CHAPTER 13
Since the loss of two children, in less than a month, Marie Pancoast’s personality had undergone a dramatic change. Once cheerful and outgoing, she was now quick-tempered and withdrawn. Before, her family had been the focus of her universe, and sculpting a mere hobby or pastime. Now, she was hardly aware of her family (what remained of it) and sculpting occupied all her waking hours. She spent more and more time in her studio. The only way she could cope with her loss was to immerse herself in her work. When she was shaping a block of wood or stone into some intelligible form, she could bury her pain. But as soon as she stopped, it rushed back all the stronger for having been forgotten for a time.
As a result, she worked until she was exhausted, sometimes forgetting to eat or sleep. Often she slept on a cot that she kept in the studio for that purpose. Edgar was also distraught: torn between grieving over the loss of his children and watching the transformation of his wife. He neglected his work and began to lose clients. Other architectural firms outbid him and succeeded in meeting the deadlines that he no longer cared about. He spent his days in the aunts’ parlor staring at the newspaper, rarely turning a page. Every now and then, he would go up to the studio and beg his wife to come down and eat something or come home with him and sleep.
The aunts clucked over their brother continually, bringing him tea and coffee and treats to tempt him back into life. Susanne, the only remaining child, dropped by every day to see her parents and try to comfort them. Sometimes she brought the children, hoping to distract them. But they barely acknowledged Amanda and Tad, and it was usually left to the aunts to entertain them.
One day, a particularly pathetic ceremony took place in the garden. Mildred Pancoast had convinced the aunts that the dolls were in some way responsible for the tragedies. She insisted—in quite a hysterical scene—that they destroy them.
“If only you’d get rid of those damned dolls, there wouldn’t be any more deaths,” she screamed at the shaken aunts. (No one in the family could bring themselves to refer to the deaths as “murders” yet.)
Although failing to see the logic of her request, out of deference to the poor widow’s wishes, the aunts agreed to dispose of the dolls—and their clothes. Each doll had an intricately made wardrobe for every season of the year. It was especially painful to Emily to part with her doll’s tiny fringed shawl, which bore a delicate butterfly embroidered on the back. And it nearly broke Judith’s heart to give up her doll’s miniature pair of black patent leather boots.
They chose a particularly blustery December day for this doleful task. Both wore overcoats. Judith wore a felt hat pulled down over her fuzzy curls and Emily tied a wool scarf under her chin. Judith carried the spade. Emily carried two shoe boxes—one filled with the dolls, the other with their clothes.
Judith tried to press the spade into the ground, but the earth was like stone. She could hardly make a dent in it. Emily offered to try, but Judith forbade it, remembering her sister’s heart. Judith prowled around the garden, searching for a hole or crevice among the bare hydrangea bushes or in the dried-up vegetable patch. She paused at the bottom of the garden and beckoned to Emily. She had found a cavity—a sort of depression in the earth—possibly made by some animal. Judith directed Emily to lay the shoe boxes in it. Emily obeyed. Judith prowled the garden again until she found some loose soil and small stones she could pick up easily with her shovel. She had to make several trips back and forth, dropping the material on the shoe boxes, to cover them completely. When they were no longer visible, Emily pulled some weeds and dead grass over them for good measure. They lingered before starting back to the house, both feeling that something was missing. But what? A prayer? That hardly seemed suitable. Slowly, their heads bent against the wind, they made their way back to the house.
As they approached the back steps, Emily was in the lead. There was a hole in the bottom step where the wood had rotted away. Under normal circumstances, Edgar would have repaired it by now. But he had repaired nothing recently. And they had forgotten to tell Adam about it. Suddenly Emily’s leg gave way under her and she let out a sharp cry. She had caught her foot in the hole and fallen. Judith dropped the spade and ran for help.
By teatime Emily was in the Emergency Room of the Seacrest Hospital awaiting surgery. X rays had revealed a broken hip. Most of the Pancoast family was gathered in the lobby, their heavier sorrows overshadowed for the moment by this new emergency. Judith was allowed to stay with Emily until she was taken to the operating room, but she stepped into the lobby briefly to telephone Fenimore about the accident.
When the phone rang, Mrs. Doyle answered it. When she told Fenimore it was Judith Pancoast, his stomach contracted. Upon learning the reason for her call, he was almost relieved that it was nothing worse.
“Who is the cardiologist in charge?” he asked sharply.
“Dr. Lukens.”
“Ask him to call me right away. I want to fill him in on Emily’s cardiologic history.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Later, when Emily was safely in the recovery room, Judith called the doctor again to tell him the operation was a success.
“Well, that is good news!” He nodded vigorously in answer to Mrs. Doyle’s gesticulated question. “Tell Emily I’ll come down next week to cheer her up.”
“Oh, would you, Doctor? We do need cheering up. We just buried the dolls and all their clothes.”
“You what?”
“Well, Mildred felt the dolls were somehow to blame for our recent troubles, so we thought the best thing to do was bury them in the garden. That’s how Emily had her accident.”
“My word.” Fenimore paused, overcome by the enormity of his friends’ sacrifice. “Well, leave it to me. I’ll think of something. Have there been any other odd occurrences—connected with the dollhouse, I mean?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Have the police been bothering you?”
“Not recently. But I suppose they’ll be back.” Judith sighed.
“You can count on it. Well, give my best to Emily when she wakes up.”
Fenimore replaced the receiver and glanced over at Mrs. Doyle. Once she had heard the good news about Emily, she had gone back to work feverishly at her desk. Tonight was the third meeting of RUB—the karate class she had been conducting in his cellar. She was outlining the lesson for that night. When he asked Mrs. Doyle how her students were progressing, she had laughed menacingly. “I pity the first mugger who tackles one of my graduates,” she said grimly. “He’ll rue the day!”
“And who is your best pupil?” asked Fenimore curiously.
“Oh, Amelia Dunwoody, without a doubt. She nearly knocked Mabel Parsons out with her karate chop.”
Fenimore shook his head. He felt almost sorry for those poor unsuspecting muggers lying innocently in wait for this band of little old ladies. Obviously, they would be no match for a member of the Red Umbrella Brigade.
The doctor went back to pondering how he might cheer up the Pancoast sisters.
In a flash, it came to him.
CHAPTER 14
Mrs. Doyle shepherded her band of students into the rented van and they all settled back to enjoy the scenery. It was the second Saturday in December and by some miracle all the members of the karate class had been able to adjust their Christmas shopping schedules to make the trip to Seacrest. Horatio’s help had also been enlisted. He had rolled up the mats and tied them to the luggage rack on top of the van. As a reward, he had been invited to see the performance. As he sat huddled in the backseat, as far away from the cackling women as possible, he had mixed feelings about the invitation. Dr. Fenimore was at the wheel.
“Now, Amelia …” Mrs. Doyle had arranged to sit next to her prize pupil in order to give her some final instructions. “Be careful with your karate chop, we don’t want to hospitalize any of the ladies right before Christmas.”
“I’ve never been to the Shore in December,” said Mabel Parsons.
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��You won’t catch her taking a swim, I’ll bet,” said another octogenarian.
“Why not?” retorted Amelia. “When my husband and I were younger we belonged to the Polar Bear Club and went in the surf every January.”
“Brrrr,” said Mrs. Doyle. “Better you than me.”
Fenimore found driving an unfamiliar vehicle arduous, especially to the background noise of the ladies’ endless chatter. Reminding himself that it was for a good cause, he gritted his teeth and concentrated on the road ahead. Fortunately, in December, the road to the Shore had very little traffic.
“Oh, look, Kathleen! There’s a scarecrow.”
Mrs. Doyle looked out her window. Sure enough, a jaunty scarecrow stood guard over a desolate field of withered corn stalks.
“He looks just like Horatio!” someone cried.
Shrieks of laughter greeted this pronouncement.
If the van window had not been sealed shut, Horatio would have jumped out then and there.
Fenimore sincerely hoped that the Pancoast sisters appreciated the sacrifice he was making on their behalf.
As they pulled up to the Victorian mansion, it began to rain. This was a cause of consternation to the party. Mrs. Doyle had planned to present her performance outside on the front lawn.
“What on earth shall we do?” she whispered over Fenimore’s shoulder.
“Don’t panic. The Pancoasts’ dining room is big enough to accomodate a Flyers game. With a little shuffling of furniture, we’ll manage.”
“Here they come, Emily!” Judith called her sister to the front window. Emily, ensconced in a wheelchair, rolled forward. Fenimore had called the night before to alert them to the impending invasion.
“What pretty sweat suits,” Judith observed as the ladies descended from the van in varying shades of pastel pink, blue, yellow, and green. “They look like a bunch of Easter eggs.”
“That would make Dr. Fenimore the Easter Bunny,” commented Emily dryly.
With Horatio’s help, moving the dining room furniture against the wall was easy. The only problem was the china closet. Mrs. Doyle was afraid one of the performers might strike the glass and shatter its priceless contents. Horatio finally solved this problem by tying two wrestling mats over the front of the closet.
At last they were ready to begin. Folding chairs had been erected around the periphery of the room for the audience, which consisted of Judith, Emily, Edgar, Marie, Susanne, and Mildred. Adam and the children were expected to join them later, in time for the finale. Carrie and her little charges had also been invited. Mrs. Doyle had even provided a small tape recorder to play music during the program. It alternated between brisk Sousa marches and soothing Strauss waltzes.
As the music started up, the ladies were all crowded into the kitchen giggling in anticipation of their first performance. They had shed their pastel-colored sweat suits to reveal bright red body suits and leotards, cinched at the waist with their idea of the prestigious “black belt.” As the first group of five ladies paraded into the dining room to the beat of “The Washington Post March,” Dr. Fenimore knew he had come up with the right tonic for his depressed friends. He glanced over at Horatio. The boy’s dark face had deepened a few shades and he was viciously biting his lip. Fenimore prayed this self-inflicted pain would prevent him from erupting into an embarrassing guffaw.
The karate experts lined up in five rows of five each and began their maneuvers. Shaking their fists first to the right, then to the left, they punctuated each move with staccato shouts. The kicks were next, aimed at the audience and accompanied by more shouts. Originally, Fenimore had thought of these women as sort of senior Rockettes. But that image quickly faded. There was nothing merry and bright about these performers. They were in deadly earnest. Their enemies had better watch out.
Refreshments were served after the performance. The ladies had all showered and changed back into their colorful pant suits. Seated in the parlor, balancing their teacups and taking dainty bites of pastries, no one would have suspected them of being able to fend off the fiercest attackers on a dark street corner.
Fenimore set about the other task for which he had come to Seacrest—testing Emily’s pacemaker. He had brought the programmer. He unzipped the plastic case and took it out, along with the instruction manual (in case he forgot how it worked). The programmer resembled a laptop computer, but a little larger. Several people gathered around to look—Adam, Susanne, Carrie, Horatio, and a few of the younger children.
“How does it work?” asked Carrie.
Fenimore explained that he programmed the pacemaker to take over Emily’s heartbeat if her natural pacemaker failed. To prevent her from becoming dizzy her heart must beat at a rate above fifty-five beats per minute. If it dropped below that, not enough blood would get to her head or other parts of her body, and she would become dizzy or faint.
Mildred wandered over holding the cell phone she seemed never to be without.
“Hey, keep that phone away from here,” Fenimore warned. “They’ve been known to interfere with pacemakers,” he said sternly.
Mildred moved away, looking hurt.
As Fenimore beckoned to Emily, he noticed Carrie and Horatio hovering awkwardly in the background. Why not invite them to watch?
“Would you mind if Carrie and Horatio look on?” he asked Emily.
“Heavens no.”
“You two wait here until I call you,” he said, and pushed Emily in her wheelchair to the privacy of the library.
Fenimore quickly attached three electrodes to Emily’s chest and waited while she rebuttoned her blouse. “Come in you two scientists,” he called. He lifted the lid of the programmer and the screen glowed amber.
As he adjusted the settings, Emily asked the teenagers, “How would you like to have your life depend on a metal gizmo no bigger than a half dollar?”
“Not much,” Horatio said honestly.
Carrie nodded in agreement.
The three watched the screen intently.
“Is everything in order, Doctor?” asked Emily.
Fenimore nodded. “Everything’s perfect,” he said. “You’ll probably be around for another hundred years.”
“I hope not.” Emily laughed.
As they were leaving the room, Horatio hung back. “What’s that?” He pointed to a small box next to Emily’s telephone. Carrie lingered too.
“That’s a telephone transmitter. Emily wets the index finger of each hand—”
“Sometimes I just stick them in my mouth,” Emily said with a twinkle.
“—and inserts each finger into a special ring. Each ring is attached to a lead that, in turn, is plugged into the transmitter. When Emily punches in the pacemaker company’s eight-hundred number, her electrocardiogram is sent to them like a fax. The company checks it out every three months to make sure her pacemaker is working.”
An hour later the ladies had said their good-byes and were safely packed in the van. Fenimore was about to get in when he remembered Horatio. The last time he had seen him, the boy was tying the mats to the luggage rack. Now there was no sign of him. Fenimore asked everyone, and finally Amelia Dunwoody said she thought she had seen him heading toward the beach.
Fenimore hurried that way. The beach was about a hundred yards below the back of the Pancoast house and he had to climb through prickly underbrush and over heavy sand dunes to reach it. His oxfords were not made for that kind of excursion. He slipped and slid and the sand poured into his shoes. “Darn that kid,” he muttered as he came out onto the beach. It was deserted except for a small figure standing by the water’s edge.
Fenimore began hallooing and waving his arms.
Horatio looked up. Slowly he started toward him.
“We’re leaving. I couldn’t find you,” Fenimore complained as the boy drew near.
“I never saw it before,” Horatio said.
“What?”
“The ocean.”
“Oh.” Fenimore was thoughtful as he followed t
he boy back to the van.
It wasn’t until Fenimore was turning into Spruce Street that he remembered the programmer. In all the excitement he had left it behind.
CHAPTER 15
Fenimore had been asleep no more than an hour when he was awakened by the doorbell. He entered the vestibule cautiously and peered through the frosted glass of the front door. (One night he had opened the door too quickly and been attacked by two thugs.) Horatio peered back. Hadn’t he just said good night to that kid?
“It’s my mom. She’s sick.”
He let him in. “I’ll get my instruments.”
“No briefcase.”
Fenimore went to the kitchen and reached behind the refrigerator, where he kept a supply of grocery sacks. While transferring his things from his briefcase to the sack he questioned Horatio.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“This morning she just had a bad cold. But tonight, when I got home, she could hardly breathe.”
“Why didn’t you call nine-one-one?” He was alarmed.
“No way. They won’t come to our neighborhood.” Horatio danced from one foot to the other. “I shouldn’t of left her for so long.”
With a twinge, Fenimore realized he was to blame. If he hadn’t dragged Horatio to Seacrest, the boy would have been home much earlier. Into the paper bag, Fenimore dumped stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, sterile cotton balls, syringes, a vial of penicillin, tongue blades, a bottle of alcohol, a thermometer, and a collection of samples of pills. “Let’s go.”
Horatio glanced at Fenimore’s bare feet.
“Wait a minute.” The doctor pattered up the stairs and returned in a few minutes, fully dressed.
Horatio ran out ahead of him. As he locked the front door, Fenimore said, “My car’s over there.”
The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call Page 6