The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call

by Robin Hathaway

  “Wait a minute,” Fenimore stalled, feeling a surge of terror. “What’s that called?”

  “The Back Leg Roundhouse Kick.”

  Fenimore backed away.

  With a grin, Horatio lowered his leg.

  Fenimore’s vision of himself lying prostrate on the cellar floor slowly receded.

  As they made their way upstairs, Fenimore told Horatio’s back, “You’ll do.”

  “Do what?”

  “As Mrs. Doyle’s sub.”

  Horatio turned on the stair. “You want me to do all those fucking forms?”

  “No, indeed.” Fenimore’s tone was solicitous. “I wouldn’t dream of asking you to do forms.” He shut the cellar door firmly. “I want you to teach her karate class.”

  It was Horatio’s turn to wear a look of terror. “Those cackling broads?”

  Fenimore nodded.

  “You’re crazy.”

  Fenimore had banked on this, and moved on. “See that?” He pointed to his microscope, its brass fixtures gleaming under the bell jar on his desk. It had belonged to his father, and to his grandfather before him. Fenimore had seen Horatio covertly admiring it. Once the boy had asked Fenimore to show him how it worked, but Fenimore had been too busy. “I found some old slides the other day. I’ll give you some lessons.”

  Quick to recognize a bribe, Horatio said, “Forget it.”

  Fenimore pointed to the centrifuge next to it. Once he had caught Horatio playing with it. The boy had filled the tubes with water and set them spinning. “See, I didn’t spill a drop,” he had exclaimed when Fenimore came in. At the time, the doctor had not been amused, but now he said hopefully, “I’ll teach you how to spin down urine samples.”

  “No way.” Horatio continued energetically stuffing, stamping, and sealing.

  Fenimore decided to drop the subject until he could come up with some better inducements. He settled into his favorite armchair to read the latest issue of JAMA. While he was absorbed in an article on cardiac transplants, an hour passed. When he looked up, Horatio had left for the day. The boy only worked until noon on Saturday. Fenimore was thinking seriously about lunch when the telephone rang.

  “Could you throw in some electrocardiograms?” a familiar voice asked.

  “What?”

  “You know—along with the microscope and the centrifudge.”

  “Centrifuge.”

  “Whatever. Will you teach me to read them?”

  “Do you know how long it took me to learn to read them?”

  Silence.

  “Twelve years. More than two thirds of your lifetime. And I’m still learning.”

  “Nothing fancy. Just the basics.”

  “Just the basics.” A sudden thought came to Fenimore. He could use someone to set up the electrocardiograph and prepare his patients for him. He had never been able to afford a technician. They were too expensive.

  “Hurry up, for Chrissake! I’m using the dealer’s phone and he’s gettin’ nervous.”

  Fenimore sighed deeply. “All right, Rat. It’s a deal.”

  “But if any of those old broads hurt me,” Horatio warned, “I’ll sue.”

  “Don’t worry. If any of those charming, elderly ladies harms a hair of your head, I’ll—I’ll send you to medical school.” He laughed heartily.

  When he was done laughing, the boy said quietly, “That’s a deal.”

  CHAPTER 20

  JANUARY

  On New Year’s Day Fenimore drove to Seacrest. He and Sal had spent a quiet evening at home. They had planned to stay up and watch the little ball descend in Times Square, but they had both fallen asleep before that thrilling moment. This morning, therefore, Fenimore was hangover-free. He hadn’t warned the Pancoast sisters of his visit. He wanted to surprise them. To increase the surprise, he parked his car in the town and walked up the hill to their house. It was foggy and rainy. An unpromising way to start a new year. Lacking an umbrella, Fenimore turned up the collar of his raincoat and pulled down the brim of his hat. Water trickled down his neck and seeped into his shoes.

  Squish, squish. Squish, squish.

  Deciding to make his entrance from the rear of the house, he ducked behind a bush and slunk along the side wall to the garden.

  What on earth are you trying to prove, Fenimore?

  When desperate, one adopts desperate measures, he told himself.

  He stood, the house at his back, looking out to sea. At least he was looking in that general direction. The fog blotted it out. But he could hear it. Something flickered out of the corner of his eye. He turned. The fog was so thick, the house was completely enshrouded. The only sounds were the steady drip of rain and the soft shush of the ocean.

  Fenimore squished toward the bushes from which the movement had come. Swatting at the branches with his hat, he raised showers. He stood still, the rain falling on his bare head, listening.

  A twig cracked.

  He peered in the direction of the sound, but could see nothing. There were no more sounds. Feeling foolish, he moved toward the house. As he started up the steps, something brushed against his back. He spun. A figure running toward the side of the house. Fenimore was after him. Or—her? The figure he had glimpsed was thickly swathed in a long raincoat, a rain hat, and boots; there was no way to tell its sex or features. Fenimore increased his speed. When he reached the front of the house there was no sign of anyone. The fog was so thick he could barely make out the shaggy fir tree on the front lawn. It was hopeless. Whoever it was had got away.

  Slowly, Fenimore returned to the rear of the house. When he tried the back door, it opened easily. Three murders had not convinced the Pancoasts to lock their back door. Shaking his head, he went inside.

  The house felt empty. He had hoped, by the process of elimination, to find out who had been in the garden. The Pancoasts, if assembled inside, could not be the figure outside in the rain. But no one was inside. Where were they? He wandered through the dining room, the front hall, and into the parlor. No one. Rain and fog made the house darker than usual. Frugal people, the Pancoast sisters had left only one small lamp burning on the hall table.

  Fenimore started to sit down on a needlepoint settee in the parlor, but, remembering his soggy condition, thought better of it. He wandered into the hall and looked at the dollhouse. It too was shrouded in darkness. The aunts had failed to leave a light burning in its hall. Even they forgot to play their little game sometimes. He peered closer. Maybe the answer to the mystery lay within these walls. He hunted for the light switch. While he was still hunting the small house burst into light.

  Fenimore turned.

  “It’s over here.” Adam stood a few feet away, his hand on a wall switch.

  “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  Adam glanced at his feet. “Sneakers.”

  “Where is everyone?”

  “They’re at our house. Susanne always has the family over on New Year’s Day.”

  “And you?”

  “I was there for a while. But I get fidgety. Like to keep busy. I came to fix the furnace. What are you doing here, anyway?” He looked at him quizzically. “Sleuthing?”

  Fenimore, moderately embarrassed, said, “After a fashion.”

  “Be my guest. I’ll be in the basement if you want anything.”

  Fenimore wandered out to the kitchen. On a chair by the door lay a damp windbreaker and a cap with a visor. Adam’s outer garments. There was no sign of a long raincoat, a rain hat, or boots. Perhaps the mysterious figure had been a neighbor using the Pancoasts’ garden as a shortcut to get out of the rain.

  Fenimore made his soggy way back to the car.

  CHAPTER 21

  FEBRUARY

  When the aunts decided not to hold their annual Valentine Tea, it wasn’t Carrie, but Mrs. Beesley, the butcher’s wife, who prevailed upon them. Mrs. Beesley was president of the Seacrest Senior Citizens’ Society (SSCS) and every February she hired a bus to take the members to the tea.

  “
Oh, Miss Pancoast—”

  Judith had answered the telephone.

  “—the members will be so upset. Some of them have already made their valentines and they were so looking forward to exchanging them at the tea. I don’t know what I’ll tell them if you back out—”

  Judith thought Mrs. Beesley’s choice of words—unfortunate. She had never “backed out” of anything in her life (except her engagement, and that wasn’t her fault).

  “They’ve had their hearts set on it for weeks.” Mrs. Beesley laughed at her feeble joke.

  “Well, you know, Mrs. Beesley, we’ve had a bit of trouble here recently—”

  “Oh, I know. It’s terrible. The whole town’s talking about it. Do they know who did it?”

  Judith frowned into the receiver. “No,” she said hastily, “but the police are working on it.”

  “Tch, tch. A terrible business.” This remark was followed by an awkward silence.

  “Well, let me talk to my sister about it and I’ll let you know what we decide.”

  “Oh, thank you, Miss Pancoast.” She found her voice again. “If you only knew how much this means—”

  “Yes, yes, I know. Good-bye.” It was Judith’s turn to sigh as she replaced the receiver.

  “But I thought we’d decided.” Emily was vigorously polishing silver at the kitchen table with Mrs. Doyle. The Pancoasts were firm believers in industry as an antidote to disaster.

  “I know. But I hate to disappoint people. Especially the elderly. They have so little to look forward to.” Judith seemed oblivious to the fact that she and Emily fell into this category.

  “Could I help?” asked Mrs. Doyle.

  Emily looked at her. “Well—”

  “Of course you can,” Judith said. “You can greet them and show them the dollhouse. And we can ask Carrie to come do the refreshments. It’s only from two to four. Oh, let’s do it, Emily. It’ll take our minds off—”

  “What about decorations?”

  “Oh, we have plenty left over from last year. Edgar and Adam can help.”

  “All right then. Go call her.” Emily had already put down her polishing rag and was reaching for her walker so she could go hunt up some cardboard cupids and hearts.

  Mrs. Beesley was ecstatic. The senior citizens were thrilled. Carrie was happy. And Mildred Pancoast was furious.

  “How can you?” She confronted the aunts, hands on hips, eyes blazing.

  “We just hated to disappoint—” mumbled Judith.

  “We couldn’t bear to see—” murmured Emily.

  “It was an act of pure kindness, Mrs. Pancoast,” put in Mrs. Doyle.

  Mildred had spent a tedious morning cornering the clothespin market in Seacrest and she was not to be pacified. She had spent the previous day searching the aunts’ house from top to bottom, confiscating all their clothespins (much to Judith’s consternation—she hated dryers and loved the smell of clean sheets fresh from the line).

  Adam had sat Mildred down and tried to talk some sense into her—scientist to scientist.

  “It’s not a case of cause and effect, Mildred,” he had explained patiently. “The scenes in the dollhouse don’t cause the deaths … .”

  But she put her hands over her ears and hurried out of the room.

  They were all worried about her.

  Mrs. Doyle thought of recommending a good psychiatrist, but decided she had better consult Dr. Fenimore first.

  Adam came through gallantly, putting up all the decorations in the big house. There were crimson hearts in every window and silver cupids in every corner. Strings of old-fashioned, lacy valentines were looped around mirrors, draped over mantels, and wound around banisters. A spray of red and white roses decorated the front door.

  “If we’re going to do it at all, we might as well do it right.” Judith voiced her strong opinion.

  But when it came to decorating the dollhouse, they balked. Too many sad memories lurked in those miniature rooms. In fact, the aunts tended to avoid the dollhouse these days. When they had to walk past it, they did so swiftly, averting their eyes.

  Mrs. Doyle came to the rescue. “If you’ll just show me what to do, I’ll be glad to decorate it,” she offered.

  With relief, the aunts provided her with all the necessary materials and instructions and left her alone on the morning of the tea. As she began cutting out the tiny red hearts and pasting them in the windows, she remembered her own dollhouse and the many happy weekends she had spent as a child playing with it. There had been no television back then. She had listened to the radio while she played. To Grand Central Station, Let’s Pretend, and The Green Hornet.

  Dr. Fenimore had told Mrs. Doyle which rooms had been the sites of the murder scenes and who had died where. In the dining room—Pamela. In the carriage house—Tom. In the studio—Marie. (Of course, Mrs. Doyle had been on hand for that one.) Fortunately, the carriage house and the studio didn’t require decorating. Mrs. Doyle decided to start with the dining room and get it over with. She stuck a silver cupid in each corner of the mirror, found a vase of red and white carnations for the centerpiece, and decked the table with plates of tea sandwiches, sugar cakes, and heart-shaped cookies (all made from polymer). That was that.

  It was time-consuming work because she had to be so careful not to break anything. Breakage had not been a problem with her own dollhouse. All the furniture had been molded from sturdy plastic (a new product right after the war). It had been much less nerve-racking arranging her tough purple bedstead, yellow refrigerator, and orange sofa, than moving this delicate Sheraton sideboard and those fragile Chippendale chairs. Also, her hands had been smaller then and more agile. Before arthritis had set in.

  “It looks lovely, Mrs. Doyle.”

  The nurse looked up. “Oh, Carrie. Where did you come from?”

  “I came early to set up. I have to go home and feed the kids at noon. Then I’ll be back to serve at two. I hear you’re staying on for a while.”

  The village grapevine. Dr. Fenimore had warned her about that. “Yes. I’m helping out until Miss Emily’s hip is healed.”

  “It seems to be taking a long time.” Carrie was interested in anything to do with healing.

  “That’s age, I’m afraid. Old bones take longer to mend.”

  “I’ve noticed that. When the kids break something, the cast comes off in a couple of weeks.”

  Mrs. Doyle straightened up with difficulty. She had been in a crouched position for over an hour and her knees and back were killing her. That had never happened to her when she had played with her own dollhouse.

  “I’m up to Lesson Three—Muscles,” Carrie said proudly.

  “Good for you.” Mrs. Doyle had instructed Dr. Fenimore to find the nursing course data in her apartment and mail it to Carrie. She had also taken it upon herself to go see the principal at the Seacrest High School and explain Carrie’s situation. He had agreed to look into an introductory nursing course at a school nearby. “She’s very bright,” he reaffirmed what Mrs. Doyle already knew. He also promised to find child care for Carrie’s younger brothers and sisters.

  “Let me know when you get to Joints,” Mrs. Doyle told Carrie. “Maybe you can do something for mine.”

  “I’d better get back to work,” Carrie said. “See ya later, Mrs. Doyle.”

  Alone again, Mrs. Doyle began packing up the materials she hadn’t used.

  “They’ve put you to work, I see.” Edgar stopped on his way to the kitchen. He was carrying a bag full of groceries. The aunts had sent him out for cream, extra sugar cubes, and some herb tea in case a senior citizen should request it. “Had quite a hunt for the herb tea,” he said. “Seacrest doesn’t go in for health foods in the winter. There’s a store open here in the summer for the young vegetarians, but in the winter you don’t get much call for herb teas or seaweed chips.” His haggard face looked sadly incongruous above his perky red bow tie.

  Mrs. Doyle grunted. “Ghastly stuff. Give me meat, butter, and eggs and an
early grave … .” She stopped when she saw his expression. “I’m terribly sorry.”

  “No, no. My fault. Everything sets me off these days. That’s why I keep busy. Better be getting these things out to the kitchen.”

  As she watched him make his way through the dining room, past the site of his daughter’s recent death, Mrs. Doyle shook her head. How could one human being stand so much—the loss of a daughter, a son, and a wife—and still go on walking and talking? You go through the motions of living, she supposed—like a robot. Mercifully, the emotional centers became semi-paralyzed.

  The front door flew open. Tad and Amanda rushed in, followed more slowly by Susanne and Adam.

  “Hi, Mrs. Doyle. What are you up to?” Adam came over to examine her work. The children were already admiring it.

  “Great job,” Adam said. “The old folks will love it. Where are the aunts?”

  “I think they’re in the kitchen.”

  He made his way in that direction.

  “Is my father here yet, Mrs. Doyle?” Susanne asked. The losses of the past few weeks had taken their toll on the young woman. Her face was thinner and her eyes and mouth were etched with new lines.

  “Yes, he just passed through here on his way to the kitchen.”

  She hurried off in that direction.

  The door opened again. In came Mildred wearing a fur coat and trailing a chartreuse wool scarf. But her feet and legs were dressed for summer—in sandals with no stockings. She didn’t greet Mrs. Doyle, but sidled past her as if in a daze.

  “Where are the children, Mrs. Pancoast?” Mrs. Doyle called after her.

  She turned slowly, and with an effort focused on Mrs. Doyle. “What did you say?”

  “Your children. Didn’t you bring them?”

  She seemed to mull this over, shook her head, and wandered into the dining room.

  Mrs. Doyle followed her. Mildred pulled out a chair and sat down at the dining room table. “This was Pamela’s place,” she said.