Regrets Only (16 page)

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.”

“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
.

L
ucy 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.”