Unfortunately, such a prescription was not in store for him.
CHAPTER 16
TUESDAY EVENING
Back at the office, Fenimore found not only an impatient Mrs. Johnson but also a message from Polly Hardwick marked “Urgent.”
She answered on the first ring. “Andrew? Thank heavens. Could you come for dinner tonight? Something awkward’s come up and we’re feeling rather low.” The request itself hardly qualified as urgent, but her voice held a desperate note that he could not ignore.
“Of course. What time?”
“Sevenish.”
For the second time in ten minutes, he uttered the words, “I’ll be there.” Being in two places at once defied even Fenimore’s extraordinary abilities. Reluctantly he dialed Jennifer’s number. She was disappointed, but somewhat mollified when he promised to come the following evening.
In contrast to his former visit, tonight the Hardwick mansion was brightly illuminated and the semicircular drive was filled with three cars—a red Jaguar, a white Audi, and a blue Mercedes. How patriotic, Fenimore thought, as he pulled up behind them in his battered, mud-brown Chevy, destroying the whole effect. (Mud-brown wasn’t his favorite color, but it had been in stock and cheaper than the azure blue.)
Polly must have been watching for him, because she opened the door before he touched the bell.
“Come in.” She grabbed his arm and drew him into a small room off the center hall. Cluttered with books and papers, it appeared to serve as an office or study. “I wanted to talk to you before we joined the others.” Her face was drawn and her voice held an unusual quaver.
He waited for her to regain control.
“Ted thinks Sweet Grass committed suicide. And,” she paused, “he thinks we’re all to blame.”
“Nonsense.”
“He’s convinced of it, and he’s making us all miserable.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“Would you, Andrew? I don’t think I can go through another day like this.”
“What happened?”
“He accused each of us, individually, of insulting Sweet Grass. And he blamed me for”—her voice trembled and her eyes were too bright—“for pushing her over the edge.”
“Where did he get this idea? There’s no evidence of suicide. The cause of death hasn’t even been established.” He failed to mention that the last time he had talked to Ted, the young man had accused Roaring Wings of killing Sweet Grass. “He’s just upset.”
“He found her diary.”
“Oh?”
“He refuses to read it to us, but he says she recorded things we said and did that hurt her deeply.”
“I see.”
“Andrew, don’t look at me like that. I feel so dreadful. I’ll admit I didn’t think she was right for Ted in the beginning. You know how mothers are about their sons. No one’s good enough for them.” (Actually, he didn’t know. His own mother had had no delusions about her sons and would have been pleasantly surprised if anyone had wanted to marry them.) “But I didn’t mean any harm,” she finished.
“Social slights are not a common cause for suicide,” Fenimore said. “It may have relieved Sweet Grass to write about them in her diary. Many diarists do that. Even the famous Pepys. But to kill herself over them?” He shook his head. “I seriously doubt it.”
“Could you convince Ted of that?”
“I can try.”
“I knew I could count on you.” She squeezed his arm. Her normal color had returned, and her voice had regained some of its old assurance. “We better join the others. They’ll be wondering what happened to us.”
Polly ushered Fenimore into a pale green and ivory living room, highlighted here and there by small objects of silver and brass. Although the entire family was assembled, Fenimore did not feel he was interrupting anything. No conversation or interaction of any kind seemed to be taking place. Ned Hardwick was fixing himself a drink in the bay window where the bar supplies were arranged. Ted, holding an untouched drink, was staring moodily into the cold fireplace. A sturdy, compact woman sat on the sofa, ostentatiously reading a book. A younger, frailer woman with a cloud of white-blond hair was hovering over the fish tank, making “kiss-kiss” noises to some tropical fish. A third woman, in a long lavender print dress, her dark hair pulled back in a bun, reclined in a Victorian chair. Her bemused expression remained unchanged while Fenimore was being introduced.
“You all remember Dr. Fenimore. Bernice?” Polly spoke sharply, and the compact woman on the sofa closed her book. Flora of Japan was the title.
“Good to see an unfamiliar face,” she said and energetically shook his hand.
“And Lydia?”
The woman with the bemused expression lifted her right arm at the elbow and languidly wiggled her fingers at him.
“Kitty! I wish you’d leave those fish alone.”
Kitty turned, startled by her mother’s waspish tone.
“Sorry, dear, but I wanted you to greet Dr. Fenimore.”
She made a little dip, a remnant of the curtsy she had been taught at dancing school, and turned back to the fish.
A look of pain crossed her mother’s face. “That’s the lot. Except for Ted, of course.” She smiled tentatively at her son. He gave Fenimore a quick nod. Polly went over to the coffee table and plucked a cigarette from an exquisite porcelain box.
“Mother!” came from two directions at once. Ted was absorbed in his thoughts and Kitty in her fish, but Bernice and Lydia both cast their mother stern looks.
She stopped, the cigarette halfway to her mouth. “Oh, very well,” she said and dropped it back in the box, flipping the lid shut.
I don’t know why you keep the filthy things around,” said Bernice.
“They must be horribly stale.” Lydia made a face.
“I keep them for my guests. Andrew, will you have one?” she offered in a mocking tone.
“No, thanks. I prefer this.” He took his pipe from his jacket pocket.
“How naughty,” Lydia said.
“And a doctor, too,” Bernice added.
“I also drink,” he said placidly.
“What’ll you have?” Ned, taking the hint, spoke from the bay window.
“Scotch, please, with a little water.” He took a seat on the sofa next to Bernice.
Polly wandered restlessly around the room. Ned left the bay window to play host. “Well, Fenimore, what d’ya think of my little harem?” He handed him his drink.
“I’m overwhelmed.” He took a deep swallow, insulation against the difficult evening ahead.
“My ‘Mayflowers’ I call them.” He bestowed a doting glance on each of his daughters in turn.
“And what do you call Ted, Father?” Lydia inquired with a mischievous glint.
“My only son and heir,” he said quickly.
Ted remained entranced by the empty fireplace.
“Mother’s money goes to us girls,” Lydia informed Fenimore, “to make up for Daddy’s medieval ideas.”
“Really, Lydia, must we divulge all our family secrets?”
“Oh, I’m sure they’re safe with Dr. Fenimore, Mother. He’s taken the Hippocratic oath.”
“I don’t know if that applies to money matters,” her mother said.
“Put your fears to rest, Polly,” Fenimore hastened to reassure her. “I rarely discuss money matters. They bore me.”
“How quaint,” said Lydia. “That isn’t true of most of your colleagues, I understand.”
“True,” her father broke in, “some doctors have more interest in the financial rewards of medicine than others. But I assure you, Fenimore is the exception. Didn’t I see you drive up in that same old Chevy you had as a resident, Fenimore?”
Fenimore laughed. “That would be a miracle, Ned. I shelved that car fifteen years ago.” Fenimore was known for driving ancient cars and hanging onto them until they fell apart. “But this one’s the same color and a similar model.” Before the Hardwicks could delve any
deeper into his finances, Fenimore directed their attention to the musket hanging over the mantel. “Is that a family heirloom?” he asked.
He couldn’t have chosen a better topic. His host beamed and immediately launched into the story of the weapon’s origins. It seems it belonged to an ancestor who had fought at Fort William Henry in the French and Indian War. Ned gently removed the musket from its place of honor and handed it to Fenimore to examine. It was a handsome specimen, immaculate and well oiled, ready for instant use. He trusted it wasn’t loaded. Carefully, Fenimore returned it to its owner.
“My ancestor fought with honor against the French,” Ned said, replacing the gun on its rack.
“Did your ancestor die in that battle?” Fenimore asked politely.
Ned nodded. “First Lieutenant Willard S. Hardwick, of the King’s Regiment. He was one of fifty soldiers massacred by the Indians who were fighting with Montcalm. You may remember the incident?”
Fenimore nodded. The British had already surrendered when some Mohawks on the French side had set on the unarmed soldiers and killed them.
“A dreadful thing, actually. Some of the Indians who had joined the French cause got out of hand and tomahawked …”
Ted looked away from the fireplace for the first time and stared at his father. “I didn’t know you were such an expert on Indian folklore, Dad.”
“Not folklore, Son. History.”
A deep flush spread from Ted’s neck to his face.
Polly, stepping into the breach, turned the conversation swiftly. “I’m planning an unusual exhibit for the Flower Show this year, Andrew.”
Everyone who’s anyone in Philadelphia gardens. Polly was exceptionally talented in this field. She was president of a prominent garden club. Her own garden was a showplace. “It isn’t until March,” she said, “but the preparations began last summer.” She took a seat near the fireplace and seemed more relaxed as she discussed her favorite subject. “The theme this year is ‘Gardens: Past and Future.’ At first, we toyed with the idea of a Martian rock garden, but the possibilities seemed a trifle limited.”
Fenimore silently agreed.
“So we decided to stick to the past and do a garden from ancient Rome.”
“But, Mother, Rome has entirely different flora from North America,” Bernice objected. “It’s a drier, much warmer zone. How do you plan to protect the plants?”
“Now, darling, a Ph.D. in botany doesn’t give you the right to dictate my choice of plants for the Flower Show. There are such things as greenhouses. Some of the specimens—the hibiscus, oleander, and olive trees—have already been shipped from California and are doing quite well.”
“Yes, but once you get them into that great, drafty mausoleum downtown, I wouldn’t give you two cents for them.”
“The club is taking every precaution. We’re creating a kind of atrium and installing electric heaters behind a network of mosaic walls.”
“As you can see, Doctor, expense is no object,” Ted spoke sharply. “And when the club has exhausted its funds, the members will be more than happy to dig into their own coffers to take up the slack, right, Mother? That’s why, to become a member, you have to be pretty well-heeled.”
“Darling, you know how I hate those vulgar expressions.” Polly rose. “I’ll be right back. I want to show Andrew our plans.” She was back in a minute, bearing a large roll of paper under one arm. Unfolded, it was the size of a world map, and when she spread it out on the coffee table, two thirds of it drifted to the floor.
The next half hour was spent admiring the blueprint for a Roman garden, circa 100 B.C.
Bernice leaned over to take a look. “Good heavens, Mother, olive and orange trees? And who’s going to construct all this?” She indicated the maze of walls and pathways with a sweep of her hand.
“Some of the husbands have volunteered, and … a few of the sons.” She looked at Ted, who ignored her.
“Oh, Mother, you must have a pool!” Kitty joined them. “There’s room for one right there.” She pointed a small finger with a much chewed fingernail. “And I could pick out the fish. Oh, please let me, Mother.”
“We’ll see.” Her mother cast her a puzzled glance, as if unsure who she was or where she came from.
Lydia was the only one who declined to offer an opinion on the plan. She remained draped in the Victorian chair, observing. Fenimore was unsure whether she felt above it all, or was simply bored by a scene she had witnessed many times: her mother showing off her expertise before another audience.
A uniformed woman appeared in the doorway. “Dinner is served.”
One by one they filed into the dining room. Fenimore found himself seated on Polly’s left, Lydia’s right, and directly across from Bernice. As he shook out his linen napkin, he wondered who would be the first to mention Sweet Grass, the only reason he had come. Would it be up to him? He hoped not. The grapefruit course passed in silence. But when the soup arrived, Lydia turned to him and asked, “Are you related to the author?”
It had been a long time since anyone had connected him with James Fenimore Cooper, the prolific author of books about a more youthful America. Had the nation’s recent interest in preserving the wilderness and helping Native Americans sparked a renewed interest in his works? “Yes and no,” he said.
“How yes?” She arched a perfect jet brow.
“I’d rather begin with the no. My father claimed absolutely no connection with the great author. He said all his ancestors were rascals and rogues.”
She smiled. “And the yes?”
“One day my mother became annoyed with this routine and decided to look into the matter. She was from Prague and could trace her origins back over five hundred years, and she always wanted to do the same for my father.”
“Prague?” His dinner partner’s eyes shone. “Kafka country!”
“Er …” Fenimore cleared his throat. “I don’t think Mother was a big Kafka fan.”
Lydia looked crushed.
“Anyway,” Fenimore went on, “Mother hightailed it to the Historical Society and did a little research. And a few weeks later, at breakfast, she presented my father with a neatly typed genealogy that proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was a distant cousin of James Fenimore Cooper.”
“How fascinating. What did he say?”
“Nothing. He wouldn’t speak to her for a week.”
When Lydia laughed, she showed two rows of perfect pearly teeth.
“Why such an interest in Cooper? I didn’t think anyone read him anymore. Don’t the schools these days feel that literature begins and ends with Hemingway?”
“Not my school.”
“Which was?”
“Briggs.”
Fenimore sighed. Of course. The exclusive day school for young ladies, founded before the Civil War, that had not revised its curriculum since. “So you’ve actually read Cooper?”
“All of him.”
It was Fenimore’s turn to raise an eyebrow. Even he hadn’t read all of him. “Are you a teacher?”
She shook her head.
“What do you do? Besides read Cooper, I mean?”
She smiled mischievously. “Shop, garden, sleep, eat.” She helped herself to a perfectly browned veal cutlet from a serving dish the maid offered her.
Fenimore felt as if he were in Alice in Wonderland. In her own way, this woman was as daring as the kids in the sixties who had refused to go to Vietnam. He would have been less shocked to find himself seated next to a dinosaur. “Forgive me, but how do you justify your existence?”
“You mean, why didn’t I become a doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief?”
He nodded.
“Life is theater, doctor. There are the leads, the supporting roles, the minor parts, and the walk-ons. All are necessary to carry off the play.” This rebuttal sounded stale and rehearsed. She must have used it many times in self-defense.
“You forgot the director.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Not fo
r me.”
“Or stage manager?”
She brightened. “Now there’s a thought. I might fit in backstage.”
“And of course there’s the audience.” He remembered the detached way she had observed her mother’s performance during the cocktail hour.
Before she could answer, Ned Hardwick interrupted, addressing the party. “You all know why Dr. Fenimore is here tonight. We were just beginning to recover from the shock of a death in the family, when another unpleasant discovery was made.” He paused and looked at his son. “Ted has found Sweet Grass’s diary and discovered that she recorded certain feelings she had about all of us. As a result, Ted has jumped to the conclusion that his fiancée committed suicide—and somehow we are to blame. I think this is unlikely, but I’ve invited Dr. Fenimore here to serve as a neutral party, someone outside the family to give his opinion on this painful matter. If he’s willing.” He turned to Fenimore.
Throughout this announcement, Ted continued to eat, studiously avoiding his father’s eye.
“I’d be glad to look at the diary,” Fenimore said neutrally, “if Ted agrees, that is.”
Ted started to rise.
“No,” Polly said. “Let Andrew finish his dinner. After dinner will be time enough.”
Ted sat down. Ned, obeying a signal from his wife, changed the subject to a less emotional topic, the stock market.
“Do you have a busy practice?” Bernice asked Fenimore from across the table.
“Oh, perking along.”
“I wondered if the new interest in home remedies was having any effect.”
“I haven’t noticed it. Oh, occasionally someone will want to substitute herb tea for a sedative, but I don’t find patients staying away in droves, treating themselves with roots and weeds.”
“I’m attempting an herb garden of my own,” Bernice said, and a discussion of the attributes of herbs carried them through dessert.
After dessert, Polly trundled them back to the living room for coffee. When Fenimore had finished his, he asked to see the diary.
The Doctor Digs a Grave Page 8