The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call (15 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call
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H
oratio was in the cellar practicing some new moves he planned to teach the ladies that night. He had set up a full-length mirror at one end of the cellar in which he could observe his technique. He was admiring a particularly complicated stance when he heard the muffled ring of the telephone in the office above his head.
“Shit!” He broke the stance and loped up the stairs.
“Dr. Fenimore's office.” He hated playing secretary.
“Is the doctor in?” An elderly, female voice, slightly breathless.
“No, but I can get him for you.”
“Is this Horatio?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Oh, thank goodness. Maybe you can help me. This is Judith Pancoast. My sister Emily is feeling dizzy. I'm afraid it may be her pacemaker.”
Horatio's heart started to pound and his palms began to
sweat. Why didn't the fuckin' doctor stay in his fuckin' office? “Where's Doyle?”
“Mrs. Doyle went on a day's excursion to the Marine Museum.”
“Shit.”
“What was that?”
“Do you know how to set up that transmitter gadget?”
“Oh yes.”
“Well, do it. I'll get hold of the doctor.”
“All right.”
Horatio jiggled the receiver button until he heard a dial tone. He dialed the doctor's beeper number, hung up, and waited. He drummed his fingers on the desk, just the way he'd seen the doctor do. Two minutes passed before the phone rang.
“What's up?”
Horatio told him.
“You did exactly right. Emily should go to the hospital, but I know she won't. I'm going down there. I'll get the programmer. The pacemaker company will fax the report to the office and I'll stop by to pick it up. Can you hold the fort?”
Horatio ground his teeth. “I guess …”
“Good. I'll be there as soon as I can.”
The boy replaced the receiver and drew a deep breath.
 
“She's in the library, Doctor.” Judith led Fenimore into the comfortable, book-lined room. Emily was reclining on the chaise longue, legs outstretched, eyes closed.
“He's here, dear,” Judith whispered.
Emily opened her eyes. “I knew you'd come.” She smiled.
Fenimore drew a chair up to her side and felt her pulse. It was slow, but still within the normal range. The telephone report from the pacemaker company that Horatio had given him had revealed that the battery was fine and that Emily's artificial pacemaker was working well. “Now, tell me what's the trouble.”
“Oh, nothing much. Just a little spell now and then.”
Judith raised her eyebrows to the ceiling.
“What sort of spell?”
“A weak feeling.”
“Where?”
“In my arms and legs.”
“And your head?”
“My head felt light.”
“Dizzy?”
She nodded.
“When was the last spell?”
“This morning. I was rearranging my bureau drawers and all of a sudden I had to sit down. That's when I asked Judith to call you.”
“Do you feel dizzy now?”
“No, not now.”
Fenimore took his stethoscope from his jacket pocket. The two ladies were quiet while he listened to Emily's chest. No sign of trouble now. Her heart was beating at about sixty-two beats per minute. But when her heart rate had dropped below the normal level, why had the pacemaker failed to take over? It was in good working order now. The battery was okay. There was only one possibility.
Fenimore took the programmer out of the case and examined the setting. His own heart began to race. Someone had reset the programmer to take over at a much lower rate than Emily's heart required. It had been reset to kick in when her heart rate slowed to thirty-five beats instead of fifty-five beats per minute. Whoever had reset it must have done so back in December, when he had left the programmer at Seacrest. Emily's natural pacemaker had continued to work until recently. When it failed, her dizzy spells began. Or—was it possible that he had made a mistake? Could he have set it wrong? With painstaking care, Fenimore reset the pacemaker to its proper rate and returned the programmer to its case.
“Is anything wrong, Doctor?” He had been quiet for so long, Emily was anxious.
“No. Everything's fine.” He patted her hand. “Do you feel sleepy?”
“A little.”
“Why don't you take a nap? And when you wake up I may have the answer to your problem.”
“Oh, I hope so.”
Fenimore stood up. “Could we pull the shades?”
“Certainly.” Judith scurried over to the windows and pulled down the heavy, dark green shades. The sunlight was instantly replaced by a pale green glow. Fenimore felt as if he were under water.
“That's better.”
Emily closed her eyes again.
Fenimore, a finger to his lips, ushered Judith out of the room.
In the parlor, over a cup of tea, Dr. Fenimore discussed Emily's condition with her sister. He decided not to mention his recent discovery about the programmer as he didn't want to upset her. And if
he
were to blame, he certainly didn't want Judith to know. Her faith in her physician might be destroyed forever. “Do you think that fall she had, when she broke her hip, was preceded by one of these ‘spells'?” Fenimore asked her.
Judith thought back to that dreary day when they had buried the dolls. “I don't know, Doctor. She didn't mention it. But, then, you know Emily.”
Fenimore nodded. They both knew Emily. A stoic by nature, she was apt to keep her symptoms to herself until they became severe. An admirable quality under many circumstances, but not when it came to illness.
“You haven't come across any new miniature scenes involving Emily, have you?”
Judith's hand fluttered to her throat. “You don't think—?”
“I don't know, but we must keep our eyes open.”
“Oh, Doctor, I'm frightened.”
Fenimore frowned. “Where are the dolls buried?”
“In the garden.” Judith said. “Years ago, when Emily first had her pacemaker put in, we cut a little incision in her doll's chest and inserted a hearing aid battery. That was the only thing we could think of that resembled a pacemaker and was small enough. Then we sewed it up again.”
Fenimore shook his head. “You two certainly are sticklers for authenticity.”
Judith smiled.
They talked of inconsequential things until Mrs. Doyle came in—bursting with her day. The Marine Museum was wonderful! Full of octopus and squid. And afterwards—She stopped when she saw the doctor. “What are you doing here?”
When she heard what had transpired in her absence, she was aghast.
“Don't worry, Doyle. You needed a day off. You can't be expected to stay home every minute.”
Nevertheless, she was chagrined and insisted on peeking in on Emily. She returned to report that the elderly woman was sleeping peacefully.
When Judith left the room to refill the teapot, Fenimore told Doyle about the programmer.
Her eyes widened.
“Can you show me where those dolls are buried?”
“Yes, Judith pointed out the spot to me the other day.”
“Let's go.”
“Where are you going?” Judith was in the doorway, bearing the steaming teapot.
Fenimore and Mrs. Doyle were forced to swallow another cup of tea and a full-course dinner before Fenimore announced that he and Mrs. Doyle would like to take a walk in the garden.
“But it's dark,” Judith objected.
“That's the point,” he said, “we'd like to look at the stars.” He smiled at Doyle. “You can see them so much better down here than in the city.”
“Well—” For a fleeting moment, Judith wondered if there was something going on between the doctor and his nurse. But
she quickly banished that idea. Mrs. Doyle was at least a dozen years his senior. Still, she mused, stranger things had happened … .
Once in the garden, Mrs. Doyle led the doctor to the corner where the dolls were buried. The grave was shallow and he had no trouble extricating the shoe box with his hands. Fenimore had brought a small flashlight, the one he used for looking down people's throats. While he held the light, Mrs. Doyle sorted through the dolls until she found Emily's. She handed it to him.
Fenimore carefully examined the doll's small cotton chest. On the upper right-hand side was a tiny incision, as if cut with a pair of nail scissors—just the right size to insert a hearing aid battery. He poked his finger in the slit. The battery was gone.
F
enimore sat at his desk, contemplating the list he had just made.
Suspects
1.
Emily
2.
Judith
3.
Susanne
4.
Mildred
5.
Carrie
6.
Frank
Which ones could have reset the programmer? Who would have enough knowledge? Emily and Judith had both watched him do it many times. But Emily wouldn't do it to herself—unless she wanted to avert suspicion and had counted on Fenimore to discover the problem and correct it before any damage was done. Far-fetched, Fenimore. Judith had the most opportunity
and was certainly intelligent enough. What about the others? Susanne and Mildred both had been there the day of the karate demonstration, but they had not been in the room when he had reset Emily's programmer. However, he had left the instruction manual behind. Either of those women were intelligent enough to figure out how to reset it from the manual. And both had easy access to the house. They were in and out all the time. Then, there was Carrie. She dropped by often. She was quick and had a special interest in medical things. And she was in the room that day, along with Horatio, watching him reset the programmer. (Maybe Horatio did it! He allowed himself a small joke.) Had the Pancoast sisters included a bequest for Carrie in their wills? The trust officer he had consulted might have overlooked such a small legacy. The child needed money to help pay for her nursing studies. Fenimore didn't want to think about that. Hadn't Doyle told him the high school was helping her out? He must ask the sisters about Carrie. As for Frank, he doubted that the bartender had the mental capacity to dope out a programmer. And, now that he was no longer posing for Marie—poor Marie—Frank would have no reason to visit the Pancoast house. Of all the suspects, he was the least likely.
On the back of the same slip, Fenimore wrote:
 
Motives
1.
Money
2.
Love
3.
Power
4.
Revenge
Sal jumped onto his lap with a “Meow!” Translation? (Time for a body rub.) Fenimore obliged. Some of his best ideas had come to him while stroking his cat.
“Purr.” (Thanks.)
He took out the sheet of information Mrs. Doyle had supplied him, headed:
Grapevine Gleanings
Talk with Mrs. Beesley:
Judith resented Emily when they were girls, because Emily was smarter and she thought Emily was her father's favorite. Emily resented Judith when they were young because Judith was prettier. Edgar resented both Emily and Judith when he was young, because they babied him, dressed him up in fancy clothes, and tried to curl his hair.
 
Talk with Carrie:
Mildred hated Pamela because she was smarter and better educated and looked down on her. Tom and Mildred's marriage was rocky. They were always having rows over her astrology and his drinking. Adam and Mildred couldn't stand each other. Adam considered Mildred a fool. And Mildred thought Adam—a prig.
 
Talk with Frank (over a cold beer!):
Marie was a saint. Edgar had been “damned” lucky to get her. Frank had been “sweet on her” in high school. He hoped her husband had appreciated her. Tom was okay. Mildred was “an ass.” Susanne was a decent sort. Adam was a teetotaler. (The worst sin.)
So much for motives. Fenimore paused in his body rub. “Meow!” (More.) He resumed his ministrations briefly. Then,
without apology, he rose—causing Sal to leap to the floor. “Grrr.” (Not enough.) A flick of her tail. (I'll be back.)
Fenimore went to the phone and dialed the Pancoast house. After a brief talk with Emily he ascertained that both she and Judith had included a small bequest in their wills for Carrie. But, she assured him, they had never mentioned it to Carrie.
“Did Carrie know where the dolls were buried?” he asked.
Emily had no idea.
He placed a second call.
“Yes?” There was the sound of a child crying in the background.
“This is Dr. Fenimore. I wonder if you could help me? I didn't want to bother the Pancoasts and …”
“Yes?” she said again louder, to be heard over the noise.
“Where are the dolls?”
“What was that, Doctor? Quiet, Eddie!”
“The Pancoasts' dolls, do you know where they are?”
“I think they hid them or something. They used to be in the closet.”
“But you don't know where they are now?”
“Eddie, stop that racket. No, I'm sorry Doctor. I haven't a clue.”
“Thank you, Carrie.” He hung up. Of course she could be lying, but her denial had the ring of truth to it and he was satisfied.
But Fenimore's satifaction was short-lived. He may have eliminated two suspects, but that still left four. He ran his hand through his hair. If only he had someone to talk to. Sal was a good companion, but she had her limitations.
From the windowsill, his cat sent him a cold stare.
With a sigh, he settled down and began a letter to Jennifer. It was easier without Mrs. Doyle peering over at him. But he found it hard to write about the Pancoast case. No matter how he phrased it, he came out in a very poor light. When he had finished, he sat for some time staring at the opposite wall. Not a good sign.
“Hey, Doc! Where should I put this?”
Fenimore, deep in thought, had not heard Horatio come in. The boy was standing in the doorway balancing something flat and round.
“‘Simple Simon met a pie-man going to the fair …'” he sang out.
“You know that?”
“What d'ya think, my mom didn't know Mother Goose? I got the whole fuckin' crew—Georgie Porgie, Baa Baa Black Sheep, Little Bo-Peep—”
“Okay, okay.” Fenimore was laughing. What was it about this kid that always made him feel better?
Horatio laid the pie gently on his desk and removed the foil cover. As they say in the commercials, the crust was golden brown and the aroma—straight from heaven. Fenimore reached out and touched it. It was still warm.
“My mom made it for you. Apple-raisin.” Horatio smacked his lips. “And here's a note.” He flipped him a powder blue envelope with “Dr. Fenimore” written in a fine, cursive hand across the front.
“Take this to the kitchen”—Fenimore waved the pie away—“before I eat the whole thing right now.” He tore open the note.
Dear Dr. Fenimore,
 
 
I was terribly upset that my boy, Ray, should bring you here. If I hadn't been out of my senses, I would have sent you away. If I am ever sick again I have told Ray to call the police and I will take my chances at the big hospital. I would never want you to come to such a neighborhood again. Which brings me to the reason for this letter. Where is my bill? I have saved the money and waited and waited. All I need to know is the amount. Please send the bill home with Ray.
Very truly yours, Bridget Lopez
P. S. My boy thinks the world of you!
All this was written in the most beautiful, Catholic school script, in blue ink.
“What did she say?” Horatio, returning from the kitchen, looked anxious.
“None of your business.” Fenimore grabbed a sheet of stationery and a pen from his desk drawer. In a much less legible hand, he began:
Dear Mrs. Lopez,
 
 
Thank you for the beautiful apple-raisin pie. I will probably eat it in one gulp for dinner.
As for the bill, you must leave that to me. One of the reasons I am in solo practice is because no one can tell me how to treat my patients, or how to bill them. From your son, I know that
you are an independent sort yourself, therefore I'm sure you will understand.
I am happy you have made such a complete recovery.
Sincerely, Andrew B. Fenimore, M.D.
Fenimore glanced over at Horatio. The boy was slumped in a chair, wearing a surly expression, doing absolutely nothing.
With a flourish, Fenimore added a postscript:
P.S. Your son is a great asset to my office.
He stuffed it in an envelope, wrote “Mrs. Lopez” on the front, and sealed it. “Here. Put this in your pocket and give it to your mother.”
Horatio screwed up his face.
“What's the matter?”
“I hate secrets.”
“What's secret?” Fenimore tried not to look guilty.
“Why won't you let me see it?”
“It's a private correspondence between your mother and me.”
“What did she say about me?”
In exasperation, he thrust her note at him.
As the boy came to the end of the note, a dark flush spread over his face.
“Don't worry,” Fenimore laughed. “I won't hold it against you. Come on, it's time for your lesson. Today I'm going to teach you about CVAs, otherwise known as ‘strokes.'” He sat down next to the boy and began to explain in elementary terms a complex article he had just finished reading in
JAMA.
 
 
Horatio had no trouble finding out the contents of Fenimore's note to his mother. Mrs. Lopez showed it to all her friends and relatives, taking special pains to point out the postscript to them. She would have framed it and hung it on the wall next to “The Doctor” poster, if Horatio hadn't threatened, coldly and calmly, to kill her.

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