The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call

by Robin Hathaway

  “Eighty-mile-an-hour winds …”

  “Torn sail …”

  “Busted rudder …”

  Now and then the men would send wary glances down the bar and lower their voices. A stranger in a small town was always suspect.

  Fenimore kept his eyes focused on himself in the mirror behind the bar (something he rarely did; he did not consider his face one of his fine points). He ordered another Scotch. When the bartender set it down, Fenimore asked, “Do the Pancoasts ever come in here?”

  The bartender pushed back his cap and grinned. “Sure, Doc. Miss Judith and Miss Emily come waltzing in here every afternoon for a snort.”

  Fenimore wasn’t surprised that the man knew he was a doctor. Just another example of the village grapevine at work. He laughed. “I meant the younger generation.”

  “Only Tom. He’s a booze hound.”

  Fenimore didn’t contradict him.

  “But then, you can hardly blame him—with that wife of his. Doesn’t make a move without reading her horoscope first. Uses a cell phone to check in with her astrologer twenty-four hours a day. Spends as much money on fortune-tellers as most women spend on hairdressers.” He took a swipe at the bar with his cloth. “A real nut. If she were mine, I’d drink too. As a matter of fact, Tom was in here on Thanksgiving.”

  “You were open Thanksgiving?”

  “Oh, yeah. Hafta keep the dining room open for the lazy broads who don’t want to cook—or have forgotten how. Of course we’re open.”

  “Yo, Frank!” Someone signaled for his services at the other end of the bar.

  Fenimore put down a generous tip and started to leave. When the first blast of cold air hit him, he remembered his coat and turned back. As he reentered the bar, he was met with raucous laughter. It stopped when they saw him.

  “Hey, mister!” The loudest member of the group sidled up to him. He wasn’t a tall man, but he was solidly built. When he was face to face with Fenimore, he said, “You a friend of the Pancoasts?”

  Fenimore nodded.

  The man shared a wink with his friends and turned back to him. “Maybe you can help us settle something.” He thrust his face nearer.

  Fenimore waited. He wasn’t interested in a barroom brawl. Not that he couldn’t handle it, but he had more important things to do.

  “We have a wager going here. Some of us think the Pancoast girl died natural. Others don’t. What’s your opinion?”

  “What makes you think I have one?”

  His eyes narrowed. “The Pancoast place was swarming with police tonight. Now, that ain’t natural.” He was so close Fenimore could smell the beer and peanuts on his breath. “You was up there, weren’t you?”

  It was as if the fella were accusing him of Pamela’s death. But Fenimore understood. The man was proud of the Pancoast family, as were most of the villagers. If there was something fishy going on, he would rather blame an outsider than a member of the family—or the town.

  He hesitated. But, he told himself, you can never hide the truth for long. And certainly not in a village of three hundred odd. It would probably be in all the newspapers tomorrow. He looked the man straight in the eye and said, “She may have been poisoned.”

  The man’s belligerence evaporated. He wilted like a sail that’s been suddenly lowered.

  His friends had heard Fenimore too. “I told ya, Louie,” one of them yelled. “You owe me a fiver.”

  Fenimore took his coat from the bar stool and left them to settle their wager.

  A freezing rain had begun to fall. The street was slick and deserted. Fenimore regretted not bringing his car. As he moved up the street, he remembered how it looked in summer, overflowing with vacationers—browsing in the shops, balancing ice cream cones, and oozing with suntan lotion. He quickened his steps.

  The Pancoast house was dark except for one light on the second floor. Probably the bathroom. The shade was drawn. He was glad the aunts had taken his advice and retired early. As Fenimore watched, a distinct shadow moved across the yellow window shade. It passed quickly, but not before he noticed that the silhouette was not Judith’s—with her fuzzy head of curls. And not Emily’s—with her neat bun at the back of the neck. The silhouette was smooth—like an egg. Or a bald man. Fenimore hesitated before getting into his car. Should he wake the aunts and ask who was using their bathroom? There must be some simple explanation. Edgar or Tom? (Both father and son were balding.) One of them had probably dropped back after Fenimore had left and decided to spend the night. When he glanced at the window again, the light was out. All was dark and serene. Even the rain had stopped. Fenimore turned on the ignition and began the long trip back to Philadelphia.

  CHAPTER 9

  “It’s a disgrace!”

  Fenimore recognized the note of righteous indignation in his nurse’s voice and was instantly on guard. “What’s a disgrace?”

  “Those poor, defenseless, little old ladies. There aren’t enough police to take care of them. They stand out there waiting for the buses to take them to church or to market—sitting ducks for muggers. ‘Pow!’ Some hood comes up behind them, socks them on the head with a baseball bat, grabs their pocketbook, and runs. Well, I’m sick of it. And I’m tired of talking about it. I’m going to do something about it!”

  “What do you have in mind?” Fenimore asked cautiously.

  “Karate.” Mrs. Doyle had become proficient in the martial arts while serving a stint in the Navy years ago.

  “For little old ladies?”

  “Certainly. You just have to get them in shape. Teach ‘em the techniques. They’ll be a match for anyone. They have plenty of guts, but no training. Now, here’s my plan. I’m going to hold classes for about twenty-five, three nights a week. When I have one class trained, they can branch out and train other groups. You know—the pyramid effect. Pretty soon we’ll have a network—enough to cover the whole city. I’ve even thought of a name for my organization.” She was so caught up with her idea, she didn’t notice that Fenimore had returned to reading his mail. “The ‘Red Umbrella Brigade.’ Or—RUB, for short,” she finished.

  “Umbrellas?” His interest was rekindled by the idiocy of it. “You’re going to defend yourselves against guns and knives and baseball bats—with umbrellas?”

  “Of course not. The umbrella is just a symbol. When each member of the class graduates, besides a diploma, she will be awarded a red umbrella. And whenever she goes out—rain or shine—she’ll carry it with her. As the reputaion of RUB grows, the hoods will learn soon enough to steer clear of my graduates—or anyone carrying a red umbrella.”

  “Sort of a ‘Red Badge of Courage,’ eh?” He was half impressed. “Where are you going to hold these classes?” He knew Mrs. Doyle had only a small apartment.

  “Well, while you were in Seacrest, I went down into your cellar to see about the yard sale. And what a vast space you have down there, Doctor, once it’s all cleaned out. It’s a pity to let it go to waste. It would be just right for a class of about twenty-five.”

  “Mrs. Doyle!”

  “Yes, Doctor?”

  “You plan to use my cellar as a karate training ground for a bunch of octogenarians?”

  “Well …”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  He went back to his mail.

  Mrs. Doyle slid a pink message slip under his nose.

  Call Mrs. Dunwoody (235-0539)

  (Mugged at bus stop, 9 AM.)

  “When did this come?”

  “Just a few minutes ago.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” He reached for the phone.

  “It’s not an emergency. She’s just bruised and sore.” Mrs. Doyle’s expression was grim.

  He dialed the Dunwoody number.

  “I hear you had an unfortunate accident—”

  “Euphemisms,” sniffed his nurse.

  “How are you feeling?” Pause. “I’ll be right over. Now don’t leave your bed till I get there.” He hung up and began o
rganizing the contents of his briefcase. (He had been forced to abandon his cherished doctor’s bag some years ago: too obvious a target for drugs.)

  “Uh … about your cellar, Doctor—?” Mrs. Doyle handed him the otoscope he was searching for.

  He tucked it into his overflowing briefcase. As he zipped the briefcase shut, he said, “If you and Horatio can empty the cellar, the ladies are welcome to it. Just see that they’re out by midnight,” he added tersely.

  CHAPTER 10

  DECEMBER

  Dr. Fenimore always gave his full attention to whatever he was doing at the moment. While treating Mrs. Dunwoody’s cuts and bruises, the Pancoasts were far from his mind. But as soon as he was satisfied that he had done all he could for his patient, his mind returned to Seacrest.

  His two interviews—one with Carrie and one with Frank, the bartender—had not furthered his investigation very much. But he had learned some things: first—that the back door to the Pancoasts’ kitchen was always left open. Therefore, anyone could have gone out the front door and come in again the back way on Thanksgiving Day without being noticed. Second—Mildred Pancoast’s passion for the occult was sometimes a cause of friction in the family.

  When Fenimore arrived back at the office, the day’s mail lay waiting on his desk. Mrs. Doyle had placed the most important piece on top—a postcard from Jennifer. Jennifer Nicholson was Fenimore’s constant companion—when she was in town. Now, unfortunately, she was in the South of France. Her father, the owner and operator of an antiquarian bookstore, had sent her abroad on a search for rare books. Unlike some business trips, this one was a legitimate expense and Jennifer was expected to spend her time in metropolitan bookstores, not on Mediterranean beaches.

  The back of the postcard read: “Having a lousy time. Glad you’re not here.” The front bore a picture of a teeming bus terminal in Marseilles.

  Jennifer would have liked to be more than Fenimore’s companion. But Fenimore felt diffident about their ages. She was barely twenty-five and he was pushing forty-five. Whenever he was tempted to make their relationship more permanent, he envisioned himself as a senile invalid being waited on by Jennifer in her prime, and he resisted temptation.

  Before Jennifer left, she had given him a copy of her itinerary and said lightly, “Feel free to write.” Fenimore had not intended to. Unlike Jennifer, he was not much of a writer. But, somehow, after she had been gone less than a week, things kept coming up that he had been used to sharing with her. He missed talking to her. To his surprise, he found himself writing to her frequently. Not short notes, but letters—often four or five pages long.

  He felt like writing one now. His patient load was light this afternoon. He had a half hour before the first one was due. He cast a furtive glance at Mrs. Doyle. Assuring himself that she was immersed in Medicare forms, he slipped a piece of personal stationery out from under his blotter and began to write:

  Dear Jennifer,

  Upon receipt of your postcard from Marseilles this A.M, I decided to take a moment out from my heavy schedule to inform you of a recent development.

  (His writing style tended toward the pedantic. On occasion, he had even been known to insert Latin phrases, such as “tempus fugit” or “O tempora! O mores!”)

  In this same vein, he described in detail the difficulties that had befallen the Pancoast family, filling six pages.

  Now, I must draw to a close, as office hours are about to begin. But I would appreciate it if you would apply your not inconsiderable intellect to the little problem I have just described.

  (Fenimore did not often indulge in flattery. This was a major departure for him.)

  Sincerely, your friend,

  (His signature, like his prescriptions, could have been written by a chimpanzee for all the resemblance it bore to his name.)

  Checking Jennifer’s itinerary, he learned that she would be in Bordeaux the following week. He placed the letter in his jacket pocket. “Think I’ll get a breath of air before the next patient, Mrs. Doyle.”

  “Right, Doctor.”

  As she watched his retreating back, Mrs. Doyle wondered in which mailbox he would drop his letter to Jennifer.

  When Fenimore returned, there was another phone slip on his desk. This one was marked “Urgent!” The message read, “Call Emily Pancoast re: dollhouse???” (The question marks were Mrs. Doyle’s way of demanding an answer asap.)

  He dialed the Pancoast number.

  “Oh, Doctor. Thank you for calling back so promptly.” Judith. “It’s the dollhouse again. Or rather—the dolls. One of them is missing. I hate to bother you with this, and under ordinary circum—”

  “Which one?”

  “Tom’s.”

  “Could you have mislaid it?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. When we’re here alone we always keep them in the same place—a shoe box on a shelf in the hall closet. It’s so convenient to the dollhouse. I packed them up very carefully after all the … er … unpleasantness at Thanksgiving and put the box back on the shelf.”

  “And his doll’s not in the dollhouse?”

  “No. And all the rooms are in apple-pie order.”

  “Where is Tom now?”

  “Well, that’s what worries us. His wife, Mildred, called just a few minutes ago to say she was expecting him for lunch at twelve and he hadn’t arrived yet. She wondered if he was here.”

  Fenimore checked his watch. After two.

  “She said he was going to stop off here first to pick up his car. He stores it in our carriage house in bad weather and only uses it occasionally. In winter he uses their Jeep.”

  “Did you check the dollhouse carriage house?”

  “Oh no,” she said. “I didn’t do that.”

  “Would you do it now? I’ll hold.”

  The receiver clattered as she set it down.

  “What was that all about?” Mrs. Doyle had come in to announce his next patient and caught the tail end of the conversation.

  While he waited for Judith, Fenimore encapsulated the events at the Pancoast house for Mrs. Doyle.

  “Doctor!” Judith was back.

  “Here.”

  “You were right. Tom’s doll was in the carriage house.”

  “And?”

  “It was sitting in the little red sports car. I can’t imagine who put it there. Emily swears she didn’t. But I’m so relieved.”

  Mrs. Doyle was alarmed by the doctor’s sudden pallor. “Is Edgar around?” he asked sharply.

  “No. He’s working on a site today.”

  “What about Marie?”

  “She’s up in her studio sculpting. She uses our attic as a studio, you know.”

  “Go get her and ask her to go out and check the carriage house. Your carriage house, not the dollhouse one.” The Pancoasts had too damned many houses, he decided. “And, when you’ve done that, call me right back.”

  “I hate to interrupt Marie … .”

  “Tell her it’s an emergency. And, Judith—don’t let Emily go with Marie.” He had her heart condition in mind. “Call me as soon as Marie comes back.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  Fenimore found it hard to keep his mind on his patients—a rare situation. Fortunately, there were only a simple chest cold, a pair of swollen ankles, and a skin rash. He finished sooner than he expected. He had removed his white coat and was washing his hands when the phone rang. With a soapy hand, he snatched up the receiver.

  “Is this Dr. Fenimore’s office?” Not Judith. Not Emily. An official-sounding male voice.

  “Speaking.”

  “Officer Baker here. Seacrest Police. I was told to call and give you this report.”

  Fenimore could have given him the report. “Go ahead,” he said wearily.

  “Friday, December second, re: Thomas Pancoast, age thirty-four. Caucasian male. Found deceased at two-thirty P.M. in his car, by his mother, Marie Pancoast, and his aunt, Judith Pancoast, the motor running.” The officer’s voice droned on with the
details of his report. “Cause of death …”

  “Asphyxiation by carbon monoxide,” Fenimore interjected.

  “That’s right, sir.”

  Fenimore allowed the policeman to finish without further interruption.

  CHAPTER 11

  Because of Fenimore’s previous track record for crime solving, the Seacrest Police agreed to give him a complete briefing of Tom’s death.

  Fenimore’s next stop was the inn. The coroner had told him that there was an unusually high level of alcohol in Tom’s bloodstream and Fenimore knew the inn was Tom’s favorite haven for imbibing.

  “Hi, Doc!” Frank hailed Fenimore as he slipped onto a barstool. “What’ll it be?”

  “Nothing liquid, today. I need information.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Was Tom Pancoast in here this afternoon?”

  “Sure was. Left with a snootful too.”

  “About what time?”

  Frank looked at his watch. “Came in around noon. Left about one-thirty. Plenty of time to get tanked.”

  “He’s dead.”

  Frank almost dropped the glass he was polishing.

  “Asphyxiated in his own car, in his aunt’s carriage house.”

  Frank’s eyes widened.

  “They found him around two-thirty.”

  “Suicide?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Whew!” The bartender wiped his forehead. “I knew that wife of his would get to him someday.”

  “Careful. That’s dangerous talk.”

  “Right.”

  “Did you talk to Tom while he was here?”

  “Yeah. Nothing special. Football mostly. He used to play for Brown.”

  Fenimore nodded. “Maybe I will take a beer. Draft.”

  Frank filled a glass and slid it toward him. “He didn’t act depressed or nothin’,” he said. “In fact, he was in a good mood. Told me a couple of jokes. This guy went into a bar—”