We'll Meet Again

33

There is nothing like Sunday morning in Manhattan, Fran decided as she opened the apartment door at 7:30 to find the Sunday Times, thick and inviting, awaiting her. She fixed juice and coffee and a muffin, settled in her big chair, planted her feet on the ottoman, and picked up the first section of the paper. A few minutes later she put it down, realizing she had absorbed very little of what she had read.

“I’m worried,” she said aloud, then reminded herself that it was a bad habit to talk to yourself.

She had not slept well the night before and was sure that her restlessness had something to do with Molly’s cryptic statement that she might have some very interesting news for her. What kind of news could be “very interesting”? she wondered.

If Molly is conducting some kind of private investigation of her own, she could be getting in over her head, Fran thought. Pushing aside the newspaper, she got up, poured a second cup of coffee, and returned to the chair, this time to read Molly’s trial transcript.

For the next hour she went through the testimony, line by line. There was testimony from the first police officers to arrive on the scene, as well as from the medical examiner. That was followed by testimony from Peter Black and the Whitehalls, describing their final meeting with Gary Lasch, a few hours before he died.

Clearly it had been like pulling teeth to get Jenna to say anything negative, Fran thought, as she carefully studied her testimony.

PROSECUTOR: Did you speak to the defendant in the week before her husband’s death, while she was at her home on Cape Cod?

JENNA: Yes, I did.

PROSECUTOR: How would you characterize her emotional side?

JENNA: Sad. She was very sad.

PROSECUTOR: Was she angry at her husband, Mrs. Whitehall?

JENNA: She was upset.

PROSECUTOR: You didn’t answer my question. Was Molly Carpenter Lasch angry at her husband?

JENNA: Yes, I guess you would say so.

PROSECUTOR: Did she express great anger at her husband?

JENNA: Will you repeat the question?

PROSECUTOR: Surely, and will Your Honor direct the witness to answer without equivocation?

JUDGE: The witness is directed to answer the question.

PROSECUTOR: Mrs. Whitehall, during your telephone conversations with Molly Carpenter Lasch in that week before her husband’s death, did she express great anger at him?

JENNA: Yes.

PROSECUTOR: Did you know the reason Molly Carpenter Lasch was angry at her husband?

JENNA: No, not initially. I asked her, but she wouldn’t tell me at first. That Sunday afternoon she did.

When she read through Calvin Whitehall’s testimony, Fran decided that, intentionally or otherwise, he had been an extremely damaging witness. The state attorney must have loved him, she thought.

PROSECUTOR: Mr. Whitehall, you and Dr. Peter Black visited Dr. Gary Lasch on Sunday afternoon, April 8th. Is that correct?

CALVIN WHITEHALL: Yes, we did.

PROSECUTOR: What was the purpose of your visit?

CALVIN WHITEHALL: Dr. Black had told me he was very concerned about Gary. He said it had been obvious to him all week that Gary was deeply worried, so we decided to go see him.

PROSECUTOR: By “we,” you mean…?

CALVIN WHITEHALL: Dr. Peter Black and myself.

PROSECUTOR: What happened when you got there?

CALVIN WHITEHALL: It was about five o’clock. Gary brought us into the family room. He had put out a plate of cheese and crackers and opened a bottle of wine. He poured a glass for each of us and said, “I’m sorry to say this, but it’s time for true confessions.” Then he admitted to us that he had been having an affair with a nurse at the hospital named Annamarie Scalli and that she was pregnant.

PROSECUTOR: Was Dr. Lasch concerned over your possible reaction?

CALVIN WHITEHALL: Of course. That nurse was only in her early twenties. We were afraid of the ramifications-a sexual harassment suit, for example. Gary was the head of the hospital, after all. The Lasch name, thanks to his father’s legacy, is a symbol of integrity that, of course, spilled over to the hospital and then to Remington Health Management. We were deeply distressed at the prospect of that image changing because of a scandal.

Fran continued to read the trial transcript for another hour. When she put it down, she kneaded her forehead, hoping to prevent the beginning of a headache she could feel coming on.

Gary Lasch and Annamarie Scalli certainly seem to have managed to keep their affair under wraps, she thought. What jumps out of these pages is absolute shock on the part of Molly, Peter Black, and the Whitehalls, the people closest to him, when they learned about it.

She remembered the wide-eyed astonishment expressed by Susan Branagan, the volunteer at the hospital coffee shop. She had said that everyone had assumed Annamarie Scalli was falling for that nice Dr. Morrow.

Dr. Jack Morrow, who was murdered just a short time before Gary Lasch, Fran reminded herself.

It was ten o’clock. She debated going for a run but then decided she really didn’t feel like doing that today. Maybe I’ll see what’s playing at the cinema, she thought. I’ll take in a movie, as Dad would say.

The phone rang just as she had picked up the entertainment section of the newspaper to begin her search for the right film, at the right theater, at the right time.

It was Tim Mason. “Surprise,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind. I called Gus, and he gave me your phone number.”

“Not at all. If this is a sports survey, even though I lived in California for fourteen years, the Yankees are my team. I also want Ebbets Field to be rebuilt. And I have to say that between the Giants and Jets, it’s close, but given a choice at the altar, I’d choose the Giants.”

Mason laughed. “That’s what I like-a woman who can make up her mind. Actually I called to see if, by any chance, you might have nothing better to do and would therefore consider meeting me for brunch at Neary’s.”

Neary’s Restaurant was virtually around the corner from Fran’s apartment, on Fifty-seventh Street.

Fran realized that she was not only surprised but pleased at the invitation. She had resented the way, when they met, Mason’s eyes had reflected his awareness of who she was and who her father had been, but then she had told herself she had to expect that reaction. It wasn’t his fault that he knew her father was a thief.

“Thank you. I’d like that,” she said sincerely.

“Noon?”

“Great.”

“Please don’t dress up.”

“I wasn’t planning to dress up. Day of rest and all that.”

After Fran hung up she talked aloud to herself for the second time that morning: “Now what is this all about?” she asked. “It sure as blazes isn’t old-fashioned boy-meets-girl.”

Fran arrived at Neary’s to find Tim Mason deep in conversation with the bartender. He was wearing an open-necked sport shirt, dark green corduroy jacket, and tan slacks. His hair was rumpled, and his jacket felt cold when she touched his arm.

“I get the feeling you didn’t take a cab,” she said as he turned to look at her.

“I don’t like all those reminders about buckling your seatbelt,” he said. “So I walked. Good to see you, Fran.” He smiled down at her.

Fran was wearing ankle boots with low heels and realized that she felt the way she had in the first grade-short.

A smiling Jimmy Neary gave them one of his four corner tables, which immediately signaled to Fran that Tim Mason must be a favorite regular patron. In the weeks since she had moved to New York, she had come here once before, with a couple from her apartment building. They’d been given a corner table then, too, and they had explained its significance to her.

Over bloody marys, Tim talked about himself. “My folks left Greenwich when they got divorced,” he told her. “It was the year after college, and I was working for the Greenwich Time. The editor called me a cub reporter, but actually I was mostly a gofer. That was the last time I lived there.”

“How many years ago was that?” Fran asked.

“Fourteen.”

She made a quick mental calculation. “That’s why, when we met, you recognized my name. You knew about my father.”

He shrugged. “Yes.” His smile was apologetic.

The waitress handed them menus, but they both ordered eggs Benedict without even looking at the options. When the waitress was gone, Tim took a sip of his bloody mary, then said, “You haven’t asked, but I’m going to give you the story of my life, which I think you’ll find particularly enthralling since you obviously know your sports.”

We’re actually not too dissimilar, Fran thought as she listened to Tim talking about his early job, broadcasting the high school games in a small town she had never heard of in upstate New York. Then she told him about being an intern at a local cable system in a town located near San Diego, where the most exciting event was the town council meeting.

“Starting out, you take whatever job you can get,” she said as he nodded in agreement.

He, too, was an only child, but unlike her, he did not have stepsiblings.

“After the divorce my mother moved to Bronxville,” he explained. “That’s where both she and my father had been raised. She bought a townhouse. Guess what? My father bought one in the same complex. They never got along when they were married, but now they go out on dates, and on holidays we go to his place for cocktails and hers for dinner. It confused me at first, but it seems to work for them.”

“Well, I’m pleased to say my mother is very happy, and with good reason,” Fran said. “She’s been remarried for eight years. She figured that I’d be coming back to New York eventually and suggested I take my stepfather’s name. You certainly know how much publicity there was about my father.”

He nodded. “Yes, there was. Were you tempted to do that?”

Fran folded and unfolded her cocktail napkin. “No, never.”

“Are you sure it’s wise for you to be the one to research a program set in Greenwich?”

“Probably not wise, but why do you ask?”

“Fran, I was at a wake in Greenwich last night, for a woman I knew growing up. She died of a heart attack at Lasch Hospital. Her son is my friend, and he’s terribly angry. Seems to feel more could have been done for her and thinks that, while you’re at it, you should investigate the treatment they give patients at the hospital.”

“Could more have been done for his mother?”

“I don’t know. He may have been just crazy with grief, although I wouldn’t be surprised if you hear from him. His name is Billy Gallo.”

“Why would he call me?”

“Because he heard you were seen in the coffee shop at Lasch Hospital on Friday. I bet by now everyone in town has heard you were there.”

Fran shook her head in disbelief. “I didn’t think I’d been on air long enough for people to recognize me so easily. I’m sorry about that,” she said with a shrug. “I did pick up an interesting piece of information though, just by chatting with a volunteer in the coffee shop. She probably would have clammed up if she had known I was a reporter.”

“Was this visit connected to the program you’re doing on Molly Lasch?” he asked.

“Yes, although mostly for background,” she said, not anxious to go into the Molly Lasch investigation. “Tim, do you know Joe Hutnik at the Greenwich Time?”

“Yes. Joe was there when I was on the staff. A good guy. Why do you ask?”

“Joe doesn’t think much of HMOs in general, but he seems to think that Remington Health Management is no worse than the rest of them.”

“Well, Billy Gallo doesn’t think so.” He saw a look of concern on her face. “But don’t worry. He’s really a nice guy-just very upset right now.”

As the table was cleared and coffee served, Fran looked around. Almost every table was taken now, and there was a cheerful bustle in the cozy pub. Tim Mason is a really nice guy, she thought. Maybe his friend is going to call me, and maybe he isn’t. Tim’s real message is that I’m in the spotlight in Greenwich, and that the old stories-and jokes-about my father’s death are being revived.

As Fran looked around the room, she did not see Tim Mason’s compassionate glance, nor did she realize that the expression in her eyes brought back to him vividly the image of the teenage girl mourning her father.