The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest

by Robin Hathaway

  “Have you decided yet?” Jennifer looked at him quizzically over her menu.

  “Oh—tuna steak.” He picked the first thing his eye lit on.

  “You hate tuna.”

  He blushed, hating to be caught not paying attention.

  “He’ll have salmon,” Jennifer told the waitress, “baked potato, and broccoli.”

  The woman scribbled the order and took off.

  “Now, what’s on your mind?” she asked.

  He described yesterday’s events.

  “No wonder you’ve been distracted. I thought I was losing my touch.”

  He reached for her hand.

  Raising her wineglass, she said, “‘Go with God but keep your cutlass sharp!’” She brushed his glass with hers.

  “What … ?”

  “Or, if you prefer, ‘Keep the wind at your back and your enemies at bay!’” She clicked his glass again, and drank.

  He smiled.

  “Or, how about this?

  “‘Ere’s to th’snivelin dogs wot would be our masters an’ oppressors. May the bleedin’ pox take ’em.’”

  He was pop-eyed. “Where … ?”

  “The internet.” She laughed. “That pirate site I told you about.”

  “Greg?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  At the news that his young rival was the source of the colorful pirate toasts, Fenimore’s somber mood returned.

  In another part of town, Mrs. Doyle was at home. She had taken the bus from Salem that morning. (Horatio had stayed behind—for safety reasons.) The only birds for miles around were stout comfortable pigeons. There wasn’t a teapot in sight. With a sigh, she flipped open a cold beer and settled back to watch her favorite Irish detective—without interruption.

  CHAPTER 54

  Peter Jordan’s prints did not show up on Lydia’s medicine bottle. They were able to tell because Jordan’s prints were on file. He had been booked on a drug charge at college the year before. The other two sets of prints probably belonged to Agatha and Lydia. Rafferty and Fenimore were discussing this over a beer at the Raven.

  “So, he wore gloves,” Fenimore said. “It doesn’t take a genius to think of that.”

  Rafferty shrugged. “Sometimes you have to let sleeping dogs lie, Fenimore.”

  He looked at his friend sharply. Where had he heard that before? “You mean—let him go?”

  “Well … let nature take its course.”

  “Which amounts to the same thing,” Fenimore said.

  “Not exactly … .”

  “How are things in gangland?” Fenimore asked.

  “Quiet.”

  Fenimore was surprised.

  “There was a major confrontation a few nights ago. The Chiefs and the Bones.”

  “I must have missed …”

  “You were busy. A few kids checked out … on both sides. Things have been quiet since.”

  “Benny Stiles?”

  He nodded. After a moment, he added. “Those kids are the same age as my kids.”

  “I know.”

  “When they’re dead they don’t look much different.”

  They sipped their beers.

  Fenimore didn’t raise the subject of Peter Jordan again. His friend had other things on his mind. If Fenimore was going to pursue the Ashley case, it would be on his own. “Is it safe to bring Horatio back?” he asked.

  Rafferty’s smile had no humor in it.

  “I know there’s no such thing as ‘safe,’ but …”

  “Sure. Bring him back,” Rafferty said.

  “And his mother?”

  “Yeah.” This time his smile was malicious. “Guess you’ll be house-hunting.”

  Fenimore grimaced.

  They drained their mugs and stood up. The bottles glinted behind the bar as they passed; the bartender smiled his good-night; the door swung shut on the music and the laughter. With a nod, they made their way down the street—in opposite directions.

  PART TWO

  The Doctor on His Own

  CHAPTER 55

  Soon after her return, Mrs. Doyle noticed a newspaper clipping attached by a magnet to the door of the office refrigerator. On closer inspection, she saw it was a photo of a distinguished couple in evening clothes, dancing. The caption read: “Main Line couple enjoys waltz at gala Art Museum opening.”

  “Hmm,” Mrs. Doyle mused. New friends of the doctor? When the doctor came in, although consumed by curiosity, she refrained from mentioning the picture.

  A few days later another photo joined the first. This one showed a woman on horseback taking a fence. The caption read, “Trophy winner prepares for Bradford Hunt.”

  During the next few weeks the surface of the refrigerator bristled with clippings and photographs from the Inquirer’s Society page. Mrs. Doyle feared it was becoming an obsession. She could no longer remain silent. One morning, during a pause between patients, she said, “Friends of yours?”

  “Hmm?”

  She nodded at the refrigerator door, now completely covered with clippings, some superimposed on top of the others. When the strength of the magnet gave out, they fluttered to the floor.

  “Not exactly.” He hummed as he cut out yet another article from the Sunday Inquirer and added it to his collection.

  “You’re running out of space,” Mrs. Doyle remarked.

  “So I am. I’ll have to get a bigger refrigerator.” He indicated that he was ready for the next patient.

  One day shortly after this exchange, a call came to the office from Mimi Fenimore, the doctor’s sister-in-law. Mrs. Doyle informed her that Dr. Fenimore was at the hospital and asked if she could take a message.

  “Please remind him about our dinner party Saturday night. And tell him that the guests he especially wanted to meet have accepted.”

  Mrs. Doyle dreaded delivering this message. The doctor loathed his sister-in-law’s dinner parties. He had told her that he felt obligated to attend a certain number—out of family loyalty—but they bored him to death. The second part of the message puzzled Mrs. Doyle. Why would he request certain guests to be invited to his sister-in-law’s party? As soon as he came in, she reluctantly gave him the message. To her surprise he smiled broadly. “Thank you, Mrs. Doyle,” he said. “That is good news.”

  “It is?”

  He nodded and whistled a cheerful tune throughout the rest of the afternoon.

  Mrs. Doyle was worried. Next he would be joining the Union League or getting into the Social Register. (His brother Richard and his family were already listed in that sacred tome.)

  Mrs. Doyle was not the only one who was concerned about Dr. Fenimore. Across town at police headquarters, Detective Daniel Rafferty hung up the phone with a clatter. His invitation to Fenimore for dinner at the Raven had just been refused for the third time in a row, and on the flimsiest of excuses. The first time it was a golf game at the Bonnybrook Country Club, the second a tennis match at the Cricket Club, and this time a dinner party in Society Hill. Rafferty scratched his head. “What’s with the old boy? Is he going high-hat?”

  A few blocks away, Jennifer was worried too. Recently even the promise of a double-bill starring Ingrid Bergman wasn’t enough to entice Fenimore to dinner. He seemed to prefer bridge and golf to an evening of old movies. Twice he had turned down invitations to supper followed by a VCR program on the pretext of having to attend some social engagement or other.

  On the afternoon of Mimi’s dinner party, Mrs. Doyle was working late. Dr. Fenimore appeared in the doorway of his office. Instead of the baggy trousers and mismatched sports jacket he usually wore, he was neatly dressed in a navy blue suit with a regimental striped tie. Mrs. Doyle gasped with delight. “Why, Doctor,” she cried, “you look lovely.”

  He ran a finger around the inside of his collar. “Feel awful.”

  “Here, let me.” With a deft motion, she loosened his tie.

  “Whew! That’s better. Thanks, Mrs. D. Oh, say,” he cried spotting Sal bearing down on h
im. “Keep her away from me. She’s shedding. She’ll make hash of these pants.”

  “Goodness, Doctor …” She leaned down and scooped up Sal before she could reach her destination. “I’ve never seen you so rattled. Who’s coming to this shindig? The president or Queen Elizabeth?”

  “Neither,” he said, looking sheepish. “A boring society couple.”

  “Oh, well, that explains it,” she said, although it explained nothing, except that Dr. Fenimore had either decided to go social as he approached middle age, or he had flipped completely. Still holding the cat, she anxiously watched his nicely tailored back disappear down the hall.

  Fenimore parked his disreputable nine-year-old Chevy a few blocks from his brother’s house and walked the rest of the way. He didn’t want to embarrass his more affluent relatives by arriving in a vehicle not up to the neighborhood standards. He only hoped some overzealous policeman wouldn’t mistake his wreck for abandoned and tow it away while he was inside.

  He was always impressed by the stillness and serenity of the streets in these old Philadelphia suburbs. The houses were large and sedate—at least the ones you could see. Many of them were concealed at the end of long, circuitous driveways. Even the trees seemed aloof out here, he thought, not friendly like the ones on Spruce and Pine Streets. Not a stray toy or errant gum wrapper in sight. Fenimore hated litter, but these sanitized streets were too sterile even for him. His eyes swept over the vast, closely clipped lawns, neatly trimmed hedges, and meticulously carved flowerbeds—the handiwork of some landscape gardeners, no doubt. The owners preferred to get their exercise inside on expensive fitness equipment.

  The occasional car slipped silently by (no faulty mufflers here), shining as if they had just left the showroom. It amazed Fenimore when people panicked at skyscrapers, heavy traffic, and crowds. To him this tailored, pristine street was far more intimidating than the turmoil of Broad and Chestnut. Usually these duty calls on his brother and sister-in-law made Fenimore ill at ease and irritable. But tonight he had an ulterior motive and he was half looking forward to his visit. His steps quickened.

  He had timed his arrival carefully. He wanted the guests to have preceded him by half an hour, and to have had at least one drink. If they were into their second, they would be more congenial, less formidable. Not that he was afraid of them. He just preferred agreeable people to pompous ones, and liquor had the power to work that miracle—at least in the beginning.

  “Andrew. We were afraid you’d forgotten.” Mimi Fenimore answered the bell herself. After bestowing her usual greeting—a chaste peck on the cheek—she stood back to survey him. “My, you look nice!” She made no attempt to hide her surprise. Having passed inspection, he allowed her to draw him though the sprawling house onto the patio. He had forgotten that in the suburbs it was the custom until Labor Day for even the men to dress in brilliant hues—bright pink and yellow shirts and pants of orange or green. He had chosen his conservative blue suit so he would blend in with the crowd. But in this multicolored gathering, his dark suit stood out like a beacon.

  “Well, well, little brother.” Richard, came over to Fenimore. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.” Richard Fenimore was actually the younger of the two brothers, but he was three inches taller than Andrew and enjoyed referring to his brother as “little.” In his youth, this had annoyed Fenimore so much he had blackened one of Richard’s eyes. But that was many years ago. Fenimore didn’t care to think how many.

  Some other guests distracted Richard, and Fenimore scanned the patio. An assortment of professional couples, lawyers, doctors, and CEOs took up most of the space, with a sprinkling of academics, one artist, but no writers. Artists were semi-welcome because they had trouble articulating. Writers, on the other hand, had the bad habit of expressing their peculiar views well, making some of the guests uncomfortable. Fenimore had a nodding acquaintance with a few of the guests, but most were strangers. He had to ask Mimi to point out the couple he was searching for. She nodded at a blonde woman. “That’s Paula Jordan,” she whispered. Thin to the point of emaciation, tan to the point of well-done, and blonde thanks to a bottle, Paula was in deep conversation with a distinguished older gentleman who looked faintly familiar to Fenimore.

  “She’s alone. Her husband’s on a business trip.” Mimi raised one eyebrow.

  Fenimore moved to the bar and helped himself to a scotch. After his first sip, he sighed. One thing about Richard, he always served the best. Fenimore had nothing against the best, but he was unwilling to sell his soul for it. Armed with his drink, he slowly edged his way down the patio and settled into a wrought-iron chair with pale green cushions across from Paula. Her companion graced him with a slight nod without interrupting their conversation. Where had he met him? Fenimore, while appearing to be surveying the lawn, eavesdropped. The subject was art.

  “Van Gogh’s Rain was the high point of the show,” Paula said vehemently. She pronounced “Gogh” to rhyme with “cough.”

  The man looked at her in amazement. “You felt that too?”

  “Oh, definitely. No contest. We’re so used to associating him with the sun, the rain came as a surprise. I’m not usually a Van Gogh (cough) fan. His colors are too strident. But the gray-greens of Rain were so subtle—muted …”

  “I am a Van Gogh fan,” Fenimore put in, pronouncing “Gogh” to rhyme with “hoe,” “but that painting took me pleasantly by surprise too.”

  Paula turned to him. “It was as if the rain had washed away his mask of brilliant hues, revealing the true color of his soul—gray and despairing.”

  Paula’s look of rapture was more than Fenimore could bear. He took a deep swallow of scotch and turned back to the garden. Soon he was aware of someone staring at him. He glanced up. The dark-haired woman’s features rang a bell.

  “Andrew! I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Heather.” By some miracle her name came back to him. He jumped up to greet one of the “ideal young women” his sister-in-law had fixed him up with in the past.

  “Oh, please don’t get up. How is the doctor business?”

  If there was one phrase Fenimore detested, it was that. As far as he was concerned, the practice of medicine was still a profession—and an art, not a business. “Oh, busy as usual.” The platitudes rolled easily off his tongue in this environment, and he kept them rolling effortlessly until a woman in a white serving costume appeared in the doorway to announce: “Dinner is served.”

  CHAPTER 56

  The table sparkled with crystal and silver. But the centerpiece was the focal point—a combination of delphiniums, poppies, and zinnias. Mimi Fenimore was an exceptional gardener, a frequent prize-winner at the Philadelphia Flower Show. No hired gardeners for her. It was obvious she had put all her expertise into this arrangement, and she was rewarded with the “oohs” and “aahs” of her guests.

  “Are the flowers from your own garden?” Someone asked her.

  She smiled. “Yes, they are.”

  When Mimi glowed with an honest emotion such as this well-earned praise, she was truly attractive, Fenimore noted. Too bad she usually hid her true feelings behind a mask of chilly reserve. Across the table from Fenimore sat the distinguished gentleman from the patio. Paula Jordan was on Fenimore’s right. And on his left was Heather (the result of Mimi’s strategic planning). He concentrated his attention on Paula.

  “Could you tell me the name of the man opposite us?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Oh, yes,” she brightened. “Owen Bannister.”

  Lydia’s lawyer. That was why he was familiar.

  “His wife Rachel and I often ride together,” Paula went on.

  Fenimore gathered this was a definite feather in her cap. “To hounds?” He was surprised at such an unfamiliar phrase tripping off his tongue. When in Rome …

  She nodded. “Do you ride?”

  Fenimore smiled, remembering the one time Richard had tried to teach him. His horse had stopped at every passing tree, insisting
on eating the leaves. When the time came to pay for his afternoon ride, the horse mistook Fenimore’s ten spot for a leaf and swallowed it. To everyone’s horror, Fenimore reached down the steed’s throat and tried to retrieve it. (A medical student at the time, he couldn’t afford not to.) He had been unsuccessful.

  “No,” he said. “I live in the city.” Damn. He hadn’t meant to let that out. There was something vaguely threatening to the country gentry about city dwellers. He had never understood why. But after discovering his urban origins they often became reticent and withdrawn—the way someone might react to a person from a foreign country that wasn’t a wholehearted ally.

  “I hear your firm has taken on the Parker/Wallace case,” a smooth voice addressed Bannister from the other end of the table.

  Owen looked at him. “Hardly dinner-table fare, Bates.”

  No more was heard from Bates, Fenimore noticed.

  General conversation resumed, more wine was poured, and its effects began to show on Paula Jordan.

  “Owen is about to be named Chancellor of the Bar,” she told Fenimore in a stage whisper.

  That was one title Fenimore had trouble taking seriously. It always made him think of Gilbert and Sullivan, but he tried to look properly impressed.

  “Rachel told me the last time we went riding.”

  “Does he want the post? Some of these honorary positions are time consuming with very little remuneration.”

  She looked at him in amazement. “The Bannisters don’t have to worry about remun … ershum,” she faltered. (A difficult word even when sober.) “They don’t need to.” She looked glumly across the table at Owen, who was chatting pleasantly with his neighbor. Fenimore caught the gist of the discussion. Grass seed. (A more acceptable topic than Bates’s offering.) From Paula’s sulky expression, Fenimore gathered that remuneration was something she still had to worry about.

  “I believe I had the pleasure of meeting your son recently,” Fenimore dove in.