longtime live-in cook and housekeeper, would put the car away later.
Peter let himself in and went directly to the library. The room was always welcoming, with the fire burning and the television set tuned to the news station. Pedro appeared immediately, asking the nightly question: “The usual, sir?”
The usual was scotch on the rocks, except when Peter decided on a change of pace and asked for bourbon or vodka.
The first scotch, sipped slowly and appreciatively, began to calm Peter’s nerves. A small plate of smoked salmon likewise appeased his slight feeling of hunger. He did not like to dine for at least an hour after reaching home.
He took the second scotch with him while he showered. Carrying the rest of the drink into the bedroom, he dressed in chinos and a long-sleeved cashmere shirt. Finally, almost relaxed, and with the worrisome sense that something was going wrong somewhat abated, he went back downstairs.
Peter Black frequently dined with friends. In his renewed status as a single man, he was showered with invitations from attractive and socially desirable women. The evenings he was at home he usually brought a book or magazine to the table. Tonight, though, was an exception. As he ate baked swordfish and steamed asparagus and sipped a glass of Saint Emilion, he sat in silent reflection, thinking through the meetings that were still to come concerning the mergers.
The ring of the telephone in the library did not interrupt his thought process. Pedro knew enough to tell whoever it was that he would return the call later. That was why, when Pedro came into the dining room, the cell phone in his hand, Peter Black raised his eyebrows in annoyance.
Pedro covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “Excuse me, Doctor, but I thought you might want to take this call. It is Mrs. Lasch. Mrs. Molly Lasch.”
Peter Black paused, then downed his glass of wine in a single gulp-allowing himself none of the customary time to savor the delicate taste-and reached for the phone. His hand was trembling.
13
Molly had given Fran a list of people she might want to begin interviewing. First on the list was Gary ’s partner, Dr. Peter Black. “He never said a word to me after Gary ’s death,” she’d told her.
Then Jenna Whitehall: “You’ll remember her from Cranden, Fran.”
Jenna’s husband, Cal: “When they needed a cash reserve to start Remington, Cal arranged the financing,” she explained.
Molly’s lawyer, Philip Matthews: “Everyone thinks he was wonderful because he got me a light sentence and then fought for early parole. I’d like him better if I thought he had even an ounce of doubt about my guilt,” she’d said.
Edna Barry: “Everything was in perfect order when I got home yesterday. It was almost as though the past five and a half years hadn’t even happened.”
Fran had asked Molly to speak to each of them and let them know she would be calling. But when Edna Barry looked in on her before she left, Molly did not feel like mentioning it to her.
Eventually Molly had gone into the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator. She saw that Mrs. Barry had stopped at the delicatessen on her way in. The rye bread with caraway seeds, Virginia ham, and Swiss cheese she had requested were there. She took them out and with careful pleasure made a sandwich, then opened the refrigerator again and found the spicy mustard she loved.
And a pickle, she thought. I haven’t wanted to eat a pickle in years. Smiling unconsciously, she brought the plate to the table, made a cup of tea, then looked around for the local newspaper she had not bothered to open earlier.
She flinched when she saw a picture of herself on the front page. The caption read “Molly Carpenter Lasch released after five and a half years in prison.” The account rehashed the details of Gary ’s death, the plea bargain, and her declaration of innocence at the prison gate.
Hardest to read was the coverage given to the background of her family. The
Peter let himself in and went directly to the library. The room was always welcoming, with the fire burning and the television set tuned to the news station. Pedro appeared immediately, asking the nightly question: “The usual, sir?”
The usual was scotch on the rocks, except when Peter decided on a change of pace and asked for bourbon or vodka.
The first scotch, sipped slowly and appreciatively, began to calm Peter’s nerves. A small plate of smoked salmon likewise appeased his slight feeling of hunger. He did not like to dine for at least an hour after reaching home.
He took the second scotch with him while he showered. Carrying the rest of the drink into the bedroom, he dressed in chinos and a long-sleeved cashmere shirt. Finally, almost relaxed, and with the worrisome sense that something was going wrong somewhat abated, he went back downstairs.
Peter Black frequently dined with friends. In his renewed status as a single man, he was showered with invitations from attractive and socially desirable women. The evenings he was at home he usually brought a book or magazine to the table. Tonight, though, was an exception. As he ate baked swordfish and steamed asparagus and sipped a glass of Saint Emilion, he sat in silent reflection, thinking through the meetings that were still to come concerning the mergers.
The ring of the telephone in the library did not interrupt his thought process. Pedro knew enough to tell whoever it was that he would return the call later. That was why, when Pedro came into the dining room, the cell phone in his hand, Peter Black raised his eyebrows in annoyance.
Pedro covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “Excuse me, Doctor, but I thought you might want to take this call. It is Mrs. Lasch. Mrs. Molly Lasch.”
Peter Black paused, then downed his glass of wine in a single gulp-allowing himself none of the customary time to savor the delicate taste-and reached for the phone. His hand was trembling.
13
Molly had given Fran a list of people she might want to begin interviewing. First on the list was Gary ’s partner, Dr. Peter Black. “He never said a word to me after Gary ’s death,” she’d told her.
Then Jenna Whitehall: “You’ll remember her from Cranden, Fran.”
Jenna’s husband, Cal: “When they needed a cash reserve to start Remington, Cal arranged the financing,” she explained.
Molly’s lawyer, Philip Matthews: “Everyone thinks he was wonderful because he got me a light sentence and then fought for early parole. I’d like him better if I thought he had even an ounce of doubt about my guilt,” she’d said.
Edna Barry: “Everything was in perfect order when I got home yesterday. It was almost as though the past five and a half years hadn’t even happened.”
Fran had asked Molly to speak to each of them and let them know she would be calling. But when Edna Barry looked in on her before she left, Molly did not feel like mentioning it to her.
Eventually Molly had gone into the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator. She saw that Mrs. Barry had stopped at the delicatessen on her way in. The rye bread with caraway seeds, Virginia ham, and Swiss cheese she had requested were there. She took them out and with careful pleasure made a sandwich, then opened the refrigerator again and found the spicy mustard she loved.
And a pickle, she thought. I haven’t wanted to eat a pickle in years. Smiling unconsciously, she brought the plate to the table, made a cup of tea, then looked around for the local newspaper she had not bothered to open earlier.
She flinched when she saw a picture of herself on the front page. The caption read “Molly Carpenter Lasch released after five and a half years in prison.” The account rehashed the details of Gary ’s death, the plea bargain, and her declaration of innocence at the prison gate.
Hardest to read was the coverage given to the background of her family. The
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