by Nancy Geary
Despite her exhaustion, peaceful slumber eluded her. As she lay in bed listening to the ticktock of her electric alarm clock, the events of the past two days raced through her mind. She couldn’t bear that such sordidness, such violence, had left a stain on her club. In all her years of dutiful service, she’d never once had to escort a police officer inside the hallowed walls.
Creak. She heard a floorboard. The building was so old and drafty that even the slightest breeze rattled the windows or caused a door to slam. She was used to the idiosyncratic sounds and movements of the place.
A second creak was longer. Then she heard the sound of a door opening on its worn hinge. It must be a member, although what anyone was doing here at this hour escaped her. Unless . . . She thought of the letter she’d found and passed along to that nice young detective. Its author had known how to threaten.
She chastised herself. Nothing bad or untoward had ever sullied this club; its history was impeccable. She was letting her mind play tricks on her. But then again, it was possible. She’d obviously forgotten to lock the door, and times had changed. She’d read quite enough horrific stories in the newspaper to know that. Perhaps a homeless person had wandered in. Or a thief. But knowing she would never go to sleep until she’d set her mind at ease, she got up, took up her robe and slippers again, and unlocked her bedroom door.
The hallway was dark. So was the stairwell. She reached for the switch at the top of the stairs, but nothing happened. Changing that lightbulb was another task to add to her list, a list that had grown exponentially with the distractions of the past forty-eight hours. She listened but heard nothing. Gertrude, you’re getting senile, she said to herself, refusing to accept that she just might be getting too old to be house manager.
There was an audible thump, and she paused in her descent. “Who is there?” she called out into the darkness. For a moment she wondered whether she should call the police but decided against it. Her duty was to this club and its members. Part of her job was discretion, and part was to ensure that the fine gentlemen who belonged here could enjoy themselves in peace and quiet. She’d already exposed the club to intrusion and its reputation to possible damage by involving the police over the weekend. She would address this evening’s problem herself.
Quietly she tiptoed down the stairs. A light was on in the game room and she heard rummaging sounds, the opening of drawers, the slamming of a chest as it closed. Since whoever was there made no effort to hide his presence, it had to be a member, and she felt relieved that she hadn’t contacted law enforcement in haste. A needless incident might have cost her the job she loved. “May I help you?” she called.
Suddenly the light in the game room went out and she was plunged into darkness again. This behavior was very peculiar. Holding on to the banister, she felt her way down the stairs and through the short foyer. The building was quiet. Even the crickets had stopped. She stepped into the game room and flicked the wall switch, illuminating the room.
A man ran at her, knocking her aside as he made his way to the door. She stumbled backward, reaching for something—the wall—to try to maintain her balance, but her grasp came up empty and she fell against a wooden chair. The pain in her back was intense, and her head spun. His movement had been so swift and she was so startled that it was only after she’d heard a car drive off that she realized her intruder had been no intruder at all. If anything, he belonged here more than she did. Though why the club president had come by at this late hour and then made such a hasty exit eluded her. Mr. Nichols certainly could have asked for her help if he needed anything at all.
16
Tuesday, May 20th Noon
The view from the street of the Merion Cricket Club didn’t do justice to the sprawling red brick building with green shutters and trim that overlooked lawn-tennis courts. Perhaps that was the intent: Only members could appreciate the true elegance and majesty of the architecture. Ivy grew over much of the facade, giving the oldest parts of the historic clubhouse a bearded look. Mower lines were still evident in the grass. Lucy wondered for a moment how it felt to be part of the full-time maintenance crew, immigrants no doubt, who could hardly imagine when they arrived in Philadelphia that such a place existed for recreational sports.
Mr. Haverill had indeed registered her, and the preppy gate attendant waved her through with a sideways glance at her license plate. A series of arrows directed cars to a parking area by a newly constructed indoor-tennis bubble. She left her Explorer amid the array of dark-toned foreign imports and walked back toward the main building.
A few feet from the entrance she paused to watch several ladies’ matches that were well under way despite the chill in the air. Lithe figures in short white skirts and warm-up jackets moved through the familiar choreography of doubles—serve, crosscourt return, down-the-line approach shot, lob, overhead winner. Standing quietly, she listened to the ping of balls volleying back and forth and the intermittent muffled sounds of polite banter or laughter. How different the game seemed in this environment, a far cry from the cracked Hard-Tru courts of Somerville High where local teenagers in basketball shorts and T-shirts smashed balls into torn nets or against chain link.
She climbed the steps leading to a covered rectangular porch. Not surprisingly, it was empty. The combination of ivy and the depth of the overhang kept the place dark and cool, no doubt more of an asset on steamy summer days than on one like today. Just inside a set of French doors was a spacious room divided into multiple seating areas by arrangements of wicker armchairs, love seats, coffee tables, and card tables. On two couches on either side of a stone fireplace lounged several women in velour tracksuits with pastel trim. Glasses of iced tea and a bowl of Goldfish crackers were arranged on a round tray on the table between them. On the opposite side of the room, three bejeweled elderly women played bridge with a single well-dressed, white-haired man.
“Lucy.” She heard Mr. Haverill’s voice behind her.
She turned to greet him. He wore a tweed blazer over a white polo shirt and pressed navy trousers.
“Follow me.”
He led the way into a dining room surrounded on three sides by mullioned windows overlooking more tennis courts. Enormous crystal chandeliers added necessary light to the grim day. Despite the lunch hour, there were few other diners. The maître d’ pulled back a chair, and Lucy somewhat awkwardly let him push her up to the table. A uniformed waiter immediately arrived with butter balls arranged in a pyramid on a porcelain dish. Using tongs, he then served each of them a round hard roll.
“I recommend the crab cakes. The tomato and basil soup is quite adequate, too,” Mr. Haverill said, opening the menu.
“Sounds good,” Lucy said, not bothering to look at hers. She had no strong food preferences and preferred to focus on the purpose of this meeting rather than ponder the lunch offerings. She unfolded her napkin and arranged it on her lap.
“Very well, then.” He signaled to the waiter and ordered for both of them.
“I just have to ask you,” she said when they were alone. “Why is this place called the Merion Cricket Club if we’re in Haverford?”
He didn’t appear to find any humor in the question. “It moved to this location at the turn of the century, but by that time it had established itself. The members wouldn’t have been receptive to a name change.”
“What about the cricket part then? Does anyone still play?”
“There’s an annual game here to keep up tradition, but, sadly, cricket is not what it once was.”
“Other than what I saw on a commercial for tourism in Bermuda, I know nothing about it.”
“I wouldn’t suppose you would. Boston was never much of a stronghold, but it used to be quite the sport of Philadelphia. In addition to interclub matches, there were international competitions, many of which took place right here, and our teams competed abroad with considerable success even against the Australians.”
“Did you play?” Lucy asked.
“I did.”
He removed a stalk of celery from his glass and took a sip of his virgin Bloody Bull, a mixture of cold beef broth and tomato juice. “Many years ago when I was a student at Haverford College. It was a different world then. Cricket wasn’t like sports today. Athletes came from the very best of families—not the public schools and the ghettos. The Newhalls dominated, and an impressive lot they were. But that all ended quite some time ago. The public didn’t have the patience or the elegance required to maintain it as a major sport. Tennis has completely taken over.”
She marveled at his arrogance. His class consciousness struck her as something out of Masterpiece Theatre. “You must enjoy tennis,” she said, struggling for something to say as she looked out the window at the visual monolith of green.
“Not much. But I like the club when it isn’t crowded. It can be overwhelming with the noise, the ball machines. Last week there was even a bit of a brouhaha in the taproom.”
Revelry at a bar was a cardinal sin for sure. Although she’d been the one to broach the subject, the conversation was going nowhere, taxing both Lucy’s patience and her curiosity. She had a million things to do in this murder investigation and discussing the moral decline of cricket wasn’t one of them. “I’m very sorry about Dr. Reese.”
At that moment, the waiter arrived with their soup. Mr. Haverill diverted his eyes from hers, studying the condensation that had formed on the water goblets. He took a taste, and rested his spoon on the edge of his bowl. “Morgan and I went our separate ways many years ago. Her untimely death is tragic, but I’d made my peace, as I believe my son has, too.”
His sentiment echoed Archer’s. Did he really feel nothing? Lucy didn’t believe it for a second. Peace or no peace, she’d been his wife, the mother of his son. “Why did you want to speak with me about her death?”
He cleared his throat. “Excuse me if I seem taken aback. The women of my generation are not so . . . so direct.”
“I’ve been accused of being blunt before,” Lucy said, forcing a smile. “It’s just, well, I’m sure you can imagine that this is somewhat difficult for me. To be here with you without Archer knowing.”
“Are you suggesting he’d have a problem with that?”
“It probably depends upon what you have to say. But I wouldn’t blame him for being surprised.”
“There is little that surprises Archer, my dear. The sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be. But one of the reasons that I did invite you here was to protect him.” He tore his roll in half, selected a butter ball, and pressed it into the center with his small knife. The bite he took was more butter than bread. “Morgan and I were married very briefly—less than five years. She made no effort to connect to Archer or to fulfill her role as his mother. She and I had been out of contact for decades, until—” He stopped, opting not to finish that thought. “It isn’t fair to expose our family to whatever media attention may be generated by your inquiry into the circumstances surrounding her death. We’re private and we want to maintain that privacy.”
“I have no control over the press.”
“Perhaps not formally.”
“We have a separate publicity bureau that deals with the media.”
“That may be. But reporters certainly call the precinct to obtain information. The department issues press releases on high-profile cases. That’s what I’m trying to guard against: having our names mentioned in that setting. Morgan’s involvement with the Haverill family has no bearing on what’s happened and isn’t relevant to your investigation.” He leaned toward her. “Just so that I make myself clear, I’m willing to pay handsomely for discretion.”
His arrogance aside, the idea that he’d actually lured her to his country club only to try to bribe her was insulting—even if what he wanted was beyond her power or control to provide. Apparently good breeding didn’t guard against being an asshole. “I’m sorry I can’t help you,” she said. “My duty as a police officer is to conduct a thorough investigation. While there can and will be no gratuitous release of information—and our unit takes extra precautions to guard against leaks—I cannot agree to alter in any manner the way my partner and I will proceed because of my relationship with Archer or . . . for any other reason.”
Mr. Haverill pursed his lips in an effort to contain his irritation. Despite Morgan’s departure from his life, and his son’s decision not to proceed with a career in finance, Lucy suspected that in most areas Mr. Haverill’s life had gone his way. He must have expected he could sway her or he would never have asked for this meeting.
“That said, if her personal life—or in this case prior life—played no part in her murder, you may get what you want. My department certainly understands the turmoil that can come from publicity. We’re not out to hurt anyone. I will make every effort to be sure that information is disseminated only on a need-to-know basis.”
It was the best she could offer, and he seemed to know it. They stared at each other for a moment but said nothing. Fortunately, the waiter, arriving with their crab cakes, provided a needed diversion. He set their plates in front of them and lifted off the silver covers that had kept lunch warm. “Enjoy,” he said.
Mr. Haverill began to eat quickly, signaling that the conversation was over. Once the meal was over, too, they could go their separate ways.
Lucy leaned forward. “Since I’m here, may I ask you some questions?”
He looked up from his plate with obvious displeasure.
“Who is Walter Reese?”
“You mean ‘was.’ Walter was Morgan’s father,” he replied. “A wonderful man. He died shortly after our marriage.”
Lucy tried to hide her surprise. Had Morgan illegally used his identity to get medication for herself? She remembered the message on the answering machine. No wonder the insurance company had questioned the prescription. But it still seemed odd that Morgan wouldn’t have simply paid cash for the drugs and avoided the issue altogether. Why was she willing to risk her medical license to hide the fact that she wanted antianxiety medication? “Does Morgan have any surviving family?”
“Other than Archer?” He raised his eyebrows. “Not any of whom I’m aware.”
“You mentioned, or almost mentioned before you caught yourself, that you’d had contact with Morgan. I assume recently. Is that right?”
He nodded but didn’t verbalize a reply.
“Can you tell me why?”
He was silent.
“Look . . . sir, as I said, I’m going to do my best to help you. I’m trying to solve this crime as quickly as possible. At this point, we still know very little about Morgan’s life, or why someone might have wanted her dead. If you have information that may be important and you don’t disclose it, that leaves me with only one choice—a route I don’t want to take.”
“And what is that?”
“Have the Assistant District Attorney call you before a grand jury.”
He coughed. “I beg your pardon.”
“You and I actually want the same thing, which is to make this case go away. That’s going to happen when we catch Morgan’s killer. It’d be a lot easier if you tell me what you know right here, right now.”
She should have forced him to come down to the precinct, to talk on her turf. But since she’d already made that mistake, she was determined to leave with something useful.
“You’re tough,” he said under his breath.
“That’s my job.”
He laid his knife and fork together on his plate. “She contacted me.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper with a ragged edge. It appeared the note had been folded and refolded multiple times. Now he opened it yet again and glanced down, no doubt by force of habit; judging from the expression of concern on his face, he didn’t need his memory refreshed. “She wrote to inform me that she had a substantial life insurance policy.”
“How substantial?”
“For the sum of five million dollars.”
“Why tell you?”
&nb
sp; He hesitated briefly. “Because Archer is the beneficiary.”
To buy a policy or even to pay premiums on an existing one of that size at her age was no small investment. Why would an estranged mother do that when she knew that the Haverill family was beyond affluent already? Morgan had to have known Archer never would want for anything. “When did she tell you this?”
“Two weeks ago. We spoke briefly. These are my notes on that conversation.”
“Why did you take notes?”
“I’m not as young as you. I need reminders of events.”
She couldn’t tell from his tone of voice whether his comment was an attempt at levity. “Does Archer know?”
He shook his head.
“Why didn’t she tell him herself? Why contact you? He’s not a child anymore,” she added. Then she remembered Morgan’s luncheon invitation to Archer. Perhaps she’d intended to tell him, but he hadn’t given her the opportunity. He’d never responded, not even to say he wouldn’t come.
“Because she knew how I felt about inherited wealth.”
She clasped her hands together and leaned toward him. “And how is that?”
He cleared his throat. “I doubt that what I’m about to say will make much sense to you, but I will say my piece nonetheless. As you well know, Archer is privileged. As a child, he had everything money could buy. He knows the house and all that I have will be his some day, perhaps not too long from now. And that luxury has allowed him to act irresponsibly. What he inherited, and what he will potentially inherit, has made him reckless.”
Bar ownership didn’t comport with Main Line expectations. That he’d created a lively meeting place for a diverse crowd apparently was lost on his father.
Mr. Haverill continued. “He gave up a meaningful profession. He provides a forum for artists who can’t get a gallery and writers whom no one will publish, so-called creative types who don’t even pay the bar bill.”
“But he loves his job.”
“It’s self-indulgent. He’s accomplished nothing except to make himself a big fish in a little pond of his own creating. He ignores even the most basic lessons that most of us learn about capitalism. He has no sense of social obligation.”