Regrets Only (31 page)

She reached into her bag and found the picture she’d taken from Dr. Reese’s office. “Is this that girl?”

He studied the photograph, his eyes darting between the recent image of his mother and the girl beside her. “I’m not sure. But it could be. As I said, I only met her a couple of times.” Then he put the picture facedown on the table. “Why is Morgan in this?”

“Did you ever ask Foster why he’d approached you to begin with?”

“No, I did not. I own the place. I can show anything I want. What does this have to do with Morgan?”

“Did any of his work sell?”

Archer glared at her. “Look, I don’t know what you’re doing or what you want from me, but I’m sick of your inquisition. You’re the one who’s been withholding information, information that directly impacts me and my life.” He picked up the papers and shook them at her again.

“Did you sell one of his drawings?”

“No, for your information, I did not. The only one that sold I bought myself because I felt bad.”

“Where is it?”

There was a long pause. When he spoke again, his words were a barely audible mumble. “I don’t have it anymore. I gave it away.” When he looked up at her, his anger had dissolved, leaving exhaustion in its wake. “You’re supposed to be investigating my mother’s death. Foster and his work had nothing to do with that.”

His defensiveness convinced her that her hunch had been right. “Your mother wanted one of Foster’s self-portraits, didn’t she?”

The room was so quiet she thought she could hear the sizzle of the rolling paper as his cigarette burned. Even Cyclops, lying by one end of the couch, didn’t stir.

“How did you know?” His tone was flat.

Lucy sat opposite, reached for his hands, and clasped them between her palms. “Can you tell me what happened?” she asked, ignoring his question.

He freed his hands, raised his glass, and threw back his scotch in one swallow. Then he collapsed back into his chair. “What happened? I wish I knew. She came into the bar one afternoon a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t recognize her, although after she introduced herself I realized she hadn’t changed that much. I think it was the oddity of seeing her after so many years. She started off by making a big deal about the fact that I hadn’t responded to her lunch invitation, the one she’d sent me in March. She asked if I was angry with her—a pretty stupid question in my view—but I said I wasn’t. What else could I say? ‘You raving bitch’ didn’t seem worth the effort. I can’t be any angrier at this point. I also told her that I didn’t want explanations, rationalizations. Why she’d done what she did was her business. If she needed to get something off her chest, that was her problem. I couldn’t make it mine. And then she asked about Foster. She somehow knew of the show and wanted to purchase one of his drawings. I told her I didn’t have his work anymore. He’d taken the stuff back. But I had his home address, and she could contact him directly. And then . . . then . . . ,” Archer’s voice quivered. “She started to cry. It was a kind of quiet weeping—not wailing or hysterical, just the saddest image of this woman—a stranger to me who shouldn’t be. She begged me to get her a drawing. She said she couldn’t contact him, but she would pay anything if I could track one down. None of it made sense.”

“So what did you do?”

“The best that I could. I called the cell number I had for Foster, but it was out of service. Then I remembered my drawing. I had it in the closet, hadn’t yet decided where to hang it, or even if I wanted to, so I figured I’d give it to . . . to . . . I just brought it out and handed it over to her. She stared at it, crying, wiping her eyes, and crying again. She offered to pay, as if I cared about that. By this point, I wanted her to leave.”

Lucy wished for a moment she could turn back the clock and coach him through the meeting again. Why had he been so unwilling to hear what she’d wanted—or needed—to say? He may have maintained his composure, his control, but he’d lost his only opportunity.

“I had to ask her to go. The bar was filling up. Sapphire was pretty busy. That was when . . . when she asked if I’d reconsider about lunch. She wanted to talk. ‘You know what it’s like to be a Haverill. You’ve rebelled, too,’ she said. I told her I’d think about it.”

“Was that the last you heard from her?”

“No.” Archer lit a second cigarette off the burning end of his first and then ground out the small butt on a plate. “She sent me an invitation.” He reached into his back pocket and unfolded a worn ivory card trimmed in red. It had several smudges on it, as if it had been opened, read, and refolded dozens of times in the week that he’d had it in his possession.

Your mother requests the pleasure of your company on Sunday, May 18th, at eleven o’clock at the Liberty Bell. Regrets only.

“Regrets only?”

“I took the formality as a joke, you know, given what she’d said about being a Haverill. It’s actually an arrogant social protocol if you ask me. The premise is that if you invite a big crowd and assume most people will come, you want to hear only from the ones who can’t. It’s more efficient that way for the host, but much more awkward for the guests. They have to call and explain why they aren’t attending. When I got her invitation, I figured I’d play along. I didn’t respond because by that point, after everything, I planned to meet her.”

“When did you get this?”

“Thursday. The day before . . .” His voice trailed off. He picked up the card and tore it in half, then quarters, and then smaller pieces still. “Then she’s killed.” They sat for several moments in silence.

“Why an invitation?” Lucy asked. “Do you think anyone else got one?”

“I have no idea.”

“You didn’t
go
to the Liberty Bell on Sunday, did you?”

He shook his head. “With all that had happened the night before, I completely forgot about it, but even if I had remembered, what was the point? She wasn’t going to be there.” He paused, closing his eyes. “So who is Avery Herbert?”

Lucy swallowed hard. She knew what she was about to say would come as even more of a shock than anything he’d learned thus far. “I’m not sure how best to phrase this, and tact is not my forte, as you well know.” She forced a smile, which he didn’t return. “Your mother had other children. Twins. One was Foster, and the other is this person on the insurance policy: Avery Herbert.”

There. The words were out and with them the truth. Archer had no visible reaction. She walked around behind him, and gently rubbed his shoulders, feeling the tense knots in his muscles as she massaged them.

The telephone rang, but neither of them moved, and she listened as the machine picked up. An automated voice informed her that she’d won a three-day vacation in Orlando with an exclusive opportunity to purchase a time-share in a brand-new gated community. All she had to do was call a 1-800 number, and her dreams could come true. She almost laughed at the simple solution.

“Are they my father’s children, too?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know who the biological father is. I was hoping you could help me.”

He shook his head. “Who are the Herberts?”

“He’s a lawyer at a prominent downtown firm, Leedes, Collin, and Wilkes. They live in Gladwyne, although the house is for sale.”

“I know that firm. Carson Leedes is a partner. He represented my mother in her divorce from Dad. Even the utterance of his name still makes Dad ballistic. Neither of my parents wanted anything protracted or ugly, but Leedes doesn’t know the meaning of a negotiated settlement. As my father puts it, Leedes ‘eats acrimony for breakfast.’ When Dad found out Leedes’s firm was handling Mom’s estate, he told me about the divorce. Before this morning, I’d never heard anything about it.”

“What else did he tell you?”

“Only that she had wanted it. She claimed emotional cruelty. Leedes got her a couple of million dollars—she may have wanted out of the marriage but apparently was no fool with respect to Dad’s money—and my father got sole custody, which was very unusual. She was given liberal visitation rights, which she simply never exercised. I guess the battle for some bucks was stronger than for her child. And he wasn’t about to take her back to court to force her to comply. How do you compel someone to be a mother?”

He was right. It was an impossible task. “Have you seen a copy of her will?”

Archer interlaced his fingers, stretched his arms overhead, and then rested his head in his palms. “No. And apparently I won’t. She set up an irrevocable trust years ago. All of her assets have been left to Penn’s Medical School.”

That explained the insurance. It was a way of leaving something for her children. The plan made sense, especially since neither of her children had been to her home, or would have a sentimental attachment to any of her belongings. They would get a substantial inheritance and not have to deal with the administration of her estate.

“So the Herberts adopted her twins.” He had a pained expression on his face, the lines around his mouth seeming deeper than usual.

“I assume so, given the surname. We’re trying to get copies of probate records.”

“Hmmm.” He ran his fingers through his hair.

Lucy opened a cabinet and reached for the airtight jar of coffee beans. She filled the grinder, pressed the button, and listened to the crackle and whir. Then she emptied the rich powder into a filter, filled the coffeemaker with water, and switched on the machine. A moment later the drip began. They could both use strong coffee.

Archer got up from his chair, moved to the fridge, and opened the door. He stared inside but reached for nothing.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Lucy asked.

“I didn’t think it had anything to do with her death. And . . . and because I hate myself for not meeting her the first time and for not listening to her that day at the bar. I knew you’d think I was cruel, hurtful. You told me as much when I mentioned the original letter. You thought I should forgive and forget. But I don’t work like you. You get stuff off your chest and then it’s gone. With me, my feelings, my anger, they fester because there’s nobody to confront. How do you hash it out with a shadow, a memory? And now my punishment is that I don’t get to know anything. It’s too late.”

Lucy couldn’t disagree. She knew that the mystery would haunt him, probably forever. He might learn all the facts, but he’d never know the truth. She walked over to him, wrapped her arms around him, and kissed his cheek. “I wish I could give you that opportunity. I wish I could buy you a day or a week with her. But the answers I might find for you won’t be the real answers you want. I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

As she moved away, he reached for her and held her close. “Don’t leave.”

She held him to her. He seemed to belong to a different species, some strange, dysfunctional gene pool, and for more than a moment she wished she were embracing one of her own kind. That and a Florida time-share and maybe all her problems would disappear.

He buried his head in her neck and she felt his body shake. “Don’t leave me, too.”

25

Thursday, May 22nd 6:15 a.m
.

L
ucy had been awake most of the night. Seated on a pile of throw pillows in the dormer alcove with a cup of hot water and lemon, she’d reread chapter three from First Kings nearly a dozen times. It had been years since she’d studied any biblical text, but she remembered the famous parable of King Solomon contained in that passage, the story of the two prostitutes who gave birth on the same day in the same house. One baby was alive, the other dead. Both women claimed custody of the healthy one, and brought their case before the wise king to resolve.

And the king said, Bring me a sword. And they brought a sword before the king. And the king said, Divide the living child in two, and give half to the one and half to the other.

One woman urged the division.
Let the baby belong to no one.
But the second woman begged the king to give the child to the first so as to spare his life. And that was how King Solomon knew to whom the child rightfully belonged.

Lucy stared out the small window at the crescent moon still visible in the early-morning light. Then she picked up the portable telephone and dialed her parents’ number. Mrs. O’Malley’s internal alarm rarely let her sleep past five. No doubt she was sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea, scanning the clipless coupons from the newspaper insert.

“Are you all right?” her mother asked, picking up before the first ring had finished.

“I’m fine. I just miss you.”

“You pick a fine time to check in, Lucy. Nearly gave me a heart attack. A ring before eight in the morning or after nine at night, and it can only be an emergency.”

“I knew you’d be up.”

Her mother chuckled at the end of the line. “One of these days, I’m going to sleep until ten and everyone will think I’m dead. But it’s a blessing to hear your voice anytime. Now tell me, how’s that beau of yours?”

“He’s all right.” Archer wouldn’t appreciate having any of his personal angst made public. She’d yet to tell her parents that she was investigating the murder of his mother. Plus, she couldn’t bring herself to confess that he was asleep not ten yards away. She’d been caught once when he’d answered her telephone, but the part of her that would forever remain her parents’ child played along with the virgin-innocence fantasy she knew her mother maintained. Without a wedding band, unmarried couples slept in separate apartments, or at least separate rooms. “I actually called with a Bible question,” she said, needing to change the subject.

“Let me mark this date on the calendar. It is truly a miracle.” Mrs. O’Malley laughed again at her own joke. She’d had the good sense to get over her daughter’s lack of interest in religion years before, and now kept her evangelical ambitions quiet. In return, Lucy attended Mass at Christmas and Easter, and tried her best not to take the Lord’s name in vain, at least not in Somerville.

“I need to know about a parable in First Kings. There are these two women and only one baby.”

“Yes. The story of King Solomon’s adjudication,” her mother interrupted.

“That’s it. What exactly is the point?”