Regrets Only

by Nancy Geary

  11

  3:45 p.m.

  A man in an argyle sweater rocked from side to side as he adjusted his cleats in the sand. Without making contact, he practiced his swing several times. Then he moved forward six inches, widened his stance, lowered his head, and hit the ball out of the trap. Sand flew as the ball was propelled up into the air and back onto the fairway. He watched until it had stopped rolling, replaced his iron in a blue leather bag, and got back behind the wheel of a golf cart with a green-and-white-striped awning. With a whir of the electric engine, he advanced twenty yards and stopped just a few feet from where his ball rested.

  Lucy idled the engine of her government-issued Ford Explorer as she watched the careful choreography. “A good walk spoiled,” Mark Twain had characterized the game. She tended to agree.

  With the golfer safely away from the road, she continued along Christ Church Lane. Even from a distance, in the late-afternoon sun she could see vestiges of last night’s crime: the bloodstained grass, an array of tiny squares of shatterproof glass, and yellow police tape that flapped in the breeze.

  Approximately a hundred yards farther along stood the clubhouse for the second-oldest men’s cooking club in Philadelphia. There was no sign, no ominous MEMBERS ONLY placard, just an uneven roofline and sagging porch to proclaim its historic significance.

  As she pulled up to the building, she thought of Aidan’s secret club—the beige tepee that he’d erected in the backyard with a circle of gravel around it and KEEP OUT marked in indelible ink on one of the plastic sides. Each day for several months she’d stared at the mysterious structure, watching him and Timmy Clarkson crawl in and out through the flap that served as a door. Despite her curiosity and unrelenting questions, her brother had offered no information on what transpired within, and despite her strident protests, neither of her parents had supported her claim of unfairness. “It’s his tepee. The club is his idea. He can let in no one if he wants to be alone, or even all those who aren’t sisters,” her father had said when she’d appeared in tears, begging to be included. “That’s what freedom is about. The freedom to choose.”

  Perhaps members of the Rabbit Club were simply men who had never outgrown the need for a fort.

  There were no other cars in the small parking area. She shut off the engine and climbed out. A screen creaked. A narrow door was ajar. A woman with white hair, flawless brown skin, and walnut eyes stood on the threshold with her arms crossed in front of her chest.

  “Detective O’Malley?” the woman asked. Her voice contained the slightest hint of a British accent.

  “Yes,” she replied, extending her hand.

  “I’m Miss Barbadash, the house manager here. Won’t you come in?”

  Lucy walked past her into a large room. Against one wall was an open fireplace from which hung an oversize copper pot. On the table were several piles of white cards marked with “Please state your intentions,” followed by boxes for “Accept” and “Regret.”

  “I was keeping myself busy,” Miss Barbadash offered by way of explanation. “As you might imagine, I’ve been a bit distracted, but sorting through the responses is a relatively straightforward task. The caterer does like his head count as early as possible for planning purposes.”

  “Yes, yes of course,” Lucy mumbled in confusion.

  “May I offer you a cup of tea?”

  “No thank you.”

  “Are you by yourself? I somehow expected there to be two of you.”

  “My partner’s following up on some other information,” she replied. Although normally no detective went anywhere alone, her Lieutenant had finally acquiesced to this single interview. Shortly after Morgan’s murder, there had been a fatal stabbing in Chinatown, just blocks from the Roundhouse. Then at noon a call had come in on a suspicious prisoner suicide. The squad was overwhelmed. So Lucy had been authorized to talk to Miss Barbadash at the Rabbit Club—given the house manager’s age and infirmities, even the Lieutenant was willing to let her skip a police interrogation room—while Jack tracked down the registration on the .35 caliber recovered from the scene. Unless there was a definite lead, he’d then head home. It had already been a long night. After this interview, she, too, planned to get some sleep.

  “Please, this way. We’ll be more comfortable speaking in the game room.”

  Lucy followed a few steps behind as they passed through an open kitchen centered around a cast-iron double stove with an array of spice jars on the top shelf. The single overhead light cast a yellowish glow on the discolored paint. On the walls hung brightly polished copper molds of rabbits.

  “Members contribute all sorts of rabbit paraphernalia, as you can see,” Miss Barbadash said in a tone that reflected her obvious pride. “We have quite a remarkable collection, I imagine one of the largest in the world. Although all in good fun, I believe it’s become most competitive. Who can find the best rabbit? One member recently came here directly from his flight from South Africa. Imagine! Twenty-two hours on the plane—but he insisted on showing off the carved ivory rabbit head he’d found at an open-air market.”

  “Where did the mascot come from?” Lucy asked.

  “You might be surprised to hear that it has nothing at all to do with the animal. Our original clubhouse was located on Rabbit Lane. Please watch your step,” Miss Barbadash warned, pointing to the linoleum floor that had cracked and buckled in several places. “The members here don’t welcome change particularly, so it’s rather difficult to get repairs authorized. Of course, we all know where the hazards are by now so nobody trips. And there’s much to be said for the older sort of charm.” She nodded, seemingly to herself, as she stepped into a narrow hallway with a worn runner. The smell of stale liquor permeated the alcove. A black-and-white photograph of a Holland Lop eating a bowl of spaghetti, and group photographs of men in white shirts, identical ties, and aprons hung at slightly odd angles. There was hardly an inch of wall space left uncovered. “The closing-day pictures,” she said, assuming that the quirky rituals were common knowledge.

  Lucy stopped to examine one image. A face looked familiar and she stared closer at the typed list of members in the front row seated left to right. Rodman F. Haverill, it read.

  “Do you know one of these gentlemen?” Miss Barbadash asked.

  “I met Mr. Haverill for the first time last night,” Lucy replied. “I’m a friend of his son’s. I hadn’t realized they were members.”

  “Practically our founding fathers,” she said with an enthusiasm she’d not yet exhibited. “There have been Haverills here since the Civil War. Mr. Haverill Senior served two terms as our president, but the young Mr. Haverill has at least a few years before membership. The minimum age is forty although I’m quite sure we’ll find a spot for him just as soon as he’s eligible. May I ask you to step this way?” She gestured, and Lucy walked past her into the dining room.

  The long rectangular table and thirty chairs upholstered in red leather filled the space. Under the window was a side table the top of which was covered in silver urns and candlesticks with rabbit-shaped pedestals and bowls and platters with rabbit engravings. Miss Barbadash opened one of the drawers. Packed inside were sterling silver forks, spoons, and knives, each engraved with a rabbit on the handle. “Bailey Banks and Biddle makes them for us. Each member buys a place setting when he’s admitted. We’ve built up quite a collection over the years.” Shutting the drawer, she made a sweeping gesture with her thin arm. “Just a bit farther along if you don’t mind.”

  Lucy noticed racks of thinly spaced shelves built into the wall behind the stairwell. In some were folded white aprons. Miss Barbadash immediately explained, “That’s where the members keep their cooking aprons. I wash them and return them to the appropriate cubbies after each meeting. Most were used yesterday, but a few members couldn’t attend so theirs are still fresh. When a member passes on, his family receives the apron, stains and all. A kind of memento, I suppose you could say. Most appreciate it. In any event, here we are.
”

  The game room was lighter and less cramped with several leather-topped square tables. Small porcelain rabbits in various sizes and colors filled a corner cabinet. Lucy took a seat and pulled a spiral notepad and pen from the pocket of her blazer. She scanned the room. What was the significance of this place? What, if any, connection did it have to Morgan Reese’s murder?

  As she settled across from Lucy, Miss Barbadash wrung her hands several times. “I’ve been the house manager here for twenty-eight years and the worst incident was a stolen ashtray. Members can rent the facilities for private functions and sometimes their guests want a souvenir. Those are generally when mishaps occur. Outsiders simply aren’t as committed to preserving this place and its contents as we are. But nothing—nothing at all—compares with last night. There’s never been any kind of violence here.”

  “Can you tell me what you saw? Heard? Everything and anything you remember.”

  “I was cleaning the last of the supper dishes,” she said, her voice trembling as she fought off an unwelcome display of emotion. She’d been able to maintain her composure so long as the conversation centered on a subject that had been her life and work for nearly three decades. But now that she faced a detective and was forced to recall details of a murder, maintaining composure was more of a challenge. “Mr. Burlingame was the caterer and he’d prepared quite a challenge of a meal as he’s wont to do. Although the members do their own cooking, you can’t expect them to clean up. I believe it’s simply not part of their makeup. But be that as it may, I had cleared and scraped and was washing up when I heard a crash. Then I think I heard a horn and what sounded like breaking glass, although maybe not in that order. Maybe the glass shattering came first. I’m sorry to say I can’t be certain.”

  “What time was this?”

  “I’d taken off my watch because I had my hands in soapsuds, but I’d approximate the time at a few minutes before ten. Most of the members had left already, but there was still one foursome involved in a sniff match upstairs.”

  “Sniff?”

  “It’s comparable to dominoes. Rather a tradition here. The rules as to scoring are quite elaborate, and I’m not sure I can be much help. I’m a bridge player myself.”

  “I see,” Lucy remarked. “Can you tell me who was still at the club?”

  “Mr. Burlingame was here. His voice is on the more forceful side so I tend to know when he’s present, and he’d brought a guest, a doctor. Our president, Mr. Nichols, was with him earlier, but it’s possible he’d left. The others I can’t be sure of. It’s not my business to keep track of the gentlemen, but in retrospect, it’s clear I should have. We do keep a book that records those in attendance at the meal as well as the food that was served, but there’s no sign-out system. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” Lucy said, trying to sound reassuring. Miss Barbadash obviously wanted to help; her lack of definitiveness appeared to be a source of considerable stress. She could get first names from attendance records. “Did anyone else hear anything?”

  “I don’t believe so. If they did, they didn’t mention it to me.”

  “After you heard the crash, what did you do?” Lucy prompted.

  “I didn’t want to disturb the men. I stood in the kitchen doorway, the one you came through, and I called out. No one responded. Then I thought I heard some banging, banging on metal, but I saw nothing. You know, my hearing is not what it once was and so I thought at the time that perhaps I was mistaken. I would have expected someone to cry out for help, or even come knock on the door if there was trouble. This morning as I’ve gone over in my head what happened, it did occur to me that my view was obscured by a row of birch trees. Plus it was very dark and we have no street-lights out here.”

  “What about car headlights?” Even low beams would have shone through the trees.

  She shook her head.

  “Then what happened?”

  “I finished my work and went to my room.”

  “Had everyone left?”

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t say. The members come and go through the front entrance.”

  Lucy thought for a moment. If a foursome had remained in the club after the car accident, at least one of them should have reported it earlier. Was it possible that Miss Barbadash was confused and that the place was empty by ten? Or had one or more of the members chosen to ignore an accident just yards from their club? She thought of the question Jack had asked: Where can you lie unnoticed, bleeding and unconscious, for up to two hours?

  “What can you tell me about the gunshot?”

  Miss Barbadash gave her a perplexed look. She thought for a moment and then replied, “I was reading and I heard it. I looked out my bedroom window—my view is over the golf course—and I thought I saw two figures running off in the distance, but again I can’t be certain. I wasn’t wearing my spectacles and I’m afraid my vision is failing, especially in the dark and especially when I’m tired. Oh dear, I realize I’m not much help.”

  “That’s not true at all,” Lucy said, as she reached for her hand. Miss Barbadash was no different from hundreds of witnesses that law enforcement dealt with every day—the men and women, most of whom meant well, who couldn’t recall, didn’t hear, couldn’t see, or didn’t pay attention. It amazed her that any criminal was ever caught given the public’s overall lack of observation.

  “That’s when I called the police,” Miss Barbadash added.

  At 11:03, according to the police log. That much Lucy knew. She’d already checked the confidential caller information, virtually the only information that could be obtained without a warrant.

  “After I made the call, I did search the clubhouse with the hope that someone was still there. I was really quite fearful and wanted to leave, but I don’t drive so I needed transportation. The building was empty. So I locked the doors and waited for the police up in my room.”

  After which point, Lucy knew the rest. She’d already confirmed Miss Barbadash’s whereabouts for the rest of the night. She’d had an ambulance transport to the hospital; she’d been given a tranquilizer and admitted overnight to monitor her vital signs; hospital records had her discharged shortly before ten that morning. The discharge nurse had called a taxi to take her back to Christ Church Lane.

  Lucy removed from her bag a picture of Morgan Reese taken from her recovered driver’s license. The dead version was slightly older, but otherwise her looks hadn’t changed much since the license was renewed four years before. “Do you recognize this woman?”

  Miss Barbadash shook her head.

  “Does the name Morgan Reese mean anything to you?”

  The woman gasped and raised her hand to her mouth.

  “What is it?” Lucy asked. She noticed that Miss Barbadash’s hands trembled.

  “Is that who it was—the lady in the accident? The police didn’t give me a name last night.”

  “What can you tell me about her?” Lucy asked.

  “Oh dear. I just . . . perhaps I should speak to our president.”

  “Please,” Lucy asked. “Morgan was a very accomplished doctor, a psychiatrist at the University of Pennsylvania. Any information, anything at all you can tell us, is extremely important.”

  “I’m . . . I’m quite sure I have obligations to the membership. As I mentioned, we’ve never had any kind of trouble. No serious trouble at all. I don’t want to speak up inappropriately.”

  “Well then, perhaps you should consider that she was the ex-wife of Mr. Haverill and the mother of his only child, Archer. You have a member and a potential member who are directly affected.” Even as she spoke, she regretted disclosing the personal information.

  Her eyes widened. “I didn’t know.” She looked down at the table, studied a ring on the leather surface, and rubbed the spot with one finger. “They always forget to use coasters,” she said softly.

  Lucy reached for her hand and covered the small fingers with her own palm. Miss Barbadash’s skin was cold. “Morgan Reese is in a
morgue and we don’t even know what happened. I’m sure you don’t need to be told of your civic duty, but if you can find the courage to share whatever you know, I’ll be in your debt. The citizens of Philadelphia will be in your debt. Please.”

  The elderly woman glanced around the room as if to confirm that they were alone. “All right then. But you’ll have to excuse me one moment,” she said in a hushed tone as she rose and disappeared into the next room. Lucy thought she heard the scraping wood of a stuck drawer being opened, then shut. When Miss Barbadash returned, she carried an ivory-colored bond envelope. “I found it on the floor of the coat closet.”

  She handed it to Lucy. MORGAN REESE was typewritten on the front with a residential address in Bryn Mawr. Although there was a stamp, there was no postmark or other indication that it had been mailed.

  “When? When did you find this?”

  “A week or so ago. Sadly, I must confess that it could have been there for some time. I rarely get around to cleaning that closet. There are too many obvious messes that require my attention. The closet is thankfully out of sight.” She wrung her hands. “I’ve been expecting a member to inquire about it, but no one has.”

  Lucy removed a pair of latex gloves from her pocket, as well as a small Swiss army knife. After covering her hands, she carefully sliced the envelope along one side and removed a single sheet of bond paper.

  Check the account at BMTC in Avery’s name. I expect you’ll find the deposited sum sufficient to resolve this matter permanently. I trust that you’ll tell her nothing—if you want what’s in her best interest or know what’s in yours.

  Lucy looked up. Miss Barbadash was watching her read, no doubt anxious to find out for herself what the letter said. There was also the possibility that the author would remember where it had been misplaced and come looking for it. “Who knows about this letter?” she asked.

  “No one. Members leave their personal belongings behind all the time. When I spoke to the police last night, I didn’t realize its significance. I wasn’t told the name of the . . . the . . . deceased.”