“You may have heard about Molly Lasch,” Marta Jones said. “She’s the woman who just got out of prison after serving time for killing her husband, and now the rumor is that she’s going to be arrested for killing her husband’s girlfriend. Have you heard of her, Ms… I’m sorry, I didn’t get your last name.”

“It’s Simmons, Fran Simmons.”

She saw the look in Marta Jones’s eyes and knew what was going through her head. Fran Simmons. She’s that television reporter and the daughter of the man who stole the library fund money and shot himself. Fran braced herself, but Marta Jones’s expression changed to one of sympathy. “I won’t pretend I don’t know about your father,” she said quietly. “I was so sorry for you and your mother at that time.”

“Thank you.”

“And now you’re on television, and you’re doing a program on Molly. So of course you know all about her.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, maybe Edna will listen to you. Is it okay if I call you Fran?”

“Of course.”

“I laid awake all last night, wondering if it isn’t dangerous for Edna to work for Molly Lasch. I mean, it was one thing for her to kill her husband. That was temporary insanity, I’m sure. I mean, he was cheating on her that way and everything. But if less than a week after she gets out of prison she stabs her husband’s girlfriend to death, I say she’s out of control.”

Fran thought of what Gus Brandt had said about Molly. The idea that she’s a crazed, out-of-control killer is going to reach epidemic proportions, she realized.

“I’ll tell you this,” Marta continued. “I wouldn’t want to be alone for hours in a house with that kind of person. This morning when I talked to Edna-when she was on her way to the doctor with Wally-I said, ‘Edna, what would happen to Wally if Molly Lasch goes nuts and hits you over the head or stabs you to death? Who would take care of him?’ ”

“Does Wally require much care?”

“As long as he takes his medicine, he’s pretty good. But when he doesn’t take it and gets balky, well, Wally becomes a different person, sometimes a little out of control. Just yesterday he took the key to Molly Lasch’s house off Edna’s key ring. He wanted to go visit her. Of course Edna made him put it right back.”

“He took the key to Molly’s Lasch’s house?” Fran tried to keep her voice level. “Has he ever done that before?”

“Oh, I don’t think so. Edna doesn’t allow him to go there. Dr. Lasch was so fussy about his collection of early-American art. Some of it apparently was quite valuable. I do know though that Wally stopped in there once and picked up something he shouldn’t have, and Edna was a wreck. He didn’t break anything, but it was a valuable piece, and apparently Dr. Lasch just went on like a mad man about it, yelling and ordering him out of the house.Wally didn’t like that at all…Oh look, there’s Edna now.”

They caught up with Edna Barry as she was opening her front door. The stricken look on Mrs. Barry’s face when she saw Fran with Marta Jones was further confirmation to Fran that the woman had something to hide.

“Go inside, Wally,” she snapped at her son.

Fran barely got a glimpse at the tall, good-looking man in his thirties before Edna shoved him into the house and pulled the door closed.

When she turned to face Fran, anger flushed her cheeks and made her voice tremble. “Miss Simmons,” she said, “I don’t know why you’re here, but it’s been a very difficult morning for me, and I can’t talk to you now.”

“Oh, Edna,” Marta Jones asked, “isn’t Wally any calmer?”

“Wally’s fine,” Edna Barry said sharply, her voice registering a mixture of fear and anger. “Marta, I hope you haven’t been filling Miss Simmons’s ears with mean gossip about him.”

“Edna, how can you say that? Nobody’s a better friend to Wally than I am.”

Tears filled Edna Barry’s eyes. “I know. I know. It’s just so hard…You have to excuse me. I’ll call you, Marta.”

For a moment Fran and Marta Jones stood on the steps, looking at the door Edna Barry had just closed in their faces. “Edna’s not a rude person,” Marta said quietly. “It’s just that she’s had a hard time of it. First Wally’s father died, and then Dr. Morrow. Then right after that, Dr. Lasch was murdered, and-”

“Dr. Morrow?” Fran queried, interrupting Marta Jones. “What did he have to do with Edna Barry?”

“Oh, he was Wally’s primary care physician and was really great at handling him. He was also real nice. If Wally started refusing to take his medicine, or made any kind of trouble, all Edna had to do was call Dr. Morrow.”

“Dr. Morrow,” Fran said. “You are talking about Dr. Jack Morrow?”

“Yes. Did you know him?”

“Yes, I did.” Fran thought again about the kind young man who, fourteen years earlier, had embraced her when he broke the news of her father’s death.

“If you remember, he was murdered in a robbery only two weeks before Dr. Lasch died,” Marta said sadly.

“I imagine that upset Wally?”

“Don’t ask. It was awful. And I guess it was right after that when Dr. Lasch yelled at him. Poor Wally. People don’t understand. It’s not his fault he’s the way he is.”

No, Fran thought as she thanked Marta Jones for her hospitality and got into her car. But people not only don’t understand; they may not even know about the extent of Wally’s problems. Could Edna Barry be covering up something? Is it conceivable that she allowed Molly to be convicted of a crime her son actually committed?

Was it possible that it had happened that way?

The sleeping pill Dr. Daniels had given Molly had been highly effective. She had taken it at ten o’clock the night before, and she’d slept until eight this morning. It had been a deep, heavy sleep, from which she emerged somewhat groggy, but refreshed.

She put on a robe and set out to get coffee and juice, which she would bring upstairs to bed; once settled in, she would try to put everything in focus. But even before she reached the kitchen, she realized that first she had to take care of the disorder she saw all about her in the house.

Though they had made an effort to put things right, the police had changed the whole feeling of the house. It was subtle, but Molly recognized all the changes. Everything they had touched or moved was askew, out of order, not right.

The harmony of her home, the remembrance of which had been her surcease in those days and nights in prison, was gone and had to be restored.

After a quick shower, she donned jeans, sneakers, and an old sweatshirt and was ready for work. The temptation to call Mrs. Barry and ask her to help came and went swiftly. It’s my house, Molly told herself. Let me put it back together myself.

My life may be out of control, she despaired as she filled the sink with hot water and poured in liquid soap, but I can still get myself together enough to reclaim my house.

It isn’t that there are terrible stains anywhere, just some finger marks and smudges, she thought as she rearranged the dishes they had moved and straightened the pots and pans so that they were again lined up just so.

Having the police run roughshod through the house was like a surprise inspection of my cell, she thought. She remembered the strident sound of feet marching down the cell block corridor, the order to stand against the wall, being made to watch as her bed was taken apart as they searched for drugs.

She did not realize that she had started crying until she rubbed her cheek with the back of her hand and a soap bubble got in her eye.

There’s another reason for being glad Mrs. Barry is off today, she thought. I don’t have to bury my emotions. I can let it out. Dr. Daniels would give me an A plus.

She’d been polishing the foyer table with butcher’s wax when Fran Simmons called at 9:30.