Prologue
The State of Connecticut will prove that Molly
Carpenter Lasch, with the intent to cause the death of her
husband, Dr. Gary Lasch, did in fact cause his death; that
as he sat at his desk, his back to her, she shattered his
skull with a heavy bronze sculpture; that she then left
him to bleed to death as she went upstairs to their
bedroom and fell asleep....
The reporters seated behind the defendant scribbled
furiously, roughing out the articles they would have to
file in just a couple of hours if they were to meet their
deadlines. The veteran columnist from Women's News Weekly
began inking her usual gushing prose: "The trial of Molly
Carpenter Lasch, charged with the murder of her husband,
Gary, opened this morning in the mellow dignity of the
courtroom in historic Stamford, Connecticut."
Media from all over the country were covering the trial.
The New York Post reporter was jotting down a description
of Molly's appearance, noting in particular how she had
dressed for her first day in court. What a knockout, he
thought, a remarkable blend of classy and gorgeous. It was
not a combination that he often saw — especially at the
defense table. He noticed how she sat, tall, almost regal.
No doubt some would say "defiant." He knew she was twenty-
six. He could see that she was slender. Had collar-length,
dark blond hair. That she wore a blue suit and small gold
earrings. He craned his neck until he could see that she
was still wearing her wedding band. He made note of it.
As he watched, Molly Lasch turned and looked around the
courtroom as though searching for familiar faces. For a
moment their eyes met, and he noted that hers were blue;,
they can't hurt me. She was aware of the eyes on her,
curious and judgmental. Some of the people she had known
best and longest had come up to her in the corridor,
kissing her cheek, squeezing her hand. Jenna Whitehall,
her best friend since their high school years at Cranden
Academy, was one of them. Jenna was a corporate lawyer
now. Her husband, Cal, was chairman of the board of Lasch
Hospital and of the HMO Gary had founded with Dr. Peter
Black.
They've both been wonderful, Molly thought. Needing to get
away from everything, she had sometimes stayed with Jen in
New York during the past months, and it had helped
tremendously. Jenna and Cal still lived in Greenwich, but
during the week, Jenna frequently overnighted at a
Manhattan apartment they kept near U.N. Plaza.
Molly had seen Peter Black in the corridor as well. Dr.
Peter Black — he always had been so pleasant to her, but
like Gary's mother, he ignored her now. The friendship
between him and Gary dated from their days in medical
school. Molly wondered if Peter would be able to fill
Gary's shoes as head of the hospital and the HMO. Shortly
after Gary's death, he'd been elected by the board to take
over as chief executive officer, with Cal Whitehall as
chairman.
She sat numbly as the trial actually began. The prosecutor
began calling witnesses. As they came and went, they
seemed to Molly to be just blurred faces and voices. Then
Edna Barry, the plump sixty-year-old woman who had been
their part-time housekeeper, was on the stand. "I came in
at eight o'clock on Monday morning, as usual," she stated.
"Monday morning, April 9th?"
"Yes."
"How long had you been working for Gary and Molly Lasch?"
"Four years. But I'd worked for Molly' s mother from the
time Molly was a little girl. She was always so gentle."
Molly caught the sympathetic look Mrs. Barry cast toward
her. She doesn't want to hurt me, she thought, but she's
going to tell how she found me, and she knows how it will
sound.
"I was surprised because the lights were on inside the
house," Mrs. Barry was saying. "Molly's suitcase was in
the foyer, so I knew she was back from the Cape."
"Mrs. Barry, please describe the layout of the first floor
of the house."
"The foyer is large — it's really more of a reception
area. When they had large parties they would serve
cocktails there before dinner. The living room is directly
beyond the foyer and faces the front door. The dining room
is to the left, down a wide hallway and past a service
bar. The kitchen and family room are in that wing as well,
while the library and Dr. Lasch's study are in the wing to
the right of the entrance."
I got home early, Molly thought. There hadn't been much
traffic on I-95, and I was earlier than I'd expected to
be. I only had one bag with me, and I brought it in and
put it down. Then I locked the door and called Gary's
name. I went directly to the study to look for him.
"I went into the kitchen," Mrs. Barry told the
prosecutor. "There were wine glasses and a tray of
leftover cheese and crackers on the counter."
"Was there anything unusual about that?"
"Yes. Molly always tidied up when they had company."
"What about Dr. Lasch?" the prosecutor asked. Edna Barry
smiled indulgently. "Well, you know men. He wasn't much
for picking up after himself." She paused and
frowned. "But that was when I knew something was wrong. I
thought that Molly must have come and gone."
"Why would she have done that?"
Molly saw the hesitance in Mrs. Barry's face as once again
she looked over at her. Mother was always a little annoyed
that Mrs. Barry called me Molly and I called her Mrs.
Barry. But I didn't care, she thought. She's known me
since I was a child.
"Molly hadn't been home when I went in on Friday. The
Monday before that, while I was there, she'd left for the
Cape. She seemed terribly upset."
"Upset, how?"
The question came quickly and abruptly. Molly was aware of
the hostility the prosecutor felt for her, but for some
reason it didn't worry her.
"She was crying as she packed her bag, and I could see
that she was very angry. Molly's an easygoing person. It
takes a lot to ruffle her. In all the years I'd worked
there, I'd never once seen her so upset. She kept
saying,'How could he? How could he?' I asked her if there
was anything I could do."
"What did she say?"
"She said,'You can kill my husband.'"
"'You can kill my husband!'"
"I knew she didn't mean it. I just thought they'd probably
had an argument, and I figured she was leaving for the
Cape to cool down."
"Did she often go off like that? Just pack up and leave?"
"Well, Molly likes the Cape; says she can clear her head
there. But this was different — I'd never seen her leave
like this, so upset." She looked at Molly, sympathy in her
eyes.
"All right, Mrs. Barry, let's go back to that Monday
morning, April 9th. What did you do after you'd seen the
condition of the kitchen?"
"I went to see if Dr. Lasch was in the study. The door was
closed. I knocked, and there was no answer. I turned the
knob and noticed it felt sticky. Then I pushed open the
door and saw him." Edna Barry's voice quivered. "He was
slumped over in his chair at the desk. His head was caked
with dried blood. There was blood all over him and the
desk and the chair and the carpet. I knew right away he
was dead."
Listening to the housekeeper's testimony, Molly thought
back to that Sunday night. I came home, let myself in,
locked the front door, and went down to the study. I was
sure Gary would be there. The door was closed. I opened
it....I don't remember what happened after that.
"What did you do then, Mrs. Barry?" the prosecutor asked.
"I dialed 9-1-1 right away. Then I thought about Molly,
that maybe she was hurt. I ran upstairs to her bedroom.
When I saw her in there, on the bed, I thought she was
dead too."
"Why did you think that?"
"Because her face was crusted with blood. But then she
opened her eyes and smiled and said, 'Hi, Mrs. Barry, I
guess I overslept.'"
I looked up, Molly thought as she sat at the defense
table, and then realized I still had my clothes on. For a
moment I thought I'd been in an accident. My clothes were
soiled, and my hands felt all sticky. I felt groggy and
disoriented and wondered if maybe I was in a hospital
instead of my own room. I remember wondering if Gary had
been hurt too. Then there was a pounding at the door
downstairs, and the police were there.
All about her, people were talking, but the voices of the
witnesses were blurring again. Molly was vaguely aware of
the days of the trial passing, of going in and out of the
courtroom, of watching people coming and going on the
witness stand.
She heard Cal and Peter Black and then Jenna testify. Cal
and Peter told how on Sunday afternoon they had called
Gary and said they were coming over, that they knew
something was wrong.
They sa id they found Gary terribly upset because Molly
had learned he was having an affair with Annamarie Scalli.
Cal said that Gary told him that Molly had been at their
home in Cape Cod all week and wouldn't talk to him when he
called, that she slammed down the phone when she heard his
voice.
The prosecutor asked, "What was your reaction to Dr.
Lasch's confession of this affair?"
Cal said they were deeply concerned, both for their
friends' marriage and also for the potential damage to the
hospital of a scandal involving Dr. Lasch and a young
nurse. Gary had assured them there would be no scandal.
Annamarie was leaving town. She was planning to give up
the baby for adoption. His lawyer had arranged a $75,000
settlement and confidentiality statement that she had
already signed.
Annamarie Scalli, Molly thought, that pretty, dark-haired,
sexy-looking young nurse. She remembered meeting her at
the hospital. Had Gary been in love with her, or was it
just a casual affair that got out of hand when Annamarie
became pregnant? Now she'd never know. There were so many
unanswered questions. Did Gary really love me? she
wondered. Or was our life together a sham? She shook her
head. No. It hurt too much to think like that.
Then Jenna had taken the stand. I know it hurts her to
testify, Molly thought, but the prosecutor had subpoened
her, and she had no choice.
"Yes," Jenna had acknowledged, her voice low and
halting, "I did call Molly at the Cape on the day that
Gary died. She told me that he had been involved with
Annamarie and that Annamarie was pregnant. Molly was
totally devastated." Vaguely she heard what they were
saying. The prosecutor asking if Molly was angry. Jenna
saying Molly was hurt. Jenna fin ally admitted that Molly
was very angry with Gary.
"Molly, get up. The judge is leaving."
Philip Matthews, her lawyer, was holding her elbow, urging
her to stand. He kept his hand under her arm, steadying
her as they exited the courtroom. Outside, flashbulbs
exploded in her face. He made her hurry through the crowd,
propelling her into a waiting car. "We'll meet your mother
and father at the house," he said as they drove away.
Her parents had come up from Florida to be with her. They
wanted her to move, to get out of the house where Gary had
died, but she couldn't do that. It was her grandmother's
present to her and she loved it. At her father's
insistence, she had agreed to at least redecorate the
study. All the furniture was given away, and the room was
redone from top to bottom. The heavy mahogany paneling had
been stripped off, and Gary's treasured collection of
early-American furniture and art had been removed. His
paintings, sculptures, carpets, oil lamps, and Wells Fargo
desk along with his maroon leather couch and chairs had
been replaced with a brightly patterned chintz sofa and
matching love seat and bleached oak tables. Even then, the
door to the study was always kept closed.
One most valued piece in his collection, a thirty-inch-
high sculpture of a horse and rider, an original Remington
bronze, was still in the custody of the prosecutor's
office. That was what they said she had used to smash the
back of Gary's head.
Sometimes, when she was sure her parents were asleep,
Molly would tiptoe downstairs and stand in the doorway of
the study and try to remember every detail of finding Gary.
Finding Gary. No matter how hard she tried, when she
thought back to that night, there was n o single moment
when she remembered talking to him or approaching him as
he sat at his desk. She had no memory of picking up that
sculpture, of grasping the front legs of the horse and
swinging it with enough force to cave in his skull. But
that's what they said she had done.
At home now, after another day in court, she could see the
growing concern on her parents' faces, and she could feel
the increased protectiveness with which they hugged her.
She stood stiffly inside their embraces, then stepped away
and looked at them dispassionately.
Yes, a handsome couple — everyone called them that. Molly
knew she looked like Ann, her mother. Walter Carpenter,
her father, towered over both of them. His hair was silver
now. It used to be blond. He called it his Viking streak.
His grandmother had been Danish.
"I'm sure we'd all welcome a cocktail," her father said as
he led the way to the service bar.
Molly and her mother had a glass of wine, Philip requested
a martini. As her father handed it to him, he
said, "Philip, how damaging was Black's testimony today?"
Molly could hear the forced, too-hearty tone of Philip
Matthews's answer: "I think we'll be able to neutralize it
when I get a crack at him."
Philip Matthews, powerful thirty-eight-year-old defense
lawyer, had become a kind of media star. Molly's father
had sworn he would get Molly the best money could buy, and
that comparatively young as he was, Matthews was it.
Hadn't he gotten an acquittal for that broadcasting
executive whose wife was murdered? Yes, Molly thought, but
they didn't find him covered with her blood.
She could feel the cloudiness in her head clearing a
little, although she knew it would come back. It always
did. But at thi s moment she could understand the way
everything must seem to the people in the courtroom,
especially to the jurors. "How much longer will the trial
last?" she asked.
"About another three weeks," Matthews told her.
"And then I'll be found guilty," she said matter-of-
factly. "Do you think I am? I know that everybody else
thinks I did it because I was so angry at him." She sighed
wearily. "Ninety percent of them think I'm lying about not
remembering anything, and the other ten percent think I
can't remember that night because I'm crazy."
Aware that they were following her, she walked down the
hall to the study and pushed open the door. The sense of
unreality was already closing in again. "Maybe I did do
it," she said, her voice expressionless. "That week at the
Cape. I remember walking on the beach and thinking how
unfair it all was. How after five years of marriage and
losing the first baby and wanting another one so terribly,
I'd finally gotten pregnant again, then had a miscarriage
at four months. Remember? You came up from Florida, Mom
and Dad, because you were worried that I was so
heartbroken. Then only a month after losing my child, I
picked up the phone and heard Annamarie Scalli talking to
Gary, and I realized she was pregnant with his child. I
was so angry, and so hurt. I remember thinking that God
had punished the wrong person by taking my baby."
Ann Carpenter put her arms around her daughter. This time
Molly did not resist the embrace. "I'm so scared," she
whispered. "I'm so scared."
Philip Matthews took Walter Carpenter's arm. "Let's go
into the library," he said. "I think we'd better face
reality here. I think we're going to have to consider a
plea bargain."
Molly stood b efore the judge and tried to concentrate as
the prosecutor spoke. Philip Matthews had told her the
prosecutor reluctantly agreed to allow her to plead guilty
to manslaughter, which carried a ten year sentence,
because the one weakness in his case was Annamarie Scalli,
Gary Lasch's pregnant mistress, who had not yet testified.
Annamarie had told investigators that she was home alone
that Sunday night.
"The prosecutor knows I'll try to throw suspicion on
Annamarie," Matthews had explained to her. "She was angry
and bitter at Gary, too. We might have had a crack at a
hung jury, but if you were convicted, you'd be facing a
life sentence. This way you'll be out in as little as
five."
It was her turn to say the words that were expected of
her. "Your Honor, while I cannot remember that horrible
night, I acknowledge that the state's evidence is strong
and points to me. I accept that the evidence has shown
that I killed my husband." It's a nightmare, Molly
thought. I will wake up soon and be home and safe.
Fifteen minutes later after the Judge had imposed the ten
year sentence she was led away in handcuffs toward the van
that would transport her to Niantic Prison, the State
Women's Correctional Center.
Five and a Half Years Later
Chapter 1
Gus Brandt, executive producer for the NAF Cable Network,
looked up from his desk at 30 Rockefeller Plaza in
Manhattan. Fran Simmons, whom he'd recently hired as an
investigative reporter for the six o'clock news hour and
for regular assignments to his hot new True Crime program,
had just entered his office.
"The word's in," he said excitedly. "Molly Carpenter Lasch
is being paroled from prison. She gets out next week."
"She did get parole!" Fran exclaimed. "I'm so glad."
"I wasn't sure you'd remember the case. You were living in
California six years ago. Do you know much about it?"
"Everything, actually. Don't forget, I went to Cranden
Academy in Greenwich, with Molly. I had the local papers
sent to me throughout the trial."
"You went to school with her? That's great. I want to
schedule a full background story on her for the series as
soon as possible."
"Sure. But Gus, don't think I have an inside track with
Molly," Fran warned. "I haven't laid eyes on her since the
summer we graduated, and that was fourteen years ago. At
the same time I began U. Cal, my mother moved to Santa
Barbara, and I lost touch with just about everybody in
Greenwich."
There'd actually been many reasons for both her and her
mother relocating to California, leaving Connecticut as
far behind as memory would allow. On the day of Fran's
graduation from the academy, her father had taken her and
her mother out for a festive dinner of celebration. At the
end of the meal he had toasted Fran's future at his alma
mater, kissed both of them, and then, saying that he'd
left his wallet in the car, he had gon she like? When she
was young, I mean."
Fran tucked a strand of light brown hair behind her ear,
an unconscious gesture that was an indication she was
concentrating. An image flashed through her mind, and for
an instant she could see Molly as she'd been at age
sixteen, at Cranden Academy. "Molly was always special,"
she said after a moment. "You've seen her pictures. She
was always a beauty. Even when the rest of us were still
gawky adolescents, she was already turning heads. She had
the most incredible blue eyes, almost iridescent, plus a
complexion models would kill for and shimmering blond
hair. But what really impressed me was that she was always
so composed. I remember thinking if she met the pope and
the queen of England at the same party, she'd know how to
address them and in what order. And yet, the funny part
was that I always suspected that, inside, she was shy.
Despite her remarkable composure, there was something
tentative about her. Kind of like a beautiful bird perched
at the end of a branch, poised but ready at any second to
take flight."
She'd glide across the room, Fran thought, remembering
seeing her once in an elegant gown. She looked even taller
than five eight because she had such gorgeous carriage.
"How friendly were you two?" Gus queried.
"Oh, I wasn't really in her orbit. Molly was part of the
moneyed country club set. I was a good athlete and
concentrated on sports more than on social activities. I
can assure you my phone was never ringing off the hook on
Friday night."
"As my mother would have put it, you grew up nice," Gus
said dryly.
I was never at ease at the academy, Fran thought. There
are plenty of middle-class families in Greenwich, but
middle class wasn' t good enough for Dad. He was always
trying to ingratiate himself with wealthy people. He
wanted me to be friends with the girls who came from money
or who had family connections.
"Apart from her appearance, what was Molly like?"
"She was very sweet," Fran said. "When my father died and
the news came out about what he had done — the embezzling
and the suicide and everything — I was avoiding everyone.
Molly knew I jogged every day, and early one morning she
was waiting for me. She said she just wanted to keep me
company for a while. Since her father had been one of the
biggest donors to the library fund, you can imagine what
her show of friendship meant to me."
"You had no reason to be ashamed because of what your
father did," Gus snapped.
Fran's tone became crisp. "I wasn't ashamed of him. I was
just so sorry for him — and angry too, I guess. Why did he
think that my mother and I needed things? After he died,
we realized how frantic he must have been in the days just
before, because they were about to audit the library
fund's books, and he knew he'd be found out." She paused,
then added softly, "He was wrong to have done all that, of
course. Wrong to have taken the money and wrong to think
we needed it. He was weak also. I realize now he was
terribly insecure. But at the same time, he was an awfully
nice guy."
"So was Dr. Gary Lasch. He was a good administrator too.
Lasch Hospital has a top-drawer reputation, and Remington
Health Management isn't like so many of the cockamamie
HMOs that are going bankrupt and leaving patients and
doctors high and dry." Gus smiled briefly. "You knew Molly
and you went to school with her, so that gives you some
insight. Do you think she did it?"
""There's no question that she did it," Fran said
promptly. "The evidence against her was overwhelming, and
I've covered enough murder trials to understand that very
unlikely people ruin their lives by losing control for
that one split second. Still, unless Molly changed
dramatically after the time I knew her, she'd be the last
person in the world I would have said was likely to kill
someone. But for that very reason, I can understand why
she might have blocked it out."
"That's why this case is great for the program," Gus
said. "Get on it. When Molly Lasch gets out of Niantic
Prison next week, I want you to be part of the reception
committee welcoming her."
Copyright © 1999 by Mary Higgins Clark