The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call

by Robin Hathaway

  It was almost dark when the first guests began to make noises about going home. Tom had arrived back from his “breath of fresh air,” singing a college song and smelling strongly of whiskey. Mildred began quickly packing up the baby’s things and ordering the older children to get their coats. Taking their cue from her, the Turners began searching for their children’s belongings. A hunt for a stray mitten took Susanne into the dining room. The rest of the party was startled by her piercing cry.

  The room was in total disarray. Chairs overturned, contents of goblets and coffee cups spilled, napkins scattered. And slumped at the table, facedown in her dessert plate, was Pamela.

  CHAPTER 3

  When the phone rang, Dr. Fenimore was alone in his office. Mrs. Doyle—his nurse, secretary, office manager, and chief bottle washer—had gone out on an errand. He picked up the receiver.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to bother you, Doctor—”

  Emily Pancoast. She and her sister had been patients of his for years, and his father’s before him.

  “No bother,” he said. “What can I do for you, Miss Pancoast?”

  “I wouldn’t have called the office, but it’s about my niece, Pamela. You may have seen—”

  He vaguely remembered seeing an obituary for a Pamela Pancoast recently and wondered if there was a connection. (Reading the obit column was part of Fenimore’s job. Both his jobs.) “Oh … ah … yes. Terrible tragedy. So young. I should have writ—”

  “Oh no. We wouldn’t expect … I mean, that’s not why I called.”

  “Oh?”

  “I called to consult you in your other capacity, as … er—” She faltered.

  Dr. Fenimore tried to keep his two occupations separate, but sometimes they inevitably overlapped. “As an investigator?” He helped her out.

  “Yes, that’s it.” Emily sighed with relief. “You see, Doctor, just before Pamela died, there was a disturbance in the dollhouse and Pamela’s doll was …”

  Fenimore was familiar with the Pancoasts’ famous dollhouse and the dolls which represented each member of the family. “Go on,” he prompted.

  “Doctor, Pamela’s doll died—in a similar manner to Pamela.”

  When Mrs. Doyle came back from her errand, she found her employer preoccupied. She had to speak to him twice before he answered, and then his answer was unsatisfactory.

  “What? Oh, you’re back,” he said.

  “I asked if you wanted me to order more flu vaccine. We’re almost out.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Is that a ‘yes’?”

  “Oh yes. Sure. Go ahead.”

  “How much?”

  “How much what?”

  “Vaccine.”

  He shrugged. “Oh, another dozen shots.”

  She made a note and turned back to her typewriter. He had offered to buy her a word processor, but she had refused. None of those newfangled dinguses for her. That was one of the reasons she and the doctor got on so well. They both hated change and liked to preserve the old. He maintained a solo practice when every other doctor had joined a group or an HMO. And he still made house calls. He never pressured her to learn new procedures or operate new equipment, as long as she produced her work on time.

  The office occupied the front half of the first floor of his old town house on Spruce Street and he had not changed anything in it since his father died twenty years ago. It was a hodgepodge of hand-me-down furniture and knickknacks picked up at thrift shops and the Salvation Army. His father’s 1890s microscope still sat on his desk under a bell jar (which Mrs. Doyle dusted religiously) and the creaky centrifuge his father had used for spinning down urine samples still rested on a windowsill. Fenimore used it occasionally. “Why not, if it works?” he argued.

  “I had a call while you were out,” he said abruptly.

  “Oh?”

  “Emily Pancoast.”

  “Not her heart, I hope.” Emily had had a pacemaker installed several years ago.

  “No. Her niece just died.” And he told her about the doll.

  “Couldn’t she have been mistaken? I mean, maybe it just fell over, or one of the children—”

  “It happened twice. The first time they blamed it on a mouse. Then it happened again—in the same room.”

  “‘The Two Bad Mice,’” said Mrs. Doyle.

  “In the same room, Doyle.” He glared at her.

  His glare didn’t bother her. She was too excited. He only called her “Doyle” when they were about to embark on a case.

  Mrs. Doyle called up a picture of Emily, the elder Pancoast sister—her straight back and stern mouth (which broke into a surprising smile at the slightest hint of a joke). She would never disturb Dr. Fenimore on a mere whim. She must sincerely suspect something—or someone. She was thoughtful as she returned to her typing, part of her mind remaining with the dollhouse. She had never seen it herself, but the doctor had described it in detail to her many times. It was the prize of Seacrest. Everyone who summered there knew about it. And every Christmas the sisters held an open house for the local people to come view it. They couldn’t have an open house in the summer because the crowds would have been too great.

  “What’s my schedule tomorrow, Doyle?”

  Pulling back from her reverie, she checked his calendar. “Three patients in the morning—”

  “And the afternoon?”

  “Only one. Mr. Elkton at three o’clock.”

  “Could you move him up to noon?”

  “I suppose—”

  “Think I’ll nip down to Seacrest tomorrow. The funeral’s at four.”

  The door to the cellar flew open. Doctor and nurse turned abruptly. A Hispanic teenager emerged with a smudge of dirt under one eye and a cobweb over one ear.

  “When did you last clean that place?” Horatio glared at his employer.

  “Why, uh—” Fenimore stuttered.

  Mrs. Doyle’s eye was drawn to the rolled-up paper tube under the boy’s arm. “What’s that?” she demanded. She always suspected Horatio of light-fingered tendencies. (The name “Horatio” was a gift from his mother when she ran out of saints. Her nickname for him was “Ray,” but he preferred to be called “Rat.”)

  “Just some old poster,” the boy muttered.

  “Let me see.”

  Reluctantly Horatio unrolled the tube, revealing a replica of a famous painting. In the warm sepia tones popular at the turn of the century, a dramatic scene was depicted. A small child lay outstretched on a makeshift bed. From one end of the room, her father stared at her anxiously. At a table nearby, her mother sat, head bent in distress. To the left of the child was a neatly groomed man with a beard. He too stared at the child. But his expression was more thoughtful than anxious. The caption under the painting read: “The Doctor.”

  “I love that picture,” Mrs. Doyle sighed. “You’ll never see the likes of him again.”

  Fenimore looked slightly put out.

  “What d’ya mean?” asked Horatio.

  “He’s kind and good and—not rich,” she said.

  “Can’t you be kind and good and rich?” the boy countered.

  “It’s much harder,” Mrs. Doyle said firmly and turned back to her typewriter.

  “Let me see, Rat.” Fenimore reached for the poster. Glancing at the bottom, he read the inscription aloud: “Keep politics out of this picture.” His laugh was harsh. “‘Keep profit out of this picture’ is more like it.” He handed it back to the boy.

  “Can I keep it?”

  “It’s an antique,” Mrs. Doyle objected.

  “Why do you want it?” Fenimore was curious.

  “It’s a nice picture. We don’t have any. My mom’d like it.”

  “Help yourself,” Fenimore shrugged. “It’s a dead issue,” he added, more to himself than to them.

  Bewildered by the reaction caused by his new acquisition, Horatio rolled it up and carefully slipped a rubber band around it. He turned back to his employer. “When did you last clean out that ce
llar?” he repeated. “It’s a fuckin’ fire hazard.”

  Mrs. Doyle winced. She had hoped after a year in the doctor’s employ, the boy’s language would have improved.

  Fenimore looked guilty.

  “You could have a great yard sale!” The boy brightened. “I’ll help you clean it out, if you give me a cut.”

  Such business enterprise in one so young impressed Fenimore. “Well, now—”

  “Just a minute,” said Mrs. Doyle. “If there are to be any cuts around here, I want—”

  “Enough!” Fenimore held up his hands. “I have more important things to think about than cellars and yard sales. We can discuss this later. Back to work.”

  Grumbling, his employees obeyed, and Fenimore placed a long distance telephone call.

  “The Seacrest Police Department, please.”

  Mrs. Doyle paused in her typing to blatantly eavesdrop.

  “This is Dr. Fenimore, the Pancoasts’ family physician. I’ve just learned about the death of Pamela Pancoast—”

  A long silence followed during which Fenimore listened intently. “Is that so? Interesting. I’ll drop by tomorrow. Around two?”

  When he replaced the receiver, Mrs. Doyle noticed a change in her employer’s expression. From grave anxiety to eager anticipation.

  CHAPTER 4

  As Fenimore charged up to the front door of the Henderson Funeral Home, a carefully coifed young man in a dark suit was withdrawing his key from the lock.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” He bestowed a grave smile on Fenimore (the one they practiced to perfection in mortuary school). “The Pancoast family has just left. But they are receiving up at the house, if you wish to pay your respects.”

  Fenimore glanced at the program the young man handed him. At the top, in elegant script, was written:

  In Loving Memory of Pamela Pancoast

  And at the bottom, in italics:

  The family welcomes friends at home immediately after the ceremony

  “Thanks.” Fenimore folded the sheet into four unequal parts and stuffed it into his side jacket pocket (which was already overflowing with a syringe in a plastic wrapper, several bottles of pills, and his stethoscope).

  He strolled back to his car. No rush now. His lengthy but informative visit with the coroner had caused him to miss the funeral, and the reception would probably go on for hours. There would be no opportunity to have a word with the family members alone for some time. And he certainly could not impart his newfound knowledge about Pamela’s death to a crowd of gawking mourners.

  Fenimore cruised idly down the main street of Seacrest. There is nothing more depressing than a seaside resort in November. The storefronts were as bleak and shorn as an actress after removing her makeup and wig. And the display windows were as empty and forlorn as the rooms of a house after moving day. The only store that showed any signs of life was an inconspicuous cinder-block structure called Ben’s Variety Store. It bore a hand-painted sign: OPEN ALL YEAR. Ben’s sold a little of everything—from bread and milk to nuts and bolts—to help the handful of year-round residents make it through the winter. As Fenimore drove by, he caught a glimpse of Ben puttering around inside.

  At the end of the street, towering majestically above the town, was the Pancoast mansion. Built in the mid-1800s by Caleb Pancoast III, the grandfather of the present owners, it was a massive wooden edifice, dwarfing the more modest clapboard houses in the vicinity. On former visits, the Misses Pancoast had filled Fenimore in on their family history.

  The original Caleb Pancoast had arrived at Seacrest from England in 1762 and set up a whaling station. The Pancoast men had been great whalers. And the Pancoast women had been great “waiters.” Pacing the widow’s walk that was attached to the sea side of the house, they had anxiously watched and waited for the return of their seamen from their long voyages. When the whaling industry died out, the Pancoasts switched to fishing and shipbuilding. And when that was no longer lucrative, they had become simply—builders. In recent years, they had concentrated on restoring the older homes in South Jersey, of which there were many.

  Today, the front door of the Pancoast house was decorated with a simple wreath of white daisies. Before ringing the bell, Fenimore tried the knob. It turned easily. The hall was crowded with people talking in subdued tones. His eyes swept over them, searching for Emily or Judith. He spied Emily near the dollhouse and moved toward her. Not an easy process. Keeping his eye fixed on the top of her head, he edged himself sideways through the crowd.

  Emily glanced his way and with a glad expression began to thread her way toward him. Despite her age and frailty, she made better progress than he. “Doctor—” She took his hand. “How kind of you to come—and so promptly.”

  “Sorry I missed the ceremony,” he muttered.

  “Oh, Doctor.” Judith came up behind him. “How nice of you to make the trip. Do have some coffee or tea. It’s in there.” She pointed to the overflowing dining room. And both older ladies were carried away from him on the tide of their guests.

  Rather than fight his way to the refreshments, Fenimore decided to take a look at the dollhouse—the focal point of the vast hall. It stood at the bottom of the staircase on a platform which had been erected expressly for its display. Several other people were discreetly examining it also. For an instant Fenimore thought there was a miniature funeral wreath fastened to the small front door—identical to the one on the door of the big house. (He was familiar with the eccentricities of the Pancoast sisters where their elaborate toy was concerned.) But on closer examination, he was relieved to find a cluster of Indian corn. As he inspected the exquisitely furnished rooms, he recalled what he knew about the house.

  Edgar Pancoast, the aunts’ younger brother, had surprised his sisters one Christmas with the dollhouse. Although chief architect of the family firm, it had taken him a year—applying all his building acumen—to complete it. There was no doubt it was an amazing structure. It had the two chimneys, gabled roofs, and rambling screen porch of the big house, and was decorated with the same delicate squiggles and scrolls of gingerbread. Edgar had even included the carriage house (now converted to a garage) with its cupola and delicate wroughtiron weather vane. (He had spent a long, hot afternoon plying the local blacksmith with beer to get him to produce that!) The plumbing fixtures and electricity had been supplied by Adam, his son-in-law. But the interior he had left to his sisters. It had been up to them to paper and paint and furnish it. This they had done with the greatest enthusiasm.

  Immersing themselves in the world of miniatures, they had read everything about dollhouses they could get their hands on. They had visited the famous Queen Mary dollhouse between the World Wars and it had made a deep impression. (Secretly, Emily thought she looked a little like Queen Mary). They had especially admired the toothbrushes. One of the guidebooks said the bristles were made from “the finest hair taken from inside the ear of a goat.” When they were furnishing their own dollhouse and had come to the bathroom accessories, Judith had wondered aloud what they should use for the toothbrush bristles. “There are no goats in Seacrest,” Emily said, emphatically, “so put that right out of your mind.” Instead, they had settled for hairs snipped from the tail of a neighbor’s cat.

  Somehow the two sisters had managed to find a facsimile of every piece of furniture that occupied the larger house. The wickerware on the porch, the mahogany in the parlor (they still called it that), the oak in the dining room, and the bird’s-eye maple in the spare bedroom. The tea set of pink English china had been acquired at the gift shop of the Victoria & Albert Museum by one of the family’s travelers and the crystal chandelier had been captured by a niece at an auction at Sotheby’s.

  The whole family had been caught up in the project and every member had contributed by either buying or making something. Judith had written a minute book of love poems in her own hand. And Emily had painted two seascapes the size of postage stamps which were identical to the ones that hung in their real dining roo
m. And both sisters had filled tiny buckets with sand to place in each corner of the widow’s walk in case of fire—a custom they had read about in a journal of one of their ancestors. Even Dr. Fenimore had contributed. He had donated a syringe with which they had injected a fine sherry into the cut-glass decanter, and a hemostat for removing its small top. The hemostat worked like a pair of scissors, but instead of blades that came to a point, it had blunt ends like a tweezer. Both sisters had a touch of arthritis which made them clumsy and the hemostat enabled them to handle small objects more easily.

  When the furnishings had been completed—down to the last picture on the wall and the last pot in the kitchen, it seems the aunts had grown restless. Surely there was something more … . The story went that one evening Emily had been reading a book about antique dolls. Suddenly she had looked up and said, “What about dolls, Judith?”

  “Oh, Emily, you’re a genius.” Judith pounced on the idea. “I’ll start making them tonight. One for each member of the family.”

  “You must let me help,” Emily said. “It was my idea.”

  “Of course.” And Judith headed for the sewing room to round up fabric, cotton batting, needles, thread, scissors, and paint—all the materials necessary to fashion miniature dolls.

  Once the dolls were created, the two sisters became quite carried away with them. When their nephew, Tom, stayed with them one summer—bartending at the Seacrest Inn—he kept his red sports car parked in their carriage house. Right away, the aunts went to the dime store and bought a toy plastic car—the same shade of red as Tom’s—and placed his doll in it. At night they parked the car in the dollhouse carriage house for the length of his stay. Another time, when Pamela was awarded her doctorate degree, they dressed her doll in a cap and gown, complete with velvet hood the same shade of blue as her real hood. Mildred thought the aunts overdid the doll thing. When she married Tom she refused to have a doll made in her likeness. She wrote in her diary: “I hated to disappoint the aunts, but I don’t want some doll that looks like me running around loose. It gives me the creeps. What if someone took a dislike to me and decided to stick pins in it?” But she was the only one who objected to this family tradition.