by Nancy Geary
“Oh, good. I must have misheard. This is Gail Ripley from Ripley Realty. I have some wonderful news for you.”
“Really?”
“Yes. The property you were interested in on Greaves Lane. Well, it’s back on the market.”
“Why is that?”
“The original purchaser was murdered if you can believe it. Perhaps you saw the story in the paper about that female doctor found on the golf course. It’s quite horrible, really, a tragedy. Makes a good case for moving out to the Main Line, if you ask me. The city has simply become too dangerous. In any event, she’d used a fictitious name originally, but the lawyer for her estate notified our office that he would not close on the property, citing some act-of-God clause. Based on what I read, I’m not sure I’d characterize the situation that way, but the sellers aren’t interested in pursuing possible legal remedies against the estate. They’d rather put the house back on the market. Less tawdry. I’m sure you can understand.”
“I see.”
“And between you and me, they’re very motivated.” Her voice softened. “It’s a divorce situation. So let’s get you in to see it.”
Without having met any of them, Lucy felt terrible sadness for the Herbert family. Tragedy had struck more than its fair share. “Why don’t we say three thirty? I can meet you at your office,” she suggested.
“They’ve required twenty-four hours’ notice in advance of a showing, but perhaps they’ll make an exception under the circumstances. If you don’t hear back from me, consider it confirmed.”
23
1:00 p.m.
The Gettysburg Address was carved into the curved ceiling of the Lincoln Memorial Room just above a life-size sculpture of the famous president. Stained-glass windows and heavy drapes kept the room dark, but Civil War memorabilia on display in two glass alcoves were illuminated with recessed lights. The photographs, uniforms, medals, and weapons were part of an era long since forgotten except, perhaps, by historians and members of the Union League.
As she waited for the press conference to begin, Lucy nibbled on some raw vegetables that had been arranged in a fan pattern on a platter. That, a few lonely pigs in a blanket under a warming lamp, and a tired wheel of Brie with its center gouged out at odd angles were all that remained of what must have been a buffet offered to the press. Although it seemed gracious to serve complimentary food, Lucy couldn’t help but wonder why David Ellery needed an enticement to draw a crowd. Following the murder of the first-choice candidate, wasn’t his sudden appointment to one of the most prestigious and lucrative positions in the medical arena enough?
On the wall opposite the displays, rectangular bronze plaques listed the names of all the men of Pennsylvania who had perished in the War of the Rebellion. She crossed the room and read the list as if somehow a name might be familiar even though in 1865 her relatives were still busy with an acre of potatoes and a handheld plow somewhere in Ireland. Behind her, she could hear snippets of conversation between two elderly men, who debated the relative merits of decaffeinated coffee.
“Dr. Ellery will be speaking momentarily,” announced a petite woman with short black hair. She made a sweeping gesture with one arm, turned, and walked quickly down the hall.
Lucy finished the last of her carrot sticks and followed behind, wondering whether her hastily conceived idea would work. The powder room was hardly the place for strategic planning, but she couldn’t resist the opportunity when she’d seen Amanda Baldwin washing her hands at the marble sink. The reporter was aggressive, she knew that much. That she was also attractive—at least from a distance—was also not lost on Lucy, as she hoped it wouldn’t be on Dr. Ellery.
Bamboo chairs with gold leaf and white cushions filled the adjacent ballroom. Reporters, as well as a large group of older men in pin-striped suits, had settled in the front. Photographers with myriad cameras leaned against the back wall, waiting for the proceedings to begin, and Channel 4 News appeared to be carrying the event live.
Lucy glanced around the enormous room with its dark wood paneling, walls of formal portraits in gilded frames, and arched windows covered by opaque white curtains to keep the light out. A decidedly political—Republican only—club, and one that hadn’t accepted women as members until the 1980s, seemed a poor choice for the Wilder Center’s press conference with its new director, but someone must have decided the grand red brick building filled with a rich tradition was an improvement over the generic hotels that provided function rooms.
She nosed her way through the throng until she found Jack. They had barely enough wall space to lean against, but she still preferred to stand. The room was stuffy.
“That was a hell of a long trip to the ladies’ room,” Jack grumbled.
“I ran into an acquaintance.” Lucy smiled, not wanting to elaborate. She hardly knew Amanda but she’d seen her at The Arch on more than one occasion. Worst case, she’d be out the cost of the pitcher of kamikazes she’d offered in exchange for a small favor. But if her plan worked, the $24 would be well spent.
“Santoros just paged me. The Bryn Mawr Trust Company is sending over its documents in response to the subpoena. We should have an answer to that deposit question tomorrow. The voice on Morgan’s answering machine was a match with the voice mail from the man with the reservation. I relayed your theory about the Rabbit Club guy and he’s checking employment information on Tripp Nichols. Wouldn’t it be nice if we can place him at a pharmaceutical company in Radnor?” Jack smiled. “I said I’d check back with him after the press conference.”
“Sounds good,” Lucy replied.
Quiet fell over the room as Dixon Burlingame, Chairman of AmeriMed and head of the Wilder Center’s nominating committee, took the podium. He introduced David Ellery, who flashed a smile for the cameras as he stepped forward and adjusted the microphone. Wearing a deep tan that masked the lines in his face, and a double-breasted suit that hung perfectly off his broad shoulders, he was the poster boy for eternal youth. He had azure eyes and slight dimples. Lucy couldn’t help but wonder how many of his patients had experienced some sort of transference talking to him about their troubles.
“It is my great privilege to accept this appointment,” Ellery said in a voice that purred. “As I’m sure you realize—or, if I have my way, you will soon realize—the Wilder Center is the new frontier. It will be a leader in every respect: patient care, research, psychopharmacology, and interdisciplinary approaches. My team will be able to promise results where others have failed. That is my personal guarantee.” He banged the podium with one finger for effect. “I will assume my responsibilities immediately. This is an exciting time for all of us in the mental health arena and I look forward to the many challenges that await me. Now I’d be more than happy to answer your questions.”
Hands shot up, and Dr. Ellery nodded politely, answering questions about his background and qualifications, the transition process, and the services the Wilder Center would offer. Lucy listened patiently, impressed by how smooth and polished he appeared. No doubt he’d been rehearsing, probably in front of a mirror, mastering the gestures and facial expressions, and reworking the timing, emphasis, and phrasing of his answers.
The press conference seemed to be coming to a close when a woman with blond highlights and a red jacket stood up. A cameraman from her cable news station stepped forward and began to film.
“Yes, ma’am,” Dr. Ellery said, smiling in her direction.
“Your partner Morgan Reese was murdered over the weekend, isn’t that right?”
He seemed surprised at the mention of the name. “Dr. Reese was well respected by all of us and will be dearly missed. She was my colleague, but not my partner. We shared an office suite, not a psychiatric practice.”
“Nonetheless, isn’t it true she was offered the position as director before you were?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“She was the first choice. The Wilder Center wanted her. Can you honestly say you weren’t aware
of that?”
“I . . . I believe it’s public knowledge,” he began, his voice seeming to drop. “There’s been so much coverage of this appointment by all of you in the media that you’d think it was a presidential election.” He forced a laugh, which the crowd did not share.
The woman persisted. “So her death was rather fortuitous, wouldn’t you agree?”
At this question, several reporters pulled out their pads. Additional camera lights came on.
Dr. Ellery’s neck flushed. The red started to work its way up his face, turning his tan to dirty crimson. “I’m not sure where you’re going with these questions, but I don’t appreciate the insinuations. I was as shocked and horrified as I expect most Philadelphians were when I heard of her brutal death. I’m sure the police are working diligently to find whoever committed this heinous act.”
“Are you cooperating with them?”
“I’m sure I will be.”
Jack elbowed Lucy.
“Don’t worry. I heard,” she whispered. “I’m not dead from the waist up. Yet.”
“Where were you Saturday night?” the reporter continued.
At that Dixon rose and said, “Thank you for your time. That’s all for today.” He pushed against Dr. Ellery’s back, propelling him forward.
“Why are you avoiding my question?”
“As I said, that’s it. Dr. Ellery has been very gracious with his time. He’s a busy man. Even busier now.”
Flashes started clicking. The woman stood her ground. “Why doesn’t he just answer the question and end the doubts, then? I would think the Wilder Center would want to clear his name.”
“I assure you, the search committee has the utmost confidence in Dr. Ellery.” Although the words were forceful, Dixon seemed disoriented. He clearly hadn’t expected such a turn of events.
“An anonymous source claims you and Dr. Reese were together at the Rabbit Club shortly before her body was discovered.”
Ellery turned. The rage on his face was obvious. His temples bulged, his face flushed deeper, and one hand was clenched into a fist. For a moment, Lucy wondered whether he might explode.
“I don’t know who you are or what your agenda is, but I’ll tell you the truth. No doubt you’ll pay someone for the information anyway. I was a guest at that club, a guest of my good friend, Mr. Burlingame. Dr. Reese’s arrival was totally unexpected. I don’t know what she did or where she went after I left.”
“Can anyone corroborate that she was alive after you departed?”
There was no reply. Ellery disappeared out a side door followed by Dixon and the petite woman who had announced the commencement of the conference nearly forty-five minutes before. Shutters were still clicking as the crowd rose from their seats.
Jack leaned toward Lucy. “That gal’s good.”
“Yeah. We learned something.” She averted her gaze, not wanting him to read her face.
“All right, O’Malley, how did you make that happen?” he asked.
She gave him a blank stare.
“Come on, fess up.”
“Amanda Baldwin hangs out at The Arch between stories,” she said, feeling sheepish. “If you suggest it was my idea, I’ll deny it. But I heard tell that if you give a journalist a tip, they’ll say or do just about anything. And we’re running out of time. I thought it beat having him lawyer-up when we ask the questions. After all, for people like Ellery, public humiliation is a lot more powerful than anything a cop could threaten.”
3:50 p.m.
Aside from the Haverill mansion, the house on Greaves Lane was the most beautiful one Lucy had ever seen. The facade was sandy-gray Pennsylvania fieldstone; the roof was made of darker gray slate tiles. Dozens of leaded-glass windows with white-painted trim sparkled as the afternoon sun glistened off the front of the three-story home. Huge trees sprang from the manicured lawn, each one surrounded by a well-edged circular bed of dark brown mulch. English Ivy climbed a portico off to the left.
As Lucy pulled into the cobblestone drive, Gail Ripley alighted from her parked Volvo sedan. She had a matronly figure, but was well groomed in a crisp navy suit with white piping, matching high-heeled mules, and a double strand of freshwater pearls. Oversize dark glasses covered a good portion of her face, and shell-shaped earrings dominated her hefty lobes. Newly applied bright pink lipstick had overstepped the bounds of her full lips. The effect was to make her mouth look square.
Lucy sighed. For a moment she wished she hadn’t put on an act, that she’d explained that she was a homicide detective investigating the murder of a woman who had some mysterious connection to this family. Then she’d be able to explore the Herbert house for whatever clues it might yield. But, she surmised, people like Gail Ripley weren’t in the business of helping the police, especially if it conflicted with her clients’ interests. And in this case it just might. The Herberts were going to hand over a healthy commission when this property sold, and Gail wasn’t likely to do anything to alienate them in the meantime.
She’d been late for this appointment after Ellery’s press conference and called Gail to request that they meet directly at Greaves Lane. “We don’t generally do that, but in your case I’ll make an exception. Downtown traffic is intolerable,” she added in a voice that appeared to swallow the “o” in the word. “That’s why I try to stay out of the city whenever possible.”
Then Lucy had hurried home to change into the most conservative outfit she could find—a white linen skirt and pale blue sweater set. She’d come up with some excuse for her beat-up car, but without a stitch of jewelry—and especially without a prominent engagement diamond and wedding band—she wasn’t at all sure Gail would believe that she was in the market for a multimillion-dollar home.
Gail’s mules flapped as she walked toward Lucy with arms extended. “Mrs. Haverill. Hello. I hope you were able to follow my directions.” The Realtor had a huge smile. She removed her sunglasses as she extended a hand. “You aren’t related to Rodman Haverill from Devon now, are you?”
Lucy didn’t respond.
“My late husband used to play tennis with him at the Cricket Club, but that had to be years back,” said Gail. “I don’t think I’ve seen him in decades.”
“Really,” Lucy remarked.
Gail smiled again, unaware that a poppy seed was stuck between her front teeth. “You know, it’s such a small world in this area. An associate in my office grew up with Roddy Junior, the son. She thought maybe you were his wife. Hard to imagine the little Roddy I knew is big enough to marry, but I guess I’m dating myself. Anyway, I said I’d ask.”
“Well, I’m sorry to be a disappointment,” Lucy replied, feeling as if it were only a partial lie. She could picture the associate—a younger, and perhaps thinner, version of Gail.
“They couldn’t be a nicer family if you happen to run into them. The gal who works with me says the son was always the most eligible bachelor. Obviously she’s kept in touch now, hasn’t she? But then again, you’ve already got yourself a Haverill.” She laughed again. “What does your husband do?”
Lucy felt a wave of nausea. She’d take an autopsy over this woman any day. “Uh . . . he’s in the entertainment industry.” She struggled for something to say only to wonder why this had been the first vocation that had come to mind. It was no doubt an unpopular one in this stretch of Route 30.
Gail appeared perplexed. She clicked the tortoiseshell arm of her sunglasses between her upper and lower teeth for a moment before putting them back on. “Why don’t we get started? This is a divine property and one that I’m sure won’t last.” She handed Lucy a brochure identical to the one she’d found in Dr. Reese’s desk. “And let me give you my cell phone number, too,” she added, obviously forgetting that Lucy had used that number to contact her originally. “This only has the office line, but I want you to call me anytime if you have questions or just want to chat about the possibilities that this one-of-a-kind estate has to offer.”
Lucy wrote down the numb
er, replicating what must have transpired with Dr. Reese days, perhaps weeks, before. She could imagine the scene: the psychiatrist in the pink cardigan and Capri pants, the image she’d seen in the picture with Rodman Haverill, getting out of her precrash Mercedes, standing in exactly the same spot, hearing the same spiel from Gail Ripley of Ripley Realty. But she’d decided to go forward, to buy a house far grander than a single professional woman could possibly ever need. Lucy stared at the heavy oak door and brass pineapple knocker hoping that her tour would tell her why.
“We prefer the house to be empty for showings, and the owner left, but I understand the housekeeper is still here. I doubt she speaks English, so you needn’t monitor yourself,” Gail whispered. “Do you and your husband have help? There are ample staff quarters here.” She fumbled in her purse for a key attached to a large ring. “I’ve never seen a death between the purchase and sale and the closing—let alone a murder—and I’ve been at this for thirty years. Let me tell you, I thought I’d seen everything!” She turned the latch and the door yawned open. “Voilà!” she said, gesturing for Lucy to enter.
The two women wandered from one expansive, perfectly appointed room to the next. Gail kept up a running commentary on architectural details and amenities, crown molding, period hardware, marble baths, and custom built-ins, while Lucy looked for some explanation, some key hidden in this mansion that explained Dr. Reese’s decision. She could find nothing. Aside from several indentations in the carpeting where a cabinet or bureau had been removed, and an odd gap in the seating arrangement around the fireplace in the library, there wasn’t even a glimmer of the Herberts’ story.
The master bedroom with padded fabric-covered walls overlooked the beautiful garden below and the barn beyond. Lucy stepped onto the plush carpet and was greeted by a sweet floral aroma. She circled slowly in the middle of the room, breathing it in. “Is that an air freshener?” she asked.
“Jo Malone,” Gail said. “The owner wears the perfume all the time. I hope you like it since I’m sure it’s embedded in these walls.” She pulled open a series of doors that ran along one wall of the room. “Just look at these closets! All California custom, I assure you.” She pointed to several rows of thinly spaced shelves, each one just able to hold a single professionally laundered man’s shirt. “I believe the husband’s side accommodates fifty, but I’ll let you do the counting.” She laughed. “And there are his and hers cedar closets up in the attic, along with a climate-controlled closet for fur storage. You should see the owner’s collection. Too bad it’s not included in the asking price.” With that she sat down on the chintz bedspread, her monologue completed.
