We'll Meet Again (26 page)

Whenever a troubling situation reached crisis level, Calvin Whitehall had the enviable ability to eliminate every trace of frustration and anger from his mind. That ability was put to the test by the call he received from Peter Black at 4:30 that afternoon. “Let me understand,” he said slowly. “You are telling me that Fran Simmons was sitting in the coffee shop of the hospital, gossiping with one of the volunteers, when you went there to tell Barbara Colbert’s son that his mother had died?”

It was a rhetorical question.

“Did you then speak to the volunteer and ask her the exact nature of her discussion with Fran Simmons?”

Peter Black was calling from his library at home and holding his second scotch in his hand. “Mrs. Branagan was gone by the time I could decently leave Mrs. Colbert’s sons. I phoned her home every fifteen minutes until I got her. She had been at the hairdresser.”

“I am not interested in where she had been,” Whitehall said coldly. “I am interested in what she told Simmons.”

“They were talking about Tasha Colbert,” Peter Black said bleakly. “Simmons had asked her if she knew about a young patient at the hospital who had been in an accident and gone into an irreversible coma more than six years ago. Apparently Mrs. Branagan identified the patient for her and filled Simmons in on whatever knowledge of the events she had.”

“No doubt including Barbara Colbert’s statement that she had heard her daughter speak before she died?”

“Yes. Cal, what are we going to
do?”

“I
am going to save your skin.
You
are going to finish your drink.
We
are going to talk later. Good-bye, Peter.”

The click of the receiver being replaced was barely audible. Peter Black gulped down the remaining contents of his glass and instantly refilled it.

Calvin Whitehall sat nearly motionless for several minutes while he considered and rejected possible avenues to follow. After some time, he reached a decision, analyzed it thoroughly, and was satisfied that it would eliminate two of his problems- West Redding and Fran Simmons.

He dialed West Redding. The phone rang a dozen times before anyone answered.

“Calvin, I’ve been watching the tape.” The excitement in the doctor’s voice made him sound almost youthful. “Do you
realize
what has been achieved? What arrangements have you made for press interviews?”

“That’s exactly why I’m calling, Doctor,” Cal said smoothly. “You don’t watch television, so you wouldn’t know who I’m talking about, but there is a young woman who is achieving national prominence as an investigative reporter, and who I am arranging to have come out and do a preliminary interview with you. She understands we have to maintain absolute secrecy, but she will immediately begin plans for a thirty-minute special that will be aired within seven days of now. You must realize that it is essential to whet public interest so that when this stunning scientific achievement is unveiled, the show will be watched by a huge national audience. It’s all got to be carefully planned.”

Whitehall got the response he anticipated. “Calvin, I am very pleased. I realize that we may have some minor legal problems to contend with, but that is of little importance given the significance of what I have achieved. At seventy-six years of age, I want to see my accomplishments recognized before my own time runs out.”

“And you shall, Doctor.”

“I don’t think you’ve told me the name of the young woman.”

“It’s Simmons, Doctor. Fran Simmons.”

Calvin hung up the phone and pressed the button on the intercom that connected him to the garage apartment. “Get over here, Lou,” he said.

Even though Cal had announced no plans to go out that evening, and Jenna had left earlier, taking her own car, Lou Knox had been waiting for the summons. He had seen and heard enough to know that Cal was having serious problems and that, sooner or later, he would be called in to help solve them.

He was right on the money, as usual.

“Lou,” Cal said, his manner almost genial, “Doctor Logue in West Redding has become a serious problem, as has Fran Simmons.”

Lou waited.

“Believe it or not, I am setting up an appointment for Ms. Simmons to interview the good doctor. I think you should be in the vicinity when it takes place. Now I should tell you that Doctor Logue has a good many combustibles in his laboratory at the farmhouse. I know you’ve never been inside, so let me explain. The laboratory is on the second floor, but quite accessible thanks to an outside staircase to a back porch that leads directly to it. The window onto the porch is always left slightly open for ventilation. You’re following me, aren’t you, Lou?”

“Yes, Cal.”

“Mr. Whitehall, Lou, please. Otherwise you might forget yourself in front of others.”

“Sorry, Mr. Whitehall.”

“There is a clearly marked oxygen tank in the laboratory. I am sure that a fellow as clever as you are could toss a flaming object into that room and be down those steps and clear of the house before the tank explodes. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, I do, Mr. Whitehall.”

“This mission may take you away from here for several hours. Of course, any overtime service you do for me is always suitably rewarded. You know that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have been turning over in my mind the best way to persuade Ms. Simmons to visit the farmhouse. Naturally the utmost secrecy about her trip there must be maintained. Therefore I think she should receive a tip she can’t resist, preferably from an anonymous source. You get my drift?”

Lou smiled. “Me.”

“Exactly. How say you, Lou?”

“How say you?” was Cal ’s habitual touch of humor when he was satisfied that a good plan was about to be executed.

“You know me,” Lou said, swallowing Cal ’s name before he uttered it, “I love to play Deep Throat.”

“You’ve done it so well before. This time I think it should be
particularly
interesting. And
rewarding
, Lou. Don’t forget that.”

As they smiled at each other, Lou thought back to Fran Simmons’s father and to the hot tip Lou had passed along to him, telling him he’d heard Cal talking of overnight riches to be made in a stock that was about to go public. The $40,000 Simmons had hastily borrowed from the library fund, thinking he would replace it in a few days. What led Simmons to take his own life was that a second withdrawal, under his forged signature, had been made that raised the deficit to $400,000. He knew that after he admitted the first illegal withdrawal, nobody would believe that he wasn’t guilty of the second.

Cal had been particularly generous that time, Lou remembered. He’d been allowed to keep the original $40,000 Simmons had eagerly pressed into his hand and the worthless stock certificates that Simmons had trustingly put in Lou’s name.

“Given our history, it seems only fitting that I be the one to make the call to Fran Simmons, sir,” Lou said to his former school chum. “I look forward to it.”

As soon as Fran left the hospital, she phoned Molly from the car. “I really need to see you,” she said urgently

“I’m certainly here,” Molly told her. “Come by. Jenna is with me, but she has to leave soon.”

“I hope I don’t miss her. I’ve been trying to set up a date to talk with both her and her husband. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

I’m cutting it close, Fran thought, checking her watch and calculating that she had to start back to New York in the next half hour, but I do want to see for myself how Molly is doing. She has to have received the notice for the special meeting of the parole board scheduled for Monday. It occurred to her that if Jenna was still there, she couldn’t ask Molly about Gary Lasch’s inviting Peter Black to join him in running the hospital. She’d be sure to tell her husband. Of course, Fran realized that given their history, Molly might tell Jenna what they talked about anyhow.

At ten minutes to three, Fran turned into Molly’s driveway. There was a Mercedes convertible parked in front of the house, which she knew had to be Jenna’s car.

I haven’t seen her in so many years, Fran thought. I wonder if she’s still as great looking as she was back then? For a moment the old sense of inadequacy enveloped her as she thought of the years she had lived in Greenwich and gone to school there.

When they were at Cranden Academy, it was generally known that Jenna’s family didn’t have money. Jenna herself used to joke, “My great-great grandfather made big bucks, and his descendants spent it all!” But there was no debating her blue-blood lineage. Like Molly’s ancestors, Jenna’s had been late-seventeenth-century settlers from England who came to Boston as wealthy appointees of the Crown, not like most who arrived, hoping to scrape together a living in the New World.

Molly opened the door as Fran came up the walk. She obviously had been watching for her. Fran was startled at Molly’s appearance. She was ghostly pale, and her eyes were heavily circled. “ Reunion time,” she said. “Jenna waited to see you.”

Jenna was in the study, looking through a stack of photographs. She jumped up when she saw Fran. “We’ll meet again,” she sang as she swooped across the room to embrace her.

“Don’t remind me of that idiotic class history I wrote,” Fran begged with an exaggerated grimace. After the quick embrace, she stepped back. “Come on, Jenna, isn’t it about time you started to lose your looks?”

Jenna did look spectacular. Her dark brown hair fell with casual elegance to a point just above the collar of her jacket; her enormous hazel eyes positively glowed; her slender body moved with a seemingly unconscious air of careless elegance, as if the beauty she possessed and whatever compliments she received for it were no more than her due.

For an instant, Fran felt as though the clock had spun backwards. The closest she had been to Molly and Jenna during those four years at the academy was the time they all spent working on the yearbook. Today, this room reminded her of the yearbook office, with the piles of papers and files, the scattered photographs, the stack of old magazines.

“It’s been a useful day,” Molly said. “Jenna got here at ten and hasn’t let up since. We’ve been going through everything that was in Gary ’s desk and on the shelves of this room when it was his study. We got rid of a lot of stuff.”

“Not a fun day, but there’s time for that later, isn’t there, Fran?” Jenna asked. “When this nightmare is over, Molly is coming into the city and staying in the apartment with me. We’re going to spend days in the marvelous new salon I’ve found, just being pampered. We’re going on a shopping spree that will make the term ‘excessive’ seem inadequate, and then we’re going to dine our way through the best restaurants in New York. Le Cirque 2000 will be our kickoff.”

She spoke with such confidence that Fran suspended reality for a moment and actually believed her, even to the point of experiencing the feeling of being left out and a longing to be included in the plans. Again, shades of yesterday, she thought.

“I’ve given up believing in miracles, but if that miracle should happen, then Fran is definitely one of the celebrants,” Molly said. “Without you two in my corner, I wouldn’t have made it this far.”

“You’ll make it, I promise, on my honor as the wife of Cal the Mighty,” Jenna said with a smile. “Speaking of whom, Fran, I’m afraid that this merger business has him busy and cranky at the same time, which is an awesome combination. I can get together with you almost any day next week, but it would be better to hold off trying to make an appointment with him.”

She hugged Molly. “I’ve got to run, and Fran may want to go over something with you. Fran, it’s really good to see you again. Next week, right?”

Fran thought fast. If Molly’s parole were to be revoked, it would happen on Monday, and Jenna would certainly want to be with her. “How about Tuesday, around ten, in your office?”

“Perfect.”

Molly walked with Jenna to the door. When she came back to the study, Fran said, “Molly, I’ve got to get back to New York on the double, so I’ll be quick. I’m sure you heard about the special meeting of the parole board on Monday.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve not only heard about it, I’ve received a notice to attend.” Molly’s face and voice were calm.

“I know what you’re thinking, but hang in there, Molly. Something’s going to break, I swear to you. I spoke to Annamarie’s sister today, and she told me some shocking things about Lasch Hospital. They involve your husband and Peter Black.”

“Peter Black didn’t kill Gary. They were close.”

“Molly, if even half of what I suspect about Peter Black is true, he’s a thoroughly evil man, capable of committing just about any crime. This is what I need to know from you, and hopefully you’ll have the answer: Why did your husband invite Peter Black to move here and share his practice? I’ve done research on Black. He was no great shakes as a doctor, and he didn’t have a nickel to contribute to the operation. Nobody just gives away half a hospital to an old buddy-which, in fact, I don’t believe Black really was to Gary Lasch. Do you know the reason Gary brought Black here?”

“Peter was already in place at the hospital when I started dating Gary. The subject never came up.”

“I was afraid of that. Molly, I don’t know what I’m looking for, but do me a favor and let me come back and go through all Gary’s files before you discard anything. Maybe I’ll find something helpful.”

“If you want,” Molly said indifferently. “I’ve got three full garbage bags already in the garage. I’ll put them in the storage closet for you. How about the photos?”

“Hold on to them for now. We may want some of them for the program when we do it.”

“Oh yes, the program!” Molly sighed. “Was it really just ten days ago that I asked you to start an investigation that I thought would prove my innocence? Oh, the naïveté of the lamb,” she said with a wan smile.

She’s given up hope, Fran thought. She knows in all likelihood that on Monday she’s on her way back to prison to serve the remaining time from her original ten-year sentence, and that’s even before the new trial for the murder of Annamarie Scalli. “Molly, look at me,” she commanded.

“I
am
looking at you, Fran.”

“Molly, you’ve
got
to trust me. I believe Gary ’s murder is only one of a series of murders that you certainly
could not
and
did not
commit. Believe me, I’m going to prove that, and when I do, you’re going to be completely exonerated.”

She’s got to believe that, Fran thought, hoping she had sounded sufficiently convincing. It was apparent to her that Molly was sinking into listless depression.

“And then I’ll get a makeover and dine my way through the best restaurants in New York.” She paused and shook her head. “You and Jenna are great pals, but I think you’re both mixing fact and fiction. I’m afraid my fate is sealed.”

“Molly, I’m on the air tonight, so I have to go and get prepared. Please don’t get rid of anything here.” Fran glanced down at the couch. The photographs were spread out, and she could see that Gary Lasch seemed to be in just about all of them.

Molly noticed Fran looking at the old photos. “Jenna and I were reminiscing before you came. The four of us did have some good times, or at least
I
thought we did. God knows what my loving husband was thinking back then. Probably something like, ‘Oh boy, another night out with the Stepford wife.’ ”

“Molly,
stop
it! Stop hurting yourself,” Fran begged.

“Hurting myself? Now why would I need to do that? The whole world is already in on that act. They don’t need any help from me. Fran, you’ve got to get back to New York, so go on. Don’t worry about me. Oh, wait-one quick question. Do you have any use for these old magazines? I glanced at them, but they just contain medical articles Gary was reading. I thought I’d try to read them, but I’m fresh out of intellectual curiosity.”

“Did he write any of the articles?”

“No. He just marked the ones that interested him.”

What interested Gary Lasch as a doctor sure interests me, Fran thought. “Let me take the magazines with me, Molly. I’ll glance at them, then get rid of them for you.” She bent down and picked up the heavy stack from the floor.

Molly held the front door open for her. Fran stood for a moment, torn between the need to be on her way and her reluctance to leave Molly in her obviously despondent frame of mind. “Molly, any memory breakthroughs?”

“I thought I was having some, but like everything else, they seem to be sound and fury, signifying nothing. My brave talk about memory certainly was a mistake, wouldn’t you say? It looks as though on Monday it’s going to buy me four and a half years more of free room and board, and that’s separate from when they convict and sentence me for Annamarie’s murder.”

“Molly, don’t give up!”

Molly, don’t give up
. It was a refrain that ran through Fran’s head, as with frequent worried glances at the clock on the dashboard, she drove through the heavier than usual traffic on her way back to New York.