a five-dollar bill to pay for a cup of tea and a coffee that cost a dollar thirty? I tell you, it gives me nightmares to think that just seconds after she left my table, that Scalli woman was dead.” She sighed. “I guess I’m just going to have to face being a witness at the trial.”

  You’re dying to testify, Fran thought. “Were there other waitresses here on Sunday night?” she asked.

  “Honey, on Sunday night in this joint you don’t need two waitresses. Actually I’m supposed to be off Sundays, but the regular girl called in sick, and guess who got stuck? On the other hand, it was very interesting to be here with so much going on.”

  “What about a chef or someone at the counter? There must have been that kind of help in here.”

  “Oh sure, the chef was around, although I tell you, it stretches the meaning of the word to call that bird a ‘chef.’ But he wasn’t out here—he’s always in the back. See no evil, hear no evil. If you get what I mean.”

  “Who was behind the counter?”

  “Bobby Burke, a college kid. He works on weekends.”

  “I’d like to talk to him.”

  “He lives on Yarmouth Street in Belle Island. That’s just over the little bridge down two blocks from here. He’s Robert Burke, Jr. They’re in the phone book. Did you want to interview me on television or something?”

  “When I am taping the program on Molly Lasch, I would like to talk to you,” Fran said.

  “It will be my pleasure to oblige you.”

  I bet it will be, Fran thought.

  * * *

  Fran called the Burke residence from her car phone. At first Bobby Burke’s father flatly refused to allow her to speak with his son. “Bobby has made a statement to the police that contained everything he had to say. He hardly noticed either woman come or go. He could not see the parking lot from the counter.”

  “Mr. Burke,” Fran begged. “I’m going to be flat-out honest with you. I’m only five minutes away. I just spoke to Gladys Fluegel and I’m concerned that her interpretation of the meeting between Molly Lasch and Annamarie Scalli may be a little distorted. I’m a reporter, but I’m also a friend of Molly Lasch’s. We went to school together. In the name of simple fairness, I appeal to you. She needs help.”

  “Hold on.”

  When Burke got back on the phone, he said, “Okay, Ms. Simmons, you can come over and talk to Bobby, but I insist on staying in the room with you. Let me give you directions to the house.”

  * * *

  He’s the kind of kid any parent would be
proud of, Fran thought as she sat with Bobby Burke in the living room of his modest home. He was a skinny eighteen-year-old, with a shock of light brown hair and intelligent brown eyes. His manner was diffident, and he occasionally glanced at his father for guidance, but there was a hint of humor in his eyes when he answered some of Fran’s questions, and especially when he spoke about Gladys.

  “It wasn’t busy, so I did see the two ladies come in,” he said. “I mean, they came in separately, just a few minutes apart. It was kind of funny. Gladys always tries to put people at a table near the counter so she doesn’t have to carry the order too far, but the first lady wasn’t having any of that. She pointed to the back booth.”

  “Did you think she seemed nervous?”

  “I really couldn’t tell.”

  “You say you weren’t busy?”

  “That’s right. There were just a few people at the counter. Although just before the women left, a couple came in and took a table. Gladys was back with the women when this couple showed up.”

  “Was she still waiting on them?”

  “Writing the check. But she took her sweet time. She’s naturally nosy and likes to know what’s going on. I remember that the new couple started getting annoyed and called to her. That was just as the second lady was leaving.”

  “Bobby, did you think the first woman to leave—the one who then was killed in the parking lot—ran out as though she was nervous, or afraid?”

  “She was moving pretty fast, but she wasn’t really running.”

  “What about the second woman? You must know that her name is Molly Lasch?”

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “Did you see her leave?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was she running?”

  “She was moving pretty fast too. But I got the impression it was because she was starting to cry, and I just figured she didn’t want anyone to see her. I felt sorry for her.”

  She was starting to cry, Fran thought. That doesn’t sound like a woman in a homicidal rage.

  “Bobby, did you hear her call a name as she left?”

  “I thought I heard her call out to someone, but I didn’t catch the name.”

  “Did she call a second time? Did she call ‘Annamarie, wait’?”

  “I didn’t hear her call a second time. But then I was pouring coffee, so maybe I didn’t notice.”

  “I just left the diner, Bobby. The counter is near the door. Don’t you think if Molly Lasch had called out loudly enough for someone in a car across the parking lot to hear her, you’d have heard her too?”

  He thought for a moment.

  “I guess so.”

  “Did the police ask you about this?”

  “Not really. They asked if I heard Mrs. Lasch call to the other lady at the door, and I said I thought I did.”

  “Bobby, who was at the counter at that time?”

  “By then it was just two guys who stop in once in a while. They’d been bowling. But they were talking to each other, not paying attention to anyone else.”

  “Bobby, who were the people who came in and took a table and called to Gladys?”

  “I don’t know their names. They’re about Dad and Mom’s age; I see them in there once in a while. I think they go to the movies, or something, and then eat on the way home.”

  “Bobby, if they come in again, will you get their names and phone number for me, or if they won’t give you that information, will you give them my card and ask them to phone me?”

  “You bet, Ms. Simmons,” Bobby said with a smile. “I like your reports on the news, and I always watch the True Crime program. It’s great.”

  “I just started working on True Crime, but thank you,” Fran said. “The Lasch case will be the subject of my first program.” She got up and turned to Robert Burke, Sr. “You’ve been very kind to allow me to talk with Bobby,” she said.

  “Well, the truth is, I’ve been watching the news some,” he said, “and I get the feeling there’s a terrible rush to judgment going on in this case; obviously you feel the same way.” He smiled. “Of course, I may be prejudiced. I’m a public defender.”

  He walked Fran to the door and opened it. “Ms. Simmons, if you’re a friend of Molly Lasch, you should know something else. Today, when the police questioned Bobby, I got the feeling that all they wanted to hear was a verification of what Gladys Fluegel had told them, and I can tell you that that woman is hungry for attention. I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t start to remember all sorts of things. I know her type. She’ll tell the police anything they want to hear, and you can bet that none of it will help Molly Lasch.”

  49

  She’d been arraigned. Fingerprinted. Photographed. She heard Philip Matthews say, “My client pleads not guilty, Your Honor.” The prosecutor arguing that she might disappear and requesting house arrest. The judge saying one million dollars bail and confining her to her home.

  Shivering in the holding cell. The bail paid. Like an obedient child, Molly, listless and detached, did as she was told, until finally she was in the car with Philip, who was driving her home.

  His arm around her, he half carried her into the house and to the family room. He made her lie down on the sofa, put one of the decorative pillows under her head, then went hunting for a blanket and tucked it around her.

  “You’re shivering. Where’s the starter for the fire?” he asked.

  “On the mantel.” She was not aware she was answering a question until she heard her own voice.

  A moment later the fire blazed up, warm and comforting.

  “I’m staying,” Philip said. “I have my briefcase; I can work on the kitchen table. You close your eyes.”

  When she opened them with a start, it was seven o’clock, and Dr. Daniels was sitting beside her. “You okay, Molly?”

  “Annamarie,” she gasped. “I was dreaming about her.”

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “Annamarie knew something terrible was going to happen to her. That was why she hurried out of the diner. She wanted to escape her fate. Instead, she ran into it.”

  “You think Annamarie knew she was going to die, Molly?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Why do you think Annamarie knew that?”

  “Doctor, that was part of the dream. You know the fable of the man who was told he was going to meet death that night in Damascus, so he rushed to Samara to hide? And a stranger came up to him in the street there and said, ‘I am Death. I thought our appointment was in Damascus’?” She grasped Dr. Daniels’s hands. “It was all so real.”

  “You mean there was no way Annamarie could save herself?”

  “No way at all. I can’t save myself either.”

  “Tell me about that, Molly.”

  “I don’t really know,” she whispered. “When I was in the holding cell today, and they locked that door, I kept hearing another door being locked or unlocked. Isn’t that odd?”

  “Was it a prison door?”

  “No. But I don’t know yet what door it is. The sound is part of what happened the night Gary died.” She sighed and, pushing the blanket away, sat up. “Oh God, why can’t I remember? If I could, maybe I’d have a chance.”

  “Molly, it’s a good sign that you’re retrieving specific incidents or sounds.”

  “Is it?” she said wanly.

  The doctor studied Molly carefully. He could see the effects of the recent stress in her face: lethargic, depressed, withdrawn; sure that her own fate was sealed. Clearly she did not want to talk any longer.

  “Molly, I’d like to get together with you every day for a while. All right?”

  He had expected that she might protest, but she nodded indifferently.

  “I’ll tell Philip I’m leaving,” he said.

  “He should go home too. I’m so grateful to both of you. There’re not too many people hanging around these days. My father and mother, for example. They’ve been noticeably absent.”

  The d
oorbell rang. Dr. Daniels saw the panic in Molly’s eyes. Not the police? he thought, dismayed.

  “I’ll get it,” Philip called.

  Dr. Daniels watched the relief that washed over Molly as the click of heels and a woman’s voice preceded Jenna Whitehall’s arrival. Her husband and Philip followed her into the room.

  Dr. Daniels watched approvingly as Jenna gave Molly a brief hug and said, “Your Rent-a-Chef service is here, ma’am. No housekeeper, alas, but the mighty Calvin Whitehall himself will serve and clean up, with the able assistance of Attorney Philip Matthews.”

  “I’m on my way,” the doctor said with a brief smile, glad Molly’s friends had come to her aid and anxious himself now to be going home. He instinctively disliked Calvin Whitehall, whom he’d met only a few times. His gut instinct was that the man was a natural bully, not remotely hesitant to use his immense power, not only to achieve his goals, but to manipulate people just so he could have the pleasure of watching them twist in the wind.

  He was surprised and none too pleased when Whitehall followed him to the door.

  “Doctor,” Whitehall said, his voice low, as though he were afraid of being overheard, “I’m glad to see you’re here with Molly. She’s terribly important to all of us. Do you think there is any possibility of having her declared incompetent to stand trial, or failing that, to have her judged not guilty of this second murder by reason of insanity?”

  “Your question leaves no doubt that you consider Molly guilty of the death of Annamarie Scalli,” Dr. Daniels said coldly.

  It was obvious Whitehall was both startled and offended by the implied rebuke.

  “I would hope my question reflects the measure of the affection my wife and I hold for Molly and our awareness that a long prison sentence would be tantamount to a death sentence for her.”

  God help the person who tangles with you, Daniels thought, noting the flush of indignation on Whitehall’s cheekbones and the chipped-ice glint in his eyes. “Mr. Whitehall, I appreciate your concern. I am planning to see or talk with Molly on a daily basis, and we will simply have to take all this one day at a time.” He nodded and turned to the door.