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Edna focused on the television set as the news began. Shocked, she learned that Molly had been arrested on a charge of murder, arraigned in court, and minutes ago released on one millions dollars bail under house arrest. The camera cut to Fran Simmons, live in front of the parking lot of the Sea Lamp Diner in Rowayton. The lot was still roped off with that yellow crime-scene tape.
“It is here that A
“Mom, is Molly all bloody again?”
Edna turned to see Wally standing behind her, his hair disheveled, his eyes bright with anger.
“Now don’t say things like that, Wally,” she said nervously.
“The statue of the horse and cowboy I picked up that time, remember that?”
“Wally, don’t talk about it, please don’t.”
“I just want to tell you about it is all,” he said petulantly.
“Wally, we’re not going to talk about it.”
“But everybody’s talking about it, Mom. Just now, in my room, they were yelling in my head-all of them. They talked about the statue. It wasn’t too heavy for me because I’m strong, but it was too heavy for Molly to lift.”
The voices that tormented him were back, Edna thought with dismay. The medicine wasn’t working.
Edna got up, went to her son, and pressed her hands to his temples. “Shhh,” she said soothingly. “No more talk about Molly or the statue. You know how mixed-up your voices get you, dear. Promise me you won’t say another word about the statue or about Dr. Lasch or Molly. Okay? Now let’s get you one more pill.”
48
Fran finished her segment of the broadcast and turned off her microphone. Tonight, Pat Lyons, a young cameraman, had come up from New York to tape her at the Sea Lamp Diner. “I like this town,” he said. “Here by the water it reminds me of a fishing village.”
“It is a nice town,” Fran agreed, remembering how when she was younger she occasionally had visited a friend in Rowayton. Although it’s a cinch the Sea Lamp isn’t where the elite meet to eat, she thought as she looked at the somewhat seedy-looking diner. Nevertheless she intended to go in there for di
Fran already had ascertained that Gladys Fluegel, the waitress who waited on Molly and A
She was surprised to find the diner was half full, but then she realized it probably was because of the curiosity generated by the murder and all the ensuing publicity. She stood for a moment in the entrance, wondering if she was more likely to have a chance to chat with Fluegel if she sat at the counter. The problem was solved, however, by the waitress herself, who came rushing up to her. “You’re Fran Simmons. We were watching you doing the broadcast. I’m Gladys Fluegel. I waited on Molly Lasch and A
It was obvious to Fran that Gladys was more than anxious to tell her story. “I’d really like to have a few words with you,” Fran said. “Maybe if I take that same table you can join me. Do you have a break coming up?”
“Give me ten minutes,” Fluegel said. “I’ll light a fire under them.” She nodded to an elderly couple at a window table. “She’s mad because he wants veal parmigiana, and she says it always gives him gas. I’ll tell them to make up their minds; once I get their order in, I’ll sit down with you.”
Fran paced the distance as she walked to the end booth. About forty feet from the entrance, she decided. While she waited for Gladys to be free, she studied the interior of the diner. It was poorly lit to begin with, and the table was in the shadows, which made it a natural choice for someone who didn’t want to be noticed. Molly had told Philip that A
And why did A
According to Molly, A
Molly says she called to her from the door, Fran thought. Did she catch up with her?
“Guess what they’re both having?” Gladys said, pointing her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the elderly couple. “Broiled flounder and spinach. She ordered for both of ‘em. He’s having a fit, poor guy.”
She dropped a menu in front of Fran. “Specials tonight are fricasseed chicken breast and Hungarian goulash.”
I’ll have a hamburger at P. J. Clarke’s when I get back to New York, Fran decided, then murmured something about having a late di
When Gladys returned with the order, she sat down. “I’ve got about two minutes,” she said. “This is where Molly Lasch was sitting. That A
You’re dying to testify, Fran thought. “Were there other waitresses here on Sunday night?” she asked.
“Honey, on Sunday night in this joint you don’t need two waitresses. Actually I’m supposed to be off Sundays, but the regular girl called in sick, and guess who got stuck? On the other hand, it was very interesting to be here with so much going on.”
“What about a chef or someone at the counter? There must have been that kind of help in here.”
“Oh sure, the chef was around, although I tell you, it stretches the meaning of the word to call that bird a ‘chef.’ But he wasn’t out here-he’s always in the back. See no evil, hear no evil. If you get what I mean.”
“Who was behind the counter?”
“Bobby Burke, a college kid. He works on weekends.”
“I’d like to talk to him.”
“He lives on Yarmouth Street in Belle Island. That’s just over the little bridge down two blocks from here. He’s Robert Burke, Jr. They’re in the phone book. Did you want to interview me on television or something?”
“When I am taping the program on Molly Lasch, I would like to talk to you,” Fran said.
“It will be my pleasure to oblige you.”
I bet it will be, Fran thought.
Fran called the Burke residence from her car phone. At first Bobby Burke’s father flatly refused to allow her to speak with his son. “Bobby has made a statement to the police that contained everything he had to say. He hardly noticed either woman come or go. He could not see the parking lot from the counter.”
“Mr. Burke,” Fran begged. “I’m going to be flat-out honest with you. I’m only five minutes away. I just spoke to Gladys Fluegel and I’m concerned that her interpretation of the meeting between Molly Lasch and A