We'll Meet Again (25 page)

“ Cal, what
is
the matter with you? You’ve done nothing but bark at me, when the worst thing I seem to have done is suggest you get away from here for a few days and maybe get some golfing in.”

“Jenna, I should think that simply reading the daily papers with all the coverage about that nurse’s death and Molly’s arrest might help you understand why I’m on edge. You should realize, my dear, that a fortune will slip through our fingers if American National gets these HMOs and then proceeds with a hostile takeover of Remington. We
both
know you married me for what I could give you. Are you willing to scale back your lifestyle?”

“I’m willing to concede that I’m very sorry I took the day off,” Jenna snapped. She had followed Cal into his office, alarmed by the obvious tension he had displayed at the breakfast table.

“Why don’t you visit your friend, Molly?” he suggested. “I’m sure
she
will be delighted to be comforted by you.”

“It really is bad, isn’t it, Cal?” Jenna asked quietly. “But I’m going to tell you this, not as a wife, but as another fighter-I
know
you; no matter how bad it is, you’ll figure out how to make it pay off for you.”

Calvin Whitehall’s laugh was a short, mirthless bark. “Thank you, Jenna, I really needed that. However, I believe you’re right.”

“I
am
going to go over to see Molly. I was really concerned when I saw her Wednesday night. She was terribly down. Then when I spoke to her yesterday, after Mrs. Barry quit, she was positively reeling from the blow.”

“You told me about that.”

“I know. And I know you agree with Mrs. Barry. You wouldn’t want to be alone with Molly either, would you?”

“Precisely.”

“ Cal, Mrs. Barry brought Molly some twenty sleeping pills that were from a prescription for her son. I’m very worried about that. I’m afraid that as depressed as she is, she might be tempted to-”

“To commit suicide? What a perfectly wonderful idea. That would be just what the doctor ordered.” Cal looked past Jenna. “It’s all right, Rita, you can come in with the mail.”

As the maid entered, Jenna went around the desk and kissed the top of her husband’s head. “ Cal, don’t joke, please. I honestly think that Molly
is
considering suicide. You heard her the other night.”

“My opinion stands. She’d be doing herself a favor if she exercises that option. And she’d be doing a favor for a lot of other people too.”

Marta Jones knew that only Wally would ring her doorbell with such persistence. When the ringing began, she was upstairs, straightening out the linen closet; with a patient sigh, she hurried down the stairs, her arthritic knees protesting every step of the way.

Wally’s hands were jammed in his pockets, his head was down. “Can I come in?” he asked, his voice flat.

“You know you can come in anytime, dear.”

He stepped inside. “I don’t want to go.”

“
Where
don’t you want to go, dear?”

“To California. Mom is packing. We leave tomorrow morning. I don’t like to be in the car a long time. I don’t want to go. I came to say good-bye.”

California
?
Marta wondered. What is
that
about? “Wally, are you sure your mom said California?”

“Yes, California. I’m sure.” He fidgeted, then grimaced. “I want to say good-bye to Molly too. I won’t bother her, but I don’t want to leave without saying good-bye. Do you think it’s all right if I say good-bye to Molly?”

“I certainly don’t see why not.”

“I’ll go see her tonight,” Wally muttered.

“What did you say, dear?”

“I have to go. Mom wants me to go to my meeting.”

“That’s a good idea. You know you always enjoy those meetings, Wally. Listen, isn’t that your mother calling you?” Marta opened the door. Edna was standing on the steps of her house, her coat on, looking for her son.

“Wally’s in here,” Marta called out. “Come on, Wally.” Curiosity made her run across the lawn without bothering to get a coat. “Edna, is it true you’re driving to California?”

“Wally, get in the car,” Edna Barry pleaded. “You know you’re late.” Reluctantly he obeyed, slamming the passenger door behind him.

Edna turned to her neighbor and whispered, “Marta, I don’t know if we’ll end up in California or in Timbuktu, but I know I’ve got to get out of here. Every time I turn on the news I seem to hear something else bad about Molly. The latest is that there’s going to be a special meeting of the parole board on Monday. The prosecutor wants her parole revoked. If that happens, she’ll have to serve the rest of her original sentence for killing Dr. Lasch.”

Marta shivered. “Oh, Edna, I know. I heard that on the news this morning, and I think it’s just terrible. That poor girl should be in an institution, not in a prison. But you mustn’t get so upset about it that you let it drive you away from here.”

“I know. I’ve got to go now. I’ll talk to you later.”

When she got back to her house, Marta was chilled and decided she needed a cup of tea. Once it was ready, she sat down at the table, sipping it slowly. Poor Edna, she thought. She’s feeling guilty about quitting her job with Molly, but of course she had no choice. Wally has to be her main concern.

When you think about it, she reminded herself with a sigh, it just goes to show that money
doesn’t
buy happiness. All that Carpenter family money behind her couldn’t keep Molly out of a prison cell.

Marta thought of the other prominent and wealthy Greenwich family that had been in the news this morning. She had read about Natasha Colbert, who had been in a coma over six years. She had finally died, and her poor mother, prostrate with grief, had suffered a heart attack, and it looked like she might not survive. Maybe God would be doing her a favor if he took her, poor woman, Marta mused, shaking her head. All that grief…

She pushed back her chair and went back upstairs to finish tidying the linen closet. As she worked, a nagging feeling of worry would not leave her. Finally she realized what was causing it. Edna would have a fit if she knew that I told Wally that it would be all right for him to say good-bye to Molly Lasch, Marta thought. Oh well, she decided, it was probably just rambling, like he does so much of the time. Anyway, tomorrow he’ll be gone. No use upsetting poor Edna by mentioning it to her. She’s got enough on her mind as it is.

When she left Annamarie’s sister, Fran Simmons sat in her car for a few minutes, considering which might be her best course of action. It was one thing if doctors Gary Lasch and Peter Black had given a patient the wrong medication, something that had put her in an irreversible coma, and then had covered up their mistake. Terrible as that was, it did not compare with deliberately using an experimental drug to end a patient’s life. But that apparently was what Annamarie Scalli believed had happened.

And since she had been there at the time but knew she couldn’t prove her suspicions, how can
I
possibly hope to prove anything now? Fran wondered.

According to Lucy Bonaventure, Annamarie had said that Peter Black was the one who not only made the mistake, but possibly went on to kill an elderly patient as well. Would that have given Black a sufficient motive for killing Gary Lasch? Lasch’s death did eliminate a credible witness to his crime.

It was possible, she decided. If you believed a doctor could kill in cold blood.
But why?

The car was cold. Fran started the engine and immediately pushed the temperature control up to the highest setting and turned on the fan. It’s not just the air that’s chilled me, she thought, I’m cold
inside
too. Whatever evil was set in motion at that hospital, it certainly has caused many people a great deal of pain. But why?
Why?
Molly has been punished for a crime I am now sure she did not commit. Annamarie gave up her child and the work she loved just to punish herself. A young woman was put into a vegetative state because of an experimental drug. An elderly woman may have died prematurely as part of the experiment.

And those are just the ones I know about, she thought. How many others might there be? Why, this could still be going on, Fran thought with a start.

But I swear that the key to all this is the relationship or the bond or whatever it was that existed between Gary Lasch and Peter Black. There
has
to be a reason why Lasch brought Black to Greenwich and literally handed him a partnership in a family-owned hospital.

A woman walking her dog passed the car and looked at Fran curiously. I’d better get moving, she thought. She knew where she had to go next-to talk to Molly and see if she could shed any light on what was behind the Gary Lasch and Peter Black connection. If she could determine what it was that bound them together in the first place, then she might finally start to understand what was going on at the hospital.

On the way to Greenwich, she called her office for messages and learned that Gus Brandt wanted to talk to her, having said it was urgent. “Before you put me through to him, check and see if the research department material on Gary Lasch and Calvin Whitehall came through yet,” she told her assistant.

“It’s on your desk, Fran,” she was told. “You won’t be looking for reading material for a week with that pile to wade through, especially all the stuff on Calvin Whitehall.”

“I can’t wait to get at it. Thanks. Now put me through to Gus, please.”

Her boss had been about to go out to lunch. “Glad you caught me, Fran,” he said. “It looks as if you’ll be visiting your friend Molly Lasch in the slammer by Monday afternoon. The prosecutor was just quoted as saying that he had no doubt that her parole would be revoked. And the minute he gets the official word, she’ll be on her way back to Niantic Prison.”

“They can’t
do
that to Molly,” Fran protested.

“Oh yes they can. And my guess is, they
will
. She got off light in the first place because she acknowledged that she had killed her husband, and then the moment she was free, she started claiming she didn’t do it. That in itself is parole violation, baby. With a new murder charge against her, how would you vote if you were deciding whether or not she belongs behind bars? Anyhow, do a piece on it tonight.”

“All right, Gus. See you later,” Fran said with a sinking heart.

She had been planning to call Molly next and tell her that she needed to see her, but Gus’s mention of going out to lunch had given her an idea. Susan Branagan, the volunteer in the coffee shop at Lasch Hospital, had mentioned that she had earned her ten-year pin for service there, which means she was around when a young woman went into an irreversible coma more than six years ago, Fran thought. That isn’t the kind of event that happens often. She might remember who the young woman was and what had become of her.

Talking to that young woman’s family and trying to get details of her accident might be a tangible way to start checking on the story Annamarie had told her sister, Fran thought. Perhaps it was a long shot, but not an implausible one. But I hope I don’t run into Dr. Peter Black, Fran thought. He’d have a fit if he knew I was asking more questions about the hospital.

It was 1:30 when she reached the hospital coffee shop. The lunch hour was in full swing, and the volunteers were hard at work. There were two women bustling about behind the lunch counter, but to her intense disappointment, Fran saw that Susan Branagan wasn’t one of them.

“There’s a seat at the counter, or if you wait for just a minute, a table is being cleared right now,” the hostess told her.

“I guess Mrs. Branagan isn’t on duty today,” Fran said.

“Oh, yes. She’s here. She’s waiting tables today. There she is, coming out of the kitchen now.”

“Could I possibly wait for one of her tables?”

“You’re in luck. The one being cleared is in her area. It seems to be about ready.”

The hostess led her through the room, deposited her at a small table, and handed her a menu. A moment later a cheery voice addressed her. “Well, good afternoon. Have you decided what you’d like, or do you need a little more time?”

Fran looked up and immediately could see that Susan Branagan not only remembered her but now knew who she was. Keeping her fingers crossed that she wouldn’t be rebuffed, she said, “It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Branagan.”

Susan Branagan beamed with pleasure. “I didn’t know I was talking to a famous person when you and I were chatting the other day, Ms. Simmons. As soon as I found out, I started watching you on the evening news. I
love
your reports on the Molly Lasch case.”

“I can see you’re busy now, but I’d love to speak to you for a few minutes later if you’re willing. You were very helpful to me the other day.”

“And since we talked, that poor girl you asked me about, that nurse, Annamarie Scalli, was killed. I can’t believe it. Do you think Molly Lasch really did it?”

“No, I don’t. Mrs. Branagan, are you off duty soon?”

“At two o’clock. This place clears out by then. Speaking of which, I guess I better take your order.”

Fran glanced at the menu. “A club sandwich and coffee would be fine.”

“I’ll put your order in right away, and if you don’t mind waiting, I’ll be glad to have a chat with you again later.”

Half an hour later, Fran looked about the coffee shop. It’s exactly as she said, she thought. You’d think there’d been a fire drill. The place was suddenly three-quarters empty. Both the clatter of dishes and the hum of voices had sharply diminished. Susan Branagan had cleared the table and promised to be back in a flash.

When she returned she was no longer wearing her volunteer’s apron, and she carried a cup of coffee in each hand. “Much better,” she said with a sigh, as she put the coffee down and settled into the chair opposite Fran. “As I told you, I love this job, but my feet don’t love it as much as the rest of me does. But you didn’t come here to talk about my feet, and I just remembered I’m due at the hairdresser in half an hour, so how can I help you today?”

I like this lady a lot, Fran thought. She doesn’t mind getting down to business. “Mrs. Branagan, you said the other day that you have your ten-year service pin?”

“That’s right. And, God willing, some day I’ll have my twenty-year pin.”

“I’m sure you will. I’d like to ask you about something that happened in the hospital a good while ago. It was actually a short time before Dr. Morrow and Dr. Lasch were murdered.”

“Oh, Ms. Simmons, so much happens here,” Mrs. Branagan protested, “I’m not sure I’ll be of any help.”

“You might remember this incident, though. Apparently a young woman was brought in after an accident she suffered while she was running, and she went into an irreversible coma. I’m hoping you might know something about her.”

“Something
about
her,” Susan Branagan exclaimed. “You’re talking about Natasha Colbert. She was in our long-term care residence for years. She died just last night.”

“She died
last night!”

“Yes. It’s so sad. She was only twenty-three when she had the accident, you know. She fell while she was jogging and went into cardiac arrest in the ambulance. You know the Colbert family; they’re the ones who own the big newspaper chain, so they are
very
wealthy. After the girl had the accident, her mother and father donated the money for the long-term care residence and named it after her. Look across the lawn-it’s that lovely two-story building there.”

Cardiac arrest once she was in the ambulance, Fran thought. Who was the ambulance driver? Who were the medics? She’d need to talk to them. They shouldn’t be too hard to track down, though.

“Her mother collapsed when Tasha died last night. She’s here right now, and I understand she’s had a heart attack as well.” Susan Branagan dropped her voice. “See that good-looking man over there? He’s one of Mrs. Colbert’s sons. There are two of them. One of them is with her every single minute. The other one was down here for a bite to eat about an hour ago.”

If Mrs. Colbert dies from the strain of her daughter’s death, then she’s one more victim of whatever it is that’s going on here, Fran thought.

“It’s so painful for the sons,” Susan Branagan said. “Of course, for all intents and purposes, they lost their sister over six years ago, but still, it hits hard when the end really comes.” She dropped her voice. “I hear Mrs. Colbert went a little crazy after Tasha died. The nurse said she was screaming that Tasha had awakened from her coma and had spoken to her-which, of course, was absolutely impossible. She claimed Tasha had said something like, ‘Dr. Lasch, I tripped on my shoelace and went flying,’ and then, ‘Hi, Mom.’ ”

Fran felt her throat close. She could barely force out the words. “Was the nurse in the room with Mrs. Colbert at the time?”

“Tasha had a suite, and Mrs. Colbert had sent the nurse into the sitting room. She wanted to be alone with her daughter. But when Tasha died, Mrs. Colbert wasn’t alone. At the last minute the doctor got there. He says he heard nothing, and that Mrs. Colbert was hallucinating.”

“Who was the doctor?” Fran asked, although she was sure she already knew.

“The head of the hospital, Dr. Peter Black.”

If Annamarie’s suspicions were valid over six years ago, and if Mrs. Colbert was right about what happened last night, it sounds as if, after destroying Tasha, Black has continued experimenting on her, Fran thought.

Helplessly she looked across the room at the man Susan Branagan had pointed out to her. She wanted to rush over to him, to warn him that his mother was a danger to Dr. Peter Black, and that he should get her out of the hospital before it was too late.

“Oh, there’s Dr. Black now,” Susan Branagan said. “He’s going over to Mr. Colbert. I do hope it isn’t bad news.”

As they watched, Peter Black spoke quietly to the man, who nodded, got up, and began to follow him out of the room.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Branagan said, “I just
know
it’s bad news.”

Fran did not respond. As he was leaving, Peter Black had spotted her, and they stared at each other. His eyes were cold, angry, menacing-certainly not the eyes of a healer.

I’ll get you, Fran thought. If it’s the last thing I ever do, I’ll get you.