by Nancy Geary
Her mind wandered as she thought of the destruction of the Herbert family and her sense that Bill had been passive throughout. She remembered an amateur boxing tournament she’d read about in Florida. A 280-pound mother of two had volunteered to compete, had actually paid to enter the ring against another untrained woman. But her opponent had been too fierce, pounding her repeatedly until she dropped dead on the mat. All the while her husband and children had been watching, cheering her on, rooting for her. By the time they’d realized she was in trouble, it was too late.
They’d later claimed there was nothing they could have done.
27
6:58 p.m.
Lucy and Archer both stood up as the massive double doors to the library opened. Elegantly dressed in a tweed jacket, a navy polo shirt, and dark slacks, Rodman entered, nodded to Archer, and extended a hand to Lucy. Despite the formality, he looked peaked with pallid skin, drawn cheeks, and dark circles under his eyes. It seemed hard to believe that her lunch with him at the Cricket Club had been only two days before.
“Do sit down,” he said, as the tall clock chimed seven o’clock.
Lucy resettled on the striped love seat. Archer sat in a leather wing chair opposite.
Rodman walked past them to the butler’s tray table that held a crystal decanter and several tumblers and poured a healthy drink. He turned in their direction. “Archer tells me you wanted to discuss your . . . investigation. I don’t know that I can be of use to you, but proceed if you must.”
Her whole body felt tense. She had the desperate urge to stand and stretch, to roll her head on her shoulders, anything to rid herself of the nervous stiffening that seemed to overtake her body. Approaching her boyfriend’s father to inquire about his ex-wife was far more difficult than even she’d imagined. She glanced at her notepad. Although she knew exactly the areas she needed to cover, it helped to focus on her own scribbled handwriting. She spoke without glancing up. “I need to ask you about your divorce.”
He answered quickly. “There’s little to tell. We’d been married five years. Archer had just turned three. I returned from a weeklong business trip to New York, and Morgan announced that she’d rented an apartment in Center City and hired an attorney. She left that evening.”
“Did she give you a reason?”
“Detective O’Malley, what transpires between a man and his wife is private. The failure of that marriage changes nothing.”
“Call me Lucy,” she replied. “And that may be so, but privacy often yields when one spouse winds up murdered.”
“The fact that Morgan is dead has no bearing on this.”
“I need help. This case is in its fifth day, and believe me, that’s a long time in the spectrum of a homicide investigation.”
He took a step back, banging into the tray table behind him. The stopper rattled against the decanter.
Archer sat with his legs crossed, his right ankle propped on his left knee. His elbows rested on the arms of his chair, and he chewed on a thumbnail. “Help Lucy out, Dad. It’d be the chivalrous thing to do after all. She’s just doing her job,” he muttered, sarcastically.
“I’ve had enough from you,” Rodman said, pointing a finger in his son’s direction. “You may be perfectly content to air our dirty laundry about your mother, but I’m not.”
Archer stood abruptly. “She left you. She left me. What are you protecting?”
He stared down into his tumbler and then shook it slightly, as if to rattle invisible ice cubes. Some of the brown liquor splashed out onto his lapel, but he didn’t appear to notice.
“Did you know she had two more children?” Archer blurted out.
Rodman’s eyes widened. He coughed. “What are you talking about? That’s preposterous.”
“The person on the insurance policy—Avery Herbert. That’s Morgan’s daughter. There was a boy, too. A set of twins. Lucy discovered that.”
“I don’t believe it for a moment. Morgan wouldn’t have made the same mistake twice.”
“Is that what I was? A mistake?” Archer shouted. “For her, or for you, too?”
Rodman appeared momentarily confused. “This is absurd. I gave my life to you, to raise you. I won’t have you addressing me in that manner. You—” He turned to Lucy. “Was this your grand design? To turn the few surviving members of the Haverill family on each other and see what you could uncover? Where you come from that sort of feeding frenzy may be appropriate, but not here. Not in my house. I don’t appreciate your meddling.”
“She’s trying to find my mother’s killer. Don’t be a fucking snob.”
Rodman glared. “And don’t you ever speak to me that way again.”
“Stop!” Lucy held up her hand. “Calm down, both of you. Look, I know this is hard for everybody. Mr. Haverill, why don’t you sit down? Archer, you too. I’m not trying to whip up anything. Hysteria in my line of work tends to be counterproductive, and believe it or not, I have no prurient interest in your family troubles, whatever they may be. I know from my own experience how difficult it is to deal with painful topics. There are plenty of times when I’d be just as happy to put my head in the sand. But I do need some basic answers that perhaps, Mr. Haverill, you can provide.”
Much to her surprise, both father and son followed her instructions. Archer returned to the wing chair and Rodman sat in a Chippendale armchair from which he could still reach the drinks tray. With their stiff postures and extended chins, the resemblance was obvious.
“Now, why don’t you tell me what happened between you and your ex-wife.”
“And you have yet to explain how any of this is relevant to her death.”
Lucy bit her lip. It was a valid condition, but not one to which she was accustomed. When faced with a detective, most people either volunteered information or asked for a lawyer. They didn’t negotiate. “As part of a murder investigation, we often have to re- create the victim’s life. Understanding the person who died—in this case Morgan—is part of figuring out who would have wanted to kill her. Frankly, the bits and pieces we’ve learned about her life thus far don’t fit together, or at least not well.”
“I’m not sure I understand. What about all your forensic people? Aren’t they supposed to come up with the answers? Why are you asking me about what transpired decades ago?”
“Our criminalistics people examine the crime scene. They gather clues that tell us how a person died. They also tell us what the killer left behind. But they don’t tell us why. And without a why, all the clues in the world don’t always lead to a who. I told you last weekend when I was at your dining room table that part of my work is to hear the dead speak from the grave, but I’m realizing that’s not possible. A victim needs the people who knew her to speak on her behalf.”
“So you’re not listening to voices after all?” he said. “I suppose that’s a step in the right direction.”
“I like my job too much to leave it,” she said, remembering her feeble attempt at humor from that first dinner.
“Ah.”
“So, will you help?”
He scanned the room, his eyes resting on the French doors, and the view beyond of the flagstone patio and gardens. “She . . . I . . . I knew she was unhappy. You have to understand that when we met, she was so young. Barely eighteen. Except for a trip with her grandmother to Paris, she’d seen nothing of the world.”
“How did you meet?”
He paused, as if to drum up the memory. When he spoke, his voice was softer. “Although I was fifteen years her senior, I received an invitation to her debutante party. I’d known her parents, not well, but we were generally considered part of the same social set, attended the same Quaker meetinghouse. Her father and I had the same alma mater. I hardly think they considered me a candidate for their daughter’s affections.” He chuckled. “It was quite a lavish affair, really, hundreds of people under a big white tent with panels that opened to the sky. The band played until the early-morning hours. Morgan couldn’t have been m
ore radiant in a long white dress with tiny pearl buttons and white gloves that came up over her elbows. She was a lovely woman.” He closed his eyes. “After dinner, I asked her to dance and . . . and we did, song after song. Other men tried to cut in, and she politely declined. That I would receive such attention . . .” His voice drifted off. When he spoke again, his tone was decidedly more matter-of-fact. “I should have known she was not a woman to pin down. At one point that evening, she whispered to me, ‘I play along because this gala is my ticket out. A grand way to travel, don’t you think?’ I was so swept up in her presence that I didn’t ask her to explain. I never asked her to explain anything. Two months later, I took her to Italy—Milan, Venice—and proposed to her in Portofino on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean. But I should have known that first evening. She was restless. Morgan never wanted domesticity. She wanted to escape her own upbringing.”
“So why marry you?” Lucy asked.
“I’ve asked myself that same question a hundred times and have never come up with a perfect answer. How ironic that analysis became her profession.” Rodman stood, refilled his glass, and moved toward the love seat. He rested one hand on the upholstered back. “She mistook the difference in our age for something more than it was. She thought it made me different from the other men . . . the boys, really . . . whom she’d dated. And . . . and I think she misunderstood what I might offer.”
“In what way?”
“I was president of my company by the time we met. She thought that because I was in charge of my own destiny it would bring her freedom, independence. She wouldn’t have to help a husband establish himself as so many of her peers were doing. She tended to view the world quite simply.”
“She didn’t want to schmooze with the partners so she married the man at the top?”
“That’s a rather vulgar way to put it, but probably not inaccurate.”
“Then she got what she wanted. What was the problem?”
“She didn’t know what she wanted. Rather like her son, I might add, although I expect he won’t be flattered by the comparison.”
Lucy glanced at Archer, but his blank expression revealed nothing, no doubt because he was numb to Rodman’s persistent criticism.
“As far as I could tell,” Rodman continued, “her only valid complaint was that I had discouraged employment, which I had indeed. She had a baby. She had a house to maintain and a staff to run.”
“What did she want to do?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. She had no higher education. We married before she’d even completed the first of a two-year college program. I don’t know what she could have done. The thought never occurred to me. She was my wife. That was supposed to be enough.” He pursed his lips.
“Did you stay in touch with her after she moved out?”
“Initially, our communication was quite frequent. There were matters pertaining to the divorce. And . . . and there was the issue of Archer.”
“The issue of me, I’ll remember that.” Archer poured himself a drink, too. Holding the decanter, he extended his arm toward his father, offering a refill, but Rodman didn’t appear to notice. Archer threw back his head and drained the tumbler in one sip. Then he refilled the glass and repeated the process.
For a moment Lucy thought to intervene. Inebriation wouldn’t help, of that she felt certain, but the power of his father’s words wasn’t lost on her. She could drive Archer back to Center City.
“Once the court proceeding ended, Morgan quickly faded away. She’d decided to go back to school. She told me she was even considering medical school. At the time, the suggestion was humorous. She hadn’t spent a single day of her life gainfully employed. The hours alone would be staggering. But I also knew to keep my thoughts to myself. She’d never listened to me and she wasn’t about to start now.”
“And what about Archer?”
“Archer?” Rodman stared at his son, as if just now recognizing his presence. Archer stepped forward in anticipation of the answer. “This is a very difficult subject. I still don’t see—”
“Just answer her question,” Archer instructed.
“Oh my.” He raised his hand to his mouth and covered his lips with a fist. “How shall I put this? It was difficult for her to let him go, don’t misunderstand me, but difficult on an intellectual level. You see, she felt no emotional connection to him. She had no natural instincts. He was a stranger with whom she couldn’t imagine how to deal. She kept saying, ‘He’s your child,’ as if she’d had nothing to do with the process and I was solely to blame.”
Lucy knew that Archer had never heard the truth before. This conversation contained a level of candor that the Haverills hadn’t shared.
“What about the first years?” Archer asked. “When she was still here.” He spoke softly, the prior hostility gone.
“I hired a series of nannies to help. I thought she needed some free time. She could go to the City or the club. Her schedule wouldn’t be encumbered. But nothing changed measurably.” He turned away from his son, and stared at a small oil painting over the butler’s table. The image was a round vase of white peonies.
“One evening, I came home early and found her standing in the doorway of the playroom, watching as the nanny read to you. You were in her lap, quite an adorable little boy in your pajamas, listening intently to a book called The Story of Ferdinand. It was about a bull that wouldn’t fight. He only wanted to sit and smell flowers. It was your favorite—not surprisingly.” He laughed briefly. “From the threshold, Morgan stood, weeping, her whole body shaking. I thought someone must have died. She was not a particularly emotional woman, or should I say she kept her emotions extremely well controlled. When I asked what had happened, she turned to me and said, ‘Why is it so difficult? You’re paying someone ten dollars an hour to do what I can’t. What’s wrong with me?’ She was tormented by guilt over her shortcomings. She knew her feelings were selfish, wrong, but she couldn’t change them. Life had always been about her, and her alone. Less than a month after that night, she walked out, and I knew she was walking away from both of us. Forever.”
The room filled with silence. Nobody stirred. After a moment, Lucy mustered the courage to continue. His explanation wasn’t over. “When did you stop communicating?”
Rodman seemed to have forgotten Lucy’s presence. Her follow-up question seemed to confuse him, and he took more than a few moments to reply. “I gave her what she wanted in the divorce because I wanted the process to end. It was extremely unproductive. After everything was finalized, she occasionally sent a brief note. I knew she was off to medical school. I heard when her mother passed away. She informed me that she’d decided to become a psychiatrist. And she sent a change of address when she purchased her home in Bryn Mawr. That’s about all. Even those notes stopped coming ages ago.”
“So she never mentioned other children?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Nor a husband. As I said, when I did hear from her, it was only in the tersest way. I can’t say I didn’t wonder about her personal life, but she never asked after mine and I wasn’t about to inquire into hers.”
“And then out of the blue you got the call about the insurance?”
“That’s right. As I relayed to you at . . . when we met previously.”
“If your divorce was so acrimonious, why thirty years later were you her personal reference on her application for the position at the Wilder Center?”
“I didn’t know I was,” he said, sighing audibly. “It’s not a surprise, though. I know several of the major investors, as well as the chairman of AmeriMed. Despite what my son thinks about me, I have a very good reputation in the business community. I am respected. No doubt she listed my name because she knew it would help her cause. As I said, I would never expect Morgan’s selfishness—or should I say self-absorption—to disappear. In this case, I suspect her connection to me was perceived as an asset.”
“But they never called you. From what we gathered, she
was offered the job without any check of her personal references except for her secretary.”
He shrugged. “I can’t explain the conduct of the nominating committee. All I can say is that Morgan would have been confident that my reference would be complimentary.”
“Why?” she asked, remembering Dixon’s remarks about Rodman’s temper.
“She knew me. She knew what I stand for. And I may have learned a bit along the way, but I haven’t changed since the day we shared an aisle.” He sat down next to her on the love seat. “You’re young. But take my word—it’s difficult to hold that much animus in your heart for any prolonged period. My anger gave way to grief, and the sadness eventually ended, too.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a handkerchief. Turning his head away, he dabbed his eyes. He seemed fragile, as if the conversation itself had aged him.
Archer had covered his face with his hands. Lucy watched his fingers press into his eyes.
“Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt her? Anyone at all?” Lucy asked after a moment.
Rodman finished his drink. “I don’t know the details of where her life took her, so I can’t provide you with names, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you discovered a queue. As I’ve told Archer more times than I can recount, when you live the type of reckless existence that she did, you make enemies along the way. She was a hurtful woman. No doubt she tried to put her heart in the right place, but she was a hurtful woman nonetheless.” He met her stare. “If I had your task, I’d be looking for someone else she discarded along the way. Not everyone is as charitable as I am.”
11:17 p.m.
In front of her wood-burning stove, Lucy sat with legs extended so that Archer, lying beside her, could rest his head in her lap. He rubbed her left foot as she gently caressed his forehead. The lines seemed more pronounced than she’d ever noticed before, and she could see a few gray hairs sprouting prematurely from his scalp. When he closed his eyes, the veins in his lids glowed in the light from the Duraflame.
