Exasperated, Fenimore said, “You should be glad they’re trying to enforce the law.” With a dark look, Mildred stalked off. A very becoming pink shawl lightened her widow’s weeds today, Fenimore noticed.
“What was her problem?” asked Mrs. Doyle.
He told her. “Would you mind if I deserted you to pay a call on the Seacrest Police? I want to see how they’re getting on. I won’t be long.”
“Go ahead. I’m enjoying myself.”
Mrs. Doyle was an easy mixer. It wasn’t long before she had engaged all the Pancoasts in conversation and formed her own opinion of each of them. None of them had impressed her as a murderer. But then, she was the first to acknowledge that the most unlikely people fall into that category. Reserving judgment, she decided it was time for another cup of punch. The punch bowl was located down the hall from the dollhouse. For the second time that day, she regretted its blandness. A splash of vodka or rum would have improved it immensely. (Actually, what she really craved was a cold beer.)
The line to the dollhouse had long since dispersed and some children were examining it. They had been sternly admonished to look, not touch. Suddenly one child let out a sharp cry and pointed to the attic. Mrs. Doyle came to see.
The attic was outfitted like a sculptor’s studio down to the smallest detail. Under a tiny skylight there were pieces of miniature sculpture in various stages of development—finished, half finished, and just begun. Tiny sculptor’s tools—a hammer, chisels, and a blowtorch—were neatly spread out on a wooden bench. On the floor, beside the bench, lay what appeared to be a wooden figure wearing a long white apron—the kind a sculptor might wear to protect her clothes while working. Upon closer examination, Mrs. Doyle saw that the figure had been fashioned from a clothespin. Next to the clothespin lay a plaster cast—the bust of some personage. She couldn’t identify it because it was split in half. She turned to the little boy who had cried out. “Did you do that?”
His lower lip trembled. “No. Honest. It was that way when I came.” The other children nodded emphatically, assuring her that what he said was true.
“Sorry, dear.” Mrs. Doyle remembered the doctor telling her that Marie Pancoast was a sculptor and she now realized that Marie was the only member of the family she had not seen that day. She darted up the stairs. If she met anyone she could always say she was looking for the bathroom. Finding no one on the second floor, she made her way to the third. At the top of the stairs she stopped before a closed door. Hanging from the knob dangled a small sign: DO NOT DISTURB. Not easily intimidated, Mrs. Doyle knocked loudly. No answer. She knocked again and called, “Mrs. Pancoast? Are you all right?”
The door flew open. “Can’t you read?” Marie glared.
“Oh, please forgive me … .”
“What do you want?”
“I didn’t see you downstairs and I just wondered …”
“I told the aunts I’d only make a brief appearance. I think it was very thoughtless of them to have the party at all—under the circumstances. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll get back to my work.” She didn’t exactly slam the door, but she closed it very firmly.
Mrs. Doyle retraced her steps, face flaming.
CHAPTER 17
When Mrs. Doyle reached the first floor she went to look for Dr. Fenimore. He hadn’t returned from town. Most of the guests had left and it was growing dark. Through the window she glimpsed an orange moon the size of a beach ball rising over the sea. No one else took any notice of it. When you live in such a setting all the time, she supposed, you take the beauty for granted. Judith interrupted her musings to ask if she would like a cup of tea.
“That would be nice.”
The two sisters had known Mrs. Doyle for years as a result of their office visits to Dr. Fenimore and they were fond of her. Soon she and Emily and Judith were comfortably settled in a corner of the parlor, chatting. Carrie, finished with her cleaning up, stopped by on her way out to give Mrs. Doyle her address. She begged her not to forget to send the information about the correspondence course.
“What are you going to send her?” Because of her poor hearing, Emily had missed some of the conversation.
Mrs. Doyle told her about Carrie’s ambition to become a nurse.
“Well, good luck to her,” Emily said. “I wanted to be a doctor, but my father wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Times are different now, Emily,” Judith observed. “Women do what they want.” Mrs. Doyle detected a wistful note in her voice.
When her sister left the room to refill the teapot, Emily spoke in a low tone to Mrs. Doyle. “Judith was once engaged to a seaman. Our father forbade her to marry him. It nearly broke her heart.”
When Judith reappeared with the pot, Emily said, “Shouldn’t we ask Marie to join us?”
“I don’t think she wants to be disturbed.” Mrs. Doyle was emphatic.
“Oh, of course. I forgot she was working.”
“Not all women were stay-at-homes in the old days.” Judith returned to their former topic. “We had one ancestor who went to sea with her husband, remember, Emily?”
“Oh yes. Rebecca. She kept a journal. We have it in the attic somewhere. She tells tales of pirates and mutiny. She’s the one who brought back the ruby—”
But Judith’s tale of the ruby was interrupted by the return of Dr. Fenimore. He apologized for his long absence. As soon as Mrs. Doyle could get his attention, she drew him aside and told him about the scene in the dollhouse.
“Where is Marie now?” He scanned the room.
“In her studio.”
He gave her a sharp look.
“No, it’s all right. I checked. She’s very much alive.” Mrs. Doyle reddened at the memory of her reception.
“Nevertheless, I think I’ll have a look,” Fenimore hurried out.
“Good luck,” Mrs. Doyle called after him.
Fenimore paused in the hall to examine the carefully contrived scene in the dollhouse studio. Then he bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
On the third floor, he went through the same routine as Mrs. Doyle had done. But unlike his nurse, his knocks went unanswered. He tried the knob. The door opened. The room was brilliant. Not with electric light, but with moonlight—pouring through the skylight. It turned everything black and white, like an old film.
“Mrs. Pancoast?” His eyes slid nervously around the room. Perhaps she had gone home. He stepped inside and spotted her—spread—eagled beside her workbench. Near her head lay a white bust. The bust was split in half and spattered with a black substance. He fumbled for the light switch. When he found it, the black substance became red.
… and hit it with the tongs and with the shovel—bang, bang, smash, smash!
—The Tale of Two Bad Mice by Beatrix Potter
CHAPTER 18
Fenimore stood blinking in the sudden glare. He had no right to do anything more. This was strictly a police matter. In his role as “family detective” he had no authority to touch or examine anything. He hovered in the doorway. As “family physician” he did have the authority to determine if Marie was alive or dead. Although he already knew the answer, he bent and felt for her pulse. None. He turned and noticed the shelf from which the bust had fallen. It hung loose, attached at only one end. The nails at the other end, tired of the weight of Hercules’ bust (or whoever he was), had simply let go of the wall. The shelf, warped and stained, looked as if it had been with the house since it was built. But the nails, instead of bent and rusty—were straight and shiny, as if just brought home from the hardware store. (If he had been on the police force, he would have carefully removed one nail and pocketed it.) Instead he stared hard at the nail, committing its shape, size, and color to memory.
Turning back to the body, he fixed its angle permanently in his mind. He circled the room once looking for any obvious traces the murderer might have left behind. Finally his eyes came to rest on the piece of sculpture Marie had been working on. A male figure. The top half of the
man emerged from bluegray stone. He looked like a sailor, about to hoist a sail. His arms stretched upward as if hauling on some ropes and he wore the suggestion of a yachting cap.
He reminded Fenimore of someone.
“Doctor?” Mrs. Doyle called up the stairs. “Is everything all right?”
He flicked off the light, closed the door, and went to answer her.
When the police had left, the rest of the family members had been notified, and sedatives were administered to the two aunts, Fenimore took Mrs. Doyle into the library for a private word. She had almost required a sedative herself. She had taken complete blame for the tragedy.
“Oh, Doctor, I should have stayed with her. Or at least lured her downstairs—away from the studio. How could I have been so—?” She covered her face with her hands.
“Now, now.” He patted her shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault. That bust was set to fall on Marie sometime, whether you were there or not. But if you insist on blaming yourself—” His eye held a glint. “I know how you could make amends.”
Mrs. Doyle glanced up, warily.
“How would you like to take a vacation at the seashore?”
“In December?”
“Mmm.”
“But the office …”
“I can manage,” he lied bravely.
“My clothes … ?”
“You and Judith are about the same size. I’m sure she could lend you some things to tide you over until I can bring your own things down.”
“I’ll need my wool slacks, two pairs of long johns, my flannel wrapper, my bedroom slippers, and …” She was rummaging in her pocketbook for her apartment key.
“Your bathing suit?”
She cast him a baleful glance. “What about my karate class?”
“I’ll take care of that,” he said blithely.
“You?” She surveyed him skeptically. Fenimore was not known for his athletic prowess. His attributes lay elsewhere.
“Not me, personally,” he assured her. “I have a substitute in mind.”
Mrs. Doyle tensed. “And who might that be?”
“Oh, an acquaintance,” he said airily.
Mrs. Doyle’s eyes narrowed. Fenimore turned away, pretending a fascination in an ancient map of Seacrest.
“You wouldn’t!” She addressed the back of his neck. “You wouldn’t wish that, that … on a bunch of defenseless, little old ladies.” Her voice had risen an octave.
“Oh, so they’re defenseless now. I thought they were hardy, agile—”
Mrs. Doyle glared.
“He told me he’s well trained in the martial arts.”
“A likely story—”
A light tap on the door. “Mrs. Doyle?” Judith.
“What’s my excuse for staying?” whispered Mrs. Doyle anxiously.
“I need your help,” Judith said in a louder voice.
Fenimore opened the door.
“It’s time for Emily’s bath, and with her poor hip it’s really a two-person job. I used to ask Marie, but …”
Fenimore said. “She’s all yours, Miss Pancoast.”
Mrs. Doyle handed him her key. “Don’t forget to water my violets,” she said sternly.
Before she left the room, Fenimore whispered, “In between your nursing duties, keep your eyes and ears open for anything unusual and report back to me.”
As he watched his capable nurse return to the parlor, his spirits rose. With Doyle on the scene—his occasional Watson—Fenimore’s expectations for finding the murderer soared.
Before leaving Seacrest, Fenimore stopped at the inn. Although he had no desire for a Scotch, he ordered one. He had figured out who Marie’s sailor was. He looked more at home pouring drinks than hauling sails.
“Hi, Doc! Hear there’s been more trouble up the hill.” Frank paused for enlightenment.
As Fenimore told him about Marie, he watched the bartender closely. He had been leaning with both hands on the bar. He sagged noticeably. From the shock of a personal loss—or merely a financial one? Marie had probably paid him handsomely for posing.
“She was working on a sculpture before she died. Was it you?” Fenimore asked.
“Yeah. She came in here one day and asked me to pose for her. With my clothes on, you understand.” He actually blushed. “I was surprised to see her. She never comes in here. We were in high school together. Before she married Pancoast. But she never went high-hat. When we met in town she always had time for a chat. She even came to a class reunion once. Anyway, she said she had this idea about sculpting a sailor and she thought I had the right build.” Again he reddened. “Well, since she’s had all this trouble and everything, I didn’t like to turn her down. So I said, ‘What the hell, if the wife agrees.’ It turned out she only needed me for a couple of sessions. Made a lot of sketches. But when it was time to go into stone, she explained, she wouldn’t need me anymore. She wanted to pay me, but I wouldn’t take anything. Then, just this afternoon, my wife calls and says Marie sent us a big Christmas basket—full of fruit and candy and cheese. Can you beat that? Her thinkin’ of us—with all the trouble she has … had?” He brushed a quick hand across his eyes.
Fenimore concentrated on his Scotch.
“The Pancoasts are fine people,” the bartender said finally.
“Yes, they are,” Fenimore agreed. To himself, he added, “With one exception.”
Fenimore made one more stop before heading back to Philadelphia. Whenever he came into Ben’s Variety Store, he was overwhelmed by the number of objects stuffed into such a small cinder-block structure. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling crammed with everything from kitchenware to office supplies, from hardware to cosmetics. With one quick look, Fenimore took in coffee grinders and frying pans, spiral notebooks and legal pads, wrenches and screwdrivers, face creams and nail polish. Whoever was in charge of the inventory was a genius. He suspected that Ben handled it himself.
A wholesome, dry goods smell permeated the place, reminding Fenimore of a store he had frequented in his youth. That store was long gone. He always tried to find an excuse to come to Ben’s when he was in Seacrest. This time he had a ready-made excuse. Hearing Ben shuffling around in the darker storage regions, he squeezed his way between the crowded shelves to the back. He found him sorting screws.
Fenimore coughed.
Ben peered at him. “Oh, it’s you.”
“I’d like to see your nail collection.”
“Over here.” Ben led him through the murky gloom to the next aisle. Yanking a small flashlight from his belt, he played its beam over the nails.
Fenimore studied them carefully. Although the assortment was vast, none of them exactly resembled the one in Marie’s studio. He frowned. “Is there any other store in Seacrest that sells nails?”
Ben snorted. “Dime store. Cheap stuff. Bend if you look at them. Made in Yugoslavia.” He shut off the flashlight.
“Is it open?”
“Nope. Not ’til May first. When the tourists come.”
“Well, thanks.”
“Umph.”
As Fenimore groped his way out, he wondered how Ben’s customers ever found anything.
12/22 Mildred Pancoast’s Diary:
Dear Diary,
Marie is gone. And the killer didn’t need a doll to set up this scene in the dollhouse. He (she?) used a clothespin. Poor Marie, reduced to a clothespin wearing an apron. If the killer can just use clothespins, there was no point burying the dolls. He can get clothespins anywhere. The house is full of them. And the hardware stores. Even the supermarkets. I’m not safe anymore, Diary. He can make a doll of me anytime. Tomorrow. Today. Maybe he’s making one right now. Oh, God!
CHAPTER 19
Because of a fitful night, Fenimore overslept. When he came into the office Horatio was already there stuffing, stamping, and sealing the monthly bills.
“Why is everyone up so early?” Fenimore yawned.
“Not everybody.” Horatio nodded at Sal. The cat lay o
n her back, four legs extended, as if she had died in her sleep and rigor mortis had set in. “And where’s Doyle?” the boy asked, casting an accusatory glance at the empty desk that dominated the center of the room like a throne.
“Mrs. Doyle.”
“I thought we were supposed to call all the broads ‘Mzzzzzz’ these days.”
“Right. All except Mrs. Doyle.”
“Huh.”
“Mrs. Doyle will be out of town for an extended period. She’s looking after a patient of mine in Seacrest.”
Horatio frowned. “Who’s gonna do all the work?”
“We’ll manage. How’s your mother?” Fenimore had followed Mrs. Lopez’s case closely and made several house calls since his initial noctornal visit. (These subsequent calls had been made in the daytime, however.)
“Great. Whatever you did worked. She’s starting to bug me again.”
Fenimore bent to stroke Sal, who had risen from the dead to wrap herself around his left leg. When he unbent, he said, “I have a proposition for you.”
Horatio looked up warily. Some of his employer’s former propositions had ended in disaster.
“Didn’t you mention that you were studying the martial arts?”
“Not studying. This guy knows a few moves and after school sometimes we go over to the yard and practice ’em.”
“Would you care to demonstrate?”
“Here?” Horatio cast a disdainful eye around the cluttered office.
Fenimore opened the cellar door and with a broad sweep of his hand said, “Be my guest.”
Always happy to stop working, Horatio obeyed.
The cellar was cool, clean, and welcoming, thanks to the recent yard sale—a perfect place to work out or demonstrate karate moves. After Horatio had shown Fenimore a few, the boy assumed a fighting stance. With a gleam in his dark eyes, he slid his left foot forward and raised his right knee, pointing it directly at Fenimore.
The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call Page 8