Regrets Only

by Nancy Geary

  “Who have you spoken with other than the police?”

  “No one,” she repeated. “I tried to reach Mr. Nichols this morning. Because he’s our president, I thought I should apprise him of what happened and confirm that I had permission to allow you to enter the club, but his wife told me he was away on business and I couldn’t reach him on the cellular number she gave me. Given the exigent circumstances, I thought it best to use my own judgment.”

  Lucy read the letter again, and then repeated the words aloud. “Do you have any idea what it’s about?”

  She shook her head.

  “Is there anyone named Avery connected to this club or its members that you can recall?”

  “I’m sorry. I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “You said you rented out this building for private functions. When was the last one of those?” she asked. Miss Barbadash seemed to assume that the letter came from a member, but, since it was unsigned and undated, it was possible she needed to cast a wider net.

  “We had an engagement party here in February. That was the last.”

  “May I take a look at the log you mentioned? The record of who was here last night?”

  “Of course,” she replied, seemingly relieved to be able to provide something concrete as she got up to retrieve a rectangular leather journal that had been resting on a small desk under the window.

  While Miss Barbadash was away from the table, Lucy removed an empty plastic evidence bag from her satchel, made a quick notation on the outside with a wax pencil, and placed the letter inside.

  “Here you are,” Miss Barbadash said as she handed her the book.

  Lucy turned the pages. On the last one, someone had written in black felt-tip pen the menu for the gastronomic feast from the day before: oyster bisque, turban of sole mousseline, braised short ribs of beef, apple tapioca. The members were certainly ambitious. Underneath was a list of those in attendance, each man’s name complete with first, middle initial, and surname; many even included a roman numeral or Jr. The list included the two members Miss Barbadash had mentioned—Dixon Burlingame II and H. Tripp Nichols—as well as more than a dozen others, including a single guest: David Ellery, M.D. It was an old-guard lineup straight out of The Perennial Philadelphians.

  “May I borrow this?”

  Miss Barbadash hesitated before agreeing. “You are the police after all.”

  Lucy tucked the journal into her satchel. One of these people not only had some connection to the victim, but also had some secret that he wanted preserved. Even if he hadn’t shown up yesterday, his name no doubt would appear in the ledger for the prior week or weeks. Now it was her job to pick him out—and to figure out what, if anything, connected a Rabbit Club member, someone named Avery, and a body in the downtown morgue.

  She stood up. “Thank you for all your help.”

  Miss Barbadash’s face expressed obvious concern. And fear.

  “We’ll find out what happened,” Lucy said, trying to sound comforting. “We’ll apprehend whoever did this to Dr. Reese.”

  “I do hope so. And I do hope all of this gets resolved quickly. It’s rather difficult to be living out here alone knowing a prowler might be about.”

  “Can’t you stay somewhere else? There must be a friend or relative who can put you up for a few nights.”

  She shook her head. “This place has been my home and my life. I really can’t abandon my duties now after twenty-eight years. There’s simply no one who could take over, especially on such short notice. If anything, it’s appropriate that I . . . This is where I belong,” she said, forcing a smile.

  Propriety was hardly something Lucy would be considering if their situations were reversed. But everything about Miss Barbadash seemed unusual; her grace and elegance were part of another era. She’d elevated minuscule details to an art form, and correctly assumed that no one else, without careful training and guidance, could step in and understand the traditions she upheld. The members, whoever they were, were lucky to have her to hold down their fort. But if the letter were linked to Morgan’s death, someone would be back to find it. And if Miss Barbadash wasn’t about to abandon her duties, then only catching the killer—and doing it fast—could ensure her safety.

  12

  Monday, May 19th 7:33 a.m.

  Lucy had barely slept. Twice in the night she’d arisen to look at the photocopy she’d made of the anonymous letter to Morgan. “. . . I trust that you’ll tell her nothing—if you want what’s in her best interest or know what’s in yours.” Was that a threat? The language seemed formal; “best interest” was a legal standard. Was the author a lawyer or had he consulted one? More important, who was the mysterious Avery? She’d thought to tell Archer about the note but decided to keep quiet until the Bryn Mawr Trust Company could provide some answers. Although she’d promised not to hide information, she hadn’t promised to reveal every detail the moment she learned it.

  She was meeting Jack at ten o’clock, but by seven thirty she’d already completed her morning run, showered, and dressed for work. As she sat on the edge of her bed and pulled on her socks, she wondered again whether Morgan’s attempt to meet with Archer after all this time and her death just yards from her ex-husband’s private club were pure coincidence. Had she been in trouble and feared the worst?

  She went into the kitchen, poured herself a second cup of coffee, and ate a banana. Still hungry, she made a peanut butter sandwich on whole wheat bread—the only meal to guarantee she’d make it to lunch without a rumbling stomach. “A shot of vodka and a generous tablespoon of peanut butter is all you need for breakfast,” her godfather had told her years ago as he’d dug his spoon into the jar of Skippy’s. He was certainly the most energetic seventy-eight-year-old she knew, but at least this morning she’d take the protein and pass on the octane.

  Fully clothed, Archer slept on the couch with the television tuned in to the early-morning news. He’d apparently been watching something on NBC when he fell asleep, and even the sounds of her emptying the dishwasher failed to arouse him. He was living proof that nothing but indigestion interfered with a man’s sleep. Still, it was a relief that news of his estranged mother’s death hadn’t made him toss and turn. Trying to accept the information had to be painful enough without suffering from exhaustion on top of it.

  The yellow wall clock ticked loudly, reminding her of every second that passed. She needed to get a subpoena issued to the BMTC for accounts opened for a beneficiary named Avery, but banking hours required her to wait until nine. She and Jack had planned to go through Morgan Reese’s office later in the day, but she felt impatient, anxious to see who this woman was and how she operated. There was nothing more revealing than being in someone else’s private space, sitting in a desk chair, lying on a bed, looking at the way the smallest items were arranged—a pen with a bent cap, a piece of Wheat Thin cracker on the floor, a pair of stockings in the garbage even though there was no run or tear in the nylon, a doodle made during the victim’s last telephone call. Although Jack was by far the more experienced of the investigative pair, she wanted time and quiet. He’d laugh at her explanation, her reliance on female intuition, but she sensed there might well be clues to this case that weren’t discoverable by taking samples, dusting for prints, or even analyzing financial records.

  Lucy scribbled a note to Archer and slipped an additional carrot into Cyclops’s cage. Then she left a voice mail on Jack’s cell phone informing him of where she was going. Just in case.

  There was little traffic and she made it to University City in less than twenty minutes. She parked in the lot for the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania and made her way west on Spruce Street, past the enormous collection of red brick and white limestone buildings that formed the Quadrangle, until she arrived at her destination—a multistory structure that housed nothing but medical offices. The revolving door was already operational and she flashed her badge at the security guard by the entrance.

  “I’m from
Homicide. I need to take a look at Dr. Reese’s office.”

  He nodded. “One of the other suitemates is already up there.”

  “Weren’t you informed the place was to be secured?”

  “Yeah. The precinct called yesterday and my boss gave me instructions. But we can’t keep a tenant out who has a right to be in her own office.”

  He had a point. But Lucy didn’t like it. She should have been called when someone else arrived.

  “Third floor. Suite A.”

  The mirrored elevator opened onto a long, dimly lit corridor with well-worn brown and gold carpeting. An arrow on the wall pointed left for rooms A through F, and she quickly found the door, its frosted glass lettered in gold: David Ellery, M.D., Morgan Reese, M.D., Nancy Moore, R.N., IAAP. She paused, surprised to recognize the name of Saturday night’s guest at the Rabbit Club, and then stepped inside.

  The reception area was empty. A vase of wilted flowers in brackish water perched on the edge of a secretarial station. Colored ellipses swirled across a flat computer screen and a row of red lights on the telephone indicated that all incoming calls were still being forwarded to the service. Clear lines in the pile of the plush blue carpet evidenced thorough vacuuming, probably by the nighttime cleaning crew. A collection of well-worn magazines had been stuffed into a wall rack. Several were upside down.

  There were three doors off of the reception room. One door was ajar and Lucy could see a heavyset woman with curly black hair squatting by her desk, seeming to sort through files on the floor at an almost frantic pace.

  “I’m from the Homicide Unit of the Philadelphia Police Department.” Lucy held out her badge.

  Startled, the woman let out a cry. When she stood, her dress had twisted on her large frame and Lucy could see the navy blue knee-highs that encased her calves. The woman walked toward her.

  “You must be Nancy Moore. I’m very sorry about your colleague.”

  Nancy adjusted her attire, pushed her hair behind her ears, and came out into the reception area. When Lucy extended a hand, she took it in both of hers and shook it vigorously. “I heard . . . I heard about Morgan and I just can’t stand it,” she said in a high-pitched voice with a Southern twang. For some reason, the sound was surprising. “It’s all too much, too awful, too . . . I don’t know what. I don’t even work Mondays, but my husband agreed to help me out with the kids, get them off to school. I told him to take them to McDonald’s for breakfast if he wanted to avoid problems. An Egg McMuffin and the kids don’t make a peep, so that’s the advice I gave him.”

  “Because you wanted to come to the office?” Lucy redirected.

  “I just need to get in and out before David arrives, and he won’t get here until noon or so because of rounds. He and I have problems enough and I just can’t face him, not now, not after what happened. I’ve got to get out of this place. I’ve had it. First Calvin and then that gun and now this.” The words spilled out of her.

  “What gun?”

  She stared at Lucy with a baffled expression. “You don’t know? You’re investigating Morgan’s death and you don’t know? David kept a gun in his office. A handgun, a pistol, I don’t know brands, but I know it held bullets and fired. We all told him he was crazy, but he wouldn’t listen. He said he knew what was best. Sure enough, just as I predicted, someone stole it about a month ago.”

  Lucy flipped to a new page and began to write. “Has it been recovered?”

  “Of course not. The police thought it was one of Morgan’s patients—this guy, Calvin. She already had a restraining order against him, as if those things are worth the paper they’re written on. I’m not sure she thought it could protect her. That’s when she started carrying a baseball bat. And sure enough, he wasn’t arrested. You’d know better than me what kind of investigation the police did, if any. Why David even kept a firearm in the first place is beyond me.”

  “What can you tell me about this Calvin?”

  “His name’s Calvin Roth. He’s crazy, and I don’t say that lightly. I see a lot of problems in my line of work, a lot of strange people, bless their souls, but he was in another league. I couldn’t tell you his diagnosis. Morgan was way too discreet and she took her obligations of privilege extremely seriously. But some screw in him was loose—or had come out, I should say. I almost lost a client over him one time because he wouldn’t leave after his appointment. Even just sitting still in a chair, he was intimidating. My client said he drooled, and it didn’t surprise me.”

  “Do you know when Morgan got the restraining order?”

  “I’m not sure. But it was a while back, around Christmastime, I think it was.”

  “And she kept a bat with her?” It had to be the Louisville Slugger.

  “Yes. I’d see her arrive with it in the mornings and leave with it in the evenings. Wouldn’t surprise me if she slept with it under her pillow.”

  “But she continued to see Calvin as a patient?”

  Nancy paused, apparently confused by the question. “You’ll have to excuse me. I really do need to get myself organized.” She glanced at her watch, the band of which appeared embedded in the flesh of her wrist.

  “Please. If I could have just a few more minutes of your time.”

  Suddenly Nancy’s breathing quickened, and Lucy watched her chest rise and fall at a much too rapid pace. She was hyperventilating. “Do you want to sit down?” she asked. “Or can I get you some water?”

  “No. I’m fine.” Nancy leaned against the secretarial station for balance. She pursed her lips, exhaling loudly through her mouth. “What is it you want to know?”

  “Was it just the three of you in this office suite?”

  “We have a secretary, but she hardly ever shows, as you can see,” she said, indicating the dead flowers with a sweep of her hand. “Some health complaint or another. You’d think between three mental health workers we’d be able to cure our own secretary of hypochondria.”

  “How long have you shared an office?”

  “David and Morgan had been here for a while. I came in about two years ago. It’s expensive space, being so close to the hospital, and David certainly wasn’t going to give me a break on my share of the rent. He might have since I get half what he does for seeing patients and my office is smaller. But he told me it enhanced my reputation being associated with the two of them so I was actually getting something extra and I should be thankful. I don’t know. It was a mistake. Not the space—other than the issue with Calvin, my patients like it just fine—but being around him. He’s a very self-centered man. And arrogant as all get out, or whatever that expression is.”

  “What about Dr. Reese? Did you know her well?”

  “Morgan? Nobody knew Morgan well. She worked so hard that there wasn’t time to get to know her. But she was always polite to me.” Nancy stopped abruptly. “Look, my husband’s a lawyer so I know how this interview-with-the-police stuff works. If there’s a place I can reach you, I’m willing to call. But I can’t talk to you now.” When she stopped speaking, her lips quivered. She struggled to keep back tears.

  Why was she running away? What was this all about? Was she afraid of Dr. Ellery? Or was her fear of something else? How much did she know about the fate that Morgan had suffered? Although her conduct didn’t make sense, it also didn’t make sense to alienate a potential witness by forcing her to stay in a place where she was frightened. Lucy handed her a business card. “I won’t keep you. But would you please call me so we can set up a time to meet? Your husband’s welcome to come, too, if that would make you more comfortable.”

  Nancy nodded and took the card.

  “And can you tell me which one is Dr. Reese’s office?” she asked, looking at the two closed doors off of the reception area. She didn’t want to have a run-in with Dr. Ellery for infringing on his privacy without a warrant. As long as she confined her search to Morgan’s office, and Morgan’s office alone, she could avoid any legal pitfalls.

  “It’s that one,” Nancy said,
pointing to the door farthest from the entrance. “If it’s locked, there’s a master key in the secretary’s desk. Part of the problem around here. Security’s not too tight.”

  A key was unnecessary. Lucy opened the door and stepped into a large room, comfortably furnished with two upholstered armchairs facing each other and a desk with an ergonomic chair. Behind the desk, freestanding bookshelves were filled to capacity. Against the opposite wall, piles of books and files covered a credenza. A slight scent of rosemary was present in the air.

  The carpeting in Reese’s office also showed signs of recent vacuuming. Lucy removed her shoes so as not to track any dirt from outside into the room, and walked the perimeter, glancing out the single window into the alley below. This was her favorite part of being a detective. Unlike many of her colleagues who thrived on the adrenaline rush of pursuing a suspect or making an arrest, for her the thrill was deciphering what mattered. It was a careful process of selecting what was relevant to a crime from among the millions of external details that made up a life. In this process that was in part deductive, in part analytical, and in large measure intuitive, she needed to trust herself as she’d learned to trust herself in other types of investigations. Only now the stakes were higher. Missing a critical clue meant a killer might go free.

  She stopped by the bookshelf and scanned its contents: a Physicians’ Desk Reference, at least a dozen other volumes on medications, a DSM-IV-TR, a shelf dedicated to adolescent and childhood development, a section of Elisabeth Kübler-Ross volumes on strategies for coping with death, various psychiatric periodicals dating back years. Then her eyes stopped on two books down at the bottom, both of which had slips of colored paper protruding from their pages.

  She removed the first one and stared at the black cover and orange lettering of a current volume of the Social Register. Opening to the flagged page, she scanned the list of names—more than a dozen “Herberts,” each with numerous seasonal addresses. Most hailed from New York City—if where one “wintered” could be considered the primary residence—with a Boston representative and two Philadelphia families included. She paused at the local names: Mr. and Mrs. Jackson J. Herbert (Athena Preston) wintered on Society Hill and summered on Mount Desert Island; Mr. and Mrs. William Foster Herbert (Faith Aldrich) resided in Gladwyne and Northeast Harbor. The long-established Pennsylvania-Maine connection at work. The next entry caught her eye. Juniors: William Foster, Jr., and Avery Aldrich. William and Faith Herbert had a daughter named Avery. Nothing revealed which particular listing had warranted Morgan’s attention; although Avery was an unusual name, it was not so rare as to rule out other conclusions. A friend or even a patient could be anyone on this page. Nonetheless, she copied the Greaves Lane address in her notebook before replacing the volume on the shelf.