“She’s … out.” Something made Mrs. Doyle pause and not reveal where Susan had been or who she was with. “She should be here any minute.”
Miraculously, Susan came in just then, followed closely by Peter. Like Tom, they were also casually dressed. After appeasing their appetites at the refreshment table, they came over to Mrs. Doyle. Susan was holding something in her hand.
“Gold sovereigns?” asked Mrs. Doyle.
Susan and Peter both laughed. Peter seemed to have forgiven her for this morning’s spying episode.
“No such luck,” said Susan. “But we found this.” She held out a worn copper disk, about the size of a fifty-cent piece. Some of the guests looked curiously their way.
As the nurse examined it, Amory came forward. “Let me see.” He took the disk from her and carried it over to the light. “Interesting. An early ‘large cent.’ Where did you find this?”
“It was caught on a piece of driftwood near the old wharf. I noticed it as I was diving … .” Susan’s back was turned to Tom and she was unaware of his changing expression—from curiosity, to shock, to fury. Mrs. Doyle noted it. She also noticed the room had become unnaturally quiet. Everyone seemed to be listening to Susan.
Tom stormed over to Mrs. Ashley. “Are you crazy?” he shouted. “Letting Susan dive at the old wharf. You know how dangerous it is!”
Mrs. Ashley staggered backward. “I didn’t …” Pale to begin with, she turned an alarming gray.
“Here, here,” The Reverend was at her side. “What’s this all about, Tom?”
Mrs. Ashley reached for Oliver’s arm.
“My dear, what is it?” he asked.
“I feel a little woozy … .”
Tom was forgotten. “Let me find you a chair.”
Lydia alarmed everyone. She allowed the clergyman to lead her across the room while leaning against him.
Mrs. Doyle went to her. “Mrs. Ashley, did you check your medicines like I asked you to?”
She nodded. “I found I’d forgotten my morning medicine, so I doubled the dose.”
Of course. What could be more natural? It was Mrs. Doyle’s turn to become pale.
“Oh, I can never remember their names,” Mrs. Ashley said irritably. “There’s the little pill I take for my heart once a day. Then there’s the big Doplex pills for my blood pressure. I take two twice a day. Such a nuisance. They’re so hard to swallow. I took two of those this afternoon to make up for the ones I missed this morning.”
“Where are they?” Mrs. Doyle’s tone was sharper than she intended.
“On my bureau.”
The nurse half ran up the stairs, almost colliding with Fred Jenks who was on his way down. Fleetingly, she wondered what he was doing in the house in his work clothes (smelling of fish) during a tea party? When she reached Mrs. Ashley’s room, she went straight to the bureau and began scanning the rows of medicine bottles. Some of the medicines were outdated by more than a year! At the end of the front row she located one of the two bottles she was searching for. It was labeled “digoxin.” She dumped some of the pills into her palm. Small, white, standard digoxin tablets. “The little pills.” Next to that bottle there was a gap in the row, as if a bottle had been removed. After carefully examining all the bottles, she failed to find the Doplex medicine. “The big pills.” All the pills on the bureau were standard size and would not be difficult to swallow. The blood pressure pills were missing!
She went to the phone by Mrs. Ashley’s bed and punched in the doctor’s pager number. While waiting for him to return her call, she noticed a copy of Nine Tailors by Dorothy Sayers on the bedside table. There was more than one mystery fan in the house. After ten minutes had passed with no call, she decided she had better rejoin the party. On her way out of the room, she passed the window and noticed Jenks below in the garden. He had a shovel and seemed to be burying something. The wavy, antique glass made it impossible for her to see what it was. As she strained to see, she heard cries from the living room. She rushed to the head of the stairs and looked down. Mrs. Ashley was crumpled on the floor beside her chair. From Mrs. Doyle’s bird’s-eye view, everyone looked small and squat—midgets darting to and fro among dollhouse furniture. She froze. Then her nursing instincts took over and she walked briskly down the stairs.
After checking Mrs. Ashley’s pulse, she sent Peter Jordan to call an ambulance. Susan knelt beside her grandmother, stroking her hand. Tom Winston hovered nearby, looking desperate. He must have felt that his angry outburst had caused Lydia’s attack. Mrs. Doyle took pity on him. “Tom, bring me some ice and a damp cloth.” He was off like a shot, pathetically grateful for something to do. When he returned, Mrs. Doyle gently rubbed Mrs. Ashley’s wrists and temples with the ice and applied the damp towel to her forehead.
The other guests spoke in whispers, while they all strained to hear the ambulance siren. When it finally came, although faint and far away, there was a collective sign of relief. Suddenly Mrs. Doyle remembered something. To everyone but Mrs. Ashley and Susan, she was supposed to be a secretary, not a nurse. But no one seemed to question her authority.
“What’s up?” Horatio appeared at her side.
For some reason, she was incredibly glad to see him. “She fainted,” she said.
As the siren grew louder, the telephone rang. The doctor returning her call? she wondered. But she couldn’t leave Mrs. Ashley, even for a minute. “Answer it, Rat.” (She rarely used his nickname.) “If it’s the doctor, tell him what happened and to meet me in the ER at the Salem Hospital.”
He took off.
As Mrs. Doyle continued watching over her patient, she tried to scan the faces of the guests. This was a time when people might give themselves away—by a word, a look, or a gesture. But it was hard to observe while being observed. And every eye was fixed on herself and Mrs. Ashley.
The siren reached an earsplitting crescendo, and stopped. The silence was shocking. Two paramedics strode into the room. Seeing at once that Mrs. Doyle was in charge, they directed their questions to her. They placed Mrs. Ashley on the gurney, as they had placed her granddaughter a few weeks before. Susan insisted on accompanying her grandmother in the ambulance. She begged Mrs. Doyle to come too. Mrs. Doyle wondered if that call had been from Dr. Fenimore. She would have liked to talk to him before she left. She glanced down at Mrs. Ashley’s still form. Impossible. Speed was of the essence. She could only hope and pray the phone call had been from the doctor and that Horatio had given him the message.
Susan got into the ambulance first. Before getting in, Mrs. Doyle took one last look at the guests gathered outside. Miss Cunningham looked on with curiosity mixed with relish; the Reverend with deep concern; Tom Winston with his perennial scowl; Peter Jordon with detached interest; Agatha blinked back tears; Fred Jenks, who had come on the run from the barn when he heard the sirens, stared open-mouthed. Mr. Barnes was nowhere in sight. Oh, there he was, up front, telling the ambulance driver about a short cut and without realizing it, delaying their departure. Mrs. Doyle was about to intervene when the driver started up. She got in the back and someone slammed the doors. The last thing she saw through the back window, before she sat down, was Horatio—holding up two fingers, in the victory sign.
CHAPTER 43
When Fenimore’s pager went off, he was at Veteran’s stadium with Detective Rafferty, deeply engrossed in a baseball game. The Phils vs. the Pirates. Eighth inning. Game tied. Phils up. Two men on.
Fenimore had spent a grueling morning with Rafferty. Together they had gone over the lab reports that had come back on the warning note that had sailed through his office window. Despite access to the most sophisticated electronic equipment, all they were able to determine was that it had been typed on a computer and printed out by a laser printer. Gone were the days when a chipped typewriter key revealed all. Reluctant to report another dead end, Fenimore postponed calling Jennifer. To relieve his frustrations, he coerced his policeman friend to attend a baseball game. Convincing himsel
f that gangland activity only occurred after dark, Rafferty agreed, and off they went.
Seeing the Ashley number flashing on his pager screen, Fenimore hastily excused himself and went to look for a pay phone. The phone rang seven times. He was about to hang up, when a familiar voice answered. Horatio gave him Doyle’s message.
When Fenimore returned to his seat, Rafferty was so absorbed in the game, he didn’t even look up.
“We have to go,” Fenimore said.
Rafferty glanced up in disbelief.
“Come on, Raff. It’s an emergency. I have to go to south Jersey.”
When the policeman’s attention shifted back to the game, Fenimore grabbed his arm. He yielded with bad grace. As Fenimore hustled him out of the row and down the steps, a cheer rose all around them.
“This better be good, Fenimore,” Rafferty growled. Without slowing his pace, he tried to look back at the field to find the cause of the cheer.
“It is,” Fenimore reassured him over his shoulder.
When they reached the car they were both out of breath. In his haste to unlock the door, Fenimore dropped his keys. Rafferty handed them to him with a glare. “You know, this is the first time I’ve ever left a game when the Phils were winning.”
Probably because they so seldom do, Fenimore thought, but said diplomatically, “You can catch the reruns tonight.”
Rafferty doubled up his long legs to squeeze them into the small front seat, and slammed the door.
Fenimore began careening through the lanes of tightly parked cars.
“Watch it!” Rafferty gripped the door handle. “This isn’t a TV thriller.”
“That’s what you think.” Fenimore spurted onto Pattison Avenue and sought out 1–95. When they had settled into the fast lane, Rafferty switched on the radio. While he concentrated on the end of the game, Fenimore mulled over Lydia’s medical history. Torsade de pointes was the danger. He prayed he would be in time.
CHAPTER 44
When the ambulance pulled up to the emergency room entrance, Susan was the first on her feet. The paramedic who had silently ridden with them stepped to one end of the gurney. The driver got out, came around and opened the back doors. As the two men moved her, Mrs. Ashley sighed and her eyelids fluttered. Carefully the medics rolled her out of the ambulance and through the doors marked EMERGENCY ROOM. Susan followed. Mrs. Doyle hung back to make sure they hadn’t left anything behind. As she turned to step out, the doors slammed in her face. She looked out to see who was responsible. She caught sight of a medic. A new one. Not one of the two who had brought them there. He was heading toward the front of the ambulance.
She banged on the back window. He didn’t turn. She banged again—this time with both fists. The driver disappeared around the side of the vehicle. She shouted. A moment later she heard the motor start up. This is ridiculous! She stared out the back window at the rapidly receding hospital. Suddenly, directly overhead, the siren began its pulsing whine. She covered her ears. It must be answering an emergency call, and they were completely unaware she was on board. When they arrived at the scene of the accident, they would throw open the doors and find her there. How humiliating.
She turned to look at the front end of the ambulance. Most city ambulances had a walk-through that connected the van to the cab where the driver was seated. This must be an older model. Resigned, Mrs. Doyle sat down on the side bench. She thought about Dr. Fenimore. Now she wouldn’t be there to explain what had happened to Mrs. Ashley. To tell him how his patient had forgotten to take her morning medicine and doubled her dose. And about the missing bottle of blood pressure pills. Mrs. Doyle felt like adding her wail to the deafening wail of the siren.
Suddenly the siren stopped. Mrs. Doyle expected the ambulance to stop too, as it had at the Ashley house. She moved toward the back doors, ready to get out. But it didn’t stop. On the contrary, it seemed to be picking up speed. And they were riding over rougher terrain. The van gave a sudden lurch, throwing her against the wall. Cautiously, pressing her hand against the wall for support, she made her way to the back window again.
A dirt road wound off behind them, through scruffy underbrush and clumps of weeds. Not a house or a human being in sight. Where could this accident be? As she watched, they passed an abandoned trailer camp. Trailers stood in various stages of disrepair. A door hung loose by a single hinge, like a tooth about to fall out. Awnings were faded and torn. Barbecue grills, orange with rust, stood like armed guards. There was a clothesline bearing a few weathered pins, but no clothes. From a wire, stretched between two poles, a chain dangled—the dog long since gone.
After the camp, there was nothing but the road, which had become a muddy track through a field. Mrs. Doyle moved to the front of the ambulance. She began to bang on the metal dividing wall that separated her from the driver. She yelled, straining her lungs. Surely he could hear her. Did she imagine it, or were they picking up speed again? The van was rocking from side to side. She had trouble keeping her balance. They hit a rut. She went down on one knee. The ambulance came to a jolting halt. At last they had arrived. Now she could get out and explain this whole ridiculous situation and they would take her back to the hospital. Automatically she reached up to pat her hair into place.
She heard the doors open behind her. Still facing the front of the van, she started to rise and turn. She felt a searing pain behind her left ear. A shower of light. Then darkness.
CHAPTER 45
The Phils brought in their two runs and won the game. Rafferty switched off the radio. “Now what’s this all about?”
“Mrs. Ashley lost consciousness and was taken to Salem hospital.”
“So, the first afternoon I’ve taken off in twenty years I’m going to spend cooling my heels in a hospital waiting room?”
“Sorry, Raff.”
“Why did you hijack me?”
“I thought your expertise might come in handy.”
“You think there’s something fishy about this Ashley woman’s illness?”
“Could be.”
Resigned, Rafferty settled back. A few minutes and several miles later, he remarked. “You know what this reminds me of?” He indicated the flat, open fields with a sweep of his hand.
Fenimore, absorbed in his own thoughts, didn’t answer.
“Holland.”
Fenimore roused himself. “Holland?”
“Yeah, without the tulips and the windmills.”
Fenimore scanned the landscape and grunted, “The Dutch must have agreed with you,” he said. “They settled here before the British. And before the Dutch, there were the Swedes. And before the Swedes, the Lenape Indians …”
“And before the Lenapes—the dinosaurs. You didn’t ask why I was in Holland.” He was disappointed.
“Vacation?”
“Nope. The Supe sent me. The Amsterdam police force had a unique program for handling kids on drugs.”
“Your specialty.”
“I thought so—at the time.”
“What was their technique?”
“Movies—or ‘films,’ as they call them over there. They would take a kid, detox him, and then saturate him with movies about all the horrible things drugs can do to you.”
“Did it cure them?”
“About as well as a mustard plaster cures lung cancer.” He sighed. “Speaking of teenagers, how’s Horatio?”
“Fine. Doyle tells me he’s taken to the country like a duck to water.”
“I wish I could send more kids down here,” he said. “How would you like to start a summer camp for gang members, Doc?”
Fenimore stored that idea for future reference. He would like to put his newly acquired marshland to some use.
When they came in, there were only a few people scattered around the admissions area of the emergency room. Fenimore’s eyes swept over them. Not finding Mrs. Doyle, he went up to the desk. “I’m here to see Mrs. Lydia Ashley. I believe she was just admitted.”
The woman looked at h
im suspiciously. “You a relative?”
“No. Her physician.”
“I don’t recognize you.”
“Not on your staff. From Philadelphia.” He showed her his hospital I.D. tag.
She still hesitated.
“He’s OK.” Rafferty gave her his steely police stare, the one he reserved for hardened criminals, and flipped out his more convincing ID.
“Oh—I guess it’s all right then. A Lydia Ashley was admitted about forty-five minutes ago. You may go in, doctor.” She pushed a buzzer under her desk, and the thick steel doors to the emergency room slid open. Fenimore disappeared inside.
Rafferty took a seat in the waiting room. Over a tattered magazine, he surveyed the other occupants. A young mother trying to keep her restless toddler entertained, and two young men seated at opposite ends of a row of empty chairs pretending to read magazines. Rafferty caught the two men casting surreptitious glances at each other, filled with hate. Curious, he thought. Did they know each other? Such situations fascinated him—one of the reasons he was a good policeman. He could detect the softest ticking of a time bomb and often defuse it before it went off.
Rafferty drew a lollipop from deep in his pocket. Although his five children were now in their teens, he had never given up the habit of carrying candy and tissues for emergencies. He unwrapped the lollipop, and with a glance at the mother for her consent, offered it to the whining child. His reward was silence and the mother’s grateful smile. For the next half-hour, although seemingly absorbed in the coin tricks he was showing the little boy, most of Rafferty’s senses were tuned to the two young men on the other side of the room.
The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest Page 18