“Some other time, Frank.”
“Oh, right.” He looked sheepish.
“When he left, did he say where he was going?”
“He said he was going to ‘take a ride.’ The first time he said that, it scared the shit out of me, ‘cause he was in no condition to drive. But then he explained—‘take a ride’ means he goes and sits in his car in his aunts’ carriage house until he sobers up. Sometimes he even passes out there.”
“Did the aunts know about this?”
“If they did, they looked the other way. They’re good scouts.”
“Was this habit of his—common knowledge?”
“He didn’t make any secret of it.” Frank ran a rag over the bar. “That car was like Tom’s second home. Probably wished it was his first home.” He snapped the rag.
Fenimore finished his beer and paid for it, adding a hefty tip.
“I’ll miss him,” Frank said. “One of my best customers.”
Fenimore’s next stop was the Pancoasts’ carriage house; a roomy place, large enough to store a sailboat as well as Tom’s car. A police officer, who looked no more than sixteen, presided over the site from a beach chair. They recruited them young in Seacrest. Fenimore showed him a slip signed by the Chief of Police.
The car, a neat Porsche, had been gone over with a finetooth comb. No evidence of any clutter or debris on the floor, in the side pockets, or even in the glove compartment. In fact, it looked as if it had never left the showroom. “Was the car like this before you searched it?”
The boy nodded. “Clean as a whistle. The only things in the glove compartment were the registration, the insurance, and the instruction manual.”
Ruefully, Fenimore thought of his own beat-up Chevy and the junk collected in it. Tom must have been one of those car fanatics who had a heart attack over every scratch and stain. Fenimore was about to leave when he noticed a sticker on the back window. The sleek red and black logo of an exclusive squash club. Maybe one of Tom’s squash partners could shed more light on Tom. One of the cardinal rules of homicide detection: get to know the victim.
The squash court was noisy with resounding thwacks as two relatively young men engaged in a match. Fenimore waited patiently. He had had a hard time getting admitted to the club. Nonmembers in a small town were not looked upon with favor. Not until he placed a call to the Pancoast household and attained Judith’s seal of approval had he been allowed entry to the holy sanctuary.
Fenimore had acquired the names of the two men—Josh and Henry—from the club manager. They were both occasional squash opponents of Tom’s, the manager assured him. Finally finished, the two men sauntered off the court, wiping their dripping faces with snowy towels provided by the club.
“Pardon me, but—” Fenimore explained his mission.
The two men were suitably shocked at the news of Tom’s fate. It is especially hard on young men to hear about the death of a contemporary.
“When did it happen?” asked Josh.
“This afternoon.”
They shook their heads.
“Does his wife know?” Henry asked.
“I believe so.”
“The poor kids,” Josh murmured.
“Did he seem depressed lately?”
They looked at each other.
“No way,” Henry said.
“Did he have any enemies?”
“Not off the court,” Josh said slyly.
Fenimore had a hard time believing that anyone would commit murder over a squash score. “Do you know if he had any major problems? With money, for instance? Or in his marriage?”
At the word “marriage” the two men exchanged a quick look.
“I hear his wife was into psychics and things like that,” Fenimore pursued.
“It’s a hobby of hers,” Henry offered.
“How about his boozing? Did his wife object to that?”
“Not enough to murder him if that’s what you’re getting at,” Josh said.
“He may have overdone the drink, but he wasn’t a mean drunk,” Henry added.
“In fact, it usually made him the opposite,” put in Josh. “Friendlier”.
“Can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against him?”
They shook their heads quickly and in unison.
“He wasn’t that kind of guy,” Henry said.
Josh nodded in agreement.
Fenimore thanked the two squash players and let them escape to their showers.
Fenimore had saved Mildred for last. He hated to interrogate someone so recently bereaved. But when murder was suspected such niceties could not be indulged. And as every detective knows, the murder victim’s mate is always the number one suspect. He had called ahead to warn Mildred of his visit. As he approached the sprawling ranch house he had mixed emotions. A tricycle sat in the driveway and a pair of Roller-blades lay near the front door.
It was Susanne Pancoast who answered his ring. Her face was pale and strained.
“I’m sorry to intrude—”
“That’s all right. The police just left. Mildred’s expecting you.” She led him into a kind of sitting room or den. Mildred Pancoast was hunched over a card table. Some cards were spread out before her. When she looked up, Fenimore was confronted with a face ravaged by weeping.
“I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Pancoast. But we’re anxious to get to the bottom of this.”
She gestured to a chair, low-slung, made of canvas and iron. When he slid into it, Fenimore found himself almost horizontal to the floor. Not the best position for conducting an interview. Awkwardly, he climbed out and moved to a more standard seat.
“You’re that doctor-detective, aren’t you?”
He nodded.
“He didn’t do it,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Tom wouldn’t kill himself.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“He wasn’t depressed. He never talked about suicide. He didn’t leave a note. Besides, he’s a …” she swallowed, took a deep breath, and went on, “he was … a Leo. And Leos aren’t suicidal.”
“I see.” Fenimore made a mental note to review the personality traits of the astronomical signs. He was a Pices, himself, and had never liked being born under the sign of a fish. He would have preferred Taurus—or Scorpio, whose traits seemed much more like his own. “Did your husband have any enemies?” he asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“Money problems?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“I thought all the Pancoasts were … er … rather well off.”
“There’s never enough, you know.”
Fenimore didn’t know. He had never wanted more. He had plenty to meet his needs, which, by most doctor’s standards, were small.
“Did you ever hear any of the Pancoasts express a need for more money?”
“You’re not going to get me to point the finger,” Mildred said quickly. “But I’ve heard all of them say, more than once, they could use more.”
“I see.”
“You probably don’t see. You don’t have kids, do you?”
He shook his head.
“They’re what eat it up. The schools, the camps, their teeth, their lessons—music, tennis, riding, sailing.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Then there’s saving for their colleges. It’s endless.”
A child came to the door, sucking her thumb. It was hard to imagine such a small creature being such a huge burden. Her face also bore signs of weeping. “Come here, hon.” Mildred beckoned to her. The little girl ran to her mother and buried her head in her lap.
“Molly!” Susanne appeared in the doorway.
“It’s all right, Sue,” Mildred said.
But Susanne led Molly away.
It was time to leave, Fenimore decided. He rose and thanked the young widow.
As he headed for the front door, he paused, realizing he had forgotten to ask the key question—what was she do
ing at the time of the murder? He turned. Susanne was right behind him. “Where was Mildred at the time of Tom’s death?” he asked her.
She frowned. “At school. Picking up her children.”
“And you?”
“Me?” She was startled.
He nodded.
“The same place. We both have children at the school.”
“And your husband?”
“Adam? At school of course. A different school. The Academy. He teaches there.”
“Do you have a copy of his course schedule?”
“Not with me,” she said shortly.
“Of course not. Could you send me one?”
“I suppose, but—”
“Thank you.” Fenimore left hastily. There were times when his hobby left a bad taste in his mouth.
Back in the car, Fenimore pondered what he had learned:
1. Tom had a drinking problem.
2. He was not suicidal.
3. He probably had no serious enemies.
4. He was living beyond his means.
5. All the Pancoasts were living beyond their means.
With the possible exception of the aunts. Although, even they invested heavily in dollhouse furnishings, which could be astronomically expensive. What was he thinking? What had the aunts to gain from killing Tom? They were the ones who held the purse strings! His thoughts were getting fuzzy. He switched his attention to alibis. At the time of Pamela’s death, all the Pancoasts were gathered in one place, but at the time of Tom’s death, they were scattered. Quickly, he drew up a list of their whereabouts:
ALIBIS FOR SUSPECTS IN THE DEATH OF TOM PANCOAST
SUSPECT ALIBI LOOPHOLE
Emily Napping Could slip down to carriage house at any time
Judith Shopping Could sneak back to C. H. at any time
Mildred Picking up kids at school It doesn’t take an hour to pick up kids. Had thirty minutes to go to C. H.
Susanne Picking up kids at school Same as above
Adam At Academy Could have slipped out and gone to C. H. Academy only 3 miles from Seacrest
Edgar At work on site a few miles from Seacrest Could have slipped back to C. H. during lunch hour
Marie Sculpting in studio at Pancoast house Could have slipped down to C. H. while Emily was napping and Judith was shopping
Carrie At school, having study hour Could have slipped out and gone to C. H.
Frank Bartending Could have gone to C. H. on his break
12/5 Mildred Pancoast’s Diary:
Dear Diary,
Today we buried Tom. I am a widow and my poor children are fatherless. They say it was suicide. But I don’t believe it. He didn’t leave a note. And I’m sure he wasn’t that unhappy. We still had good times. And there were the children. I blame it on those dolls. Somebody was out to get Tom. And I think it was somebody in the family. They worked their voodoo on him—through his doll. I’m so glad I didn’t let the aunts make one of me. At least I’m safe. My children won’t be orphans. I wish they’d get rid of all those damned dolls. Drown them, burn them, bury them. Something! I remember that story by Agatha Christie—And Then There Were None. Those ten little Indian dolls on the dining room table. Whenever one broke, someone died. I always wondered why someone didn’t hide them or smash them, destroy them somehow. They might have prevented all those murders. If we get rid of the dolls, maybe we can prevent more deaths. First Pamela. Now Tom. Who’s next?
CHAPTER 12
The day of the yard sale dawned brisk and bright. It was really a sidewalk sale because Philadelphia town houses are rarely blessed with front yards. Fenimore was in the midst of a lovely dream—walking hand in hand with Jennifer along a beach searching for seashells—when the harsh buzz of the doorbell jarred him awake.
“You’re an early bird.” Fenimore squinted at Horatio on his front stoop, a dark figure against the bright sunshine.
“Big day, man.” He pushed past the pajama-clad doctor and headed for the cellar.
Wearily, Fenimore made his way upstairs to dress for this event that he had been dreading. He had tried to postpone it, advising them that it was the wrong time of year. But Mrs. Doyle had overridden him. “It’s just the right time of year,” she insisted. “In December, people are always looking for something to put in a stocking or to give to that odd person.” Fenimore disliked the term “odd person.” Was she implying that only odd people would want his things?
He had been ordered to dress appropriately. Not in his accustomed navy suit, white shirt, regimental-striped tie, and black oxfords. He rummaged through his closet, looking for the pair of old trousers he kept on hand for household emergencies, such as tightening a washer, tacking down a linoleum square, or replacing a smoke alarm battery—the full extent of his home maintenance skills.
“Meowrr.” His cat Sal had followed him into the closet and Fenimore had inadvertently closed the door on her. He hastily opened the door. The cat rushed out and disappeared under the bed. The first mishap in a day filled with mishaps, he predicted morosely. Sometime later, he reappeared downstairs clad in his old pants, a T-shirt that had been a nice shade of forest green before an overdose of bleach had rendered it a sickly gray, and his “kamikaze” sneakers. (Jennifer had christened them that, because, “Only someone bent on suicide would wear such dreadful things,” she said.)
Horatio was attempting to wiggle a battered bureau through the front door.
“Hey,” Fenimore stopped him. “Are we sure we want to get rid of that?” Except for a few scratches and a missing drawer it seemed in perfect condition.
“We’re sure.” Mrs. Doyle came up behind him.
“When did you get here?” Fenimore felt ambushed, surrounded on all sides by the enemy. Even Sal had taken up a post on the stairs, blocking retreat in that direction.
“I’ve been here since seven—making these.” His nurse held out a handful of red stickers, each neatly decorated with a black price mark.
“How did you know what to charge?” Fenimore was mystified.
“Horse sense,” she snorted, going to Horatio’s aid. Together they shoved the bureau through the doorway and carried it out to the sidewalk.
When Fenimore caught sight of his sidewalk, he was aghast. There was barely room for the skinniest pedestrian to slip between the accumulation of furniture, kitchenware, books, clothing, and knickknacks. Anxiously, he went out to examine his lost wares.
“Don’t go takin’ anything in again,” Horatio warned dangerously.
Plunging his hands conscientiously in his pockets, Fenimore surveyed the motley collection—the doorstop in the shape of an owl, the Life magazine displaying Elizabeth Taylor as a teenage bride, the pewter soap dish with the hinged top. He was reaching for the soap dish when Mrs. Doyle slapped a red sticker on it—75, it read.
“Seventy-five cents? That belonged to my grandmother!”
“That’s all it’ll bring,” said his nurse, matter-of-factly.
“But the memories … ?”
“Of your grandmother washing her hands?”
“Well … er … yes.”
“Oh, very well,” she relented, peeling off the sticker. “Now mind, you put that on your bathroom sink and use it every day. If I find it back in the cellar, out it goes.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly, snatching up the soap dish and stuffing it into his pocket.
While he perused the rest of the cluttered sidewalk, a woman passerby joined him. They browsed in tandem. “Did you ever see such a collection of junk?” she said, irritably. “People have some nerve trying to palm off stuff that belongs in one place, and one place only—”
Fenimore looked at her.
“The city dump!” she said, and hurried down the street.
Turning toward the house, he caught sight of Mrs. Doyle and Horatio conferring on the front steps. He had never seen such camaraderie between his two employees. Usually at odds, today they seemed in perfect accord. For some reason this unnerved him.
After casting a surreptitious glance his way, Mrs. Doyle disappeared inside. Horatio, whistling a tuneless air, rearranged some broken-down chairs that didn’t require rearranging. A few minutes later Mrs. Doyle reemerged with a telephone message for Fenimore. Rafferty, his policeman friend, wanted a call. Happy to leave the litter of his past behind, Fenimore went to the phone.
“I’ve got two tickets to the Eagles game this afternoon. How ’bout it?”
What luck. He could escape this whole depressing business. “Great!”
“See you at Gate D, at one o’clock.”
It wasn’t until the second half that it occurred to Fenimore to ask Rafferty, “Where did you get these tickets?”
“Your nurse called. Told me to pick them up at the box office. Damned nice of her to include me.”
Fenimore fidgeted and squirmed through the rest of the game.
When he turned into Spruce Street, he began to trot. When he saw the empty sidewalk in front of his house, his panic grew. The interior of the house was ominously silent. Even Sal wasn’t there to greet him. With foreboding, he glanced in the waiting room. All the furniture seemed to be intact. After a quick survey of the inner office, he sighed with relief. Nothing missing there. His heart palpitated as he opened the cellar door and flicked on the light. Seven hundred square feet of immaculate concrete stretched before him. He could walk from one end of the cellar to the other unimpeded. But it wasn’t until he ran his hand over the top of the hot water heater that he was really impressed. No dust.
As he made his way up the cellar stairs, Sal was waiting for him at the top. At least they hadn’t sold her! He scooped her up and carried her over to his favorite armchair. Taped to its leather back was an envelope with his name on it. Letting Sal slide to the cushioned seat, he tore open the envelope. Two crisp, new, twenty-dollar bills fell into his hand, followed by a quarter, a nickel, and two pennies. Tucked inside was a note in Mrs. Doyle’s precise penmanship: “Your cut (minus the cost of two Eagles tickets.)”
The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call Page 5