“And you still have it?”
“Of course. I keep all our cards for a year. How else would I know who to send cards to the next year?”
Fenimore sighed over such unsentimental efficiency. “What about Fred Jenks?”
“He’s a problem. I leave notes for him sometimes, but he always calls me when I’m in the city and something comes up at the farm.”
Fenimore considered a moment. “How do you pay him?”
“By check.”
“No problem, then. Photocopy one of his endorsements.”
“Brilliant.”
“Then there’s Amory.”
“Amory?” She was horrified. “But he’s practically a member of the family!”
“Sorry. We need a sample from him too. You must have one of his memos from the Colonial Society.”
“I suppose.” She was still reluctant. “Next you’ll be asking for Susan’s … or mine.”
Fenimore smiled, remembering that Jennifer’s list of suspects had included them both. “That won’t be necessary.” He coughed. “This time.”
“Beast.”
“How is Susan feeling?”
“Too well. Her friend, Peter, was down and wanted her to go diving with him. Can you imagine?”
“Unfortunately, I can. By the way, I need a copy of his handwriting, too.”
“That’s easy. He sends her a letter every other day.”
“How long do you two plan to stay down there courting disaster?” Fenimore’s tone became stern.
“Don’t worry. We’re quite all right.”
Fenimore ground his teeth. “Well, send me those samples by FedEx. I want to get them to a handwriting analyst right away.”
“Yes, Andrew.”
When he hung up, Mrs. Doyle made no pretence of not having heard the conversation. “What’s this about handwriting?”
He took an envelope from his desk drawer and gently shook out the slip of paper with its threatening message. “Don’t touch,” he cautioned unnecessarily. After she read it, he told her how it had come.
“I don’t like it.” She frowned. “Whoever’s behind this is going to slip up someday and one of these ‘accidents’ will …”
“I know. Susan came close. They shouldn’t be down there alone. But I have a practice to look after. I still have a few patients that depend on me. I shouldn’t be fooling around with this part-time, Doyle. If anything happens to either of them …” He slammed the drawer shut.
After a brief silence, Mrs. Doyle said, “What if I go down and keep an eye on them?”
He looked at her as if she had presented him with the Holy Grail. “God bless you, Doyle. You’re brilliant. A genius. Why am I so blessed? Go home this instant and pack. Where’s your coat?” He looked frantically around.
“It’s June. The temperature’s ninety degrees,” she said dryly.
“Here’s your handbag.” He grabbed it from the back of her chair. “Goodbye, goodbye.” He was escorting her to the door.
“Doctor! Wait a minute,” she protested. “How am I getting down there? I don’t have a car, you know.”
He paused, but only for a fraction of a second. “Bus. There’s a bus to Salem which is just a few miles from Winston. I’ll call the terminal and get the schedule. Run along now. I’ll call and let you know the time. You can take a cab to the terminal. Charge everything to the office.”
“But …” She was still there. “What about Mrs. Ashley? Don’t you think we should let her know I’m coming? I don’t want to surprise her. Besides, somebody has to meet me at Salem.”
“Details, details. I’ll take care of everything. Don’t worry about a thing.” He was almost singing with relief. To express his gratitude, he planted a big kiss on her cheek.
“Why, Doctor!” She beamed.
He threw her another kiss before he shut the door.
Within minutes he had learned the departure and arrival times of the next bus to Salem. He had called Lydia and convinced her that she and Susan needed a companion (cum body guard) for an indefinite period of time. And that his nurse, Mrs. Doyle, was the perfect candidate. Not only was she a good sleuth, but she had been a Navy nurse during the Korean War and was trained in the martial arts. She was an expert in karate. Perhaps she could even teach Lydia and Susan a few moves.
Exhausted, but satisfied, Fenimore made himself a liverwurst on rye and washed it down with a Coke.
After making his hospital rounds, his good mood was still with him. He was even humming to himself. “Dear Doyle. Sweet Doyle. What would I do without you, Doyle?” He stopped. What would he do without Doyle in the office? All those insurance forms! He groaned. But his mood remained light. Before he left the hospital, he found a pay phone and called Jennifer. “Are you free for dinner?” he asked.
CHAPTER 21
Jennifer was free. But instead of going out, she suggested Fenimore come to their apartment for dinner. Her father wanted to see him. He had some historical material about Winston, New Jersey, that he thought would interest Fenimore.
When Fenimore arrived, Jennifer took him into the library, one of his favorite rooms. Bookcases with glass doors reached from floor to ceiling. There was a fireplace, worn leather furniture, and beautiful antique lamps with shades of scarlet, amber, and green. At dusk, when the lamps were turned on, they were reflected in the doors of the bookcases.
On the walls hung old prints and maps—many of Philadelphia. Tucked inconspicuously in one corner, within easy view of the most comfortable sofa and chair, sat a television set and a VCR—the only evidence that the Nicholsons had entered the modern era.
Mr. Nicholson rose from his chair when Fenimore came in. He was of average height, but stooped—the result of years spent bending over old books and manuscripts. His poor posture made him look older than he was; although only sixty, he looked closer to seventy. His hair was nearly white, but his eyebrows had refused to turn. They were as dark as Jennifer’s hair. The combination gave his face a dramatic look, as if he were made up for a play but the makeup artist hadn’t finished with him yet.
“Come sit down, Doctor. What will you have to drink?” He went over to a small cabinet near the television set and waited for his answer.
“Scotch and water, please.”
“Jennifer?”
“Wine, Dad. I’ll get it.” She disappeared into the dark recesses of the apartment, from which delicious aromas came. She returned shortly with crackers, cheese, and her wine.
As soon as they were settled, Mr. Nicholson began, “I was very interested in Jennifer’s account of your trip to south Jersey, Doctor. I haven’t been there for some time, but it used to be a favorite haunt of mine—a gold mine of early colonial ephemeral—letters, diaries, maps, journals. Unfortunately for me, there was a wily curator at the historical society there—Sam Cooke. Gone now. But he didn’t let much slip by him. Every now and then I’d pick up something, but usually he got there first.” He went over to a table and picked up a small volume with pasteboard covers, tied together with faded green ribbon. He handled the book as if it were made of fine crystal. “Here’s one he missed. This is the diary of a young woman who was engaged to marry an Ashley in 1734. Unfortunately, before the wedding took place, the young man contracted a fever and died. But his fiancée must have been very resilient because in less than a year, she married someone else.”
“What was her name?”
His eyes flashed under the black brows. “Phoebe Winston.” He placed the book in Fenimore’s hands.
Now he remembered. Lydia had told him this story. He carried the book with equal care over to one of the reading lamps.
“See what you’ve done, Dad. Now he won’t talk to either of us for the rest of the evening,” Jennifer said.
Her father chuckled. “He won’t get far with that. Those fancy ‘F’s and ‘S’s, and the creative spelling make it as hard to read as a foreign language. I don’t think the lady spells the same word the same way twice in her ent
ire diary.”
Fenimore looked up. “The Ashley family knows of this diary?”
“Yes, indeed.” He nodded. “Mrs. Ashley offered me a handsome sum for it a few years ago. But I couldn’t bear to part with it. Perhaps I will sell it to her one day.”
“How did you come by it?”
“Browsing in the attic of an old house near Winston. That’s the way we find most of our acquisitions. People die. Their estates are sold. Most of their relatives don’t care about old books. And unless someone like Cooke or myself shows up, they go to the local junk dealer, or worse—to the county dump.”
Fenimore tried to keep his eyes away from the diary and make conversation. Sensing his struggle, Mr. Nicholson said, “I’ll tell you what, Doctor. If you promise not to look at it anymore tonight, I’ll lend it to you for as long as you’d like.”
Fenimore smiled. “That’s very kind of you, but aren’t you afraid something might happen to it? I have no special security system at my house.”
“Rare books are seldom stolen. They’re too hard to resell. The average thief can’t tell a valuable book from an ordinary one.”
Fenimore was amazed.
“Look here.” Mr. Nicholson went over to a small desk in a corner of the room and opened a drawer. “Do you know what this is?” He handed him a slim volume—the brown velvet binding rubbed off like powder on his hand.
Fenimore opened to the title page and read:
COMMON SENSE
by
Thomas Paine
The black type dug deeply into the paper, indicating that it was printed on an early platen press.
Mr. Nicholson reached over, and turning the page, pointed to the date, 1775. “A first edition,” he said.
Fenimore could not prevent his hand from trembling. “But you took it from an unlocked drawer. Surely this should be in a museum—or at least a safe.”
“Your average thief is interested in those.” He pointed to the television set and VCR. Taking the book—which was as important as that shot at Lexington heard round the world—he returned it to the unlocked drawer.
“Dinner’s ready,” Jennifer announced. She had been waiting patiently for her father to finish his story, even though she had witnessed the performance many times before.
The dinner was simple but delicious, accompanied by a good wine. And conversation was never a problem because of their mutual love of history and old books.
During dinner the phone rang. Jennifer answered it. “It’s for you, Dad.”
Mr. Nicholson took the phone. After listening for a minute, he said, “No, I’m sorry,” and gave the caller the name of a rival bookseller. He hung up and turned back with a laugh. “Someone wanted a copy of Gone With the Wind in Japanese.”
“Do you get many calls like that?” Fenimore asked.
“Not many. But they’re like your patients, Doctor. They always save the emergencies for dinnertime or weekends.”
Midway through the evening, Fenimore remarked, “You certainly passed your love of books on to your daughter.”
He looked at her affectionately. “Yes. The disease is hereditary, I’m afraid. Her mother was also a bibliophile; the poor child never had a chance. But I don’t suppose I would really want her cured of it.”
Jennifer was eyeing them both mutinously. “I don’t see what’s wrong with it, as long as I don’t spend a king’s ransom.”
“That’s true,” her father sighed. “It could have been worse. You could have been born with a predilection for jewelry … or real estate.”
“You liked that edition of Northanger Abbey that I picked up at the Strawberry Festival well enough,” she said.
Around nine o‘clock, Fenimore announced that he had better be getting home. With Phoebe’s diary tucked safely in his pocket, he followed Jennifer down the narrow staircase to the first floor. It was a balmy summer evening. The one-way traffic flowed rhythmically west on Walnut Street—red taillights bobbing like small balloons above the black asphalt. The traffic light at the corner flashed red … yellow … green, several times before Fenimore released her.
When she returned to the apartment her father had thoughtfully gone to bed.
The Nurse Goes Incognito
CHAPTER 22
On the way to Salem, Mrs. Doyle tried to come up with a convincing reason for her stay with Mrs. Ashley. She must not excite any special curiosity among the residents of Winston—at least no more than any visitor to a small town would. As the flat farmland jounced past the bus window, she worked out her plan, holding firmly to her conviction that the closer you stick to the truth the less chance you have of being found out. As the bus rolled into Salem, she felt her plan was nearly perfect.
Mrs. Ashley was waiting in the wooden shelter that passed for a bus terminal. She smiled a warm greeting when she saw Mrs. Doyle. They had been acquainted for years, because of Mrs. Ashley’s frequent office visits. As they drove to the farm, rattling over every bump in Mrs. Ashley’s ancient station wagon, Mrs. Doyle outlined her plan.
She had been sent down to Winston by her employer for a complete rest. Her employer should remain anonymous. (Dr. Fenimore’s reputation for amateur detecting was too well known in the area.) Mrs. Doyle’s story was that she was overworked and needed to get away. Her hobby was bird-watching, and she would take long walks in search of new varieties. She asked Mrs. Ashley to let her eat in the kitchen with the Jenkses, instead of with Mrs. Ashley and Susan, because the Jenkses could provide her with more local gossip about the neighbors.
Mrs. Ashley readily agreed, and said she would help her meet as many of the local gentry as possible. As they pulled up to the farmhouse, they shared the camaraderie of fellow conspirators.
Agatha Jenks had been watching for them. She came running out of the house to help Mrs. Doyle with her suitcase.
“Agatha, this is Kathleen Doyle. She’s been overworking lately and her poor nerves are worn to a frazzle.” Mrs. Doyle was pleased that Mrs. Ashley was falling in with the plan so easily. “She’s been sent to us by her physician for a complete rest.”
Agatha led them into the house. “Oh, you’ll get plenty of rest down here, Mrs. Doyle,” she said cheerfully. “There’s nothing to do and no place to go. We don’t even have a TV.”
Mrs. Doyle blanched. Dr. Fenimore had neglected to mention that little detail. She could already feel the TV-withdrawal symptoms beginning. But she rose to the occasion. “I think it’s a lot of nonsense—all this talk about my nerves. It’s very kind of everyone to worry about them, I’m sure, but I really don’t think …”
“Now you just sit right down there, while I get you a cup of tea and something to eat,” Agatha said.
Agatha had drawn her into a huge, spotless, kitchen. At the back was a brick walk-in fireplace with its old spit still intact. But Agatha was boiling water in a kettle on a modern electric stove.
“You must be all worn out after your trip.” Agatha placed a cup of her steaming brew before her. “Those buses shake you up something terrible. You wonder if your insides aren’t turning black and blue.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to Agatha,” Mrs. Ashley said. “She’ll take good care of you. After tea, she’ll show you to your room. Perhaps you’ll want to take a little nap before dinner.”
“You’re so kind,” said Mrs. Doyle, hoping Mrs. Ashley wasn’t going to overdo it and make an invalid of her. “All this fuss. It’s really not necessary.” She took a sip of tea. “Delicious. What is that flavor? Cinnamon or nutmeg? A special recipe, Mrs. Jenks?”
“That’s right. It’s straight from one of those old cookbooks.” She pointed to a row of crumbling volumes on the windowsill.
“My, how interesting. You must show me some.”
“Do you like to cook, Mrs. Doyle?”
Stick to the truth, Doyle, she reminded herself. “A little. But I’m not very good at it. I do love to read recipes, though.”
“Well, here you are.” Agatha passed one of the most t
attered books to Mrs. Doyle. Recipes & Home Remedies—1792, the title read. “Some people read mysteries or romances before they go to bed. I read cookbooks.” Agatha chuckled. “That’s my favorite. It’s the oldest. A few of the pages are missing, but most of it’s intact. All my recipes for the fairs and festivals come from that. There’s a wonderful one for Christmas punch—or ‘wassail’ as they call it. And another for apple butter. Did you know that apple butter is good for burns?” She showed her the “Home Remedy” section.
“Is that a fact? Some of those home remedies aren’t to be sneezed at. My grandmother used to say if you rub garlic on your corns …”
Mrs. Ashley, pleased that the two women were getting along so well, left by the side door to work in the garden. When Andrew had called, she had thought it was excessive of him to send Mrs. Doyle down as a companion/watchdog. But now that she was here, Mrs. Ashley had to admit she felt better—more secure. Not for herself, of course, but for Susan. She pulled happily at a clump of weeds.
Agatha led Mrs. Doyle up the wide front stairs. Mrs. Ashley’s room was at the top. She could see her medicine bottles arranged along her bureau. They turned right and went along the hall, past the old-fashioned bathroom (the tub had feet) to a smaller room. It was very quaint—with eaves that dove in at odd angles, and windows with rippled glass that distorted the view of the river and fields. A pink canopy hung over the bed, and on the bureau stood a china pitcher and bowl decorated with pink roses. The wallpaper also bore a pattern of pink roses. What more could she want? A TV, that’s what. Wait till I get my hands on that man!
When Agatha left her, Mrs. Doyle unpacked. It didn’t take long. She hadn’t brought much. She hadn’t had time! One skirt, a couple of blouses, underwear, a nightgown, her toothbrush, and a pair of sturdy walking shoes. Oh, and in the back pocket of her suitcase, at the last minute, she had stuffed a small paperback book, Birds of North America—an important part of her disguise. And a pair of binoculars.
The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest Page 10