by Nancy Geary
“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.
“I finally agreed to have dinner with them Saturday night to meet Avery. It had to be a weekend because Avery was at boarding school and couldn’t leave during the week. And I agreed to get her a hotel room, too, so she’d have someplace to stay. I assumed she wouldn’t be able to go home.” He turned to face the two detectives. “I told my wife I was going to be away on business. As you can imagine, I had to account for my absence.” She never bothered to check his itinerary. He could be anywhere. Besides, a weekend sounded more plausible than just a night. It could be a multiday convention, a business conference. Drug companies had them all the time. She never seemed to mind when he traveled.
“But then my boss, Dixon Burlingame, heard I was skipping the Rabbit and insisted I change my plans. He was bringing David Ellery, an old friend of his who had been passed over for the position as director of the Wilder Center. It was an appeasement dinner, so to speak, and he wanted me to join them. I couldn’t say no.”
No doubt Dixon’s mandate had been a blessing in disguise. Dixon had saved Tripp from himself, from his own weaknesses. “So I called Morgan on Saturday afternoon and told her I’d changed my mind,” he lied. He hadn’t had the courage to deal with another conversation. He’d simply stood them up.
“Where did you reach her on Saturday?” Harper asked.
Did these cops know more than they were letting on? He hated this whole charade. He felt perspiration on his back. The pima cotton of his custom shirt felt clammy. “Uh. Come to think of it, she called me.”
They didn’t need to know that she’d called from the restaurant, and only after he was more than an hour late. Where are you? Avery and I are waiting.
“That’s when I said I wasn’t coming, that a meeting wasn’t possible. I had business demands.”
Work pressures. She should have been able to understand that, he’d thought. Her whole life had been about her career. Virtually every choice she’d made had advanced it, right down to the Wilder Center plum. “Avery wasn’t my problem to fix. And then . . .” He coughed to clear his throat. “She showed up unexpectedly at the Rabbit.” He should never have admitted where he was.
He’d never forget looking across the game room and seeing her in the doorway. Judging from her stance, her slight sway as she perched atop her stiletto heels, she’d been at least slightly inebriated. But even at that late hour, even in her condition, she was beautiful, more beautiful than his wife could ever dream of being.
He hadn’t wanted to admit even to himself that he’d booked the room at the Hyatt for two nights—planned to be away from home longer than necessary—before the dinner was canceled, but he’d hoped. He’d hoped that if she appreciated his gesture enough, his willingness to meet their daughter, he could persuade her to spend, one more night, one more time, one more for the Gipper. Avery could return to boarding school, and she and he could escape reality for twenty-four hours. How wrong he’d been.
How dare you? How could you do this to her? He’d heard her words, yet all he could picture was the last time they’d made love seventeen years before. She’d had her legs wrapped around his hips. Lying against her, feeling her small breasts pressed into his chest, feeling himself inside her, the memory still excited him.
“What is going on?” Dixon had asked, the scorn on his face obvious at the sudden interruption of a convivial men’s night at the Rabbit. Who could blame him? A scene between his handpicked director and a vice president of his company hadn’t been on his agenda, and with Ellery present, there was no hope that what took place would stay confidential.
Tripp had known from the tone in Dixon’s voice that he’d had to get Morgan out of there. He and Dixon went back a long way, but nobody at AmeriMed was indispensable.
“I asked her if we could speak outside, and she agreed,” he explained now.
He’d tried to take her arm, but she’d pulled it away. They’d managed to get outside onto the porch before she’d spoken again, a conversation he’d never repeat to anyone.
“Avery’s in the car,” she’d told h
im. In the partial moonlight, he’d seen the Mercedes, its engine idling, and a female silhouette behind the wheel. “Can’t you appreciate what we’ve done? Can’t you understand how hard it is for our daughter? You couldn’t even find it in your heart to return her phone call today. You’re a coward.”
Then Morgan had turned to face him with a hard stare. “It was her idea to come here, to see what you considered more important than meeting your daughter, and now she knows. She knows about your pretenses, your airs. She knows what kind of deceitful social climber of a man her father is, and she understands she’ll have to fight her own biology for the rest of her life to avoid inheriting a single one of your traits.”
“This was your idea, not mine,” he’d muttered.
“She loves her parents—her adopted parents—and claims she needs neither of us. She says that none of the choices we made matter to her anymore. But you know what she did want to know? Whether we’d ever been in love.” Morgan had laughed in disgust. “I was tempted to tell her the truth, but I didn’t want her to hate you. How silly of me to think I could prevent that.”
“This is really not the time or the place to have this discussion.”
“Oh, Tripp, the consummate protocol man. Well, you needn’t worry about hearing from her again. She’ll stay out of your way. You’ve done your final damage. To both of us.”
Remembering the scene—or rather the horror—he sniffled loudly, and then turned to the female detective. All he wanted was an ounce of compassion. Didn’t anyone understand how difficult all of this had been for him? “Morgan explained that the idea of an introduction had been a mistake. I completely understood. I’d thought the whole plan was a disaster from the beginning. I got in my car and drove straight to the Hyatt. She was still on the porch of the club when I left. And very much alive, I might add.”
“What did you do when you got to the hotel?” Harper asked.
“I had a drink and went to bed.”
These cops didn’t need to know any more; they didn’t need to know his night had been a living nightmare. He’d bought a fifth of bourbon on the way to the hotel but still drained the minibar. Then he’d crawled into bed and pulled the covers over his head. That was how his night had ended—with his anxiety blurred by alcohol to the point where he felt nearly comatose. His sleep had been fitful. He’d awoken sick, crawled to the bathroom to vomit, and then watched an old World War II movie on television at four in the morning.
“What happened on Sunday?”
He hadn’t left his room, hadn’t gotten out of bed. He’d thought about calling Avery but decided against it. Speaking to the girl would only remind him of Morgan, a woman he had to forget if he was going to keep his life and sanity intact. “When I’d rested, I showered, packed, and went home. I didn’t learn of Morgan’s death until I saw it on the evening news. Dixon called me later that evening and confirmed what I already knew.”
Sherrill paced frantically back and forth in the driveway. Her high-heeled shoes wobbled in the gravel. He watched her awkward movements and the pronounced panty line that showed through her trousers. Suddenly she turned. Her eyes had narrowed into slits.
“You pig!” she said in a voice that was low and controlled. “You’re nothing without me.”
“I’m sorry,” was all Tripp could manage. He felt utterly and completely beleaguered. “I don’t know what else I can say.” Suddenly he yearned for a golf course community in South Carolina, where two-bedroom condos sold for under a hundred thousand and the sun shone three hundred days of the year. Anything to get away.
“How pathetic is that? I should have known when I saw that trailer park you called home.” Her lips curled and she barely opened her mouth as she spoke. He’d never seen her so angry—or so absolutely hideous. “Your father couldn’t give away a piece of property, let alone sell it. You didn’t know what it was to have manners, to travel in the right circles. My family, my money, we gave you everything you needed. You wouldn’t even have a job if it weren’t for me. AmeriMed wouldn’t hire white trash, but being my husband gave you cachet. Don’t think anyone on the Main Line would disagree.”
Her words droned on, but Tripp didn’t listen. There was nothing she could say or do to make the situation any more or less palatable. He was ruined. At that moment, he wanted to be arrested. If the detectives took him away, jail would at least bring him relief from the wrath of his wife.
“And this is how I’m repaid? This is my thanks? You make me sick. I never want to see you again.” She paused, presumably to catch her breath. Turning to Jack and Lucy, her tone softened. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to call with my regrets for this evening’s engagements. Too late, but regrets nonetheless.” She swung open the front door and disappeared within.
The detectives headed toward their car. At some point Tripp had to get up off the front step, go inside, and either pack his bag or hash out his differences with his wife of nearly twenty years. Either way, there was nothing left in his life of interest to the police.
30
Saturday, May 24th 9:30 a.m.
Jack turned off Interstate 95 onto the Baltimore Beltway. Sitting beside him in the passenger seat, Lucy fingered the arrest warrant as she listened to him hum along to the Charlie Daniels Band. In their case, the devil hadn’t made it all the way to Georgia; Owings Mills, Maryland, was south enough.
The sky was clear and the traffic minimal. Once they exited the Beltway, the scenery was bucolic—rolling pastures, split-rail fences, and grazing horses. Garrison Forest was in equestrian country, a beautiful setting for the well-bred daughters of genteel Southerners to be educated. Esse quam videri—to be rather than to seem—was the school’s motto, according to its Web site. The rigorous curriculum taught independent thinking, the milieu fostered impeccable manners, and the campus resembled a country club. The all-female student body was offered every conceivable educational, athletic, and artistic advantage.
Somehow Avery fit into this population. Was it possible that this prefect-elect was actually involved in the vicious killing of her own mother? Murderers couldn’t be stereotyped, yet this one seemed particularly wrong. The genetic product of intellectual and academic excellence and the environmental product of an affluent and devoted family, she’d been given every opportunity. If Avery was guilty, what had happened?
Lucy and Jack had decided not to inform the school’s administration in advance of their arrival. Who knew what contributions the Herberts had made to the endowment fund, and a possible leak was too high a risk. Nonetheless, as they drove onto campus, it seemed as though every clear-complexioned, blond student striding along the path with a leather backpack knew precisely why they were there. The stares followed the Crown Victoria as it made its way along the narrow paved road that connected a multitude of buildings until they reached Meadowood Hall, the large brick dormitory that housed freshman, sophomores, and a handful of juniors and seniors. Jack cut the engine, and they headed toward the front door.
The black-painted door opened into a stairwell. Looking up, Lucy could see three stories. Judging from the number of front- facing windows, the building contained dozens of rooms. And there was no intercom or other way to discern where a particular occupant resided.
She shut the door behind her and squinted into the sun. Under a tree, a girl in a yellow Lacoste shirt and white piqué culottes was reading Edith Wharton, a pink highlighter in one hand and a menthol cigarette in the other. As Lucy approached, she quickly ground out her butt in the soil.
“Do you know where I can find Avery Herbert?” Lucy asked.
The girl looked past Lucy to the threshold of Meadowood Hall, where Jack stood on the step wearing his dark aviator glasses, more closely resembling a member of the president’s security detail than a homicide detective out of his jurisdiction. She shrugged. “Avery left yesterday.”
“She did?”
“Yeah.”
“Was that a surprise?”
The girl shrugged.
“School is done in less than a week. She skipped two finals and took all her stuff. I hear she’s not even coming back next year.”
“Who picked her up?”
“Her mother.”
Lucy thought for a moment. “Did she have a roommate?”
“Yeah, Margot Tyler.”
“Can you tell us anything about their relationship, or friendship?”
The girl paused. “They’d been best friends in the fall, inseparable really, but I guess rooming caught up with them. That happens a lot, especially with new girls. Come to think of it, my mother’s advice about sharing a room is the one piece of useful advice she’s ever given me: Be friendly, not friends. You want the distance. My roommate now—we’ve got nothing in common. But that suits me just fine.” She smiled.
Lucy smiled back, trying to quell her frustration at the mental meanderings that constituted this conversation.
“Anyway, there was a family crisis in January. Her brother shot himself.” She grimaced. “Must’ve been pretty awful. After that the administration switched Avery to a single. She needed privacy.”
“Do you know where Margot is now?”
The girl shrugged. “Either taking an exam or studying for one would be my guess. You could check the library.”
Lucy glanced around the lawn with the hope that this roommate would miraculously appear, but they were out of luck. “Can you show us which room was hers?”
She shrugged again. “I guess. I doubt it’s locked.” She stood up, dropping her book on the grass.
Lucy and Jack followed her inside, up one flight of stairs, and halfway down a corridor. Then she stopped. Slightly ajar, the door was covered with yellow and blue happy-face stickers, and a bumper sticker that read, WHEN THE GOING GETS TOUGH, THE TOUGH GO SHOPPING.