The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest

by Robin Hathaway

  “ … and Mrs. Ashley thought it would be a wonderful way for you to meet all the neighbors, and vice versa.”

  Mrs. Doyle looked up from her plate. “What would?”

  “The party!” Agatha beamed. “You haven’t been listening. Mrs. Ashley has invited half of Winston over to meet you next Saturday.”

  “Oh, no.” Mrs. Doyle intended to be miles away from Winston by Saturday.

  “Amory Barnes is coming down for the weekend. And Peter Jordan, Miss Susan’s boyfriend, will be here … and Tom Winston. She had the devil of a time getting him to come; he hates parties. And the Reverend. She’s even asked Miss Cunningham because she knows you and she are such good friends.” Agatha smiled wickedly. “I’m going to make a special dessert from the colonial cookbook, and serve punch as well as tea … .”

  “Wait a minute.” Mrs. Doyle raised her hand to stop the flow. “I may not even be here next Saturday.”

  “Not be here?” Agatha’s face fell. “Oh, Mrs. Ashley will be so disappointed. She’s been planning this party all day, and I’m sure she’s asked half the people by now.”

  “Well, my employer may need me back at the office … .”

  “Surely you can stay a few more days. Just till Saturday.”

  “Well …” Mrs. Doyle felt her resolve weakening.

  “Listen to this dessert recipe.” Hoping to whet Mrs. Doyle’s appetite and convince her to stay, she read from the old cookbook: “Half a pound of sweet almonds; six eggs; four ounces of thick cream; one half cup of raisins …”

  As Agatha read, Mrs. Doyle reconsidered. It would be a good opportunity to observe Mrs. Ashley’s neighbors. Some of them she hadn’t even met, such as the Reverend Osborne and that Amory fellow. And what could happen to her here in the house, surrounded by all these people? But she wouldn’t take anymore bird walks. “All right,” she heard herself say.

  “Oh, Mrs. Doyle!” Agatha clapped the book shut, sending up a shower of dust. She came around the kitchen table and grabbed both her hands. “I’m so glad.”

  Agatha is a good soul, thought Mrs. Doyle, unconsciously crossing her off her suspect list. “Well, I’ll be off to bed.” She yawned. “I’ve had a busy day.”

  As she prepared for bed, Mrs. Doyle thought over the day’s events. Despite the tale of the black dog, she was convinced her experience at the “haunted” cottage had nothing to do with the supernatural. That bullet and its perpetrator belonged to the very real world. She decided to keep her future bird-watching rambles closer to home—at least until she had talked to Dr. Fenimore. Tomorrow she would think of an excuse to ask Mrs. Ashley to drive her to town.

  CHAPTER 31

  While Mrs. Doyle slept, Fenimore laboriously tried to catch up on his back issues of JAMA. The telephone rang. Not a house call, he hoped. He would never refuse to make one, but he had just gotten settled. “Hello?”

  “Doc …” Very faint.

  “Rat?”

  “I’m hurt bad … .”

  Fenimore shot out of his chair, dumping Sal from his lap. “Where are you?”

  “Ninth and Catherine … .”

  “What … ?”

  “Can you make it to the hospital?”

  Barely audible, “I dunno … .”

  “Get going. I’ll meet you in the ER.” He grabbed his briefcase.

  “Did a kid just come in here?”

  The ER receptionist looked up from her magazine.

  “Dark hair, dark skin, brown eyes.” He tried to jog her memory. “Horatio. Horatio Lopez.”

  “Oh, yes. They took him to the OR.”

  Bad news. If it had been minor they would have treated him in the ER.

  “If you’re family,” the receptionist said, “could you give me his insurance …?”

  Fenimore dove into the bowels of the hospital and found the staff elevator. Inside, he punched the button for the ninth floor. As it crawled upward, he repeated prayers from childhood he thought he had long forgotten.

  Stepping into the hall, he hailed a nurse in green scrubs who was passing through. “Polly!”

  She turned.

  “Who’s on tonight?” He nodded at the operating room.

  “Martinez.” She eyed him keenly. “What’s up?”

  “Friend of mine.”

  “That kid?”

  “He works for me.”

  “I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Thanks. You can find me on the eighth.”

  He took the fire stairs to the eighth floor where there was a small waiting room. He could have scrubbed up and gone into the OR, but Martinez was one of the best surgeons on the staff. Fenimore would only be in the way. He slumped into a shabby vinyl chair and began leafing through a battered Sports Illustrated, not seeing it.

  He glanced at his watch. 9:35. How did it happen? He was a careful kid. Streetwise. He didn’t belong to a gang. His mother kept a good watch on him—and his associates. A no-nonsense mom, she watched over her kids like a hawk. What about her? Should he call Mrs. Lopez? He decided to wait until he had more news.

  What the hell had the kid done? Committed the cardinal sin of walking to the corner store? He threw the magazine down and went to the window. Lousy view. If he craned his neck he could just make out the first two letters of the PSFS sign glowing red against the night sky. The Philadelphia Savings Fund Society had been long gone, but the sign continued to glow—a landmark almost as sacrosanct as the Liberty Bell.

  9:40. Had time stopped?

  What if he didn’t make it?

  Maybe he should call his mother. But the family had no phone. The only number Fenimore had for Horatio was at a deli a few blocks away. The owner would have to send somebody over to tell her. And what if they garbled the message and alarmed her more than … He had been about to say “necessary.” How did he know how necessary that alarm would be?

  “Doctor?”

  “That kid was born under a lucky star. Missed the heart and all the major blood vessels. They’re moving right along. Should be closing up soon.”

  He sank back into his chair.

  “How did it happen?”

  He shook his head, feeling his stomach slowly unclench. The nurse reached over and gave his hand a quick squeeze. “I have to contact his mother,” he said. “But she doesn’t have a phone. I didn’t want to alarm her unnecessarily,” he spoke the word with relish.

  “Hard to believe someone doesn’t have a phone these days, with all the kids jabbering away on their cellulars.”

  Fenimore nodded, making a note to buy Horatio a cellular tomorrow. He’d tell him he must have one so he could reach him in emergencies. Would he believe that? Would his mother? Mrs. Lopez was a proud woman. “Thanks, Polly.” He stood up.

  “You sure you’re OK?” She observed him closely. “You look like shit.”

  Fenimore grinned. “I’ve just experienced what my patients go through all the time. It was a good lesson.” He picked up the battered Sports Illustrated from where he had thrown it. “They should get some new magazines.”

  When he reached the ninth floor, the twin doors to the OR swung open. An orderly wheeled a gurney out. It passed quickly, IV swinging. Two surgeons followed close behind, removing their masks. One said something. The other laughed and punched his arm. Release of tension. Martinez stopped short when he saw Fenimore.

  “How’d it go?” asked Fenimore.

  “Another gang victim.” The surgeon shrugged.

  “He’s a friend of mine.”

  Martinez’s eyebrows rose. “When he came in he was hemo-dynamically unstable, but he’s healthy. He’ll be fine.” He took Fenimore’s arm. “Let’s go see him.”

  “He’s a good kid,” Fenimore said. “I don’t know how he got mixed up in this.”

  “Initiations,” Martinez said, tonelessly. “We see a lot of them this time of year.”

  “What do they do?”

  “To become a member of some gangs, you have to stab somebody. Nothing personal.” />
  Fenimore heard the bitterness in his voice and glanced at him sharply. Did Martinez know about these things firsthand?

  “I’m glad you’re here,” the surgeon said. “You can contact his next of kin.”

  Fenimore nodded. “I’m going to see his mother.”

  They entered the recovery room, the surgeon leading the way. A nurse was adjusting Horatio’s IV, another was checking his EKG on the monitor. Fenimore picked up the chart at the end of the cot and flipped through it. No complications. A simple stab wound in the back. An inch to the right or left and the knife would have connected with his heart or a major blood vessel, and the kid would have been …

  “Everything in order?” Martinez spoke to the nurses.

  “His vital signs are good,” said the one with her eyes glued to the monitor.

  Taking the chart from Fenimore, the surgeon made a notation.

  “Call me at home if anything comes up,” he told the same nurse. “I’ll look in first thing in the morning.”

  She nodded.

  In the hall, Fenimore said again, “Thanks.”

  “Check in with me in the morning,” Martinez said.

  They parted, the surgeon for home, Fenimore to see Mrs. Lopez and tell her about her son. He must hurry; he wanted to get back before Horatio woke up.

  CHAPTER 32

  “Hi, Doc!” Horatio glanced up from the comic book he was reading. He had been in the hospital only two days and, except for a slightly paler complexion, he looked almost the same as before the attack.

  “How’re you feeling?” Fenimore came over to the bed.

  “Good.”

  “The wound give you much pain?”

  He shook his head. “When can I blow this dump?”

  Fenimore smiled. “Don’t worry, they won’t keep you a minute longer than they have to.”

  “How’s the office? Does Sal miss me?”

  “Now that you mention it. She’s been off her feed and she hangs around your chair all the time, sleeping either on it or under it.”

  “No kidding.” He grinned.

  “He’s in there.” They heard the nurse’s aide speaking to someone in the corridor.

  A man in street clothes appeared in the doorway. “Horatio Lopez?”

  Horatio stared.

  “Detective Bryant, Philadelphia Police, Detective Division.” He flipped open his wallet, displaying his ID.

  “Do you feel up to talking, Rat?” Fenimore intervened.

  Horatio remained mute, his eyes fixed on the plainclothesman.

  “I’d like to stay,” Fenimore said.

  The detective made no comment. He drew a chair up to the side of the bed and sat down. “Now tell me what happened.” He pulled out a notebook and ballpoint. “Everything you can remember.”

  To Fenimore’s astonishment, the boy clamped his mouth shut and adopted a mulish expression.

  “What time were you attacked?”

  No answer.

  “Mr. Lopez, if you refuse to cooperate, we can’t find the people who tried to kill you.”

  Horatio looked away, out the window.

  “We think your attackers were gang members. Do you have any idea which gang they belonged to?”

  He remained silent, his eyes riveted to the brick wall outside the window.

  “Rat—he’s trying to help you,” Fenimore put in.

  “Look, kid, we know you’re afraid, but we can’t stop these attacks unless the victims give us a hand.”

  No response.

  The detective shut his notebook and stood up. “You’re a disappointment. You could prevent someone else from getting hurt—or worse.” He paused at the door. “Think about that.”

  After he left, Fenimore broke the silence. “I know you’re scared, Rat, but …” he let the sentence hang.

  When Horatio finally spoke, Fenimore had to strain to hear him.

  “They said they’d kill my mom.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Rafferty spoke to Fenimore over the mound of paper on his desk. “Threat of retaliation is their biggest weapon.” He looked more exhausted than when Fenimore had last seen him. “We have to find other ways. You better get the kid out of town for a while.”

  “Have you made any progress?” Fenimore asked.

  He shook his head. “We’re working day and night. But they’re clever. They hide behind their organization. You can’t arrest two hundred teenagers. The best you can do is haul in one or two of the leaders. But you can’t touch them. All you can do is try to make them talk through intimidation. But it’s a lost cause. Their fear of us can’t begin to compare with their fear of their peers. They’d rather die than be ‘dissed.’”

  “Where should I send Horatio?”

  “As far away as possible. The shore, the Poconos. Does he have any out-of-town relatives?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Find out. He should leave as soon as he’s released from the hospital.”

  “What about his mother?”

  “She’ll be all right, as long as her son keeps his mouth shut.”

  Fenimore rose, shaking his head.

  “Not like our day—slingshots and BB guns—huh, Doc?” He returned to his mound of paperwork.

  CHAPTER 33

  Mrs. Doyle was up early. As soon as Mrs. Ashley came downstairs, she said quickly, “Could you drive me to town? I have an errand.”

  “Certainly. I need some supplies for the party. I was going in anyway. Agatha’s told you about the party?”

  “Oh, yes. It sounds lovely. It will give me a chance to meet everyone.”

  “That’s what I thought.” She gave Mrs. Doyle a conspiratorial wink. It alarmed Mrs. Doyle that Mrs. Ashley still treated this deadly affair like a game. “Have you had breakfast?”

  “No,” said Doyle. “I wasn’t hungry.”

  “Well, we can grab a bite at the diner. Come on.” And off they went at a clip. Mrs. Doyle hardly noticed Mrs. Ashley’s erratic driving, her mind entirely fixed on what she was going to tell Dr. Fenimore.

  Her coins rattled down the phone’s interior. Two rings and the doctor’s voice: “Dr. Fenimore speaking.”

  “Doctor—”

  “Hello, Doyle. I was hoping you’d call. There’ve been a couple of new developments.”

  “Oh?”

  “First, Jennifer solved the problem of the threatening note—the one that fell out of the fish pond prize.”

  “How?”

  “Death of a Ghost is the title of a 1930s mystery by Margery Allingham. This reinforces Rafferty’s theory that the title was torn from a list and doctored up. The owner of that list is probably a mystery fan and also one of our prime suspects.” He paused. “Now, all you have to do is find out which one of Mrs. Ashley’s friends or acquaintances is a mystery buff—and in particular an Allingham fan. Then we’ll know who asked Miss Cunningham to compile that list and who crossed off ‘Ghost’ and substituted ‘Doctor’ above it. We don’t want to ask Miss Cunningham directly because then she would know she’s under suspicion.”

  “All right, Doctor.” But Mrs. Doyle was dubious. Mystery buffs, in her experience, were usually retiring folk who liked their adventures safely anchored to the page. They didn’t often take part in them. But she said, “I’ll have the perfect opportunity to check out the reading habits of Mrs. Ashley’s friends this Saturday.” She told him about the tea party.

  “Great. Go for it, Doyle. Incidentally, did you know that there was a tea party in Winston, right before the revolution, just like the one in Boston but on a smaller scale?”

  “No, but let me tell you what happened—”

  But once the doctor was launched on an historical anecdote, there was no stopping him. “One night the town fathers gathered in secret and they dressed up like Native Americans, broke into the cellar where the tea was being stored, dragged it to the town square and burned it. From that day on the people of Winston refused to drink any tea from Britain.”

  “
No wonder they drink so blasted much of it now,” Mrs. Doyle said bitterly. “They’re making up for all those years of abstinence.”

  “Oh, they didn’t abstain. They just didn’t import it legally. They smuggled it in from other countries. Not just tea, but sugar and silks and brandy, and … keep your eye out for a tunnel while you’re down there, Doyle. Phoebe Winston mentions one in her diary.”

  “Now—about yesterday,” Mrs. Doyle spoke desperately.

  “There’s one more thing, Doyle … .” Fenimore told her about Horatio.

  “Oh, Doctor. Is he all right?” Her own fears were forgotten in her concern for the boy.

  He assured her he was. “Now it’s your turn, Doyle. Shoot.”

  “That’s just what they did.”

  “Eh?”

  In a few sentences, she described her narrow escape.

  When she had finished, he told her exactly what to do. “You get right back up here and bring that Ashley twosome with you!”

  “But, Doctor …”

  “No ‘buts.’ That’s an order. Or I’m coming down and getting all three of you.”

  “But …”

  “Doyle!”

  She had never heard him so threatening. She plunged ahead anyway. “What about the tea party Saturday? All the neighbors gathered together under one roof. It’s a golden opportunity to watch and listen and maybe solve this whole ‘little mental exercise.’” Her tone was heavy with sarcasm. “Such an opportunity may never come again.” She was surprised at her own enthusiasm.

  There was silence on the other end of the line. For a minute she wondered if they’d been disconnected. A heavy sigh dispelled that idea. It was followed by a clearing of the throat—a delaying action she had often heard him use when talking to a patient. It gave him time to think. Finally, he said, “Under one condition …”

  Her heart beat faster.

  “I come down and supervise.”