By the time Mrs. Doyle came into the kitchen, it was after 9 o’clock. Agatha said, “You’re nephew is still sleeping.”
“I’m not surprised. He had a full day yesterday.”
Agatha’s next remark came in a hushed tone. “Susan and her boyfriend went diving.”
“What?” Mrs. Doyle made no attempt to hide her surprise.
“It’s that Jordan boy. He really put on the pressure. I heard him in the dining room,” Agatha said. She shook her head disapprovingly. “And Mrs. Ashley gave in. She’s a pushover for her granddaughter.”
“Well, at least she’s not diving alone.” Mrs. Doyle tried to sound reassuring. But she felt uneasy, too. While she ate breakfast, she considered going down to the river to keep an eye on them. She could pretend to be bird-watching. But what good would it do? She wasn’t a good swimmer. She could give CPR or run for help. She smiled ruefully. Her joints still ached from her last run. But maybe she would take a short walk down to the river. A bird walk, of course. Belatedly, she remembered the doctor’s order: No more bird walks.
“If that were my granddaughter, I wouldn’t let her out of my sight.” Agatha pounded a ball of dough fiercely.
“Now you know that’s not true,” Mrs. Doyle said. “You have to let them go—like it or not.”
“I suppose, but it does make me nervous.”
Mrs. Doyle watched her roll the dough flat and, with floury hands, cut out cookies for the party. “I think I will take a stroll down to the river,” she said. “It’s such a beautiful day.”
“Oh, would you, Mrs. Doyle? I know exactly where they went. Right off the new wharf. They took Fred’s boat.”
“I’ll be back in time to help you with the tea sandwiches,” she called.
“No hurry,” Agatha waved her off, her usual broad smile back in place.
On her way to the wharf, Mrs. Doyle met Fred Jenks. He was coming from the dock with a fishing pole, some tackle, and a dog-eared copy of an Ed McBain mystery—all the supplies necessary for a lazy day on the river. He looked depressed. “Thought I’d take the boat out,” he said. “But the kids beat me to it.”
“So I hear. Did you see them?”
“Yeah. They’re out there all right. Diving again. Beats me what they see in it. All that mud and murk. I’d rather be on top of the water than under it, any day.” He went past, shaking his head.
Mrs. Doyle continued on. She had her binoculars and, although pretending to be birding, she frequently turned them on the boat just off shore. After she had been there several minutes, she caught the young man’s perfect profile in her lenses. He looked in her direction, then turned to say something to Susan. Susan shrugged. Mrs. Doyle watched the boy pull up the anchor and yank the cord of the motor. The boat, with its two passengers, chugged around a bend, out of sight.
Mrs. Doyle didn’t like it. Where were they headed? Should she try to follow them? Could she? The river was nothing but a series of twists and turns. That’s why the pirates had found it so attractive. She would never be able to find which cove of the many hundreds they’d chosen to dive in. Besides, she didn’t have a boat. Minor detail. She turned back to the house.
“Well?” asked Agatha.
Horatio sat at the kitchen table gorging himself on waffles and sausages.
“Her boyfriend caught on that I was watching them,” said Mrs. Doyle. “I think he was angry. They took the boat around the bend. I couldn’t follow them.”
“Oh, dear. I hope they don’t go to the old wharf.”
“Why?” Mrs. Doyle was alarmed.
“It’s dangerous.”
Mrs. Doyle could attest to that. But how did Agatha know about her close call? Had Jenks figured it out and told her?
“The wood’s rotten,” Agatha explained. “If they tie up there, the ring might come loose. And the bottom’s covered with scrap metal and broken bottles. People used to dump there before anyone ever heard of ecology or recycling.”
Having cleaned his plate, Horatio ducked out the kitchen door, almost bumping into Mrs. Ashley, who was on her way in. For once she wasn’t carrying flowers. “How are things coming, ladies?” she asked. “Do we have enough food?”
“Oh, plenty,” Agatha said. “They’ll never eat it all.”
“Have you seen, Susan?” she asked casually, scanning the contents of the refrigerator.
Agatha and Mrs. Doyle exchanged glances. Agatha said, “She went diving with that Jordan boy.” Her tone was heavy with disapproval.
“Yes, yes, I know.” Her impatience testified to her guilty conscience. “They promised to stay near the new wharf, but I passed there just now and I didn’t see them.” Closing the refrigerator door, she turned back to the two women.
“I think they went farther upriver … .” Mrs. Doyle said.
“But they promised …”
It was Mrs. Doyle’s turn to feel guilty. Maybe if she hadn’t been spying on them they wouldn’t have taken off. “I’m afraid it was my fault. I was looking at them with my binoc—”
“I don’t care whose fault it was. I don’t want them around that old wharf. It’s not safe.”
They all seemed to be in agreement on that point. “Do you have another boat?” asked Mrs. Doyle.
“Yes. It’s a leaky old thing, but I guess Fred could get it started. I’ll go ask him.” She hurried off.
“Now, you see what young people do?” Agatha said. “They’ve got us all in a tizzy.”
Mrs. Doyle agreed. But now she was more alarmed about Mrs. Ashley than Susan. Familiar with the older woman’s heart condition, she was afraid this added worry might make her ill. She had looked pale and strained. Because she was such an energetic person, you tended to forget about her illness. “I’m going to see if I can help.” She went out the back door.
When Mrs. Doyle arrived at the new wharf she saw Mrs. Ashley consulting with Fred Jenks. Spying Horatio near the barn, Jenks beckoned to him. The boy hurried over, anxious to help. Jenks and Horatio disappeared into the barn. Mrs. Ashley came over to Mrs. Doyle. “Fred’s going to get the other boat,” she said. “Horatio’s going to help him tow it down to the river.”
Mrs. Doyle was alarmed by her pallor. “Mrs. Ashley, did you take your medicines this morning?”
“Of course,” she said, too quickly. “At least, I think I did.” She frowned, trying to remember.
“Would you check for me when you get back to the house?” Mrs. Doyle persisted.
She nodded. “I’m taking so many pills these days, half the time I forget them, and the other half I double the dose.” She laughed. “So far, it hasn’t done me any harm.”
So far … Mrs. Doyle was aghast. Most patients had no idea how powerful their medicines were or what dangerous side effects they could cause. She was always after the doctor to warn his patients more strongly about this, but he was afraid he might frighten them into not taking their medicines at all. She must watch Mrs. Ashley more carefully. Her thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of the tractor, pulling a rusty motorboat tied to a trailer. Jenks drove the tractor while Horatio walked behind, keeping an eye on the trailer. Satisfied that the rescue crew was on its way, Mrs. Doyle returned to the house to help Agatha with the tea sandwiches.
CHAPTER 41
When the sandwiches were finished, Mrs. Doyle went for a short walk. As she circled the house, she saw that another car had joined Peter Jordan’s red one. This car was a sedate gray. She hurried inside, curious to meet its owner.
A man of average height, wavering between stocky and stout, stood in the hallway. His remaining hair was light brown and his broad forehead was unlined. A bachelor, she guessed. No man in his fifties who had family responsibilities could display such a smooth brow. He had obviously just arrived. A suitcase and an attaché case stood next to him.
“You must be Mrs. Doyle.” He took her hand in a friendly clasp. “I’m Amory Barnes. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
“Oh, well …” she stam
mered.
“I hope you’re enjoying your stay.”
“Very much.” Mrs. Doyle felt rueful answering. Lately, she had been feeling more like a house detective than a houseguest.
“You have to look hard in the Northeast for an idyllic spot like this, with nothing blocking the horizon.”
“Where are you from, Mr. Barnes?”
“Iowa. We still have our horizons intact out there, Mrs. Doyle.”
“You must miss them.”
“I do. That’s one of the reasons I like to come here. Do you know where Lydia is?”
“She’s down by the river. She was worried about her granddaughter. Susan and her boyfriend went diving at the old wharf and …”
His look of polite interest was replaced by dismay.
“Yes, we were all surprised when Mrs. Ashley gave them permission to dive, but it was their own idea to go to the old wharf. Were you here when Susan had her accident, Mr. Barnes?”
Seeming not to hear her, he glanced at his watch. “Better be getting into my party duds.” Picking up his bags, he headed for the stairs.
“Do you know where to go?” she called after him.
“Oh, yes. I’m a frequent visitor.” He swiftly disappeared around the bend in the staircase.
What a thoroughly nice man, thought Mrs. Doyle. The grandfather clock on the landing struck twice. Where had the time gone? She started up the stairs.
“There you are, Mrs. Doyle!” Mrs. Ashley came in from the kitchen. “They found them.” She was jubilant with relief. But her color was no better. “They ran them to ground at the old wharf. Susan was just coming up for air—literally. Jenks and Horatio called to them and waved them in. They obeyed, thank heavens. That old wharf is a deathtrap.” She looked at the clock. “Mercy! I had no idea it was so late. The guests will be here in half an hour.”
“Mr. Barnes is here already,” said Mrs. Doyle.
“I hope he was in a good mood. His moods are so erratic these days.”
“He was in a fine mood.”
“Run along now,” she told Mrs. Doyle. “You must dress.” When she reached the step on which Mrs. Doyle was standing, she was noticeably short of breath.
“Did you check your medicines?” the nurse spoke sharply.
She looked guilty. “I’ll do it right now.”
“Don’t forget.” Mrs. Doyle watched anxiously as the elderly woman laboriously climbed the rest of the stairs and disappeared into her bedroom. She must tell the doctor to have a talk with her. Mrs. Doyle went along to her own bedroom to dress. Dressing, for Mrs. Doyle, consisted of changing her blouse. She had brought only one skirt. When she had packed her bag for south Jersey, dressing for tea parties had not ranked high on her list of priorities. Horatio was the lucky one. He had begged off from the tea on grounds that he had “nothing to wear.”
CHAPTER 42
The first guest to arrive was the Reverend Oliver Osborne. He had come early because he was due back at the Rectory for a baptism at four. He was dressed in his clericals.
Mrs. Ashley appeared in a navy print dress, her gray hair neatly waved. In place of the glasses on a chain that habitually dangled around her neck, she wore a strand of pearls. All traces of her earlier anxiety had vanished, but Mrs. Doyle watched her uneasily nonetheless. There had been that episode of shortness of breath.
Gracefully, Mrs. Ashley extended her hand to the Reverend. “Welcome, sir.”
Gallantly, he kissed it. “Madam, you are a picture.”
“A picture, sir? Elaborate, please.”
Mrs. Doyle, feeling as if she had stepped into a bad Victorian novel, scanned the room for some refreshment. When the town of Winston wasn’t being colonial, it was usually being Victorian. The only thing it seemed to never be was normal.
“ … a picture of loveliness,” the Reverend finished.
How Mrs. Doyle longed for a cold beer. Fat chance of finding that in the Ashley household. Tea, tea, and more tea—with maybe a dash of May wine in the spring and a touch of sherry in the fall. But beer? Heaven forbid. That was strictly for the birds. Birds! At least she didn’t have to look at one of them for a few hours. She wondered if Jenks had any beer stashed away somewhere. She would have to ask him.
The next guest to arrive was Miss Cunningham. She came in breathless and pushed some flowers at Lydia.
“How lovely,” she said. “Thank you, Alice.”
“Don’t thank me. I picked them from your field on the way up.” As usual she was looking for a fight.
“No matter. You took the trouble to pick them.” Mrs. Ashley turned her off with her usual charm. “Come have some tea.” She led her to the refreshment table. “Help yourself, while I go find a vase for these.”
Agatha presided over the table, which was piled high with the delicacies she had spent the morning preparing. Besides the tea, there was punch in a cut glass bowl. In desperation, Mrs. Doyle poured herself a cup. Delicately laced with herbs, it slid down easily. The Reverend was sipping the same brew nearby.
“Reverend, I’d like to introduce myself. Kathleen Doyle, a houseguest. I’ve been wanting to meet you. Mrs. Ashley speaks so highly of you.”
“Does she?” He seemed pleased.
“I hear you have to leave early to baptize a little one.”
“That’s true. Parents still seem to want their offspring dampened at an early age, Mrs. Doyle. Just a precaution, I imagine, such as getting their measles shot—in case all that religious stuff happens to be true.” He sighed.
“Well, I’m sure they’re better off for it, Reverend. You can’t be too careful when it comes to the life hereafter. It goes on for such a long time.”
“So I hear.” He grinned. “How long are you staying with us, Mrs. Doyle?”
“Not long. As a matter of fact, I may go back tomorrow. The doc … er … man I work for needs me.”
“And who might that be?”
“Oh, I doubt if you—”
“Mrs. Doyle, I’ll be expecting you next Tuesday at ten o’clock sharp,” Miss Cunningham interrupted in the nick of time, saving her from lying to a clergyman—and an afterlife full of fire and brimstone.
“I doubt if I’ll still be here,” said Mrs. Doyle, “but thank you for thinking of me. Have you seen any good programs lately?” If she couldn’t see television she could, at least, hear about it.
“There’s an excellent series on Channel 12. A novel by Henry James. Do you like James?”
“Umm, yes.” (More lies.) “But I find him a little rough going,” she amended. (She had been forced to read The Turn of the Screw in high school, and thought the author knew very little about ghosts and next to nothing about children.)
“How strange. Once you get into him, he’s a delight. Such psychological insight …”
“I suppose …” Right now, Mrs. Doyle was exercising her own psychological insight on Miss Cunningham. “I’ll take a good mystery any day, how about you, Reverend?”
“Mysteries! Tch. The adult comic book,” pronounced Miss Cunningham.
“On the contrary,” said the Reverend, with a malicious twinkle. “There’s nothing better than a good whodunit. My favorite authors are Dorothy Sayers and Margery Allingham. How about you, Mrs. Doyle?”
Margery Allingham? Her ears perked up. Allingham was the author the doctor was looking for. “Oh, give me the old standbys,” she said. “Agatha Christie and Ellery Queen … .”
Miss Cunningham excused herself. The conversation had sunk too low for her taste. She moved toward the stairs. Mrs. Doyle assumed she was going to find the bathroom. The farmhouse had only one and it was on the second floor. Mrs. Ashley had told her it had been installed in 1910 and had never been remodeled. During the party a number of the guests disappeared upstairs. Tea and punch had much the same effect on the bladder as beer, Mrs. Doyle noted. But Miss Cunningham was the first to succumb. She looked like the sort to have a small bladder, the nurse diagnosed. Mrs. Doyle sometimes played a little guessing game wit
h herself to relieve the monotony of waiting in lines at supermarkets, banks, and post offices (or standing around at tea parties). The object of the game was to match her companions-in-line with some suitable ailment. Never anything serious. Just minor afflictions such as headache, bursitis, or hemorrhoids. Mr. Barnes probably suffered from the latter, she decided. At the beginning of the party he had planted himself on the love seat under the stairs and his expression was troubled. Having established that the Reverend was a mystery fan and Miss Cunningham was definitely not, she decided to continue to follow Dr. Fenimore’s instructions and explore Mr. Barnes’s literary tastes. She took the seat next to him.
“Enjoying the party, Mr. Barnes?”
“Umm.”
“Mrs. Ashley is such a good hostess.”
A nod.
“And Agatha is such a wonderful cook.”
Another nod, barely perceptible this time.
“May I get you some tea or punch?”
“No, thank you.”
Where was the ebullient man she had met earlier? Vanished into thin air. “The Reverend and I have just discovered we have a taste in common. We both enjoy a good mystery. Do you like mysteries, Mr. Barnes?”
“Yes.” He brightened. “As a matter of fact, when I was a boy in Iowa, I read all of Agatha Christie.”
Mrs. Doyle congratulated herself on finding another mystery fan, but her diagnosis of hemorrhoids was way off base; Mr. Barnes was suffering from homesickness.
She chatted a little longer before she returned to the refreshment table. It was centrally located and provided an excellent view of all the guests. She noticed a new arrival. Tom Winston. She had seen him a number of times—working with Susan around the farm, and that one time in town, when she had interrupted their heated argument. Tom’s idea of tea party attire was a pair of clean jeans and a sports shirt. He had also exchanged his usual work boots for a pair of loafers. He looked around in an obvious way for Susan. When he failed to find her, he slouched in a chair and scowled at the scene before him. Guessing his malady, Mrs. Doyle felt sorry for him and went over to talk to him. A difficult task. Trying a variety of openers—the weather, cranberries, whodunits—she was met with little more than a grunt. He did admit to preferring seed catalogs to mysteries. Like Agatha and her cookbooks, Tom was happy in his work and had no need for escapist literature. Lucky pair. It wasn’t until, by chance, she mentioned Susan, that his face took on a whole new aspect. “Where is she, Mrs. Doyle?”
The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest Page 17