The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest (13 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

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O
ne day while talking to Jennifer on the phone, Fenimore complained about the office work piling up—the result of Mrs. Doyle's “leave of absence.”
Jennifer put up with his complaints for a while, and finally said, “Can I help?”
“Can you type?”
“Of course.”
“When can you start?”
“Tonight—after dinner.”
“You're on.”
And so it was that Jennifer found herself typing bills and filling out Medicare forms three nights a week at Fenimore's office. And when she was done, despite her protestations, he always insisted on walking her home.
During one of these evenings, he confessed how discouraged he was about the Ashley case. “Every avenue I explore comes to a dead end. Take that threatening note. Although we established that Miss Cunningham wrote the body of the note, we still don't know who crossed out the word ‘Ghost' and added ‘Doctor.' We've never found Susan's defective air hose. That refuse disposal
plant offer turned out to be legitimate. They're purchasing some land near Burlington now. And so far Mrs. Doyle hasn't turned up anything significant.”
“She hasn't been there very long. Give her time,” Jennifer said.
“Time. That's the trouble. We don't know how much time we have—or when the villain may strike again.”
Some nights, if Jennifer finished her—his—work early, they would have a glass of wine and talk. One evening Fenimore asked Jennifer about her computer.
“Oh, it's wonderful. With Greg's help we can now find any book in the store with the press of a key.”
At the mention of that sallow-faced, long-haired youth, Fenimore grimaced and changed the subject. “What happened to that book you were going to write? Has the internet replaced it?”
Caught off guard, she flushed. She had once told him that she planned to write a book. But not yet. She wasn't ready.
Fenimore was looking at her keenly.
“I will someday,” she said. “I believe that everyone has at least
one
book in them.”
“Interesting,” Fenimore mused. “I wonder what mine is?”
“Something about medicine,” she predicted.
He stared past her out the window, his expression grave. “That would be a sad book, I'm afraid.” When he turned back, he again changed the subject by reaching for Phoebe Winston's diary. “Listen to this,” he began:
November 15th, 1763—
It was Damp and Warme today. Strange for November. Fogge like a white Flag hung between me and the River. A goode night for Smugglers. I wonder if they wille use the Tunel. The last Shipmentt was Brandy. I hope the next one will be Silke. If the Silk comes in time, Aunt Sarah says she will make me a
Frock for the Faire. I do hope it comes. I am so tyred of my old Musslin. I want to look pretty for the Faire.
“Oh, I hope it comes!” Jennifer said. Fenimore carefully turned the page.
November 20th
My Silk came. They brought it thru the Tunnel. Today Aunt Sarah began work on my Frock. She says I will be the comliest girl at the Faire.
“Fabulous!” cried Jennifer. “More people should keep diaries.”
“That must be the tunnel Lydia mentioned,” Fenimore mused. “I wonder if it's still there?”
“Diaries and letters, windows to the soul,” Jennifer rhapsodized. “I feel guilty when I read them, they're so revealing.”
“But we go right on,” admonished Fenimore, “inveterate Peeping Toms that we are. Did you ever keep a diary?”
“Sure. Teenage stuff. ‘Jim smiled at me in the hall. Will he invite me to the prom?'”
Fenimore sat forward. “Don't tell me
you
worried about things like that?”
“Of course. Every girl does.”
“In this feminist age?”
“I don't admit this to everyone,” she admitted.
“Do you ever worry if
I
don't call?”
She cast him a withering look.
He grinned and picked up the diary once more.
November 25th
Today we had a Pirate Scare. A Ship with a black Flagg was sited down river. The town Belle rang its Warning and we all scurried into our Houses and locked the Doors. I've never seen a Pirate. They say
Blackbeerd looks like the Devil. His Beerd shoots Fire. If I ever see him I know I will faint.
“Was Blackbeard really in south Jersey?” Jennifer asked.
“They say he lurked in the coves and inlets around Delaware Bay. He and his crew are thought to have fastened up along Stow Creek and mended their sails. The sand still sometimes gives up needles after a storm.”
“And what about treasure?” Jennifer was intrigued. “Could he have buried any in those parts?”
“I doubt it.” Fenimore tried to sound nonchalant. “Most pirates spent their booty on weapons, women, and rum.”
“I wonder …” she mused.
“Now don't you start—like Susan and that crackpot boyfriend of hers.”
“Didn't you say people are still finding coins in south Jersey? Pots of them hidden in old tree stumps. And blackened Spanish silver …”
“Not recently. They're old wives tales,” he mumbled. Should he tell her about the map? Why not? He told her.
“You're kidding.”
He went to his desk and showed it to her. Unlike his nurse, Jennifer wanted to take off then and there and look for it.
“Whoa.” He pointed out the impracticality of looking for buried treasure in the dark.
“Is that it?” She touched the tiny square with the “X” planted in the center.
Fenimore nodded.
“But these roads have no names.”
“Back then they probably didn't have any.”
“Back when? I don't see any date.”
Fenimore turned the map over. In a beautiful spidery script, undoubtedly made by a quill pen, the title read:
Possum Hollow
1724
“There you are. All you have to do is find where the possums hang out.”
He laughed. “There is a Possum Hollow Road … .” She had rekindled his interest.
“When shall we go?”
“But the tract is made up of marshland and muddy streams. We'd need a boat to explore it. I was going to ask Lydia if I could borrow her motorboat—”
“When?”
“But this case came up and—”
“Perfect. We can combine the two and look for Lydia's tormentor and your treasure at the same time.”
“But—”
“Three ‘buts' make a billy goat! How can you sit there with a treasure map in your hand and not use it?” She had caught a bad case of pirate fever.
“We'll go, I promise. But not tonight.”
“Four ‘buts' …” Exasperated, Jennifer took the diary from Fenimore and began to read:
June 3: Roger is ill. They will not let me see Him. June 4: No News of Roger. I am worried. June 6: Still no Word. June 7: I could wait no Longer. I went to see him. They let me in. He was so sick with the Fever he did not know me. I wept. He took my Hand. His Hand was so hot it burned. June 9: Roger was asking for me. They came to get me. He knew me when I walked in. He looked pale and wasted. I grabbed his hand and kissed it. He stroked my Hair. He told me All he had was mine. I wept. June 12: It is over. His sister Abigail brought me the News. I was too low to weep. Aunt Sarah says I must pray and sleep.
“That's all. The rest is blank.” Jennifer sighed and closed the book. “I wonder if she ever recovered.”
“According to Lydia Ashley and your father,” Fenimore said, “she recovered very quickly and married someone else.”
“On the rebound,” Jennifer concluded.
“Would you do that?”
She looked askance. “Today is different. Women can have a decent life without marriage. In those days it was impossible. What kind of fever do you think Roger died of?”
“Typhoid or yellow. They knew so little about contagious diseases back then. They never should have let Phoebe in to see him. It's a miracle she survived. ‘We've come a long way, baby,' in more ways than women's rights.” He was silent, contemplating the advances of modern medicine.
He picked up a medical journal and began to read. It wasn't long before he was nodding over it. Sal snoozed at his feet. The tall arched window behind him that looked out on a narrow alley during the day became a mirror at night—reflecting the scene within. Jennifer liked the look of the scene. Fenimore. Sal. Herself. It was comfortable. Companionable.
Crack!
The scene split apart. Slices of glass fell. A heavy object hit the floor between them. The sound of falling glass continued like running water. Sal vanished. Jennifer jumped up and ran to the jagged opening where the window had been. She looked down the dark alley to the street. Empty. She turned back to the lighted room. Fenimore was crouched in the center—an island in a sea of glass. He was examining the missile. Her shoes crackled on the glass as she joined him.
A
brick. A plain, dull, factory-made brick, used every day to build warehouses, office buildings, malls—and occasionally to smash windows. Wrapped around it was a wide pink rubber band, the kind used to bundle asparagus in the supermarket. From under the rubber band, Fenimore drew a piece of paper and unfolded it. The words were neatly typed this time, instead of cut from newsprint and pasted together. Still crouching, he read aloud:
“There once was a doctor from town,
Who stayed in the boondocks too long.
While in the sticks, perusing some bricks,
He offered a friend, her affairs to fix,
But his meddling went all wrong.
“There is an old saying in town,
‘If in your bed, you wish to die,
Stay home with your cat,
Grow old and fat,
And let sleeping dogs lie.'”
Jennifer found a dustpan and broom in the closet and began sweeping up the glass. Fenimore located some plywood in the cellar and began nailing it over the hole in the window. It would serve as temporary protection until the glass could be replaced in the morning.
“Why do you suppose this note is in verse,” Jennifer asked, “instead of prose like the others?”
“That's easy.” He stopped his hammer in mid air. “Our villain has discovered he or she has a new adversary. Someone worthy of him. Someone extraordinary. Naturally he or she wants to impress him.”
Jennifer stopped sweeping to look at him.
He grinned. “The first note was your standard, run-of-the-mill warning note, the method and content of which can be copied from any of your cheap mystery novels. The second …” he paused to swat a nail, “showed a little more imagination. The third was done in haste, under stress, with materials found at hand.”
Swat!
He reached for another nail. “Tonight's missive, however, was carefully thought out—at leisure. Conceived—almost in a spirit of fun. And the missile used to convey it was a stroke of genius!”
“It was a stroke all right.”
“Conceived by a truly original mind,” he continued. “Almost equal to my own.”
“The brick, you mean?”
“Of course, the brick. Our villain has learned that his opponent has an interest in bricks, so what better way to convey his or her message than to attach it to one. A missile designed specifically for me—and me alone. Nero Wolfe had his orchids. Peter Wimsey—his wines. And I have my—”
“Bricks.” Jennifer dumped the shattered glass from the dustpan into a metal wastebasket. It sounded like a cascading waterfall. When the last tinkle had subsided, she said, “I fail to see how all this brings us any closer to identifying the villain.”
“On the contrary, dear Jennifer. Think. Which of our present suspects would be capable of challenging a great intellect?”
Jennifer scratched her head and looked thoughtful. “Jenks?”
He almost dropped the hammer.
“Yes,” she went on decidedly, “he's just the one to write a silly ditty like that and hurl a brick.”
“You're missing the point,” Fenimore said coldly. “None of our present suspects has the ability for such witty byplay. If any of them is guilty, he or she is merely guilty as a sidekick. A new personality has emerged—the mastermind behind the whole scheme. And it is I who have drawn him out. He couldn't resist the challenge of a fine mind … .”
“Or she.”
“Couldn't resist tangling with a doctor-historian-detective. He's tossed his glove into the ring!”
“Hat.” Jennifer noticed that the doctor tended to mix his metaphors when in a state of high excitement.
“Hmm?”
“Never mind.” Hat. Glove. Whatever. She watched him swing the hammer, one leg poised in the air, not unlike a swordsman. Errol Flynn or Douglas Fairbanks? Light dawned. “You mean this has become a sort of duel?”
Fenimore bent a bright eye on her. “Exactly.” He sent another nail on its merry way.
Jennifer built another pile of shining bits of glass with her broom. “For someone who has just suffered significant property damage and received a life-threatening note, you seem in awfully good spirits.”
“Touché!” he replied.

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