The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call

by Robin Hathaway

  “Yes, of course. We’ll do anything—” Judith was too overcome to finish.

  “I only thought that maybe if we upset the murderer’s pattern—” Mrs. Doyle felt she was out of her depth. What would the doctor say?

  “Well, when shall we do it, Emily?” said Judith.

  “The sooner the better, I suppose,” Emily said.

  Adam left the room.

  Mildred smiled the smile of the victor.

  Mrs. Doyle, the psychologist, remained rooted to the love seat, staring abashedly at her feet.

  … they put it into the red hot crinkly paper fire …

  —The Tale of Two Bad Mice by Beatrix Potter

  CHAPTER 28

  MARCH

  The dollhouse burning was delayed. It was a simple matter of logistics. It was too heavy and too cumbersome for the aunts to move, even with Mrs. Doyle’s help. Edgar, of course, was no longer available. And Adam refused to have anything to do with the project. Mildred had come up with her own solution. She had offered to chop it up in the hallway and carry the pieces to the backyard for burning. But the aunts had steadfastly refused her offer. It was one thing to burn their prize possession. There was something clean and sacred about fire. But to wantonly hack and chop … It was unthinkable. So it remained in its place of honor on the platform in the front hall, until someone could come up with a solution for removing it.

  Meanwhile, the Pancoasts continued to go through the motions of living—keeping as busy as possible. It was March. Winter was on the wane. And the town of Seacrest was remembering that it was a summer resort. Everywhere, there were signs of preparation for the great onslaught of vacation people who would begin to arrive on Memorial Day. Shop owners were decorating their shop windows. Trucks were unloading goods of every description out front. Everything from cartons of suntan lotion to bales of T-shirts with “Seacrest” (or “Sexcrest”) emblazoned on them in fluorescent pink or orange.

  When Mrs. Doyle went to do her weekly shopping, she noticed that the town had lost its dour, dead-of-winter appearance and had taken on a more cheerful aspect. Gone was the brown canvas that had covered the pavilion on the boardwalk to protect it from battering winter winds and corroding salt spray. Someone was energetically painting its roof a bright emerald green. The benches along the boardwalk were also receiving new coats of paint. And when she cast her eye toward the ocean, she saw several colorful sails bouncing on the choppy waves. A few enterprising sailors were actually braving the March winds.

  Later, as Mrs. Doyle let herself into the house, loaded with bags of groceries, she felt exhilarated. Although her hands and feet were numb with cold, the glimpse she had had of a town renewing itself had warmed her spirits. She burst into the kitchen full of good feeling.

  Emily and Judith were seated at the kitchen table, grimly staring at each other. They barely acknowledged her entrance.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Emily pressed her hands to her eyes. Judith twisted her rings and looked away.

  Mrs. Doyle put down her groceries with a thud. “Tell me.”

  Judith took a deep breath. “Susanne was just here.”

  “And?”

  “Adam went sailing this morning and he hasn’t come back.”

  “Well—it’s still light.”

  “He promised to be back at three. He was supposed to pick up the children at the movies.” Judith said.

  “And he never came?”

  “No. They waited and waited. They didn’t have enough money to call home. They’d spent it all on candy and popcorn. Finally they walked home. Susanne was frantic. She came up here looking for them. While she was here, the sitter called and said they had come home.”

  “The sitter was there,” Emily explained, “because Susanne and Adam had planned to go away for a few days. The car was all packed—”

  So Susanne had taken Mrs. Doyle’s advice. “And he still isn’t back?” she said.

  “No,” Judith said. “And that isn’t all—” She gave her rings a violent twist.

  “The sailboat is missing from the dollhouse carriage house,” said Emily.

  Mrs. Doyle thought of the colorful sails bobbing on the water. How cheerful they had looked. Heavily, she let herself down on the nearest kitchen chair. “Maybe one of the children took the boat to play with—” she murmured without conviction.

  The doorbell.

  “They’re here,” Judith looked at Emily.

  “I’ll go,” said Mrs. Doyle. She went to the door, expecting to find Susanne and the children. Instead, she found two strange, husky men standing on the doorstep.

  “Sunflower Movers,” said the taller one.

  “Oh, you must have the wrong house. No one is moving here.”

  “Yes, we are,” Emily called out. “Tell them to come in, Mrs. Doyle.”

  Mrs. Doyle stepped aside. The two men came into the hall.

  “Where is it?” one asked.

  “Over there.” Judith pointed to the dollhouse.

  They looked puzzled. “But it’s still full of stuff.”

  “That goes too.” Emily joined them, her cane tapping lightly on the polished floor.

  The man shrugged, looked at his partner, and back to Judith. “Where do you want it?”

  “In the backyard—a good fifty feet from the house,” Judith said.

  “Okay, ma’am. Whatever you say.” He took hold of one side of the dollhouse. His partner grabbed the other. In a matter of seconds they had transported the cumbersome structure—as if it were made of toothpicks—through the dining room, the kitchen, the pantry, and deep into the backyard. They set it down gently, hardly disturbing its fragile contents, and looked to the aunts for further instructions.

  “That will be all, thank you,” Judith said.

  The shorter man scratched his head and looked around. “Won’t it get wet out here?”

  “We’ve thought of that—” Judith began.

  “Everything’s taken care of,” Emily said.

  When they were back in the hallway, Emily asked how much they owed them.

  The taller mover, who was the spokesman, frowned. “Let’s see. It’s after hours. I’ll have to charge you overtime. Then there was the trip up here. But it was a small job. Twenty-five should cover it.”

  Emily drew a small needlepoint wallet from her pocket and carefully counted out the bills.

  “Don’t you want a receipt?” He had pad and pen ready.

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  As soon as the door closed, Emily turned to her sister. “Do you have the matches?”

  Judith handed her the box.

  Mrs. Doyle followed the two elderly ladies out the back door into the garden. A few crocuses were up and some snowdrops. Judith plucked a handful of straw from a flower bed and quickly stuffed some into each of the small rooms. The wind, which had caused the choppy waves on the ocean earlier, had died down. Emily had no trouble lighting the match.

  She touched it first to a curtain in the bedroom. The flame quivered, leapt, and spread. The towers, turrets, and balconies toppled first. Then the cupola on the carriage house and the porch with the gingerbread. One more bright, brief flare—a crackling sound—and all that was left was a pile of red embers and the smell of burnt plywood mixed with glue.

  The two ladies waited in the garden until the embers turned to gray. Then, arm in arm, they walked slowly back to the house.

  Mrs. Doyle followed at a respectful distance.

  3/22 Mildred Pancoast’s Diary:

  Dear Diary,

  They finally did it. The old birds took my advice and burned the damned dollhouse to the ground. Now maybe we’ll have some peace!

  CHAPTER 29

  Adam’s Lightning was found washed up on the beach a few days after his disappearance. Upon examination, the police discovered that the ropes which held the mainsail had been deliberately tampered with. They had been weakened by shaving with a knife so that they broke as soon as the sail was s
truck by the first hard gust of wind. There had been plenty of hard gusts the day he had taken his boat out.

  Dr. Fenimore came down immediately. (Indeed, he was becoming a regular commuter.) He placed Susanne under sedation and asked Mrs. Doyle to arrange for someone to take care of her children. Mildred offered to keep them, but Mrs. Doyle thought she was too unstable for any additional responsibilities. The kindly and capable Mrs. Perkins was chosen instead.

  Fenimore sequestered himself with the Seacrest Police for an hour. He was informed that the state police had been called in and were officially working on the case. Later, in the company of a state policeman, Fenimore was allowed to examine Adam’s boat—and the defective ropes. It was agreed that if Adam had fallen overboard, the water temperature that day (thirty degrees) would have prevented him from swimming more than a short distance without freezing, and he would have—ultimately—drowned. They had searched for eyewitnesses among the few hardy fishermen and sailors who had ventured out that day. But they could locate only one other sailor who actually remembered seeing Adam set out. It had been early, around 7 A.M. But he had lost track of him soon afterward. Sailing his own boat had required all his attention. It had been that kind of day.

  After his consultation with the police, Fenimore came back to the Pancoast house to get a firsthand story of Adam’s disappearance from the aunts. When he entered the front hall he was struck by the yawning chasm at the bottom of the staircase. Mrs. Doyle gave a quick, whispered account of the fate of the dollhouse.

  He shook his head. “And the contents.”

  “All gone. Up in smoke.”

  He chastised himself for lamenting such a trivial loss, compared with the loss of Adam and the others. But he couldn’t help feeling angry at such pointless destruction, and blamed Mildred for it.

  Mrs. Doyle was careful not to reveal her part in Mildred’s plan—or her own halfhearted acquiescence to it. She still wondered at herself. Had she really believed all that stuff about “breaking the murderer’s pattern”? Or, like Mildred, was she becoming superstitious in her old age?

  The aunts insisted on giving Fenimore a light supper before he returned to Philadelphia. It was a quiet meal. Carefully skirting the subject which was foremost on their minds, they made desultory conversation about the weather, the food, and their respective states of health. Emily complained of headaches; Judith of arthritis, and Mrs. Doyle—of chronic indigestion. The doctor diagnosed “nerves” in every case and recommended exercise in the form of brisk walks. Except for Emily. Although her hip was healing nicely, brisk walks were still out of the question. For her, the doctor prescribed aspirin.

  During dessert, in an attempt to divert them, Fenimore told them about the house calls he had made on Horatio’s mother.

  “How can people live in such a place?” murmured Emily, when he had finished.

  “Maybe we could find them something better,” said Mrs. Doyle. “I think there was a vacancy in my apartment building—”

  Fenimore was touched. He knew what a sacrifice it would be for Doyle not only to share her workplace with Horatio, but also her living quarters. He said only, “How would they pay for it?”

  “Perhaps we could help,” Judith offered.

  Fenimore shook his head vehemently.

  “Why not?” asked Mrs. Doyle.

  “Because Horatio and his mother, and probably all the rest of the family, suffer from a rare and incurable disease.”

  “Oh no,” gasped the two sisters.

  But Mrs. Doyle was suspicious. She had never known her employer to betray a patient’s confidence before. “What’s wrong with them?” she demanded.

  Fenimore stared hard at his nurse. “Pride,” he said.

  All the way home, Fenimore blamed the police, Mrs. Doyle, but most of all—himself, for incompetence in the Pancoast case.

  “The only person who’s helping me with this case,” he moaned to his car’s interior, “is the murderer—by systematically eliminating the suspects—one by one.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Horatio was in the cellar practicing some new moves he planned to teach the ladies that night. He had set up a full-length mirror at one end of the cellar in which he could observe his technique. He was admiring a particularly complicated stance when he heard the muffled ring of the telephone in the office above his head.

  “Shit!” He broke the stance and loped up the stairs.

  “Dr. Fenimore’s office.” He hated playing secretary.

  “Is the doctor in?” An elderly, female voice, slightly breathless.

  “No, but I can get him for you.”

  “Is this Horatio?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Oh, thank goodness. Maybe you can help me. This is Judith Pancoast. My sister Emily is feeling dizzy. I’m afraid it may be her pacemaker.”

  Horatio’s heart started to pound and his palms began to sweat. Why didn’t the fuckin’ doctor stay in his fuckin’ office? “Where’s Doyle?”

  “Mrs. Doyle went on a day’s excursion to the Marine Museum.”

  “Shit.”

  “What was that?”

  “Do you know how to set up that transmitter gadget?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Well, do it. I’ll get hold of the doctor.”

  “All right.”

  Horatio jiggled the receiver button until he heard a dial tone. He dialed the doctor’s beeper number, hung up, and waited. He drummed his fingers on the desk, just the way he’d seen the doctor do. Two minutes passed before the phone rang.

  “What’s up?”

  Horatio told him.

  “You did exactly right. Emily should go to the hospital, but I know she won’t. I’m going down there. I’ll get the programmer. The pacemaker company will fax the report to the office and I’ll stop by to pick it up. Can you hold the fort?”

  Horatio ground his teeth. “I guess …”

  “Good. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  The boy replaced the receiver and drew a deep breath.

  “She’s in the library, Doctor.” Judith led Fenimore into the comfortable, book-lined room. Emily was reclining on the chaise longue, legs outstretched, eyes closed.

  “He’s here, dear,” Judith whispered.

  Emily opened her eyes. “I knew you’d come.” She smiled.

  Fenimore drew a chair up to her side and felt her pulse. It was slow, but still within the normal range. The telephone report from the pacemaker company that Horatio had given him had revealed that the battery was fine and that Emily’s artificial pacemaker was working well. “Now, tell me what’s the trouble.”

  “Oh, nothing much. Just a little spell now and then.”

  Judith raised her eyebrows to the ceiling.

  “What sort of spell?”

  “A weak feeling.”

  “Where?”

  “In my arms and legs.”

  “And your head?”

  “My head felt light.”

  “Dizzy?”

  She nodded.

  “When was the last spell?”

  “This morning. I was rearranging my bureau drawers and all of a sudden I had to sit down. That’s when I asked Judith to call you.”

  “Do you feel dizzy now?”

  “No, not now.”

  Fenimore took his stethoscope from his jacket pocket. The two ladies were quiet while he listened to Emily’s chest. No sign of trouble now. Her heart was beating at about sixty-two beats per minute. But when her heart rate had dropped below the normal level, why had the pacemaker failed to take over? It was in good working order now. The battery was okay. There was only one possibility.

  Fenimore took the programmer out of the case and examined the setting. His own heart began to race. Someone had reset the programmer to take over at a much lower rate than Emily’s heart required. It had been reset to kick in when her heart rate slowed to thirty-five beats instead of fifty-five beats per minute. Whoever had reset it must have done so back in Decemb
er, when he had left the programmer at Seacrest. Emily’s natural pacemaker had continued to work until recently. When it failed, her dizzy spells began. Or—was it possible that he had made a mistake? Could he have set it wrong? With painstaking care, Fenimore reset the pacemaker to its proper rate and returned the programmer to its case.

  “Is anything wrong, Doctor?” He had been quiet for so long, Emily was anxious.

  “No. Everything’s fine.” He patted her hand. “Do you feel sleepy?”

  “A little.”

  “Why don’t you take a nap? And when you wake up I may have the answer to your problem.”

  “Oh, I hope so.”

  Fenimore stood up. “Could we pull the shades?”

  “Certainly.” Judith scurried over to the windows and pulled down the heavy, dark green shades. The sunlight was instantly replaced by a pale green glow. Fenimore felt as if he were under water.

  “That’s better.”

  Emily closed her eyes again.

  Fenimore, a finger to his lips, ushered Judith out of the room.

  In the parlor, over a cup of tea, Dr. Fenimore discussed Emily’s condition with her sister. He decided not to mention his recent discovery about the programmer as he didn’t want to upset her. And if he were to blame, he certainly didn’t want Judith to know. Her faith in her physician might be destroyed forever. “Do you think that fall she had, when she broke her hip, was preceded by one of these ‘spells’?” Fenimore asked her.

  Judith thought back to that dreary day when they had buried the dolls. “I don’t know, Doctor. She didn’t mention it. But, then, you know Emily.”

  Fenimore nodded. They both knew Emily. A stoic by nature, she was apt to keep her symptoms to herself until they became severe. An admirable quality under many circumstances, but not when it came to illness.

  “You haven’t come across any new miniature scenes involving Emily, have you?”

  Judith’s hand fluttered to her throat. “You don’t think—?”

  “I don’t know, but we must keep our eyes open.”