She brightened. “Peter?”
He nodded.
“Where?”
“At the Ashley farm in south Jersey.”
“Oh,” she wrinkled her nose. “I wish he wouldn’t spend so much time in that godforsaken hole. All his friends are up here.”
All but one, thought Fenimore. “He seems to enjoy scuba diving.”
“Oh, yes. He picked that up on one of his spring breaks in Florida. But I don’t know what he finds in Jersey. Nothing but mud and cattails.”
“And pirate treasure,” Fenimore said.
“Pirate treasure?” Bannister tore himself from a heated debate over the most effective brand of fertilizer.
“Yes. South Jersey was full of pirates before the revolution. And doubloons were found on beaches as recently as fifty years ago after a storm.”
“You don’t say. I thought those stories were old wives’ tales.” Bannister’s gaze lingered on Fenimore before he turned back to his dinner partner.
“Well, I think it’s a lot of hooey,” Paula said. “And I wish Peter wouldn’t waste his time down there.”
“How did Peter meet Susan?”
Before answering, Paula glanced at Bannister, who was deeply engrossed in conversation with an attractive woman on his left. “Owen set them up,” she spoke in a low tone. “But I forgive him. Poor man, he’s been carrying a torch for the girl’s grandmama for years.” She giggled into her wineglass.
For the remainder of the meal, Fenimore was preoccupied, responding to his dinner partner in monosyllables.
The evening wore on. As usual, the conversation grew duller as the guests grew drunker. All except Owen. He keeps his drinks to a minimum, Fenimore noted. No slips of the tongue or sloppy confidences were escaping his lips because of alcohol. It wasn’t until the coffee and liqueurs were served on the patio that Fenimore found himself sitting next to the lawyer and the object of his half-hearted attention.
“We’ve met before,” Bannister stated.
“Fenimore. Andrew. Lydia Ashley’s physician. I came to see you awhile back about a real estate problem she was having.”
“Of course. Tell me, has she decided to sell? No, don’t tell me. I’m sure she hasn’t. They never do. And if she had I would have heard.” He busied himself lighting a cigar.
Fenimore watched him.
“Owen, dear.” Rachel Bannister emerged from the dark at her husband’s side. “Please put out that dreadful cigar and get my wrap. We’re leaving.”
He stood up abruptly. “You’ll excuse me, Doctor. Nice chatting with you.”
The party was breaking up. While Mrs. Bannister waited for her husband and her wrap, she didn’t bother to make small talk with Fenimore. (They hadn’t been formally introduced.) She stood silent and austere, looking into the dark garden.
“Nice gathering,” Fenimore ventured.
He was granted a brief nod, conveying that she had been to so many gatherings and this was no better or worse than any other.
Fenimore plunged. “Mrs. Bannister, I’ve watched you ride at Bradford. Your form is—well—exceptional.”
She turned and really looked at him for the first time. “Are you a horseman?” She made no attempt to disguise her surprise.
“No. Just a spectator. But I do know a little about horsemanship.” Here came the tough part. He hated to draw on the achievements of his ancestors. But this time, he reminded himself, it was for a good cause. “My paternal grandmother was Elizabeth Sedgewick,” he said.
Fenimore was not given to clichés, but he could think of no better way to describe what happened to the lower half of Mrs. Bannister’s face than “her jaw dropped.” He waited for the predictable response.
“Not the Elizabeth Sedgewick?”
In her youth, Fenimore’s grandmother had won every available award for horsemanship in the Delaware valley, and she had ridden well into old age.
He nodded modestly.
“She was at Woodlawn with my grandmother, although much younger, of course.” (Woodlawn was an exclusive girl’s school that specialized in riding instruction.) “Our family has been going to Woodlawn ever since,” she said. “And you mean you don’t carry on the family tradition?” She was shocked.
“’Fraid not. My mother never took to horses, and when she married my father that was the end of that. As far as my brother and I were concerned, I don’t think the subject ever came up.”
“Pity.” Rachel Bannister shook her head. “If you’d had a sister, perhaps …”
“Perhaps. Dad used to show us old photographs of Grandmother. She certainly looked well on a horse.” (Actually, she looked like a horse, but he refrained from mentioning that.)
Rachel Bannister glanced over her shoulder as if anxious for her husband’s return. Fearing she was losing interest, Fenimore girded himself for his final ploy. “You remind me of her, Mrs. Bannister,” he said earnestly. “I’ve never seen anyone handle a horse so … so eloquently.”
To Fenimore’s amazement she gave a little embarrassed laugh, and he was sure if there had been enough light he would have seen a blush. Privately he gave thanks to Disraeli for his famous advice: “Everyone likes flattery; and when you come to royalty you should lay it on with a trowel.” Mrs. Bannister wasn’t exactly royalty, but she had seen three generations of her family through the Woodlawn School and, by Philadelphia standards, that was almost the same.
When Owen returned with her wrap, Rachel Bannister bid Fenimore a very cordial goodnight. As they moved off, he heard her ask her husband, “Who was that charming little man?”
Unfortunately, Fenimore could not hear his response.
CHAPTER 57
As Jennifer looked through her mail, one item stood out from the rest: a burnt-orange envelope addressed in violent purple ink. She recognized the style at once. Natalie, her artist friend. She tore it open. The promised invitation to her New York show. The date—September 19th. At the bottom, Natalie had scrawled, “Bring your Dad—and that doctor fellow.”
Jennifer’s stomach tightened. She hadn’t written Natalie about the doctor’s recent metamorphosis. She kept hoping she was imagining things and the next time she saw him he would have returned to his former, quirky, unpretentious self. She wrote:
Dear Nat,
Congratulations! You can count on Dad and me, but the “doctor fellow” remains in doubt.
Love,
Jen
Before sealing her note, she telephoned Fenimore’s office. Mrs. Doyle answered. The doctor wasn’t in. Was there a message?
She paused. Should she confide in Mrs. Doyle? Why not? “I just wanted to remind him about an art exhibit of a friend of mine. I mentioned it to him some time ago and he said he’d like to go.”
“Hold on. I have his personal calendar here somewhere.”
Jennifer heard her rummaging through a drawer.
“Here it is. What’s the date?”
She told her.
“Hmm. He has something scrawled here. A benefit garden party at the Franklin Hospital.”
“I see. Well, I guess that’s that.” She sighed.
“Humph. He never used to go to those things. In the old days he wouldn’t be caught dead at one. He’d send them a small donation and forget it.”
Encouraged by this confidence, Jennifer said, “Mrs. Doyle, have you noticed anything—well—different about the doctor lately? I mean …”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
Jennifer went on. “He seems to be caught up in this social whirl, and he led me to believe that he didn’t care about such things.” She paused. “You’ve known him much longer than I have … . I just wondered if you thought this recent behavior was, well, normal?”
“If wings on an elephant are normal!” she snorted. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know what’s come over him lately. I’m worried sick. He flits in and out of here like a social butterfly. His mail is fifty percent those fancy cream-colored envelopes to this benefit and t
hat dinner party—things he would have tossed in the wastebasket six months ago.”
Jennifer took a deep breath. “Do you think it’s … a woman?”
While Mrs. Doyle pondered this, Jennifer was amazed to find her stomach churning and her hands growing clammy.
“No,” the nurse said at last. “I don’t think that’s it.”
“What then?”
“Let me think about it. I knew something was bothering me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I’ll call you back if I come up with something. Meanwhile, I’ll pass your message along to His Lordship, if I can catch him between social engagements.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Doyle.”
After she hung up, Mrs. Doyle thought back over the doctor’s recent behavior—wallpapering the refrigerator door with society notices, jumping at his sister-in-law’s dinner invitation, and this sudden flurry of social activities from tennis matches to tea parties. One morning he had complained to her about “tennis elbow,” another day she had come upon him scrounging in the hall closet for his golf clubs, and the next he was having a conniption fit over some missing gold cufflinks that he must have for a night at a theater gala! She couldn’t think what had come over him. But she was certain of one thing. It had nothing to do with a woman. Jennifer could relax on that score. She hadn’t heard him mention any women, and there had been no calls from agitated females asking for him. No, he was attending these social functions alone. No problem for an agreeable bachelor like the doctor. He was welcome anywhere.
During the day, as Mrs. Doyle deciphered endless insurance forms and talked to querulous patients on the phone, one part of her brain puzzled over the doctor’s new social life. She couldn’t make any sense of it. As she was getting ready to leave, the doctor came in.
“Well, Mrs. Doyle, I see you’ve put in a good day’s work.” He eyed the neat pile of completed forms in the “out” box ready for mailing.
Mrs. Doyle sniffed. “And where have you been? There are a few messages for you.” She nodded at the enormous pile of pink message slips lying in the “in” box.
“Oh, in and out, and round about,” he singsonged.
He really was becoming insufferable. Also secretive. And she was dying of curiosity. All she said was, “I’ll be on my way, then.” She picked up her pocketbook.
“Any mail?”
She pointed to the pile of junk mail on his desk.
“No first class?”
“None.”
He seemed disappointed. Was he expecting something? More invitations, no doubt.
“Uh, Doyle …” he called after her.
She stopped dead. So that was it. How could she have been so stupid.
“Could you spare a minute?”
She turned back with a big smile.
“Suppose you wanted to get to know someone better. How would you go about it? This is purely hypothetical, of course.”
“Of course.” She thought a minute. “Hang around his or her haunts. Get to know the people they hang out with.”
“Hmm.”
“Invite the party to a party, then the party will have to invite you back.”
“Too circuitous. Would take too long.”
“Find out what their interests are and cultivate the same interests—bridge, bowling, gardening …”
“Might work …”
“Maybe if you told me a little more about this hypothetical person I could be more help,” she hinted.
“Too late.” He glanced at his watch. “I have a dinner engagement in an hour. And I still have to return these calls.”
“Good night, Doctor.”
“Night, Doyle.”
When Mrs. Doyle entered her apartment, she made straight for the phone and called Jennifer. “He’s on a case,” she said, without preamble.
“How do you know?”
“Never mind. But I’m sure of it. Whenever he’s on a case he’s like a bird dog on a scent, or a horse with blinders on. Except for his patients, nothing else exists.”
“But doesn’t he usually consult you when he’s on a case?” Jennifer asked.
“He just did.”
The Doctor Goes a-Dueling
CHAPTER 58
Fenimore’s efforts to flatter Mrs. Bannister à la Disraeli were not in vain. Three weeks later he received the invitation for which he had been waiting—a supper and bridge party at the Bannisters.
He invited Jennifer to join him, primarily because he couldn’t face this gathering alone. Feeling remorseful for having misjudged him recently, she accepted. That’s why, on an evening in late August, Fenimore and Jennifer were marching up a flagstone path to a Tudor mansion, much in the spirit of soldiers going off to war.
As they stepped inside, Fenimore was struck by the modesty of the interior. The rooms were large, but there were no obvious antiques. No paintings or sculpture by anyone remotely famous. No decorative flourishes of any kind. The first impression was one of shabby austerity.
Greeting them cordially, Rachel Bannister led them from the hall into a long living room where Owen Bannister was talking to a handful of guests in front of the fireplace. Because of the season, there was no fire, and the leaded casement windows were shut tight against any leak of precious cooled air. The chilly atmosphere gave Fenimore the uneasy sensation of being sealed in a tomb. Over the mantel hung a portrait of a woman with a likeness to Rachel rendered in soft gray and buff tones. She was dressed in Quaker costume. Immediately Fenimore understood the modest decor. Mrs. Bannister was probably of Quaker decent. Although many members of that religious sect were wealthy, they did not display it ostentatiously. They had nothing against accumulating wealth—but they did so quietly, the same way they worshiped, and presented a plain face to the world. Their influence in Philadelphia had been strong ever since the days of William Penn, and they still held positions of power and prominence in the City of Brotherly Love. The portrait above the mantel was probably one of Rachel Bannister’s grandmothers.
“Doctor.” Owen Bannister broke away from his other guests to greet him, but his attention was mainly directed to Jennifer. (Fenimore had noted that the lawyer had a weakness for a pretty face.) Leaving them to get acquainted, he went to look for the bar. Spying some bottles and glasses set in a niche at the other end of the room, he hastened that way. But because they were so inconspicuously displayed and Bannister had not offered Fenimore a drink, he suspected Mrs. Bannister did not encourage alcohol. Reluctantly, Fenimore decided to abstain.
When dinner was announced, those brave souls who had dared to walk the length of the living room to make themselves a drink looked awkwardly around for a place to put their glasses. There were no coasters in sight. One by one they surreptitiously made the return to the bar table and hurried to catch up with the group heading into the dining room. Fenimore was disappointed to find that Paula Jordan was not among the guests. He had hoped to quiz her some more about her son’s antics.
He caught up with Jennifer, and when he took her arm she gave him a smile that made him almost forget he was on a case. He was just glad to be near her and to know that he would have the pleasure of her company during dinner.
Unfortunately, this pleasure was thwarted. Although Jennifer was seated on his right, his hostess was seated on his left and throughout the meal required all his attention. She questioned him at length about his grandmother Sedgewick and her equestrian triumphs. He, in turn, complimented Rachel on her triumphs (upon which he had dutifully boned up in back issues of Horse Country and Woman Rider).
The meal, like the house and the hostess, was plain: meat, potatoes, and salad. Good quality, but without any special seasoning or garnishes. And no wine. Dessert consisted of a fruit compote. The most shocking event of the meal was when Fenimore and Jennifer turned down decaf in favor of regular coffee. The conversation was as bland as the food, covering such noncontroversial topics as vacations, gardening, and baseball. Fenimore admitted to a passing interest in the pre-series playoffs that were
beginning that night. Bannister offered to show him to his den where there was a TV, before the bridge game began.
When they returned to the living room, card tables and chairs had been set up, and each table supplied with new packs of cards, score pads, and pencils. Bannister forgot about his promise of the TV, and the card-playing commenced in earnest. Fenimore and Jennifer’s opponents were no-nonsense bridge fiends, heavily involved in tournaments. When Jennifer admitted, “My bridge is a little rusty,” they groaned audibly. The game demanded their full attention.
After two rubbers, someone called for a break. Fenimore decided to use “looking for the TV” as an excuse to explore the second floor. He had no idea what he was looking for. In fact, he had about decided that he was on the wrong track. No one as boring as the Bannisters could possibly invent an evil scheme such as the one launched against Lydia. Jennifer went to look for a powder room. Fenimore’s search took him up a wide central staircase and down a long hallway. After poking his head into several nondescript bedrooms, he came upon a room at the end of the hall. The door was shut. He knocked. No answer. He opened it. Inside was a comfortable male nest. Bannister’s hideaway, no doubt. Bookcases, a worn sofa, two soft chairs, and a desk. The walls were decorated with a rack of antique guns (a hidden vice probably frowned on by his Quaker wife) and some framed bird prints. A huge television set dominated one end of the room. Fenimore went over to it, intending to punch the “on” button. In his haste, he hit the button below. To his surprise, instead of the screen beginning to glow, the TV itself began to rotate slowly to the left. Gradually the screen disappeared and was replaced by a curved, glass case—embedded in the rear of the TV console. Inside the case were shelves bearing objects Fenimore couldn’t see. He ran his hand around the outside of the frame, searching for a light switch. He found one. When he pressed it, he illuminated rows of coins spread out on velvet cloths. The most complete collection of American cents he had ever seen.
Suddenly he understood. Bannister spent his days at a tedious job, helping elderly, often cantankerous widows with their estates, and his nights with a plain, dull, demanding wife. The marriage may have been arranged for the benefit of his law firm. Such arrangements still took place in certain social circles—even today. Bannister was an intelligent, vigorous person. He had to have some outlet. A scandal with another woman would ruin him professionally as well as socially. He craved something. Something outside his drab, humdrum existence. The best of something. This coin collection must have filled that void.
The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest Page 23