The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest (18 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest
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T
he phone rang. Fenimore answered it.
“Doc?” Rafferty. “Can I pick you up in twenty minutes?”
“What for?”
“I want to show you something.”
Fenimore glanced in his waiting room. One more patient: Mrs. Dougherty with her daughter Effie. He would be glad to have an excuse to cut
their
visit short. “OK.”
Rafferty and Fenimore sat in the back of the patrol car while the driver took them to Mifflin Estates. As they pulled up to the sullen cluster of buildings that formed the project, a group of youths scattered. An elderly black woman with a cane stared after them.
Rafferty led the way. Up the fire stairs, down the corridor, to where a uniformed police officer stood guard in front of Horatio's door.
“The key, Mike,” Rafferty held out his hand.
The officer gave it to him.
When Rafferty opened the door, Fenimore fell back as if he'd been knocked back by a blow. It was the stench. Rancid meat, rotton fruit—and feces. The neat apartment Fenimore had remembered
had been trashed beyond recognition. Curtains torn. Sheets and mattress slashed. Dishes and glassware shattered. And scrawled across the facing wall in red spray paint: FUCK YOU! Under these words was a drawing of a lizard—the sign of the Chiefs.
“Whew!” said Fenimore.
Rafferty pulled him out and shut the door. He tossed the key to the officer. “Thanks, Mike”
The officer nodded.
Halfway down the hall, Rafferty said, “I wanted you to see it.”
“Why?”
“Because you're the one who's going to persuade Mrs. Lopez to move to a new neighborhood.”
“Oh.”
T
he day of the tea party began differently from other days. Instead of being eased awake by the smell of Agatha's bacon, sausage, or scrapple, Mrs. Doyle was jolted awake by the sound of noisy footsteps on the stairs and loud laughter in the hall.
Still in her nightgown, Mrs. Doyle poked her head out the door to see a tousled Susan in a nightshirt, fending off the playful advances of a young man.
“Oh—Mrs. Doyle!” Susan grinned sheepishly over the young man's shoulder.
The young man turned. Mrs. Doyle ducked back into her room, but not before she had glimpsed a blond, close-cropped head with blue eyes and a tanned movie star face. Peter Jordan, no doubt. Mrs. Doyle had a prejudice against overtly handsome people. It was a flaw of hers, she knew, and sometimes it caused her to misjudge character. She had this feeling that flawlessly beautiful people—men or women—belonged on a screen—TV or movie—but not in real life. People with no warts or wrinkles must be either fakes or phonies. She should try to control her prejudice. A good detective, like a good nurse, must be objective at all times.
She glanced at the clock. Only eight A.M., but the party seemed to have already started.
By the time Mrs. Doyle came into the kitchen, it was after 9 o'clock. Agatha said, “You're nephew is still sleeping.”
“I'm not surprised. He had a full day yesterday.”
Agatha's next remark came in a hushed tone. “Susan and her boyfriend went diving.”
“What?” Mrs. Doyle made no attempt to hide her surprise.
“It's that Jordan boy. He really put on the pressure. I heard him in the dining room,” Agatha said. She shook her head disapprovingly. “And Mrs. Ashley gave in. She's a pushover for her granddaughter.”
“Well, at least she's not diving alone.” Mrs. Doyle tried to sound reassuring. But she felt uneasy, too. While she ate breakfast, she considered going down to the river to keep an eye on them. She could pretend to be bird-watching. But what good would it do? She wasn't a good swimmer. She could give CPR or run for help. She smiled ruefully. Her joints still ached from her last run. But maybe she would take a short walk down to the river. A bird walk, of course. Belatedly, she remembered the doctor's order: No more bird walks.
“If that were my granddaughter, I wouldn't let her out of my sight.” Agatha pounded a ball of dough fiercely.
“Now you know that's not true,” Mrs. Doyle said. “You have to let them go—like it or not.”
“I suppose, but it
does
make me nervous.”
Mrs. Doyle watched her roll the dough flat and, with floury hands, cut out cookies for the party. “I think I will take a stroll down to the river,” she said. “It's such a beautiful day.”
“Oh, would you, Mrs. Doyle? I know exactly where they went. Right off the new wharf. They took Fred's boat.”
“I'll be back in time to help you with the tea sandwiches,” she called.
“No hurry,” Agatha waved her off, her usual broad smile back in place.
On her way to the wharf, Mrs. Doyle met Fred Jenks. He was coming from the dock with a fishing pole, some tackle, and a dog-eared copy of an Ed McBain mystery—all the supplies necessary for a lazy day on the river. He looked depressed. “Thought I'd take the boat out,” he said. “But the kids beat me to it.”
“So I hear. Did you see them?”
“Yeah. They're out there all right. Diving again. Beats me what they see in it. All that mud and murk. I'd rather be on top of the water than under it, any day.” He went past, shaking his head.
Mrs. Doyle continued on. She had her binoculars and, although pretending to be birding, she frequently turned them on the boat just off shore. After she had been there several minutes, she caught the young man's perfect profile in her lenses. He looked in her direction, then turned to say something to Susan. Susan shrugged. Mrs. Doyle watched the boy pull up the anchor and yank the cord of the motor. The boat, with its two passengers, chugged around a bend, out of sight.
Mrs. Doyle didn't like it. Where were they headed? Should she try to follow them? Could she? The river was nothing but a series of twists and turns. That's why the pirates had found it so attractive. She would never be able to find which cove of the many hundreds they'd chosen to dive in. Besides, she didn't have a boat. Minor detail. She turned back to the house.
“Well?” asked Agatha.
Horatio sat at the kitchen table gorging himself on waffles and sausages.
“Her boyfriend caught on that I was watching them,” said Mrs. Doyle. “I think he was angry. They took the boat around the bend. I couldn't follow them.”
“Oh, dear. I hope they don't go to the old wharf.”
“Why?” Mrs. Doyle was alarmed.
“It's dangerous.”
Mrs. Doyle could attest to that. But how did Agatha know about her close call? Had Jenks figured it out and told her?
“The wood's rotten,” Agatha explained. “If they tie up there, the ring might come loose. And the bottom's covered with scrap metal and broken bottles. People used to dump there before anyone ever heard of ecology or recycling.”
Having cleaned his plate, Horatio ducked out the kitchen door, almost bumping into Mrs. Ashley, who was on her way in. For once she wasn't carrying flowers. “How are things coming, ladies?” she asked. “Do we have enough food?”
“Oh, plenty,” Agatha said. “They'll never eat it all.”
“Have you seen, Susan?” she asked casually, scanning the contents of the refrigerator.
Agatha and Mrs. Doyle exchanged glances. Agatha said, “She went diving with that Jordan boy.” Her tone was heavy with disapproval.
“Yes, yes, I know.” Her impatience testified to her guilty conscience. “They promised to stay near the new wharf, but I passed there just now and I didn't see them.” Closing the refrigerator door, she turned back to the two women.
“I think they went farther upriver … .” Mrs. Doyle said.
“But they promised …”
It was Mrs. Doyle's turn to feel guilty. Maybe if she hadn't been spying on them they wouldn't have taken off. “I'm afraid it was my fault. I was looking at them with my binoc—”
“I don't care whose fault it was. I don't want them around that old wharf. It's not safe.”
They all seemed to be in agreement on that point. “Do you have another boat?” asked Mrs. Doyle.
“Yes. It's a leaky old thing, but I guess Fred could get it started. I'll go ask him.” She hurried off.
“Now, you see what young people do?” Agatha said. “They've got us all in a tizzy.”
Mrs. Doyle agreed. But now she was more alarmed about Mrs. Ashley than Susan. Familiar with the older woman's heart condition, she was afraid this added worry might make her ill. She had looked pale and strained. Because she was such an energetic
person, you tended to forget about her illness. “I'm going to see if I can help.” She went out the back door.
When Mrs. Doyle arrived at the new wharf she saw Mrs. Ashley consulting with Fred Jenks. Spying Horatio near the barn, Jenks beckoned to him. The boy hurried over, anxious to help. Jenks and Horatio disappeared into the barn. Mrs. Ashley came over to Mrs. Doyle. “Fred's going to get the other boat,” she said. “Horatio's going to help him tow it down to the river.”
Mrs. Doyle was alarmed by her pallor. “Mrs. Ashley, did you take your medicines this morning?”
“Of course,” she said, too quickly. “At least, I think I did.” She frowned, trying to remember.
“Would you check for me when you get back to the house?” Mrs. Doyle persisted.
She nodded. “I'm taking so many pills these days, half the time I forget them, and the other half I double the dose.” She laughed. “So far, it hasn't done me any harm.”
So far … Mrs. Doyle was aghast. Most patients had no idea how powerful their medicines were or what dangerous side effects they could cause. She was always after the doctor to warn his patients more strongly about this, but he was afraid he might frighten them into not taking their medicines at all. She must watch Mrs. Ashley more carefully. Her thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of the tractor, pulling a rusty motorboat tied to a trailer. Jenks drove the tractor while Horatio walked behind, keeping an eye on the trailer. Satisfied that the rescue crew was on its way, Mrs. Doyle returned to the house to help Agatha with the tea sandwiches.
W
hen the sandwiches were finished, Mrs. Doyle went for a short walk. As she circled the house, she saw that another car had joined Peter Jordan's red one. This car was a sedate gray. She hurried inside, curious to meet its owner.
A man of average height, wavering between stocky and stout, stood in the hallway. His remaining hair was light brown and his broad forehead was unlined. A bachelor, she guessed. No man in his fifties who had family responsibilities could display such a smooth brow. He had obviously just arrived. A suitcase and an attaché case stood next to him.
“You must be Mrs. Doyle.” He took her hand in a friendly clasp. “I'm Amory Barnes. I've been looking forward to meeting you.”
“Oh, well …” she stammered.
“I hope you're enjoying your stay.”
“Very much.” Mrs. Doyle felt rueful answering. Lately, she had been feeling more like a house detective than a houseguest.
“You have to look hard in the Northeast for an idyllic spot like this, with nothing blocking the horizon.”
“Where are you from, Mr. Barnes?”
“Iowa. We still have our horizons intact out there, Mrs. Doyle.”
“You must miss them.”
“I do. That's one of the reasons I like to come here. Do you know where Lydia is?”
“She's down by the river. She was worried about her granddaughter. Susan and her boyfriend went diving at the old wharf and …”
His look of polite interest was replaced by dismay.
“Yes, we were all surprised when Mrs. Ashley gave them permission to dive, but it was their own idea to go to the old wharf. Were you here when Susan had her accident, Mr. Barnes?”
Seeming not to hear her, he glanced at his watch. “Better be getting into my party duds.” Picking up his bags, he headed for the stairs.
“Do you know where to go?” she called after him.
“Oh, yes. I'm a frequent visitor.” He swiftly disappeared around the bend in the staircase.
What a thoroughly nice man, thought Mrs. Doyle. The grandfather clock on the landing struck twice. Where had the time gone? She started up the stairs.
“There you are, Mrs. Doyle!” Mrs. Ashley came in from the kitchen. “They found them.” She was jubilant with relief. But her color was no better. “They ran them to ground at the old wharf. Susan was just coming up for air—literally. Jenks and Horatio called to them and waved them in. They obeyed, thank heavens. That old wharf is a deathtrap.” She looked at the clock. “Mercy! I had no idea it was so late. The guests will be here in half an hour.”
“Mr. Barnes is here already,” said Mrs. Doyle.
“I hope he was in a good mood. His moods are so erratic these days.”
“He was in a fine mood.”
“Run along now,” she told Mrs. Doyle. “You must dress.” When she reached the step on which Mrs. Doyle was standing, she was noticeably short of breath.
“Did you check your medicines?” the nurse spoke sharply.
She looked guilty. “I'll do it right now.”
“Don't forget.” Mrs. Doyle watched anxiously as the elderly woman laboriously climbed the rest of the stairs and disappeared into her bedroom. She must tell the doctor to have a talk with her. Mrs. Doyle went along to her own bedroom to dress. Dressing, for Mrs. Doyle, consisted of changing her blouse. She had brought only one skirt. When she had packed her bag for south Jersey, dressing for tea parties had not ranked high on her list of priorities. Horatio was the lucky one. He had begged off from the tea on grounds that he had “nothing to wear.”

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