The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest (16 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest
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F
enimore had barely stepped into his office when the phone began to ring. “Dr. Fenimore speaking.”
“Are you free?” Rafferty.
“For dinner?” Fenimore laughed.
“No.” There was no answering laugh.
“What's up?”
“I need your help.”
“What can I do?” He was eager.
“You won't like it.”
“Oh.” He was suddenly wary.
“I need to know who stabbed Horatio.”
“No.”
“I told you you wouldn't like it. He's my only hope, Fenimore. This gang thing is getting out of control. Random shootings, sporadic stabbings—all over the city. Believe me, I wouldn't ask you if there was any other way. I want to make an example of one of the gang members. But I have to be sure he's committed a felony first.”
“They threatened his mother!”
“We'll get her out of town.”
“She's a working mom. The family depends on her.”
“It won't be for long. Two weeks—max.”
The favors Rafferty had done for Fenimore flipped through his mind like so many playing cards—sage advice, technical assistance, lab work, police backup. Once he had even loaned him a heliocopter! But the cards dissolved before a single scene: Horatio in a hospital bed, in a hospital gown, pale and wan, looking up from a comic book.
“They said they'd kill my mom.”
“Let me think about it.”
“Don't take too long.”
“I'll call you tonight.”
“I'm counting on you.”
“Hi, Rat!”
“Hi.”
“What's for dinner?” Fenimore eyed the brown lump of meat congealing on the boy's tray.
“Liver.” Horatio made a face.
“Bad enough to be here—without liver!”
“Yeah.”
Fenimore pulled a chair up to the side of the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Good.”
“Your mother OK?”
The boy looked at him sharply. “Why wouldn't she be?”
“No reason.”
Silence.
“I need your help.” Fenimore repeated Rafferty's words.
Horatio looked at him.
“I need to know who stabbed you.”
That mulish expression.
“Detective Rafferty just called. He wants to make an example of a gang member. He wants to stop the killings on our streets. Your streets. He needs to know his name and his gang affiliation.”
“But …”
“We'll get your mother out of town. I have friends in Lancaster. Amish folk. They'll take care of her. No one will know where she is.”
“How will she get there?”
“I'll take her myself.”
Fenimore was shaken by Horatio's expression. Was he worthy of this trust?
When Horatio spoke, Fenimore had to bend close to hear him. “Benny Stiles—the Chiefs.”
“Thanks, Rat.” He stood up.
That was the easy part. Now for the hard part: persuading Mrs. Lopez to leave town.
W
hen Bridget Lopez came into the hospital after work to see her son, Fenimore intercepted her. He took her to the doctors' lounge, and ushered her to a secluded corner where they would not be interrupted. Perched anxiously on the edge of an overstuffed chair, she waited for Fenimore to speak.
He told her what Horatio had done.
“He trusts you,” she said simply.
Fenimore was silent.
“When would I have to leave?”
“Tonight, if possible.”
She looked startled.
“Tomorrow, certainly.”
She considered. “And Ray?” She used her own nickname for her son.
“He will go to south Jersey the day he's released from the hospital. Tomorrow or the next day. Mrs. Doyle will meet him there.”
The woman relaxed slightly. She knew Mrs. Doyle. After a moment she said, “I owe you, Doctor.”
Fenimore raised a deprecating hand.
“No, I mean that's the only reason I'm doing this.”
Fenimore was struck, not for the first time, by her clear blue eyes. They were so different from her son's deep brown ones—a legacy from his Latino father. “I understand,” he said.
“When will they come for me?”
“I'll be there at 5:00 A.M.”
Her eyes widened. She hadn't expected Fenimore to pick her up himself.
“Three knocks. A pause. Then two more.” He demonstrated by knocking on a nearby table. “Bring only what you can carry easily. My friends will supply you with everything you need.”
She nodded. “What about work?”
“You will call in sick from Lancaster.”
She stood up. “I'd like to see Ray now.”
Fenimore moved quickly to open the door, but he didn't accompany her. He had to call Rafferty.
Teleci
1
Fenimore
2½ pound veal cutlets
¼ pound butter
15 medium mushroom caps,
chopped
1 dozen asparagus spears
4 brown eggs (for deeper color)
cup whole milk
¼ teaspoon salt
teaspoon pepper
2 Czech china plates
(Keep Jennifer out of kitchen. Bookworms tend to be heavy-handed with food.)
Cook cutlets with
pound butter in saucepan until proper color brown (not too light, not too dark.) Keep warm in double boiler. Add gravy from pan. Saute mushrooms in separate pan with
pound butter.
Boil asparagus until tender. Beat eggs and add mushrooms,
milk, salt and pepper. Scramble to perfection. (Not too fluffy, not too damp.)
Warm plates in oven at 150 degrees. Serve cutlets, topped with egg/mushroom mixture and garnished with asparagus on warm Czech plates. Accompany with a dry white wine.
W
hen Fenimore returned from delivering Mrs. Lopez to Lancaster, it was only 9:00 A.M. After making hospital rounds, he stopped by Horatio's room to give him the news. He wasn't in his room. Fenimore checked the bathroom. Empty. He almost ran down the corridor to the patients' lounge. There, deep in a card game with a man twice his age who had one leg in a cast, was Horatio.
“Hey, Doc, I get sprung today.”
Fenimore's stomach relaxed. “What time?”
“Eleven o'clock.”
“I'll be here.”
As it turned out, Jennifer was given the assignment of taking Horatio to the bus terminal. After thinking it over, Fenimore decided it would look less suspicious if she came for the boy, in case someone tailed them. The doctor did the shopping according to Mrs. Doyle's explicit directions, and presented Jennifer with a collection of packages. Three sets of clothing, a backpack, and toilet articles. It was up to her to see that Horatio was appropriately dressed and packed by eleven o'clock. He also gave her money for the bus ticket.
As her reward, when Jennifer arrived at the office that evening, instead of leading her to Mrs. Doyle's desk, he guided her past it, through the office to his living/dining area at the back of the house. A table was set with a linen cloth, silver, and wine glasses. The lighted candles were reflected in the tall glass window that had been recently replaced.
“What's the occasion?” Jennifer racked her brain for some birthday or anniversary she'd forgotten. Sal's?
“No occasion. I just thought it was high time I repaid you for all your help.”
“But you can't cook.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well,
you
told me you couldn't.”
“Don't believe everything I tell you.” He grinned. “
You
told me that everyone has one book in them. Why shouldn't everyone have one meal in them?”
Jennifer raised her eyebrows.
“My mother was a wonderful cook, and she taught me how to cook one meal—schnitzel with scrambled eggs and asparagus, topped with the palachinky—my favorite dessert.” He pulled out a chair for her. “Now sit right there while I get things started.”
Fenimore's mother was Czech and had provided her family with Bohemian delicacies throughout her life.
Jennifer sat and listened in amazement to the racket coming from the kitchen: oven door banging, pots and pans crashing, the tinkle of ice cubes. At one point Sal came flying through the kitchen door and ducked under the radiator.
“What's the matter, puss?” Jennifer reached down to stroke her, but the cat slunk farther under the radiator.
The odors, if not the sounds, were reassuring. The aroma of veal mixed with mushrooms and chives activated Jennifer's salivary glands.
Suddenly Fenimore burst from the kitchen in a stained apron, bearing a bottle of wine. “You might as well start on this,” he said with a harried expression. “I won't have time.”
“Can't I help?” she asked as he poured the golden liquid.
“Not on your life. Too many cooks … Excuse me.” He set the bottle down at her elbow and dashed off. “It's all in the timing,” he called back to her. “Everything has to be done at the same time.”
Jennifer smiled and sipped her wine. It was amazing how you could think you knew someone and they continued to surprise you.
Crash!
“Damn!”
Sal shot out from under the radiator and headed for safer climes.
“Everything all right?” asked Jennifer.
No answer.
She went to the kitchen door. Fenimore was picking pieces of china off the floor. She bent to help.
“Out!” he shouted, pointing at the door.
She retreated and poured herself another glass of wine.
When the meal finally arrived, it was perfect. The delicately browned schnitzel, resting under lightly scrambled eggs and mushrooms, was tender with just a hint of chives. The asparagus garnish was fresh and crisp. But the palachinky was the crowning achievement: a light pancake wrapped around raspberry jam, coated with sour cream and melted butter.
“Good lord,” Jennifer swooned, savoring her first mouthful.
“Not bad.” Fenimore beamed.
“If I write a book half as good as this meal, it will be a best-seller!” Jennifer said.
Fenimore blushed.
After dinner, they took their coffee and brandy snifters to the table in front of the sofa. They had to make room for them first by removing all the books accumulated there.
“Buccanneers of America
by Alexander Exquemelin,” Jennifer read. “Who's he?”
“A French physician who joined a pirate ship and wrote about his experiences. Pretty gory. But his medicine chest held many of the remedies our herbalists use today.”
“A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the Most Notorious Pirates
by Daniel Defoe.”
“According to Defoe, pirates were very democratic. They elected their captains and quartermaster by majority vote. Every member of the crew got his fair share of the loot. And there was
no discrimination by color. There were black captains as well as black crew members.”
“Why didn't you tell me you were so interested in pirates? I could get you lots of information off the internet.”
Fenimore looked skeptical.
“Seriously. Greg was online the other day with some pirate site. It was fabulous.”
Greg. Fenimore's brow darkened. “I have all the information I need, thanks.” He patted the pile of books beside him.
Jennifer reached for a small well-worn volume with a green cover she had overlooked.
“Robinson Crusoe,”
she read on the spine. “This looks well-read,” she said musingly.
Fenimore took it from her and gently turned the pages. “I must have read this a thousand times,” he said.
In a flash, Jennifer understood him. His devotion to independence and self-reliance. His insistence on practicing solo. She looked at him, head bent, rereading a favorite passage. She realized that the seeds of his philosophy lay in that little volume.
He looked up. “I found this packed in the box with my Navy uniform … .”
“Your Navy uniform?”
“Yes. The sight of all that water down at Winston inspired me to dig it out. It still fits.” He gave her a shy look.
“Let me see!” She grabbed his hands and pulled him up.
They ran up the stairs, Jennifer in the lead.
There it was, spread out over a chair—white pants, white middy blouse, and “gob” hat. (Fenimore's father had wanted him to go into officer's training, but Fenimore, at seventeen, had rebelled. He wanted to enlist, get it over with, and start college and medical school.)
Jennifer plunked the hat on his head. “Oh, you look so cute.”
Blushing, he removed it and placed it on the head of a disreputable-looking stuffed animal sitting at the end of the bed.
“Who's that?” she asked.
“That's Frei.”
“Fry?”
“Spelled F-r-e-i, as in Freihoffer. When he arrived on my fourth birthday I was trying to think of a name for him. I looked out the window and saw a Freihoffer's bakery truck parked at the curb—hence ‘Frei.'” He sat down on the bed and picked up the ragged teddy bear and made him cock his head at Jennifer.
“Is he a pirate?” She was referring to the black patch that covered his left eye.
Fenimore looked directly into the bear's good eye. “Are you a pirate?”
The bear shook his head.
Jennifer made a grab for him.
“Ah, ah.” Fenimore warned. “He's very delicate.” Gently, he handed the bear to her.
“Ugh!” She wrinkled her nose. “He smells like camphor.”
Fenimore snatched him away. “You see, Frei, nobody appreciates you but me.” He sat him back at the end of the bed and pulled Jennifer down beside him.

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