The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call

by Robin Hathaway

  “Oh, Doctor, I’m frightened.”

  Fenimore frowned. “Where are the dolls buried?”

  “In the garden.” Judith said. “Years ago, when Emily first had her pacemaker put in, we cut a little incision in her doll’s chest and inserted a hearing aid battery. That was the only thing we could think of that resembled a pacemaker and was small enough. Then we sewed it up again.”

  Fenimore shook his head. “You two certainly are sticklers for authenticity.”

  Judith smiled.

  They talked of inconsequential things until Mrs. Doyle came in—bursting with her day. The Marine Museum was wonderful! Full of octopus and squid. And afterwards—She stopped when she saw the doctor. “What are you doing here?”

  When she heard what had transpired in her absence, she was aghast.

  “Don’t worry, Doyle. You needed a day off. You can’t be expected to stay home every minute.”

  Nevertheless, she was chagrined and insisted on peeking in on Emily. She returned to report that the elderly woman was sleeping peacefully.

  When Judith left the room to refill the teapot, Fenimore told Doyle about the programmer.

  Her eyes widened.

  “Can you show me where those dolls are buried?”

  “Yes, Judith pointed out the spot to me the other day.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Where are you going?” Judith was in the doorway, bearing the steaming teapot.

  Fenimore and Mrs. Doyle were forced to swallow another cup of tea and a full-course dinner before Fenimore announced that he and Mrs. Doyle would like to take a walk in the garden.

  “But it’s dark,” Judith objected.

  “That’s the point,” he said, “we’d like to look at the stars.” He smiled at Doyle. “You can see them so much better down here than in the city.”

  “Well—” For a fleeting moment, Judith wondered if there was something going on between the doctor and his nurse. But she quickly banished that idea. Mrs. Doyle was at least a dozen years his senior. Still, she mused, stranger things had happened … .

  Once in the garden, Mrs. Doyle led the doctor to the corner where the dolls were buried. The grave was shallow and he had no trouble extricating the shoe box with his hands. Fenimore had brought a small flashlight, the one he used for looking down people’s throats. While he held the light, Mrs. Doyle sorted through the dolls until she found Emily’s. She handed it to him.

  Fenimore carefully examined the doll’s small cotton chest. On the upper right-hand side was a tiny incision, as if cut with a pair of nail scissors—just the right size to insert a hearing aid battery. He poked his finger in the slit. The battery was gone.

  CHAPTER 31

  Fenimore sat at his desk, contemplating the list he had just made.

  Suspects

  1. Emily

  2. Judith

  3. Susanne

  4. Mildred

  5. Carrie

  6. Frank

  Which ones could have reset the programmer? Who would have enough knowledge? Emily and Judith had both watched him do it many times. But Emily wouldn’t do it to herself—unless she wanted to avert suspicion and had counted on Fenimore to discover the problem and correct it before any damage was done. Far-fetched, Fenimore. Judith had the most opportunity and was certainly intelligent enough. What about the others? Susanne and Mildred both had been there the day of the karate demonstration, but they had not been in the room when he had reset Emily’s programmer. However, he had left the instruction manual behind. Either of those women were intelligent enough to figure out how to reset it from the manual. And both had easy access to the house. They were in and out all the time. Then, there was Carrie. She dropped by often. She was quick and had a special interest in medical things. And she was in the room that day, along with Horatio, watching him reset the programmer. (Maybe Horatio did it! He allowed himself a small joke.) Had the Pancoast sisters included a bequest for Carrie in their wills? The trust officer he had consulted might have overlooked such a small legacy. The child needed money to help pay for her nursing studies. Fenimore didn’t want to think about that. Hadn’t Doyle told him the high school was helping her out? He must ask the sisters about Carrie. As for Frank, he doubted that the bartender had the mental capacity to dope out a programmer. And, now that he was no longer posing for Marie—poor Marie—Frank would have no reason to visit the Pancoast house. Of all the suspects, he was the least likely.

  On the back of the same slip, Fenimore wrote:

  Motives

  1. Money

  2. Love

  3. Power

  4. Revenge

  Sal jumped onto his lap with a “Meow!” Translation? (Time for a body rub.) Fenimore obliged. Some of his best ideas had come to him while stroking his cat.

  “Purr.” (Thanks.)

  He took out the sheet of information Mrs. Doyle had supplied him, headed:

  Grapevine Gleanings

  Talk with Mrs. Beesley: Judith resented Emily when they were girls, because Emily was smarter and she thought Emily was her father’s favorite. Emily resented Judith when they were young because Judith was prettier. Edgar resented both Emily and Judith when he was young, because they babied him, dressed him up in fancy clothes, and tried to curl his hair.

  Talk with Carrie: Mildred hated Pamela because she was smarter and better educated and looked down on her. Tom and Mildred’s marriage was rocky. They were always having rows over her astrology and his drinking. Adam and Mildred couldn’t stand each other. Adam considered Mildred a fool. And Mildred thought Adam—a prig.

  Talk with Frank (over a cold beer!): Marie was a saint. Edgar had been “damned” lucky to get her. Frank had been “sweet on her” in high school. He hoped her husband had appreciated her. Tom was okay. Mildred was “an ass.” Susanne was a decent sort. Adam was a teetotaler. (The worst sin.)

  So much for motives. Fenimore paused in his body rub. “Meow!” (More.) He resumed his ministrations briefly. Then, without apology, he rose—causing Sal to leap to the floor. “Grrr.” (Not enough.) A flick of her tail. (I’ll be back.)

  Fenimore went to the phone and dialed the Pancoast house. After a brief talk with Emily he ascertained that both she and Judith had included a small bequest in their wills for Carrie. But, she assured him, they had never mentioned it to Carrie.

  “Did Carrie know where the dolls were buried?” he asked.

  Emily had no idea.

  He placed a second call.

  “Yes?” There was the sound of a child crying in the background.

  “This is Dr. Fenimore. I wonder if you could help me? I didn’t want to bother the Pancoasts and …”

  “Yes?” she said again louder, to be heard over the noise.

  “Where are the dolls?”

  “What was that, Doctor? Quiet, Eddie!”

  “The Pancoasts’ dolls, do you know where they are?”

  “I think they hid them or something. They used to be in the closet.”

  “But you don’t know where they are now?”

  “Eddie, stop that racket. No, I’m sorry Doctor. I haven’t a clue.”

  “Thank you, Carrie.” He hung up. Of course she could be lying, but her denial had the ring of truth to it and he was satisfied.

  But Fenimore’s satifaction was short-lived. He may have eliminated two suspects, but that still left four. He ran his hand through his hair. If only he had someone to talk to. Sal was a good companion, but she had her limitations.

  From the windowsill, his cat sent him a cold stare.

  With a sigh, he settled down and began a letter to Jennifer. It was easier without Mrs. Doyle peering over at him. But he found it hard to write about the Pancoast case. No matter how he phrased it, he came out in a very poor light. When he had finished, he sat for some time staring at the opposite wall. Not a good sign.

  “Hey, Doc! Where should I put this?”

  Fenimore, deep in thought, had not heard Horatio come in. The boy was stand
ing in the doorway balancing something flat and round.

  “‘Simple Simon met a pie-man going to the fair …’” he sang out.

  “You know that?”

  “What d’ya think, my mom didn’t know Mother Goose? I got the whole fuckin’ crew—Georgie Porgie, Baa Baa Black Sheep, Little Bo-Peep—”

  “Okay, okay.” Fenimore was laughing. What was it about this kid that always made him feel better?

  Horatio laid the pie gently on his desk and removed the foil cover. As they say in the commercials, the crust was golden brown and the aroma—straight from heaven. Fenimore reached out and touched it. It was still warm.

  “My mom made it for you. Apple-raisin.” Horatio smacked his lips. “And here’s a note.” He flipped him a powder blue envelope with “Dr. Fenimore” written in a fine, cursive hand across the front.

  “Take this to the kitchen”—Fenimore waved the pie away—“before I eat the whole thing right now.” He tore open the note.

  Dear Dr. Fenimore,

  I was terribly upset that my boy, Ray, should bring you here. If I hadn’t been out of my senses, I would have sent you away. If I am ever sick again I have told Ray to call the police and I will take my chances at the big hospital. I would never want you to come to such a neighborhood again. Which brings me to the reason for this letter. Where is my bill? I have saved the money and waited and waited. All I need to know is the amount. Please send the bill home with Ray.

  Very truly yours, Bridget Lopez

  P. S. My boy thinks the world of you!

  All this was written in the most beautiful, Catholic school script, in blue ink.

  “What did she say?” Horatio, returning from the kitchen, looked anxious.

  “None of your business.” Fenimore grabbed a sheet of stationery and a pen from his desk drawer. In a much less legible hand, he began:

  Dear Mrs. Lopez,

  Thank you for the beautiful apple-raisin pie. I will probably eat it in one gulp for dinner.

  As for the bill, you must leave that to me. One of the reasons I am in solo practice is because no one can tell me how to treat my patients, or how to bill them. From your son, I know that you are an independent sort yourself, therefore I’m sure you will understand.

  I am happy you have made such a complete recovery.

  Sincerely, Andrew B. Fenimore, M.D.

  Fenimore glanced over at Horatio. The boy was slumped in a chair, wearing a surly expression, doing absolutely nothing.

  With a flourish, Fenimore added a postscript: P.S. Your son is a great asset to my office.

  He stuffed it in an envelope, wrote “Mrs. Lopez” on the front, and sealed it. “Here. Put this in your pocket and give it to your mother.”

  Horatio screwed up his face.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I hate secrets.”

  “What’s secret?” Fenimore tried not to look guilty.

  “Why won’t you let me see it?”

  “It’s a private correspondence between your mother and me.”

  “What did she say about me?”

  In exasperation, he thrust her note at him.

  As the boy came to the end of the note, a dark flush spread over his face.

  “Don’t worry,” Fenimore laughed. “I won’t hold it against you. Come on, it’s time for your lesson. Today I’m going to teach you about CVAs, otherwise known as ‘strokes.’” He sat down next to the boy and began to explain in elementary terms a complex article he had just finished reading in JAMA.

  Horatio had no trouble finding out the contents of Fenimore’s note to his mother. Mrs. Lopez showed it to all her friends and relatives, taking special pains to point out the postscript to them. She would have framed it and hung it on the wall next to “The Doctor” poster, if Horatio hadn’t threatened, coldly and calmly, to kill her.

  CHAPTER 32

  APRIL

  March merged into April. Since Adam’s body had not been recovered, a memorial service was held for him at the small Presbyterian church in which generations of Pancoasts had been Christened, married, and memorialized. Gradually Susanne began to realize that her suffering was harming her children. For their sakes, she determinedly weaned herself from her tranquilizers. Mildred’s nervous condition, on the other hand, steadily worsened. Mrs. Doyle noticed a tremor in her hand whenever she lifted a glass or cup, and a quiver in her voice whenever she spoke, which was seldom.

  The flamboyant costumes she formerly favored had given way to an old, stained raincoat. Wrapped in this drab garment, she had taken to sitting on the boardwalk, alone, for hours at a time.

  One day, Mrs. Doyle was taking a brisk walk on the boardwalk (following Dr. Fenimore’s prescription), when she spied Mildred emerging from a shabby storefront which bore a sign reading:

  MADAM ZORA

  —PSYCHIC—

  TAROT & PALM READINGS

  $5.00

  “Madam Zora is open early this year,” said Mrs. Doyle.

  “She’s open all year round,” Mildred said. “She lives upstairs.” She sat down on a bench, facing the ocean.

  “May I join you?” asked Mrs. Doyle.

  Mildred turned a glassy stare on her. “No charge,” she said.

  Mrs. Doyle sat down. After a few moments of watching the green and white waves rush under the boardwalk, she asked, “What did Madam Zora have to say?”

  No response.

  “Were her predictions good?” She raised her voice to be heard over the noise of the surf.

  No answer.

  “It’s a bit chilly.” Mrs. Doyle drew her wool coat more tightly around her. Mildred was dressed even less warmly—in a thin raincoat and sandals with no stockings. “Why don’t you come back to town with me and have a cup of tea?” she said.

  “What?”

  “A cup of hot tea?” Mrs. Doyle felt as if she were talking to a deaf person. “Would you like to have one with me?” she shouted.

  “You don’t have to shout.” Mildred frowned. But as Mrs. Doyle rose to leave, Mildred rose too and followed her along the weathered wooden boards to the street.

  The tea shop, like Madam Zora’s, stayed open all winter. It felt cozy and warm after the chill of the boardwalk. Mrs. Doyle found a table for two near a window and ordered, “A pot of tea and a plate of cakes, please.”

  While they waited for their order, the nurse didn’t attempt to make conversation. Mildred fiddled with the menu, the silverware, and her napkin. Suddenly she looked directly at Mrs. Doyle. “I’m surprised you aren’t afraid to drink tea with me.”

  Mrs. Doyle was taken aback.

  “It has to be one of us.” Mildred’s tone was flat. “Emily, Judith, Susanne, or me. We’re the only ones left. Who do you think it is?”

  It was Mrs. Doyle’s turn to be silent.

  “You must have some idea!” Her voice rose.

  “I wish I did, Mrs. Pancoast, but—”

  “Aren’t you afraid I’ll slip some poison in your cup?”

  The people at a neighboring table glanced their way.

  Mrs. Doyle smiled. “Not at all. I’m a natural-born risk taker.”

  “Aries?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I’m Gemini. And I’m scared shitless.”

  “Why don’t you and the children come up to the big house and stay for a while,” suggested Mrs. Doyle. “It must be very lonely—”

  “You must be kidding.” Her eyes blazed. “I’ll never set foot in that death house again.”

  The waitress set down a pot of tea and a plate of cakes and hastily left them.

  Mrs. Doyle poured the tea. She took a sip before she spoke. “How are your children?” she asked pleasantly.

  “Well enough—considering.” She paused. “They miss their dad.”

  Mrs. Doyle nodded sympathetically. “Of course they do.”

  Mildred’s eyes suddenly filled. “So do I.”

  Mrs. Doyle reached across the table to press her hand. Mildred snatched
it away and began picking her paper napkin to shreds. Finally she said, “I think Madam Zora saw something. Something … she was afraid to tell me. That’s why she—”

  “Now listen to me, Mildred”—in her anger Mrs. Doyle used the younger woman’s first name—”Madam Zora is a charlatan. She knows no more about the future than you or I—”

  “That’s what you think!” Mildred jumped up, almost knocking over her chair, and stalked out of the restaurant.

  Mrs. Doyle threw some money on the table and hurried after her, leaving a room full of gaping customers.

  When she caught up with Mildred, the nurse apologized. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Everyone has a right to their beliefs. Won’t you come up to the house for dinner at least? Judith is such a good cook. And she always makes more than we can eat. We could pick up the children on the way—”

  To Mrs. Doyle’s surprise, Mildred acquiesced. “Never mind the children. I’ll call the sitter and ask her to stay on.”

  The woman’s moods were as erratic as the spring weather.

  As they made their way up the hill, the wind died down and the little seacoast town was bathed in a warm yellow light. The light that often precedes a beautiful sunset, or—a sudden storm. Sure enough, as they walked, the sky behind the Pancoast house turned pink, lavender, and gold. The turrets and cupola and lacy gingerbread were etched vividly against the changing sky. It was a peaceful moment.

  Mrs. Doyle opened the front door with the key Emily had given her. The hall was dark. The aunts had forgotten to turn on the lights. She found the switch. The vast hall seemed even larger—with the dollhouse gone. She turned to take Mildred’s coat and was startled by her stillness. Her eyes were fixed on something on the platform where the dollhouse had been. Mrs. Doyle followed her gaze. Something small and white, like a scrap of paper, rested there.