Regrets Only (21 page)

“Praise the Lord that’s over,” Sapphire said as she uncorked a bottle and refilled Lucy’s glass. “Sometimes I wish Archer would lighten up his act and get a real entertainer—a comedian or a master storyteller. But no,” she said sarcastically. “We have to be subjected to Fred the homosexual haiku poet from Lancaster. Can you imagine? The guy’s parents are Amish. Ask me, the world gets weirder every day. Plus he’s managed to run up a one-hundred-and-forty-dollar bill that Archer will inevitably write off.”

Lucy chuckled. A patron at the opposite end of the bar lifted a hand to get Sapphire’s attention. “Do you have today’s paper?” she asked quickly. She hadn’t read it and wanted to see what, if anything, the press was saying about Dr. Reese’s murder.

“Sure.” Sapphire reached beneath the bar and produced a badly folded edition of the
Inquirer
. “It’s yours.”

It took Lucy a moment to refold the sections and find the front page. Foreign affairs, another article on the rising price of gasoline, a column on the Reese murder. Inside, one story caught her interest:
DAVID ELLERY NAMED DIRECTOR OF WILDER CENTER,
the headline read. “Appointment Follows Gruesome Death of Front-runner” was the subhead.

Lucy skimmed the article, pausing at a paragraph close to the end.

Ellery’s longtime colleague and close friend Dr. Morgan Reese was the initial choice, one source close to the Board disclosed on the condition of anonymity. Following news of the psychiatrist’s grisly murder, Ellery was notified yesterday that the job was his. “He accepted immediately,” the source said. Calls to the police chief on the status of that investigation were not returned.

Only a few hours before, she had articulated her suspicions of Calvin Roth in an affidavit in order to search his residence. Now an alternative scenario seemed just as plausible, if not more compelling: Ellery reports his gun stolen. Focus is immediately on the psycho patient. A month later, that very weapon is used to shoot his competition for a prestigious and lucrative appointment to run a major new psychiatric hospital.

Had the theft been a ruse? Had Ellery been plotting Morgan’s demise for weeks, a plot that included getting himself invited to the Rabbit Club? Means, motive, and opportunity—it seemed almost too easy. Besides, it made sense only if he knew for certain that he would get the appointment if she were eliminated, an assumption that discounted other candidates. For a position this desirable, there had to be plenty of qualified people.

Her mind was playing tricks on her. He was a successful professional—a psychiatrist no less. He wouldn’t murder anyone.

The vibration of her cell phone interrupted her musings. “Detective O’Malley,” she answered.

“This is Rodman Haverill, Archer’s father.”

“Are you . . . all right?” she stammered. That he’d even known her number was surprising, let alone that he’d called it. “I’m sorry. So sorry about your . . . about Dr. Reese.”

“I very much need to discuss with you some details pertaining to her death,” he said, apparently ignoring her expression of sympathy. “I’d like you to join me for lunch tomorrow at the Cricket Club. At noontime.”

Tomorrow. She thought of the search warrant. Lunch would be over by two, three at the latest. There was still time in the day.

“Okay. I can meet you there,” she replied.

“Very good. Please come alone.”

She paused, thinking of what she might say to Jack. He wouldn’t approve. “All right.” Even as she uttered the words, she had the strange sense that she was getting herself into trouble.

“I’ll register you. Just drive right in. No announcement will be necessary.”

“Fine.”

“And Lucy, I would appreciate your discretion. With Archer, I mean.”

This time she didn’t respond. He could take her silence to be assent without a verbal commitment.

Across the room, Archer was engaged in animated conversation with Fred and his friend, oblivious to what had just transpired. What exactly was she doing? She sighed, wondering how the situation had become so complicated so fast.

10:15 p.m
.

Gertrude draped her robe over the back of a chair, removed her slippers, and turned back the covers. Switching off the light, she settled against the pillow. The night was still; but for the sound of a few crickets through the open window, it was quiet. A sliver of a moon partly illuminated the room, so she secured her satin sleep mask and ushered in total darkness. She needed sleep.

Despite her exhaustion, peaceful slumber eluded her. As she lay in bed listening to the ticktock of her electric alarm clock, the events of the past two days raced through her mind. She couldn’t bear that such sordidness, such violence, had left a stain on her club. In all her years of dutiful service, she’d never once had to escort a police officer inside the hallowed walls.

Creak.
She heard a floorboard. The building was so old and drafty that even the slightest breeze rattled the windows or caused a door to slam. She was used to the idiosyncratic sounds and movements of the place.

A second creak was longer. Then she heard the sound of a door opening on its worn hinge. It must be a member, although what anyone was doing here at this hour escaped her. Unless . . . She thought of the letter she’d found and passed along to that nice young detective. Its author had known how to threaten.

She chastised herself. Nothing bad or untoward had ever sullied this club; its history was impeccable. She was letting her mind play tricks on her. But then again, it was possible. She’d obviously forgotten to lock the door, and times had changed. She’d read quite enough horrific stories in the newspaper to know that. Perhaps a homeless person had wandered in. Or a thief. But knowing she would never go to sleep until she’d set her mind at ease, she got up, took up her robe and slippers again, and unlocked her bedroom door.

The hallway was dark. So was the stairwell. She reached for the switch at the top of the stairs, but nothing happened. Changing that lightbulb was another task to add to her list, a list that had grown exponentially with the distractions of the past forty-eight hours. She listened but heard nothing. Gertrude, you’re getting senile, she said to herself, refusing to accept that she just might be getting too old to be house manager.

There was an audible thump, and she paused in her descent. “Who is there?” she called out into the darkness. For a moment she wondered whether she should call the police but decided against it. Her duty was to this club and its members. Part of her job was discretion, and part was to ensure that the fine gentlemen who belonged here could enjoy themselves in peace and quiet. She’d already exposed the club to intrusion and its reputation to possible damage by involving the police over the weekend. She would address this evening’s problem herself.

Quietly she tiptoed down the stairs. A light was on in the game room and she heard rummaging sounds, the opening of drawers, the slamming of a chest as it closed. Since whoever was there made no effort to hide his presence, it had to be a member, and she felt relieved that she hadn’t contacted law enforcement in haste. A needless incident might have cost her the job she loved. “May I help you?” she called.

Suddenly the light in the game room went out and she was plunged into darkness again. This behavior was very peculiar. Holding on to the banister, she felt her way down the stairs and through the short foyer. The building was quiet. Even the crickets had stopped. She stepped into the game room and flicked the wall switch, illuminating the room.

A man ran at her, knocking her aside as he made his way to the door. She stumbled backward, reaching for something—the wall—to try to maintain her balance, but her grasp came up empty and she fell against a wooden chair. The pain in her back was intense, and her head spun. His movement had been so swift and she was so startled that it was only after she’d heard a car drive off that she realized her intruder had been no intruder at all. If anything, he belonged here more than she did. Though why the club president had come by at this late hour and then made such a hasty exit eluded her. Mr. Nichols certainly could have asked for her help if he needed anything at all.

16

Tuesday, May 20th Noon

T
he view from the street of the Merion Cricket Club didn’t do justice to the sprawling red brick building with green shutters and trim that overlooked lawn-tennis courts. Perhaps that was the intent: Only members could appreciate the true elegance and majesty of the architecture. Ivy grew over much of the facade, giving the oldest parts of the historic clubhouse a bearded look. Mower lines were still evident in the grass. Lucy wondered for a moment how it felt to be part of the full-time maintenance crew, immigrants no doubt, who could hardly imagine when they arrived in Philadelphia that such a place existed for recreational sports.

Mr. Haverill had indeed registered her, and the preppy gate attendant waved her through with a sideways glance at her license plate. A series of arrows directed cars to a parking area by a newly constructed indoor-tennis bubble. She left her Explorer amid the array of dark-toned foreign imports and walked back toward the main building.

A few feet from the entrance she paused to watch several ladies’ matches that were well under way despite the chill in the air. Lithe figures in short white skirts and warm-up jackets moved through the familiar choreography of doubles—serve, crosscourt return, down-the-line approach shot, lob, overhead winner. Standing quietly, she listened to the
ping
of balls volleying back and forth and the intermittent muffled sounds of polite banter or laughter. How different the game seemed in this environment, a far cry from the cracked Hard-Tru courts of Somerville High where local teenagers in basketball shorts and T-shirts smashed balls into torn nets or against chain link.

She climbed the steps leading to a covered rectangular porch. Not surprisingly, it was empty. The combination of ivy and the depth of the overhang kept the place dark and cool, no doubt more of an asset on steamy summer days than on one like today. Just inside a set of French doors was a spacious room divided into multiple seating areas by arrangements of wicker armchairs, love seats, coffee tables, and card tables. On two couches on either side of a stone fireplace lounged several women in velour tracksuits with pastel trim. Glasses of iced tea and a bowl of Goldfish crackers were arranged on a round tray on the table between them. On the opposite side of the room, three bejeweled elderly women played bridge with a single well-dressed, white-haired man.

“Lucy.” She heard Mr. Haverill’s voice behind her.

She turned to greet him. He wore a tweed blazer over a white polo shirt and pressed navy trousers.

“Follow me.”

He led the way into a dining room surrounded on three sides by mullioned windows overlooking more tennis courts. Enormous crystal chandeliers added necessary light to the grim day. Despite the lunch hour, there were few other diners. The maître d’ pulled back a chair, and Lucy somewhat awkwardly let him push her up to the table. A uniformed waiter immediately arrived with butter balls arranged in a pyramid on a porcelain dish. Using tongs, he then served each of them a round hard roll.

“I recommend the crab cakes. The tomato and basil soup is quite adequate, too,” Mr. Haverill said, opening the menu.

“Sounds good,” Lucy said, not bothering to look at hers. She had no strong food preferences and preferred to focus on the purpose of this meeting rather than ponder the lunch offerings. She unfolded her napkin and arranged it on her lap.

“Very well, then.” He signaled to the waiter and ordered for both of them.

“I just have to ask you,” she said when they were alone. “Why is this place called the
Merion
Cricket Club if we’re in Haverford?”

He didn’t appear to find any humor in the question. “It moved to this location at the turn of the century, but by that time it had established itself. The members wouldn’t have been receptive to a name change.”

“What about the cricket part then? Does anyone still play?”

“There’s an annual game here to keep up tradition, but, sadly, cricket is not what it once was.”

“Other than what I saw on a commercial for tourism in Bermuda, I know nothing about it.”

“I wouldn’t suppose you would. Boston was never much of a stronghold, but it used to be quite the sport of Philadelphia. In addition to interclub matches, there were international competitions, many of which took place right here, and our teams competed abroad with considerable success even against the Australians.”

“Did you play?” Lucy asked.

“I did.” He removed a stalk of celery from his glass and took a sip of his virgin Bloody Bull, a mixture of cold beef broth and tomato juice. “Many years ago when I was a student at Haverford College. It was a different world then. Cricket wasn’t like sports today. Athletes came from the very best of families—not the public schools and the ghettos. The Newhalls dominated, and an impressive lot they were. But that all ended quite some time ago. The public didn’t have the patience or the elegance required to maintain it as a major sport. Tennis has completely taken over.”

She marveled at his arrogance. His class consciousness struck her as something out of
Masterpiece Theatre
. “You must enjoy tennis,” she said, struggling for something to say as she looked out the window at the visual monolith of green.

“Not much. But I like the club when it isn’t crowded. It can be overwhelming with the noise, the ball machines. Last week there was even a bit of a brouhaha in the taproom.”

Revelry at a bar was a cardinal sin for sure. Although she’d been the one to broach the subject, the conversation was going nowhere, taxing both Lucy’s patience and her curiosity. She had a million things to do in this murder investigation and discussing the moral decline of cricket wasn’t one of them. “I’m very sorry about Dr. Reese.”

At that moment, the waiter arrived with their soup. Mr. Haverill diverted his eyes from hers, studying the condensation that had formed on the water goblets. He took a taste, and rested his spoon on the edge of his bowl. “Morgan and I went our separate ways many years ago. Her untimely death is tragic, but I’d made my peace, as I believe my son has, too.”