Cherry Ames Boxed Set 17-20

by Helen Wells

  “No, no, an M.D.,” Grey insisted. “Could be Dr. King isn’t in Greenhill. But is she somewhere in this general area?”

  Old Mr. Brown shook his head. “Doctor, I know everybody around here, and I certainly know the doctors because I fill the prescriptions they write, and talk to ’em on the phone. Say! Could she be an intern over at the local hospital? … No? … Well, then, there’s no such doctor as Dr. Mary Leeds King, and never was!”

  And never was. So Irene Wick’s letter of reference was faked. Then who was Bunny, whose phone number was the reference number? And who lived—now, or two years ago—at the address printed on that faked letter?

  Cherry turned to Grey. “With your permission, I’d like to ask Mr. Brown another question?” Grey nodded. “Mr. Brown, could you tell us who lives at 14275 Crescent Drive here in Greenhill?”

  “Hmm.” The pharmacist thought. “That’s three blocks north of the traffic circle. The white brick house. That would be Mrs. Belfinger. Lydia Belfinger.” He spelled the odd name for them. “And her two little girls.”

  To make certain they were discussing the same woman, the pharmacist described Mrs. Belfinger. He’d heard she was a widow; she had lived in Greenhill for the last two years.

  Two years, Cherry thought. Mrs. Wick had been in Dr. Fairall’s employ for about two years. She asked Mr. Brown if he knew anyone named Wick. He didn’t.

  Grey, meanwhile, had been looking at the store’s telephone directory, which included several towns in this area. He reported no Wick listed, and only the one Belfinger here in Greenhill. Old Mr. Brown looked curious, but he did not ask any questions.

  “If you’ll look out front, Doctor, I believe that’s your Mrs. Belfinger getting out of her car.”

  “I think it is!” Cherry exclaimed, and Grey said, “Thank you very much, Mr. Brown. You’ve been a great help in a professional matter.”

  They bustled out of the drugstore and started across the square. The woman who might be Bunny was walking away from her beautiful, expensive car. She wore sports clothes, and low-heeled shoes, without any hair showing under a kerchief. Was this woman Bunny? Then Cherry saw the woman’s red lizard handbag, brand new, of unmistakable design.

  “It is Bunny!” Cherry muttered to Grey.

  They watched Bunny enter a corner bakery. She stayed ten minutes, then came out with a cakebox and bundles, and went back to her car. Grey said they could follow in his car, without Bunny’s knowing it.

  A few minutes later they were cruising slowly along winding, tree-shaded avenues lined with beautiful houses and gardens. “Quite impressive,” Cherry said. They saw Bunny park her car in her driveway, and go into a white brick house. Grey parked just around the corner from Bunny’s house. They got out, to learn what they could.

  “Look,” Grey said. “That woman who’s cutting roses—she’s a neighbor of Bunny’s. We’re in luck.”

  Admiring the roses gave Cherry and Grey a chance to speak to her. The neighbor turned out to be a pleasant, talkative woman. Grey hinted that they were house hunting. That white brick house was attractive, he remarked. Grey inquired about the neighborhood. The lady said she knew most of her neighbors. And that the resident of the white brick house was Mrs. Belfinger.

  “I understand Mrs. Belfinger wasn’t left much by her late husband,” the neighbor said. “In fact, the realtor who rented her the house was afraid at first that she wouldn’t be able to afford it, to stay on there. But then—quite suddenly—Mrs. Belfinger seemed to have plenty of money. Lots of money, for her lavish style of living! She still has. Bunny told me that she—or rather her late husband—had made some fortunate investments.”

  Cherry and Grey kept their faces noncommittal. Sudden and continuing wealth—did it really come from investments? Still, it was possible.

  “Very fortunate,” Cherry said to the neighbor. “Doesn’t anyone else share that big house? Someone told us Mrs. Belfinger has two little girls.”

  “That’s right,” said the neighbor. “Just the three of them living there. There’s a middle-aged woman who comes up to visit, occasional weekends—a woman from New York.”

  “Mrs. Irene Wick?” Grey asked casually.

  “Why, no, I believe the name is Mrs. Ronald or Arnold, or something like that. Barbara Arnold, I think.”

  It could be an assumed name, Cherry thought. Trying not to sound strained, she asked, “Has she graying blond hair? A dignified woman—”

  The neighbor stared down at a rosebush, trying to remember. “I’m not sure of her hair color. As for dignified, well—I suppose you could say she is. I’ve never seen her close up. I think this visitor wears glasses.”

  Irene Wick did not wear glasses.

  “Or maybe I’m thinking of sunglasses?”

  Grey gestured to Cherry to break away from the long-winded neighbor. By now she apparently had told them all she knew. The rest was confusion.

  Grey suggested they walk to the nearest cluster of shops. “The tradespeople will know Mrs. Belfinger,” he said. “Some store will be open, even on Sunday.”

  Two blocks away they found an attractive ice-cream shop and went in. It was deserted except for a lone clerk moping behind the soda fountain. He was about seventeen or eighteen, and looked as if he’d rather be outdoors with his friends. At least he did cheer up when Cherry and Grey sat down at the fountain, and asked him whether the shop served lunch.

  “Yes, ma’am—yes, sir,” the boy said. “I can serve you sandwiches, coffee, ice cream. But if you want a real experience, let me fix you each a super royal banana split.”

  Grey and Cherry looked at each other. Grey cautiously asked, “What’s in it?”

  “Everything,” the boy said. “It’s a masterpiece. I b’lieve you’ll like it.”

  So they ordered it, and while the boy constructed a fantastic mound, they talked with him about this neighborhood. He was an obliging youth, willing to answer their questions. Cherry felt ashamed of pumping him for information, even though it was needed for a serious purpose.

  “Oh, yes, I know Mrs. Belfinger and her two kids. Nice little kids,” the boy said. He set two edible masterpieces in front of them. “Betty Lou and Janie. How they love ice cream! She brings ’em here for cones and buys ice cream to take home, too. Always vanilla,” he said disgustedly.

  “For the three of them?” Cherry prompted.

  “Well, sometimes she has company, weekends. I can always tell when, because she buys fancy ice cream for company. She told me so. How do you like the—er—glop?”

  Cherry could tell from his expression that Grey was not enjoying “the glop” drowned in marshmallow sauce. But he said valiantly, “Fine, fine. And has Mrs. Belfinger bought any fancy ice-cream desserts this weekend?”

  “No, sir, so I guess she has no company.” The boy branched off onto other subjects, useless to them.

  Cherry nudged Grey and said softly, “I regret that I cannot consume another mouthful of this delicious glop. Can you?”

  “No,” said Grey in relief, stood up, paid, and marched out of there. Cherry stopped to compliment the boy on his creation, then followed Grey.

  Although they explored Greenhill for other sources of information, by midafternoon they admitted to each other that the effort was useless. Bunny and Irene Wick’s connection with her remained a question mark. Grey and Cherry drove back to New York, stymied.

  That Sunday evening at home, Cherry looked in the telephone book for the address and telephone number of her predecessor. Yes, there she was, Zelda Colt, R.N., and a telephone number.

  Cherry dialed the number and a woman’s voice answered. “Claremont, good evening.”

  It took Cherry a moment to realize that this meant the Hotel Claremont, a residential hotel for women. “Miss Zelda Colt, please,” she said.

  “Miss Colt is out of town on vacation. She is expected back later this week,” said the hotel telephone operator. “Any message?”

  “Yes. Will you tell her that Cherry Ames, R.N.,
working for Dr. Fairall, urgently needs to talk with her?” Cherry gave her home telephone number and hung up.

  It was just possible that the fired nurse knew something that no one else knew—excepting Irene.

  “I just can’t believe it,” Dr. Fairall said to Grey and Cherry on Monday. He leaned back in his desk chair and rubbed his broad forehead. He looked hurt and shocked. “Maybe I don’t want to believe it—not about a crackerjack medical secretary like Irene. Why, she’s so close to me—so trusted—”

  They had just reported to him the incidents involving Irene Wick that Cherry had witnessed since working there. The young doctor and nurse scrupulously did not make any accusations. They were leaving it to Dr. Bill Fairall to draw his own conclusions.

  “Well, look,” he said with a sigh. “Even though I don’t doubt your word—and I’m sure Cherry’s got the facts reasonably straight—you have to remember this. About two years ago, a Dr. Mary King did send me a long, satisfactory letter about Mrs. Wick before I hired her. And I checked with Dr. King by phone. Above all,” Dr. Fairall said, “Irene has been doing a fine job for me. It’s painful—and disappointing—to hear such news about her.”

  Dr. Fairall stared down at his hands. “Grey, are you absolutely sure of your charges against Irene?”

  Grey cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to have to say this, sir. But—yes, I’m sure.”

  “And you, Cherry?” Dr. Fairall asked.

  Cherry felt her cheeks burn. “I’m convinced—or almost—that Irene is swindling.”

  Dr. Fairall bounced out of his chair and paced around his office, thinking. Presently he dropped onto the leather couch. “This swindling thing makes me feel sick,” he said.

  “Well, speaking of feeling sick,” Grey said. “Ah, you know, sir, you shouldn’t eat a hasty lunch while you’re working at your desk. I know it’s convenient for you to have Irene serve you lunch in here, but—! Sometimes Dr. Lamb and I worry about whether you are overdoing.”

  Dr. Fairall gave a short laugh. “Work hard, play hard. I’m fine! Don’t worry about me.”

  The phone rang. After Dr. Fairall had conferred with a hospital colleague on the telephone, he resumed with Cherry and Grey.

  “Where were we? Oh, yes,” Dr. Fairall said. “Well, let me say this. Your charges about Irene Wick are very serious. I wouldn’t want to act in haste, though, I don’t want to be unjust. And you’ve caught me at an extremely busy time. So—hmm—I suppose the first step would be to examine all our financial records.”

  Grey said, “We think you should call in an outside accountant, an auditor, and have him examine the books and charge cards.”

  Dr. Fairall looked at Grey. “An audit? That will take a lot of preparation, a lot of my time. And it’ll cost me several hundred dollars. Still, I guess an audit is necessary in view of your charges—”

  “An audit is necessary,” Grey insisted. “You, Dr. Lamb, and I should examine our checkbooks for the last two years and see whether we’re taking in less than we expected—Why, we haven’t checked like this for a couple of years! If Irene is swindling, this affects Dr. Lamb and me, too.”

  “Hmm. I don’t want to penalize you and Earl Lamb. Yes, we’ll have to look over our checkbooks,” Dr. Fairall agreed, “before we call in the auditor. All right! It’s settled! I’ll call him in right after we do that—and it will take time to do—and right after I’ve taken care of the two urgent surgeries. Macklin, and the Goucher case. Okay?”

  “Fair enough,” Grey said. “Meanwhile, I’ll make a start on my own checkbooks. And give Dr. Lamb some help on his. There’ll be a lot of old records to dig out.”

  “I wish we could get this matter cleared up more rapidly, in fairness to Irene,” Dr. Fairall said. “But the auditing firm probably couldn’t take on this job without advance notice, anyway. Well. That’s it. In the meantime, we will all treat Irene as if she were innocent. Because she may well be innocent. Do you both understand?”

  Grey and Cherry said Yes, they understood.

  “Grey, after I do the Macklin surgery, remind me to phone the auditor.”

  In the next day or two Dr. Fairall was especially kind to Mrs. Wick, as if leaning over backward to be fair to her. As a result, she grew bossier than ever. Even with patients who were worried or frightened. She was anything but reassuring with a man who might become permanently disabled, with a woman whose heart condition could never get any better, only worse. Cherry intervened when she overheard Irene Wick’s blunt, impatient remarks and saw the expression on the sick people’s faces.

  “Why, Irene,” Cherry said, “I’ve never heard you speak to patients this way before!”

  The reproof only angered Mrs. Wick. She tried to pick a quarrel with Cherry over a petty chore—who was to replace, in the examining rooms, the jars and bottles of alcohol, iodine, distilled water, and acetic acids. Cherry volunteered to do it.

  As the week wore on, Grey looked more and more worried. Elderly Dr. Lamb—having been informed by Grey about the Wick situation—seemed troubled, too. What a miserable week for all of them!

  Thank goodness, Cherry thought, this weekend was a long holiday: Saturday, with the fourth of July falling on Sunday, so that Independence Day would be celebrated on Monday. The entire hot, hard-working city looked forward to the three-day weekend. Cherry did, too, but with some uneasiness. For Grey had hinted about bad news.

  “I’ll tell you this weekend,” he said. “Out at Prescott. Not here.”

  CHAPTER XII

  A Terrible Mistake

  “JULIUS!” LESLIE SHOUTED FROM THE PORCH.“DID YOU give the baby my best hair bow to play with? He’s eating it! Julius, you come here—before I come after you!”

  Leslie’s handsome husband slipped out from behind the hydrangea bushes and made a sweeping bow—to Leslie who was pop-eyed with rage, to Elijah, to Grey and Spud, to the Spencer Club nurses who were laughing, and to the baby who seemed interested only in a passing butterfly.

  “She calls me Julius when she’s mad at me,” Henry J. explained. “For revenge—because she knows I detest the name.” He assumed a haughty British accent. “I say, my dear Leslie, I do wish you wouldn’t find it necess’ry to address muh by m’ middle name, doncha know?”

  “Julius! So that’s what the J. in Henry J. is for!” Cherry exclaimed.

  In flat, ringing Nebraska accents, the ballerina in blue jeans announced, “Julius, in his case, stands for Little Caesar!”

  “We, little mother,” the bearded Elijah boomed, stepping forward tall and thin in his bathing shorts, “we were prophesying the future. We were foreseeing little H.J. as one day he will be!” Leslie snorted. “Verily, we tested the tyke’s engineering bent by giving him your hair bow to untie. Which he chewed on.”

  Grey grinned and went on softly whistling. Since Russell had examined little H.J. and showed no alarm, Leslie’s furious retort to Elijah was met with calm silence. Pretty soon her sputterings petered out. She joined Mrs. Faunce and the baby for a nap. The rest of the Spencer Club’s Volunteer Handymen (as Grey called them) went ahead with their chores. They would go for a swim later.

  The house, grounds, and barn were shaping up. With the basic cleaning and repairs done now, the Spencer Club and friends were giving the living-room walls and the dreary old furniture a fresh, clean coat of white paint. A few tables were being painted lacquer red, by Josie who loved red. Bertha had found that the old sewing machine worked, and she was making covers for seats and sofa pillows out of red-and-white-striped sailcloth. The old wooden floor was scrubbed clean and bare, not much else they could do for it. This weekend Gwen had brought along some green plants in white pots, and some striking, inexpensive Japanese paper lanterns to cover light fixtures and bare bulbs.

  Now that the bushes had been pruned and the weeds pulled out of the lawn, the grounds looked neat and attractive. Some of the trees needed the care of a tree surgeon, to preserve them. The Spencer Club agreed that this was important, and was the one exp
ense they would ask Uncle Will and Aunt Bess to pay for.

  To celebrate the Fourth of July, the Spencer Club held a cookout, and invited their neighbors to join the friends who had come to help them. The brick barbecue worked fine; their big yard comfortably held people playing croquet, and swapping local news, family stories, and recipes. Dr. Lamb, his son, and daughter-in-law had promised to come but got lost on the way to Prescott. They arrived at dusk, in time to see the fireworks and the moonrise.

  “A perfect Fourth,” everyone said. They all were sorry when the big weekend was over.

  The only flaw in that weekend for Cherry was Grey’s disclosure in his car on the way home. He, Dr. Fairall, and Dr. Lamb were worried.

  “Funny, we three doctors never paid much attention to business until now,” Grey confided to Cherry.

  He broke off talking as a car alongside unexpectedly swerved into the traffic lane just ahead of Grey. Cherry kept quiet. She wished she could see more of his profile, his expression, in the luminous dark of night and headlights.

  “What’s appalling,” Grey said, “is that we paid almost no attention to business. The cash receipts that Irene handed us seemed about right, so we let it go at that. You know what, Cherry? We looked at our checkbooks, and found that our cash payments from patients last year and this year are lower than we expected. And now a big, sudden drop.”

  “How sudden? How long a period?” Cherry asked.

  “Oh, in the last month or so,” Grey said. “Hey! That’s about how long you’ve been working in our office, Cherry.”

  “Yes. … I suppose Irene knew I was watching her? Supervising her.” Grey nodded. “Could she have felt that her days on this job were numbered so she’d better steal all she dared to, in a hurry?”

  “Possible.” Then Grey scowled. “I wonder if Irene Wick took this job for the purpose of stealing from us doctors. The R.N. who preceded you—what’s her name?—certainly didn’t like Irene.”