The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest (12 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

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W
hen Mrs. Doyle had been on the farm three days, her TV-WITHDRAWAL symptoms became acute. At breakfast she broached the subject to Agatha. “Do you mean to tell me no one in Winston has a TV?”
“Oh, they have 'em, but the reception is terrible. There's only one person in town who can get a really good picture … .”
“Yes?” With a great effort Mrs. Doyle tried to hide her eagerness.
“Miss Cunningham—the librarian. She has one of those dish antennas, but she only watches the educational channels.” Agatha made no attempt to disguise her contempt.
“Do you think she'd let me watch hers some evening?”
Agatha looked at her in surprise. Then she remembered Mrs. Doyle had never met Miss Cunningham. She said. “Well, if you can stand her, I guess she'd let you.”
Mrs. Doyle only chose to hear the last part of Agatha's statement. Ashamed to have let the housekeeper see how great her addiction was, Mrs. Doyle changed the subject. Nevertheless, later that morning, she was hotfooting it along the road to Winston and the Historical Society Library.
Despite the fever generated by her mission, she did take time to notice the beauty of the town: the wide main street, the grand old trees, and the brick colonial houses. It seemed completely untouched by modern times. In her mind's eye she could see the women in their long skirts, fringed shawls, and snow-white caps, hurrying to market with baskets over their arms. And the men in their ruffled shirts and shoes with buckles, clustered on street corners discussing the latest outrage of the king. It was a perfect setting for a TV mini-series about George Washington or Thomas Jefferson. A wonder one of the networks hadn't discovered it before this. (Mrs. Doyle had not yet heard about the natives' tendency to tamper with the road signs.)
When she entered the Historical Society Library, it was Miss Cunningham who greeted Mrs. Doyle, although Mrs. Doyle was unaware of it. It was such a small library, serving such a small community that Miss Cunningham was both director and staff.
“I wonder if you could help me … .” Mrs. Doyle began hesitatingly. “I'm looking for a book on marshland birds.”
“Oh, yes. You're the woman who's staying at the Ashley place,” she said, speaking with all the authority of the village grapevine. “How is life at the Palace?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What's it like living with Her Highness?”
Wishing to get past this rude woman, Mrs. Doyle asked sharply, “Is Miss Cunningham in today?”
“Speaking.”
Mrs. Doyle couldn't believe that an educated woman with such a responsible position would behave in such a discourteous way. She began to wonder if she could spend a whole evening with her. Then the image of the handsome Irish detective in her favorite TV show rose before her. She also remembered the other purpose of her visit to Winston—to talk to everyone and try to find out who might be harassing Mrs. Ashley. Miss Cunningham certainly fit into that category. By spending an evening with the librarian
Mrs. Doyle would be killing two birds with one stone. (Not the best role for a bird watcher, she thought wryly.)
“Mrs. Ashley is very hospitable,” she said mildly.
“Do you dine with her?” Miss Cunningham demanded. “Or do you eat your meals in the kitchen with the Jenkses?”
“Well, you see, Mrs. Ashley likes to garden at dusk because it's cooler then. And the Jenkses and I are starved by six o'clock, so …” she finished lamely.
“So that's how she gets around it.” She smiled her unpleasant smile. “And when does Susan dine?”
“Oh, she eats at odd times. She's a vegetarian and fixes her own meals.”
“Of course.” Miss Cunningham nodded knowingly. “Let me see what I can do for you.” She went over to the Nature section. After a few moments she returned with a book,
Tideland Birds of South Jersey
.
“Just the thing. Thank you.”
“Not at all. Is there anything else I can do for you?” Having gotten the nastiness out of her system in an early burst, she was now ready to be helpful.
“Well …” Mrs. Doyle pretended an unnatural shyness. “There is one thing, but …”
“Go on. Go on.” Timid people irritated Miss Cunningham. She liked people who spoke up and came straight to the point.
“You see. I'm used to watching TV at home and I miss it down here. There's one program I especially enjoy. It's on tonight. Agatha told me that you're the only person in town who can get a good picture, and …” she trailed off.
Miss Cunningham shrugged. “You're welcome to watch it at my house if you like. I can take TV or leave it, but I know some people can't live without it.”
Mrs. Doyle was too pleased to take offense.
“What program do you wish to watch?”
She named the program, and forgetting herself, said, “That detective is such a handsome Irish hunk.”
Miss Cunningham wrinkled her nose at this description, and Mrs. Doyle was afraid she might withdraw her offer. “What time is it on?” she asked coldly.
“Ten o'clock.”
“That late!”
“I'm afraid so. I'm sorry. Does that interfere with your bedtime?”
“No. I usually
read
until about eleven,” she said, making it clear that Mrs. Doyle should not linger after the program was over.
“I can't thank you enough for the book—and the invitation.”
Miss Cunningham's eyebrow shot up, indicating that no invitation had been offered. She was merely fulfilling a request that had been forced upon her.
Nevertheless, Mrs. Doyle left the Library with a light step and the feeling of a mission accomplished.
It was part of Mrs. Doyle's plan to drive into town with Mrs. Ashley twice a week so she could use a pay phone and have a private chat with Dr. Fenimore. Today was one of those shopping days. When Mrs. Doyle returned from the library, she found Mrs. Ashley and Susan waiting for her.
“I'm sorry I'm late,” she apologized.
“Quite all right, Mrs. D,” Mrs. Ashley said. “Agatha told me it was an emergency.” Her eyes twinkled. “How is dear Miss Cunningham?”
“Is she always so vinegary?”
Mrs. Ashley laughed. “She's been on a non-sugar diet her whole life, I'm afraid.”
“Did you succeed in your mission?” Susan grinned. Apparently Agatha had told them the object of her visit.
Mrs. Doyle nodded sheepishly. “I have a date with my Irish detective tonight.”
“Cheers!” cried Susan.
“Shall we be on our way?” Mrs. Ashley ushered them into the
dilapidated station wagon as if it were a coach-and-four, and they catapulted down the poor excuse for a driveway. Another hazard of this assignment that Dr. Fenimore had failed to mention was Mrs. Ashley's driving. Mrs. Doyle breathed a sigh of relief when they reached Salem safely.
“Why don't you ever let me drive, Grandmother?” Susan grumbled as they shakily emerged from the car in the supermarket parking lot.
Mrs. Doyle didn't stay to hear the answer. She made a beeline for the nearest telephone booth. As soon as Fenimore answered, without preamble she barked, “You forgot to tell me the Ashleys don't have TV!”
His laugh forced her ear away from the phone. When it had died down, she said quietly, “Are you quite finished?”
“Sorry, Doyle. I couldn't help …” He was off again.
She was about to hang up when he managed to pull himself together and ask in a relatively normal voice, “How're things going down there? Anything new?”
“Nothing much.” She told him about her conversation with Agatha Jenks, and mentioned her planned visit to Miss Cunningham's (leaving out the reason, for fear of setting off another explosion).
“Watch out for Miss Cunningham.” There was no hint of laughter in his tone now.
“Why? What have you found out?”
“Not I. The handwriting analyst. That warning note …”
“She wrote it?”
“Not quite as simple as that. The phrase ‘Death of a Ghost' was written in her hand, but they think someone else crossed out ‘Ghost' and inserted ‘Doctor.' above it. They're still working on it. We don't want to confront her with this yet. It would raise her suspicions and ruin your chances of uncovering more evidence. Meanwhile, just don't take any chances with Miss C.”
He had certainly put an effective damper on her evening visit.
“Try to find a way to talk to some of the others,” he said. “Tom Winston, Fred Jenks, Perc—I mean, the Reverend Oliver Osborne.”
“I'll try.”
“How's Lydia?”
“Fine. But I don't know why. I saw the string of medicine bottles on her bureau.”
“Don't let that worry you. She keeps all her old medicines, quote ‘in case I might need them sometime,' unquote. It's her Scottish ancestry. Keep an eye on her and be sure she takes the ones I've prescribed. Is Susan down there?”
“Yes. She's in and out. She does a lot of manual work on the farm. But no more diving.”
“Well, keep up the good work, Doyle. And be sure to check in on your next shopping trip. Oh, and Doyle …”
“Yes, Doctor?”
“If there's anything you need—such as a subscription to
TV Guide …
”
She hung up, cutting him off in mid-sentence.
As she stepped from the booth, she caught sight of Susan in earnest conversation with a young man who looked disagreeable enough to fit Dr. Fenimore's description of Tom Winston. She headed toward them.
“ … damned stupid thing to do!” she heard him say.
“Oh come on, Tom. You've done stupid things in your time. Remember that tree you cut down that fell the wrong way and knocked over your tool shed?”
He frowned. “At least it didn't kill anyone.”
“I'm still very much alive, thank you … .” Her tone softened, “Thanks to you.” Looking quickly away she spied Mrs. Doyle. “Hi, Mrs. D.” She seemed to welcome the interruption. “Did you make your call?” The young man slunk off before Susan could introduce him.
On the way back to the farm a yellow Saab came hurtling toward them. People in this area certainly drive with reckless abandon,
Mrs. Doyle noted. Probably because there are so few cars. But it was nerve-racking to a city dweller who was used to stop-and-go traffic at a snail's pace. The yellow car slowed a fraction as it drew near and the driver called out a cheerful, “Hallo!” and waved.
“That's the Reverend Osborne,” Susan said.
“He's so carefree and happy in the summer,” Mrs. Ashley commented, “once he gets rid of those boys.”
“Maybe he's in the wrong profession,” Susan said.
“I think he is. I've always thought he would be more at home on a yacht than in a principal's office. But he does have to work for a living.” She pulled into their yard. “Well, dear, what are you doing with the rest of your day?”
“Oh—I think I'll mend the fence in the west field. Tom promised to help me.”
“And you, Mrs. D?”
“More birding, I think. Miss Cunningham found a book for me on your local fowl.”
“Well, good luck. I think I'll transplant some iris.”
After taking the groceries into the kitchen, the three women disappeared on their separate missions.
To tell the truth, Mrs. Doyle was getting a little sick of birds. She hadn't been very fond of them in the first place, and after seeing Hitchcock's movie by that title, she had never felt the same about them. However, she dutifully dragged out her binoculars, and, with her new bird book under her arm, set off for the river.
Her real object was not to sight the first yellow-bellied sapsucker of the season, but to examine the site of Susan's accident. The wharf near the farmhouse was made of solid timber and in good repair. Fred Jenks saw to that, she supposed. A small motorboat was moored at one side. It too was in shipshape condition. Mrs. Doyle stepped out on the dock and looked through her binoculars at the opposite bank. Her lenses were immediately filled with feathery reeds and cattails. As she scanned the bank on her own side, she heard a rustle. Turning, she saw some movement
among the tall grasses. A small animal probably—a chipmunk or woodchuck. She started to search the ground near the dock, pushing the brackish grass aside with her foot. But she found herself sending surreptitious glances to her left and right. Although there was no one in sight, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. “Silly,” she told herself. But she dropped her search and walked abruptly back to the farmhouse.

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