The Doctor Digs a Grave

by Robin Hathaway

  “Where you headed?”

  “Franklin Hospital. One more block.”

  “I’m goin’ with you.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Under the stark lights of the hospital entrance, they faced each other. Fenimore looked gray. Horatio’s darker complexion took on a yellowish cast. They both looked like candidates for the ICU.

  “How long you gonna be?”

  “About half an hour.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “There’s no need.”

  For answer, the boy moved into the lobby and stretched out on the nearest black vinyl sofa. Fenimore shrugged and made his way across the cavernous lobby to the bank of elevators. As he pressed the button, a husky man in a dark uniform approached him. “Visiting hours are over,” he said.

  “I’m a doctor.”

  The guard flicked his eyes over him. “And I’m Madonna.”

  Fenimore felt his neck. No tie. And his coat collar was still up. He pressed it down and pulled his tie from his jacket pocket. “I took it off for security purposes.” He grinned. “Honest.”

  The elevator had arrived. The door stood open, but the guard had placed his finger on the button and continued to block his way. Fenimore fished in his pocket for his card and handed it to him.

  After a cursory glance, he handed it back. “Sorry, Doc. We get a lot of odd characters this time of night. Especially when it starts gettin’ chilly. Once we found a homeless guy asleep in a bed upstairs. Tucked in as cozy as you please. He would’ve gotten away with it, if it hadn’t been for the smell.”

  “Isn’t there a shelter near here?”

  “Yeah, but they never use it.”

  As soon as Fenimore got off the elevator, he found a men’s room and checked out his appearance in the mirror. He took extra care knotting his tie, combing his hair, and removing all traces of lint from his suit. He was pleased to note that the left side of his face was beginning to match the right side again. When he left the bathroom, there was no chance of anyone mistaking him for a vagrant.

  CHAPTER 19

  LATER WEDNESDAY NIGHT

  Fenimore broke the news as gently as possible, and Doris took it as well as could be expected. After she had recovered from the initial shock, she said, “When I first heard Sweet Grass was missing, I had a premonition that I’d never see her again.” She wiped her eyes. “How is Ted taking it?”

  “Badly. He’s blaming everyone. Her brother. His family. Himself.”

  “Me?”

  “No. You’re the only one he can’t blame. You were in here.”

  “I was awful to her the night before I came in.” She stifled a sob.

  “You were upset. She understood that.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I read her diary.”

  She looked up. “She didn’t hold it against me?”

  He shook his head. “Not at all.”

  Her face relaxed. “How did you get hold of her diary?”

  He knew she didn’t mean it to sound like an accusation. “Ted found it. He asked me to read it. He has this idea she committed suicide and—”

  “Oh, no. She would never do that. She had everything to live for.”

  “So it would appear.”

  “You sound doubtful. What else did her diary tell you?”

  “That she was a thoughtful, generous, strong-minded young woman.

  “Yes.” She nodded. “She was all of those things.” She fought back another sob.

  “And she was under a great deal of stress from Ted’s family.”

  She nodded again. “They’re very difficult. That was the one thing I didn’t envy. Ted’s a sweet guy, but he has no control over his family. If it weren’t for Sweet Grass, he’d still be completely under their thumb.”

  “How long had they known each other?”

  “About three years. But they didn’t start living together until last year. He wanted to, but Sweet Grass was more conventional. Ted was the stronger in that regard, and he finally convinced her.”

  Fenimore was afraid he was tiring her. “I’d better be going and let you get some rest.”

  “That’s the one thing you get plenty of in here.” She smiled.

  A nurse’s aide stuck her head in the door. “Sorry, I didn’t know you had company.”

  “I was just leaving,” Fenimore said. When he was just outside the door, he heard the aide speak to Doris. He paused to listen.

  “Is your friend feeling better?”

  “Friend?”

  “You know, the one who took sick here last Saturday.”

  Fenimore went back in. “How did you know she was sick?”

  The aide was startled.

  “He’s a doctor,” Doris explained. “And … a friend of mine.”

  “When she left here, she asked me how to get to the ER. She caused quite a fuss down there.”

  Someone pushing a trolley full of dirty dishes made a clatter in the corridor. Fenimore leaned forward, straining not to miss a word.

  “What kind of fuss?”

  “Well, they took a cardiogram on her, and it was pretty bad. They were about to admit her, but when they went to get her to sign the papers, she was gone!”

  The trolley rattled on down the hall.

  “How do you know all this?” Fenimore asked.

  “My boyfriend’s an orderly in the ER.”

  Fenimore asked his name.

  “George Johnson,” she said, “but he’s not on tonight.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Doris asked.

  “I took a few days off. You didn’t miss me, I guess.” Her tone was sulky.

  “I was under sedation most of the time.” Doris tried to make amends.

  Mollified, the aide went about her work, plumping pillows, cranking the bed.

  Fenimore left them, mulling over this new information.

  On the way down the corridor, preoccupied, he passed the nurses’ station without a glance. But when he came to room 208, on an impulse, he looked in.

  “Doctor!”The frail, elderly woman was no longer buried in a blizzard of sheets and pillows. She was sitting up in a pale lavender bed jacket trimmed with lace, her white hair neatly combed, sipping from a water glass. “Come sit down.” She waved him in. “I want to thank you for your help the other night. The nurses have treated me like a queen ever since.” She smiled.

  That smile must have won her countless swains when she was young, Fenimore thought, as he approached her bed. “You’re certainly looking well.”

  “Yes, they’re letting me out tomorrow. That’s why I’m celebrating. Won’t you join me?” She waved her water glass under his nose and he was treated to a strong whiff of gin. “You look like the martini type.” She began rummaging under the covers and brought out a large mason jar with pieces of lemon peel floating in it.

  “Good grief! How did you manage that?”

  “I have one nephew who isn’t a complete fool. He does whatever I ask him. He smuggled this in here tonight. I think it’s still chilled. There’s another glass over there on the sink. Bring it here.” She began unscrewing the cap. “Martinis are out of fashion now, I know. People have forgotten how to drink. Filling themselves up with all that insipid stuff—wine coolers, fruit punch. Why, they even pay for water, for heaven’s sake! But gin will come back, like everything else. Short hair, long skirts, long hair, short skirts. I’ve lived long enough to see all the ups and downs. My name’s Myra, by the way. Myra Henderson. What’s yours?” She filled his glass to the brim.

  “Fenimore. Andrew. Uh, Ms. Henderson, aren’t you afraid someone may come in?” He glanced over his shoulder.

  “Don’t worry. They never come near me, unless I ring. Then they jump—thanks to you. And forget that Ms. stuff. It’s Mrs. Henderson. My husband was a great man, and I never minded sharing his name. A judge. Been gone over twenty years. But I’m Myra to you.”

  Fenimore sipped his drink. “Tell me something. When you
called out the other night, you called me Doctor. And when I asked how you knew, you said I looked like one. What did you mean by that?” He didn’t tell her that he had just been mistaken for a vagrant and was suffering from an identity crisis.

  “Well, you did. You do. In my day, all doctors had a kindly, competent air, and you could recognize them right away. Now, it’s different. They’re always on the run. Who were you visiting?” she asked.

  “A Ms. Bentley in two-one-four.”

  Her expression changed. “Poor child. I met her in the solarium the other day. Tried to cheer her up. Terrible thing, to be denied children. I never had any myself. Gerald and I were always too busy. On the go all the time. We liked it that way. But if you want them, you should have them.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I undid all your good work. I had to inform her of the death of a friend.” It was good to talk about it, to someone who had no connection with the case.

  “Oh, no.” She put down her glass.

  “Her roommate was missing for several days. She was found dead and was identified yesterday. She was to have been married this month.” Fenimore felt the full impact of the tragedy again, mirrored in Mrs. Henderson’s face. “I was afraid to tell Ms. Bentley until she had recovered her strength.”

  “Of course.” The elderly woman shook her head. “What … what did the young woman die of?”

  “Heart failure. At least that’s the official cause.”

  She shot him a sharp glance. “There’s some question?”

  Why on earth had he said that? He eyed the tumbler. It was half empty. He set the glass down.

  “Come on. Drink up. Indulge a sick old lady. Tell me all the gory details.”

  “You don’t look sick or old.” Indeed, she seemed to have shed at least ten years since he had come in.

  “Flatterer. Well, tell me anyway”

  To his consternation, he found himself confiding the whole story. When he came to the part about meeting Ned Hardwick in the PSPS herb garden, she stopped him.

  “Neddie?”

  “You know him?”

  “Since he was knee-high. His mother and I were thick as thieves. The only thing we ever disagreed about was the way she raised him. Spoiled him rotten. But of course nobody ever listened to me on the subject of children, because I didn’t have any. She always gave him everything he wanted. Now, that’s not good training for anybody. He still calls me Aunt Myra … . Wait a minute.” She pressed her hand to her mouth. “This woman who died. She isn’t … ?”

  They stared at each other.

  When Mrs. Henderson spoke again, all trace of her former bantering tone had vanished. “Sweet Grass.” She spoke the name tenderly. “A lovely name. A lovely young woman. I only met her a week ago. Polly gave a party for the youngsters, and I was invited.”

  “You mean you were at the barbecue?”

  “Why, yes. As an old friend of the family, I was invited to meet Teds”—she faltered—“bride-to-be.”

  Fenimore tried to control his excitement. Was he actually going to hear a firsthand account of that infamous barbecue? He allowed a decent interval to elapse before he asked, “Can you tell me a little about it? The party, I mean?”

  “It was an awful party. Full of false gaiety and tension. I never could stand the Hardwicks’ parties. The only real person there was Sweet Grass. I talked to her for some time.”

  Fenimore couldn’t believe his good fortune. He leaned closer, hanging on every word.

  “They had someone else picked out for Ted, of course.”

  “Oh?”

  “Oh, yes. Ellen Potts. The two families brought the children up together with marriage in mind. But that never works, you know. Familiarity breeds … Ellen’s parents had all the right credentials. Her mother went to Vassar. Her father was in the First City Troop and was a member of the Union League.”

  “What about Ellen?”

  “She went to Vassar too.”

  “And now?”

  “I think she’s taking a few courses toward an M.A., still waiting and hoping. Ted’s family never really believed in Sweet Grass, you see. They thought, like an unwelcome ache or a pain, eventually she would go away. Polly was very offhand about her. Take this barbecue, for example. Why a barbecue for such an important occasion? I thought it very odd at the time. And, by accident, I overheard Ted confronting his mother in the kitchen about the same thing. ‘Why a barbecue, Mother? And in October,’ he said. ‘Did you think Sweet Grass would feel more at home around a campfire? Or were you afraid she couldn’t handle a knife and fork?’”

  She was an excellent raconteur. Fenimore could see Ted, flushed and angry, accusing his mother.

  “It was the first time I ever saw Polly at a loss,” the older woman continued with relish. “After a pause, Polly mumbles, ‘I thought nothing of the kind. I just thought it would be more relaxing, and since the weather was so mild …’

  “‘And at least at a barbecue,’ Ted ranted, ‘if Sweet Grass showed up wearing something out of line, no one would notice. Whereas at a dinner party, how your friends’ tongues would clack.’

  “‘Don’t be ridiculous, darling,’ she said. ‘I’m sure Sweet Grass has a nice dress.’

  “‘Oh, the hell with you!’ he shouted. And he almost knocked me over as he stormed out of the kitchen.”

  “And?”

  “At that point, I continued into the kitchen and asked if there was anything I could do to help—meaning with the food, of course. But Polly misinterpreted me and broke down completely. ‘Oh, Aunt Myra, I’m such a wreck,’ she said. ‘Ted thinks we’re against his marriage because she’s an Ind … Native American. But that’s simply not true. We can handle her origins. It’s her health that worries us. She was born with a heart defect. And from what Ned tells me, even if she’s able to have children, she may not live long enough to see them grow up—’”

  “There’s no foundation for that,” Fenimore interrupted.

  “Well, I knew nothing about it. But I tried to reassure her. She was crashing around the kitchen, banging pots and pans. I was afraid she might hurt herself. Finally, I calmed her down and convinced her to go outside and join the others.” She paused. “It was then that Lydia, the middle daughter, made her unfortunate remark.”

  To get any closer to Mrs. Henderson, Fenimore would have had to get in bed with her.

  “As we came up to the group on the patio, Lydia was rattling on about the balmy October weather. ‘This has been the longest Indian summer.’ She stopped and looked embarrassedly at Sweet Grass. I could have spanked her. But Sweet Grass simply ignored her.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, ‘Indian summer’ is a slur on the Native Americans. As you know, it refers to an unexpected warm spell in autumn, a sort of false alarm. The weather, like the Indian, is not to be trusted.”

  “I use that term all the time. Its implications never occurred to me.”

  “They occurred to Sweet Grass, I assure you. Another, similar slur is ‘Indian giver.’”

  “I remember that. That’s what you called a child who gave you something and then took it back. But I never thought about its origin. It was just another form of name calling, like tattletale or fraidycat”—or Sitting Frog, thought Fenimore. “What happened next?” He steered Mrs. Henderson back to the picnic.

  “Well, the afternoon wore on with the usual inane twaddle. Ned was at his most pompous and overbearing, bragging about his ancestors who came over on the Mayflower. At one point, he gave Sweet Grass that boyish grin (which wasn’t particularly endearing, even when he was a boy) and said, ‘Of course, your ancestors were already here to greet mine.’ Sweet Grass ignored him. She was polite, but she wasn’t meek. Finally Polly brought out the ingredients for the shish kebab, and we were all given a skewer made from a branch and whittled to a point. We were supposed to spear our own bits of food and grill them. I may be old-fashioned, Doctor, but I don’t go for these do-it-yourself parties When I’m invi
ted out, I like to be waited on.”

  Fenimore nodded.

  “So we all filled up our skewers with bits of meat, tomatoes, mushrooms, and so forth, and—”

  “Did everyone take these ingredients from the same bowl?”

  “Well, actually, each ingredient was in a separate bowl. We helped ourselves from each one.” She looked at him quizzically.

  “Go on.”

  “Well, then we crowded around the barbecues—there were three. Whenever the wind changed, we’d end up coughing and sputtering. Horrid way to cook. What’s the point of inventing things, if people insist on going back to the Stone Age? Anyway, I found myself standing next to Sweet Grass, and as we grilled, we talked. Something seemed to strike a chord between us. Despite the difference in our ages, we seemed to share a common bond.”

  Dislike of the rest of the company, perhaps, thought Fenimore.

  “She told me about her passion for weaving. She had been taught the Lenape method by her grandmother when she was seven. Now she was teaching a class. Her work had been exhibited all over this area, and I wormed out of her that she had won a number of prizes. I told her I’d like to see her work, and she promised to send me an invitation the next time she had an exhibit … .” Her voice faded with the realization that there would be no more exhibits.

  “And then …” Fenimore prompted gently.

  “Oh, then Ned came around and checked everybody’s skewer, to make sure the meat was done enough. Some of it was pork, he said. He’s such a fusspot. And Polly sent us to a table under the trees where the rest of the food was laid out. There was a big bowl of potato salad, and another of pasta, and loaves of French bread oozing with butter and garlic. And wine. There was plenty of that.”

  “What about dessert?”

  “Ice cream. Vanilla with chocolate sauce. Polly’s meals always fall apart at dessert. I guess she doesn’t care for sweets herself. Have another?” She proffered the mason jar.

  “No, thanks. I really must be going. Just one more question. Did you see Sweet Grass again before she left?”