The Doctor Digs a Grave

by Robin Hathaway

  Fenimore’s ruminations were interrupted by the receptionist speaking to him in a tone usually reserved for introductions to royalty or the pope.

  “Dr. Applethorn will see you now.” She glanced at Officer Santino.

  “Oh, he stays out here,” Fenimore said.

  Santino looked up from his magazine and smiled broadly.

  Relieved, she hurriedly ushered Fenimore into the inner office.

  The center of the room was occupied by an enormous teakwood desk, devoid of clutter. Its only ornaments were a lamp, a telephone, and a pristine blotter in a bilious shade of green. Fenimore deduced that all the paperwork in Applethorn’s department was performed by underlings in less elegant quarters. His energies must be preserved for more important matters—such as selecting the expensive furniture that surrounded him.

  The figure behind the desk peered at him through dark-rimmed glasses, reminding Fenimore of a certain small rodent he had seen on a recent trip to the zoo. The name escaped him at the moment, but …

  “Ah, Fenimore.” A tic began near Applethorn’s left nostril, and Fenimore knew he had not forgotten their encounter four years ago.

  Fenimore plowed ahead with his request. As he was outlining his reasons for requiring the sample of Joanne Field’s blood serum, the telephone rang. Applethorn snatched up the receiver.

  “Two milliliters, you say?” Without apology, he dropped the phone and darted through a door that must have been connected to his laboratory.

  Fenimore, left alone, practiced the climax to his plea. When the research man returned, he looked flushed but satisfied.

  “False alarm,” he said. “New man misread some results.” He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, which looked as if it was used often for this purpose. “Where were we?”

  Fenimore concluded his request, careful to emphasize that it had absolutely nothing to do with research.

  There was a pause before Applethorn said, “Doing any research these days, Fenimore?”

  “No indeed.” Fenimore shook his head vehemently. “Not my line, I’m afraid. I leave that end of medicine to the brainier fellows, like yourself.”

  “Come, come, Fenimore, it’s never too late to begin. I find that most of my colleagues like to take a turn at it, at least once in their careers.”

  “Not this one.” Fenimore spoke emphatically. “Practice takes up all my time.” Jerboa, that was it, the small rodent Applethorn reminded him of.

  “You’re still on your own, I understand.”

  Fenimore nodded.

  “And you have your own lab?”

  “Uh, yes, but it’s very small, strictly for simple blood tests and urinalyses.”

  Applethorn turned in his expensive Swedish swivel chair to gaze out the window. His view, unlike Fenimore’s brick wall, was a lovely panorama of the city. After a moment’s reflection, he turned back. “I’d like to help you, Fenimore …”

  Over my dead body, translated Fenimore.

  “ … but the work I’m involved in is so sensitive, and …”

  … and your ego is so fragile that you’re petrified I’ll steal your work and publish first, Fenimore finished silently.

  “ … so near completion that I can’t risk the slightest disruption. I’m sure you understand.” The tic had subsided, and the eyes behind the dark-rimmed lenses held a triumphant gleam.

  Fenimore rose. He was sure the little doctor had expected him to grovel and was disappointed when he merely thanked him for his time and left. As he came out of the inner office, the receptionist cast him a furtive glance and scurried in to receive her next command.

  Later that evening, as Fenimore tidied up his desk for the night, he noticed a pink message slip that Mrs. Doyle had neglected to tell him about. From Polly Hardwick, the message read: “Found your pipe. All at ballet tonight. If you want to stop by for it, the maid will let you in.” On the surface, hardly an urgent message. How was Mrs. Doyle to know that it was the one message he had been waiting for?

  When Fenimore rang the bell, the maid answered the door. She was small, delicately made, her skin the color of amber. “They are at the ballet.” She spoke with a faint Spanish accent.

  “I know. I’ve come for my pipe.”

  “Oh, yes.” Her smile was quick and bright. “I’ll get it.”

  He followed her into the hall and waited. When she reappeared bearing his pipe, he resisted checking it for scratches. He shuffled and said haltingly, “I wonder if I might use your facilities. I’ve been making house calls all day, and …”

  “Of course, Doctor. Down the hall and to the left.” She pointed the way to the powder room. “You may let yourself out.” Another quick smile and she disappeared into the back recesses of the house.

  He stood, holding his pipe, until her footsteps died away. Quickly and silently, he made his way up the broad central staircase.

  There were three aspects to private-eyeing that Fenimore detested: snooping, lying, and eavesdropping. No matter how often he told himself that the end justified the means, whenever he indulged in these activities he felt guilty. Fortunately, like alcoholics whose desire for that first drink always outweighs the memory of their last hangover, Fenimore’s desire to know the truth always outweighed his memory of the awkward consequences of his last snoop.

  Pausing at the top of the stairs, he looked down the long polished hallway with doors leading off to rooms on either side. He plunged into the first room on his left. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, but he felt certain that anything he learned about the weird sisters and their mother (Lady Macbeth?) would bring him closer to discovering how—and why—Sweet Grass had died.

  This wasn’t a bona fide search, of course. He had no warrant, no right to rummage through drawers or closets. Just a brief self-guided tour. And it must be brief. He would have to take in everything with the blink of an eye and sort out the details later.

  The first room he entered was obviously the master bedroom. An elephantine four-poster, more than large enough to accommodate the two elder Hardwicks, dominated the center of the room. All the furniture was large and mahogany and reeked of antique. There were no traces of its inhabitants. No breath of perfume. No hint of aftershave. No evidence of recent habitation of any kind. The furnishings were so impersonal they might have just arrived from the showroom of a department store that afternoon. Either the owners had nothing to hide—or everything. The next room was even less revealing. A twin bed, a bureau, a dressing table. Not a single book, picture, or gewgaw to give the owner away. A guest room, no doubt, with no guest in residence. Perhaps it had been Bernice’s room before she had moved to an apartment downtown. On the third try, he was rewarded. This room had obviously been recently occupied and abandoned in haste. It was a mess—bedspread rumpled, dressing table lamps left on, and books everywhere. In addition to three bookcases crammed to capacity, there was a pile on the floor by the bed and two more untidy piles flowing around an easy chair by the window. Lydia had not exaggerated her passion for reading. The maid must have strict orders not to disturb this literary sanctuary. Fenimore went over to the chair and picked up a book that rested spread-eagle over one arm. The Confidence Man by Herman Melville. He remembered it vaguely—a dark, sardonic tale. He turned it over. In the margin, the reader had scribbled, “Are God and the devil one?” Carefully, he replaced it. The only other thing that caught his eye was a picture on the bureau—a single, silver-framed photograph of a man. Curious to see what sort of man would attract Lydia, he moved closer. Her brother, Ted.

  The door to the next room was shut but not locked. Cautiously, he opened it. His heart stopped. A small, anxious-looking man stared back at him. It was a split second before he recognized his own reflection in a long mirror. Some cardboard cartons, a sewing machine, and an ironing board completed the furnishings of what was obviously a storeroom.

  Fenimore closed the door and hurried to the last room at the end of the hall. It seemed to be a child’s room. What
child? Colored posters of Garfield and Winnie-the-Pooh hung on the walls. The window seat was covered with an assortment of teddy bears and dolls. A bunch of limp balloons drooped from a bedpost. A pair of pink bedroom slippers with bunny ears and faces peeked out from under the bed. On the windowsill was an aquarium. Smaller than the one downstairs, it was filled with tropical fish of many hues. Kitty. From her appearance, Fenimore had guessed her age to be about twenty, but her room was that of a child of ten. The fish peered back at him. He went over to the window seat and picked up a doll that was different from the others. Instead of painted plastic, it was made of cloth and stuffed with cotton. “Ouch!” He watched a spot of blood grow on the ball of his thumb. He sucked it dry and examined the doll again. More than a dozen pins were sticking into various parts of its body. Wrapped around its head was a wide rubber band with three pigeon feathers tucked inside it—a crude attempt at an Indian headdress. He carefully replaced the doll among the others.

  When he first heard the Labrador bark, Fenimore thought he was barking at something outside. Then he heard the click of the dog’s toenails on the polished wooden stairs. These were followed by quick, feminine footsteps. They were coming down the hall, when he emerged from the room.

  “Uh, I couldn’t find the bathroom … .”

  Despite her diminutive size, the young woman managed to hold onto the Lab’s collar as he strained to get at Fenimore. She said nothing as she followed him with the dog along the hall, down the stairs, and to the front door. As he looked back, the tiny woman was still hanging onto the big Lab. She had no bright smile of farewell for him. (And dogs never smile. They just bare their teeth.) He closed the door and wondered what she would tell her mistress.

  As he drove home, Fenimore kept repeating to himself, “The end justifies the means. The end …” It was no use. He would never make a good communist.

  CHAPTER 25

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 4

  “Good morning, Mr. Liska.”

  The gaunt man in the bed turned to look at Fenimore.

  “How are you feeling?” Fenimore drew up a chair to the side of the bed and began taking his patient’s pulse. It was rapid and his color was bad. “Is anything wrong?”

  “They’re going to catheterize me,” the man whispered.

  “What?”

  “They were in this morning. Four doctors—all in white. They said it was the only thing to do. They’ve got me down for Monday morning at ten o’clock.”

  Fenimore went to the end of his bed and looked at the chart. There it was: “Catheterization. 11–7, 10:00 A.M.”

  “I don’t want it, Doctor.” His voice was high and peevish. “I’m eighty-six years old. I’ve lived my life. Why won’t they let me be?”

  “Don’t worry.” Fenimore came back to the bedside and patted his hand. “I’ll take care of it.” He completed his examination of Mr. Liska and hurried out.

  “Larry?” He was calling from a pay phone in the lobby. The hospital phones were too open and public for this type of private conversation. “Liska’s going to be cathed Monday … . Yeah … Four of them ambushed him this morning. Bullied him to agree. We have to act fast. Meet me in the doctors’ lounge. No, make it the coffee shop around the corner—less conspicuous—in ten minutes.” As he left the hospital, Fenimore’s mouth was set in a grim line. It was still a free country, by God. And if someone wanted to die in peace … Besides, there was a good chance Mr. Liska would be around longer without the cath.

  Larry added some cream to his coffee and stirred. “It was all settled. He was going home tomorrow. His niece was coming for him.”

  “Well, it’s all unsettled,” Fenimore said.

  “They gave it one last try.” Larry emptied half his cup in one gulp.

  “Niece, you said?”

  He nodded.

  “You’ve met her?”

  “Yes. She’s in and out. Seems attached to the old boy—and it must be for real, ’cause he hasn’t got a dime.”

  “What’s her name?”

  Larry concentrated. “Martinelli … Florence.”

  Fenimore jumped up, snapping his fingers.

  “What the hell?” Larry stared at him.

  “Do you have her number?”

  “Whose?”

  “Florence’s?”

  “She’s over sixty years old, for God’s sake.”

  “I’ll see you later.”

  “So you don’t need my valuable services after all?” Larry looked crushed.

  “Sorry. Did I drag you away from something critical?”

  “Yeah. A patient chewing me out for prescribing a drug that saved her life but gave her mild indigestion.”

  “Then you owe me one,” said Fenimore.

  “Who’s your friend?” Larry whispered, catching sight of Officer Santino rising from a nearby table to join them.

  Fenimore blushed. “Oh, a poor relation in need of a job.”

  It took Fenimore a while to reach the niece. After playing phone tag for a few hours, he finally caught up with her and explained the situation. Larry had been right. She was fond of her uncle and more than happy to cooperate.

  “This is what I want you to do … .” Fenimore outlined his plan.

  She followed his instructions.

  A few minutes later, the phone rang in the offices of Aggressive Cardiology, Inc., Thomas, Gilbert, Morris, and Lazarus. After reciting the names of the doctors, the receptionist asked whom the caller wished to speak to. Florence picked the first name on the list.

  “Dr. Thomas is performing an angioplasty right now.”

  “Then Dr. Gilbert?”

  “She’s on vacation.”

  “Morris?”

  “It’s his golf day.”

  “What about Lazarus?”

  “I’ll connect you.”

  There was a long pause while they raised Lazarus. When he came on the phone, his voice was brusk and businesslike. “How may I help you?”

  Florence had barely begun when Dr. Lazarus jerked the receiver away from his ear as if it were hot or contaminated. He spoke abruptly into the mouthpiece. “Of course. We’ll take care of it. We’ll cancel the procedure immediately.”

  When Fenimore reported this news to Larry, Larry asked, “What did she say to him?”

  “She said, ‘Lay off my uncle or I’ll see you in court.’”

  “But that’s just an empty threat. She couldn’t back it up.”

  “Oh, I forgot to mention, she prefaced her remark by telling him where she was employed.”

  “Where?”

  “The district attorney’s office.” Fenimore grinned. “Florence Martinelli is one of our assistant DAs.”

  “How the hell did you know that?”

  “I read the papers, my dear boy, instead of watching television. It pays to keep abreast of politics, outside the hospital as well as in!”

  It was noon when Fenimore finally got back to his office. He headed straight for the kitchen and returned with a sandwich, a slice of bologna slapped between two pieces of rye bread, slathered with mustard, which he proceeded to wash down with a Coke.

  “How can you swallow that stuff and call yourself a doctor?” Mrs. Doyle shook her head and began her own tidy, balanced meal: pasta salad, yogurt, and a peach. Later she would make herself a cup of tea.

  “Tastes differ, Doyle.”

  She pricked up her ears. “Doyle?” Was she back in his good graces? Maybe he had forgiven her for the spat with his new protégé over that slipper. Perhaps it was her cosmetic treatment. Dare she venture to ask him about the case? Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Doyle was a great one for homilies. “Anything new on that Indian girl?”

  Still exhilarated from his morning’s success with Mr. Liska, Fenimore was brought down to earth with a jolt. The Sweet Grass case had reached a stalemate.

  “Do you suspect foul play?” Mrs. Doyle liked to dramatize things, the result of a steady diet of romance novels and TV daytime drama. (She taped her favorit
e soaps during the day and watched them when she got home at night.)

  “Perhaps.” Fenimore was preparing a pipe for his afternoon smoke.

  She brightened.

  Between puffs, he told her about the ER report and his interview with Applethorn. He watched her digest this information. From experience, he expected her to come up with some useful suggestions. If not now, at some future date. When he had finished, Mrs. Doyle went back to her typing and Fenimore opened the Textbook of Cardiology. Leafing through the index of this formidable tome (it weighed close to ten pounds), he came to “Digitalis Intoxication, 1024.” He turned to that page.

  “Although digitalis is one of the cornerstones of the treatment for heart failure, it is a two-edged sword … .” He continued to read to the end of the article, the gist of which was it is easy to upset the balance of digitalis in a patient. A few milligrams in excess can cause irregularities of the heartbeat—arrhythmias, fibrillation, syncope, and ultimately death. He knew all this but wanted to make sure that no new knowledge had been added during the past year that he had missed in the journals. He reached for the phone and dialed. “Raff?”

  “I thought things were too quiet.”

  He told him of his findings in the ER report—Sweet Grass’s death was probably caused by digitalis toxicity—and of his subsequent visit to Applethorn.

  “Could she have accidentally taken an overdose?” Rafferty asked.

  “Not likely. She’d been taking dig for years.”

  “On purpose, then?”

  “Sure. And buried herself, Lenape style, afterward.”

  “She could have killed herself and left instructions for her brother to bury her.”

  “Then why would she go to the ER to be cured?”

  “She might have had second thoughts after taking the overdose. What have I done … ?” Rafferty enjoyed playing the devil’s advocate, especially with Fenimore.

  Fenimore pondered this. “It’s a possibility. But I’ve read her diary and she didn’t strike me as the suicidal type. She was the kind of person who dealt directly with a problem. Attacked it head on. If she thought her marriage couldn’t weather Ted’s family, she would’ve broken it off and gone on. Not done away with herself.”