Regrets Only (37 page)

12:59 p.m.

Lucy avoided a glance at the speedometer as Jack steered through downtown Philadelphia toward I-76. With one hand, she braced herself against the dashboard. With the other, she struggled to dial Betty Graham. The small metallic flip phone helped her focus. She could ignore the mayhem outside, the cars screeching to a halt, the bicycle couriers frantically scrambling for the sidewalk, and the pedestrians jumping away from the curb. But the tiny numbers enclosed in their gel covering were almost impossible to hit given the momentum of the car.

It was only when Jack was forced to stop behind a delivery van that she quickly could dial. He banged his hands on the steering wheel. “What the fuck is wrong with these people? Don’t they know how to get out of the way?”

“Doctors’ office,” a voice answered.

“This is Detective O’Malley, Philadelphia Homicide.”

Jack hit the horn. Frustrated, he pulled the cord on the megaphone and began to instruct all vehicles to move to the side of the road.

“Is everything all right?” Betty asked.

“Is Dr. Ellery leaving town?”

She paused momentarily. “Oh, yes, absolutely. He informed me that he had a personal emergency. I was told to cancel all appointments for the rest of the month and to tell his patients he would be back in touch with them when he returned.”

“Where’s he going?”

“Puerto Vallarta. That’s in Mexico.”

“Do you know what airline?”

“American. The flight leaves in less than an hour. He’s got an aisle seat and a vegetarian meal. I confirmed them myself.”

If they could catch Ellery in time, he’d live to regret crossing his longtime employee.

Her attempts to locate the gate or to contact the gate attendant were less successful. Each time the car lurched, she’d hit a wrong button in the morass of automated prompts, and heard the saccharine voice apologizing, “I’m sorry. I do not recognize that number. Good-bye.” The number for airport security rang unanswered, and the emergency number was busy.

Sadly, she realized that even if she got through to someone who could provide assistance, she wasn’t sure what she could say to convince the authorities to do so. They didn’t have an arrest warrant. Nor did they have probable cause to have him stopped. Dixon’s story provided a strong alibi. The gun belonged to Ellery, but there were no prints to tie him to a weapon that he’d reported stolen weeks before. “Don’t worry about the technicalities,” Jack said. “If we can stop him, we’ll come up with some justification for detaining him. I don’t want him out of this state, let alone the country.”

She agreed. There was something fundamentally wrong with his sudden resignation and departure.

They pulled up to the curb and jumped out, leaving the car in a tow-away zone.

Jack and Lucy sprinted through Terminal A at Philadelphia International Airport. Although the security officers were reluctant to let them through the metal detectors without valid boarding passes, they were granted permission after they deposited their guns, shoes, and badges in a bucket. They continued barefoot, rounding a corner, running down a corridor, past a bookstand, a pizza and brewery outpost, and an array of souvenir carts until they saw Gate 3.

There they stopped in their tracks. The boarding gate was shut. The waiting area was empty. And Dixon Burlingame was walking toward them.

“Detectives,” he said with a smile. “Decided to take a vacation, did you? You travel light.”

“Where’s Ellery?” Lucy asked, although they all knew the answer.

“He’ll be back, but no time soon. Mexico is beautiful in the summer—fewer tourists.”

“How could you do that? How could you help him leave?” She had the overwhelming urge to sock the smug expression off his face.

“Miss O’Malley, my first and foremost obligation is to protect my company and the institutions it supports. I’m fully aware that you don’t have enough to arrest David, or you would have done so by now. I also know he isn’t a killer. I was with him at the Rabbit Club—a fact you’ve confirmed with Miss Barbadash. I am his alibi. And I didn’t leave his side until long after Morgan had departed with Tripp. But after what happened at the Union League, and after our meeting, I realized the power of suggestion, the damage that mere innuendo can cause. The Wilder Center can’t risk scandal of any kind. We passed over Ellery once before because of that fear. This work is too important. Morgan’s murder brought with it an air of . . . suspicion. He had to resign, and he wanted to leave. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a new director to find. We seem to be quickly running out of candidates.”

They stared at his back and listened to the sound of his departure, the click of the heels of his dress shoes on the polished corridor. He turned the corner and disappeared from sight as the PA system announced a flight to Miami.

29

6:30 p.m
.

J
ack steered the car up the gravel drive and then skidded sideways to block anyone from departing, or at least anyone who refused to drive over the lavender beds that lined both sides of the driveway. In front of the massive Tudor home, a silver Infiniti sedan idled, but there was no sign of a driver.

As they approached, the front door swung open and out stepped a middle-aged woman with bleached blond hair and a wide forehead. Despite the gray light of early evening, dark glasses covered her eyes. She wore a black pantsuit and had a fuchsia, black, and green print shawl draped over one shoulder. In her ringed fingers, she held a quilted clutch. When she looked up and noticed their presence, she gasped and took a step back. “Who are you?”

Jack and Lucy both produced their badges. “Philadelphia Homicide Unit. Mrs. Nichols?”

She nodded, obviously stunned that Jack addressed her by name.

“I’m Jack Harper. We spoke last night. Is your husband available?”

“He . . . he’ll be right—”

The arrival of Tripp Nichols made any further answer pointless. His navy blazer strained to cover his wide girth and his wire-rimmed glasses pinched the flesh around his temples. His black hair bristled atop his head, and he had pronounced rosacea on his nose. “Who is asking?”

“This man . . . these people are from the police.”

“We need to ask you some questions,” Lucy said.

“That’s not possible right now. We’re expected for cocktails, then dinner. We’re late already. And I have nothing to say to you.”

“It’ll only take a minute.”

“Miss,” Sherrill said, glaring at Lucy. “You heard my husband. You’ll have to leave.”

“Just tell us why you planned to stay at the Hyatt last weekend with a high school junior, and we’ll be on our way.”

“There must be a mistake.” Sherrill turned ninety degrees to stare at her husband. “What are they talking about? You were in Atlanta.”

The red of Tripp’s face was spreading down his neck and disappearing into the collar of his starched shirt. “How dare you come to my home with false accusations? Get off my property! Now!”

“Which part don’t you want to explain? The room you reserved for Avery
Nichols
,” she emphasized, “or the bank account you set up for her benefit? Where did that two hundred and fifty thousand come from?”

“Could someone please tell me what’s going on?” Sherrill asked.

Tripp put his arm around his wife’s shoulder, more to keep her upright than to comfort her. His dark eyes appeared black. “I have done absolutely nothing wrong, broken no law. You have no business here.”

Sherrill began to cry. She didn’t remove her dark glasses, but her sobs were audible. She shuddered to rid herself of Tripp’s grasp, but he held on tighter, apparently determined to present a united front to the detectives who were threatening his familial existence. Undeterred, she swatted at his hand, then forced herself free and took several steps away. She stood by the hood of the car with her arms crossed in front of her chest. “I don’t believe this. This truly can’t be happening,” she repeated.

“Can’t you see you’re upsetting my wife? Call my lawyer. I have nothing to say to you.”

“No!”
came Sherrill’s wail. Without approaching, she called to him, “I want to know, too. You’re not going to call any lawyer. You’re not going to call anyone. You’re going to tell me . . . tell them . . . now.”

“There’s nothing to explain. I . . . I wasn’t . . . I’m not—” Tripp stammered. His face looked as if he might explode. “I’m not having an affair with anyone.”

Lucy reached into her jacket and removed the envelope that Gertrude had given her nearly a week before. Carefully she unfolded the letter. Both Sherrill and Tripp were staring at her, transfixed. She looked at him and then down at the page. Slowly, she read each word aloud. When she was done, she stood with her arm extended, offering up the letter itself.

Nobody touched it.

“The girl you’re asking about, Avery . . . She’s just a child. She’s . . . Avery is my daughter.” He hung his head.

The clutch handbag hurled through the air and pounded into the side of his face. He flinched and stumbled backward. Sherrill was beside him instantly, looming over him with her hands on her hips. “What daughter?”

“It was . . . it was a long time ago.”

“How long?”

Nobody answered.

“Tell me her age!”

The huge man seemed frightened. His mouth gaped open.

“Avery is sixteen,” Jack volunteered.

Sherrill paused a moment, considering the math. She clenched her jaw and flared her nostrils. “How could you?” Then she looked around and waved her hands at Jack and Lucy. “In front of the police. This is how you share news of your adultery? I want you out of my house immediately.”

“Sherrill. Please. I can explain.”

“Oh yes,” she said facetiously. “Why don’t you do that? I’m sure you’ve got a very good reason for cheating on your wife and stealing her money, too.”

Tripp produced a handkerchief and wiped beads of sweat from his brow. Then he collapsed on the brick steps, and hung his head between his knees.

“What can you tell us about Morgan Reese?” Jack asked. His voice was deadpan.

“Another one!” Then recognition swept across her face. “That’s the famous psychiatrist! I saw you with her at the Flower Show. Right in front of my face! Now I remember. You both got all flustered when I came over. I should have known. I should never have trusted you. What was I ever thinking? My father always said, ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’ Why didn’t I listen?”

“It’s not what you think.” He looked at Lucy and his eyes seemed to beg for mercy, or for her to simply back off. His life was falling apart around him, and he didn’t know what to say or do to prevent total destruction. “I’ll tell you what happened. I’m not a murderer if that’s what you think.”

“Ohhh!”
Sherrill screamed. “Oh my God. Someone, anyone, get him the hell out of here.”

“Just give me a moment to collect myself,” he said, as he adjusted himself on the front steps and took a deep breath. “I deserve that, don’t I?”

Nobody said a word.

As he sat slouched on the front step, Tripp couldn’t collect himself. He remembered the very moment, the devastating moment, he’d learned of Avery’s existence as if it were yesterday, or just an instant before. It had haunted him ever since. Over the course of the past two months, he’d dreamed up stories, concocted excuses. Although he’d tried desperately not to believe it, he’d known as soon as he’d seen the expression on Morgan’s face that night in March that he’d never survive what he’d done seventeen years before.

“I didn’t even know about Avery until recently. Morgan never told me. You have to believe that.”

Sherrill looked as though she were about to spit on him.

“My involvement with her was very brief,” he lied. The affair was bad enough. Sherrill didn’t need to know it was anything more than a one-night stand. “It was a convention—the American Psychiatric Association, I think it was. Things got out of control. I couldn’t believe I’d done that to my wife, my family. I knew I would never let it happen again.” He reached for Sherrill’s hand, but she took a step back. “You and the kids have always meant—and mean—everything to me. I was an absolute fool, way beyond stupid. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve berated myself.”

“Tell me where you were last weekend.”

He closed his eyes as he wondered how to explain. He’d fully intended to end any further communication once he’d set up the trust account. The girl—whoever she was—would be protected, maybe not forever, but a quarter of a million dollars could still go a long way, even on the Main Line. He’d assumed from the very beginning that Morgan had told him of her identity to blackmail him. She knew full well he’d be willing to pay a lot to protect what he had.

But the money hadn’t been what Morgan wanted at all. She’d been adamant that they meet. He should never have agreed. Just because she’d rekindled a relationship with her abandoned daughter, it didn’t mean he could do the same. He wasn’t Avery’s father, and had no interest in becoming her father now. Morgan wanted to make up for mistakes of her past. He didn’t. And yet somehow, some way, he’d been persuaded.

He should never have taken her calls. She was a Siren, and he hadn’t the will of Odysseus to strap himself to the mast and resist her pleas. Hearing her voice, he’d been more than reminded of why he’d risked everything to have her before.

He’d been stupid, especially about the letter. He hadn’t had the courage to mail it, but in retrospect he should at least have torn it up. When he’d lost it, he’d been sure it was somewhere at the Rabbit Club. He’d been sloppy not to retrieve it earlier, but nobody would’ve cared; it wasn’t signed or dated. Nobody would have given it any significance whatsoever if the recipient hadn’t turned up dead a few weeks later just yards away from the building.

And when he’d heard of Morgan’s death, he’d panicked. Maybe it had his fingerprints. Now he knew why his search of the building a week ago had come up empty.

Momentarily distracted, he fumed. How dare she? Even with a glorified title, Barbadash was a servant after all. She had no business nosing around in the property of the members. He’d make sure she was terminated—unless of course he was voted out of the club first, an act that could be his social death knell. The very thought of that shame brought him back to the current situation—Sherrill, the police, the need for an explanation. Fast.