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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call
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A
s usual, the dinner was a great success. The company were on their best behavior (for the aunts' sakes). Despite differences between some family members, they all shared a mutual fondness for the aunts.
Judith sat at the foot of the table, near the kitchen, so she could move in and out easily with the food. Emily sat next to her, serving the vegetables. Edgar occupied the head of the table and was in charge of the carving. Ranged along one side was the Turner family; Susanne, Adam, Amanda, and Tad. Across from them were the Pancoasts; Tom, Mildred, Molly, and Tommy Junior. Perched at the end of these rows, facing each other, were Marie and Pamela. The baby was ensconced in an old-fashioned cane highchair, which would have failed all modern safety standards.
When Mildred launched into a long diatribe about how astrology (her passion) should be included “right up there with the rest of the sciences,” Adam, the physics teacher, held his
tongue. His only sign of agitation was the way he repeatedly aligned his silverware and water goblet. And when Tom stated that “the crime rate would go down if women would just stay home and look after their kids,” Pamela gritted her teeth but remained mum.
“Which one shot the turkey this year?” Edgar teased his older sisters playfully. “The aunts share all the domestic chores, you know.” He winked at the others. “I was wondering which one was the best shot?”
“Now, Edgar,” Judith said, “you know perfectly well we always buy our turkey from Mr. Beesley, the butcher.”
“Of course. But one year, I think you should run into the woods and take a shot at one—like our Pilgrim fathers used to do. It would be more economical—”
The picture of either roly-poly Judith or pencil-thin Emily running through the woods with a shotgun made everybody laugh.
“To begin with,” said Emily, ignoring the laughter, “our forefathers weren't Pilgrims, they were whalers, and they probably ate whale meat on Thanksgiving. They never stayed on land long enough to go traipsing after turkeys.”
“Did they wish on a whale bone instead of a wishbone, Aunt Emily?” asked Amanda, the brightest child.
More laughter.
“I don't know, dear, but I know one thing—they used whale oil to light their lamps.”
“Can we go see the whale after dinner?” begged Tad. He was referring to the skeleton of a whale housed in the Seacrest Marine Museum. Other items on display were scrimshaw
carved from whale bones and tusks by sailors (between whales), bits of masts and sails, and even some old Spanish coins cast up from shipwrecks long ago. Today, after a bad storm, coins were still occasionally found on the beach at Seacrest. The Pancoasts had quite a collection of them stashed away in the attic.
“I'm sorry, dear,” Emily said. “The museum is closed on Thanksgiving.”
“We can play hide-and-seek,” Susanne said quickly, to soften her son's disappointment.
“Are these vegetables from your garden, Judith?” asked Marie, changing the subject.
“Yes, the cabbage in the coleslaw, the onions, and the sweet potatoes all came from our garden,” Judith said proudly.
Everyone praised their fresh flavor.
And so the meal progressed through turkey, stuffing, vegetables, cranberry sauce, and gravy—to the pumpkin pie. (There was ice cream molded into shapes of pumpkins and turkeys for the children.) The children finished first and were excused to go play, but the adults lingered over their dessert and coffee. When they were about to push back their chairs, Amanda came running in. She ran straight up to her mother and whispered urgently in her ear.
“Amanda, it's not polite to—” Susanne began, but stopped. “Show me.” She rose quickly and followed her daughter out of the room.
A minute later, Adam rose and joined them.
Those remaining at the table heard voices rising in the hall.
“Who could have done it?”
“It must have been one of the children.”
“Oh no, they love the dollhouse.”
“I'll go round them up.”
By then everyone had gathered in the hall and was staring at the dollhouse. The small dining room was topsy-turvy: chairs overturned, silverware scattered, napkins and goblets on the floor. And one of the dolls, the one fashioned to resemble Pamela, was slumped over, face down in her plate.
“It wasn't the children,” Emily said gravely.
“Who was it then?” asked Marie.
“Mice,” said Judith quickly. “Adam's going to take care of them for us, aren't you, Adam?”
“Right,” Adam nodded.
“Let's all go into the parlor and have some fun.” Edgar led the way.
The others followed. All except Judith and Emily, who lingered in the hall.
“Twice in one day?” Judith whispered.
“And in the
same
room.” Emily shook her head.
When the two aunts reentered the parlor they each wore a fixed smile for the company.
Mildred was beginning a jigsaw puzzle. The kind of mindless activity that Marie, a creative artist, could never understand. Pamela had started working the
Times
crossword puzzle. She claimed she could complete any crossword puzzle in less than an hour, barring interruptions. (Mildred had always wanted to test her claim by locking her up alone in a room without a dictionary.) Edgar gamely began trying to drum up some interest in charades. Adam was sitting by the window, watching the older children playing tag on the front lawn. Tom eyed the
clock, waiting for the right moment to duck out to the Seacrest Inn for a drink. As the aunts approached Susanne, she launched into an anecdote about her son, Tad.
“On Halloween he went trick-or-treating dressed as a bear and someone gave him ajar of honey. At which point,” Susanne related, “he tore off his mask and said hotly, ‘I'm not a real bear and I'd rather have a candy bar, please.'”
The aunts laughed.
“Anybody for charades?” Edgar persisted.
Groans from various parts of the room.
“I'm off for a breath of fresh air,” Tom said, heading for the front door.
“There,” Mildred said, placing a piece in her puzzle.
“Does anyone know a word for ‘procure'?” Pamela asked.
“Get,” said Adam.
“ … with six letters?”
“Obtain?” suggested Emily, hesitantly.
“Right, Aunt. Thanks.”
Edgar finally succeeded in recruiting a small group—the aunts, Susanne, and himself—to play charades. Adam, tired of rearranging the knickknacks on the coffee table, excused himself with, “Think I'll go set those mousetraps.” Mildred retreated to a corner with her cellular phone to check in with her astrologist. The baby was napping. And Pamela, distracted by the “ungodly noise” made by the charaders, announced she was taking her crossword into the dining room, “where I can cogitate in peace.”
 
 
It was almost dark when the first guests began to make noises about going home. Tom had arrived back from his “breath of fresh air,” singing a college song and smelling strongly of whiskey. Mildred began quickly packing up the baby's things and ordering the older children to get their coats. Taking their cue from her, the Turners began searching for their children's belongings. A hunt for a stray mitten took Susanne into the dining room. The rest of the party was startled by her piercing cry.
The room was in total disarray. Chairs overturned, contents of goblets and coffee cups spilled, napkins scattered. And slumped at the table, facedown in her dessert plate, was Pamela.
W
hen the phone rang, Dr. Fenimore was alone in his office. Mrs. Doyle—his nurse, secretary, office manager, and chief bottle washer—had gone out on an errand. He picked up the receiver.
“Oh, I'm sorry to bother you, Doctor—”
Emily Pancoast. She and her sister had been patients of his for years, and his father's before him.
“No bother,” he said. “What can I do for you, Miss Pancoast?”
“I wouldn't have called the office, but it's about my niece, Pamela. You may have seen—”
He vaguely remembered seeing an obituary for a Pamela Pancoast recently and wondered if there was a connection. (Reading the obit column was part of Fenimore's job. Both his jobs.) “Oh … ah … yes. Terrible tragedy. So young. I should have writ—”
“Oh no. We wouldn't expect … I mean, that's not why I called.”
“Oh?”
“I called to consult you in your other capacity, as … er—” She faltered.
Dr. Fenimore tried to keep his two occupations separate, but sometimes they inevitably overlapped. “As an investigator?” He helped her out.
“Yes, that's it.” Emily sighed with relief. “You see, Doctor, just before Pamela died, there was a disturbance in the dollhouse and Pamela's doll was …”
Fenimore was familiar with the Pancoasts' famous dollhouse and the dolls which represented each member of the family. “Go on,” he prompted.
“Doctor, Pamela's doll died—in a similar manner to Pamela.”
 
When Mrs. Doyle came back from her errand, she found her employer preoccupied. She had to speak to him twice before he answered, and then his answer was unsatisfactory.
“What? Oh, you're back,” he said.
“I asked if you wanted me to order more flu vaccine. We're almost out.”
“Hmm.”
“Is that a ‘yes'?”
“Oh yes. Sure. Go ahead.”
“How much?”
“How much what?”
“Vaccine.”
He shrugged. “Oh, another dozen shots.”
She made a note and turned back to her typewriter. He had offered to buy her a word processor, but she had refused. None of those newfangled dinguses for her. That was one of the reasons she and the doctor got on so well. They both hated change and liked to preserve the old. He maintained a solo practice when every other doctor had joined a group or an HMO. And he still made house calls. He never pressured her to learn new procedures or operate new equipment, as long as she produced her work on time.
The office occupied the front half of the first floor of his old town house on Spruce Street and he had not changed anything in it since his father died twenty years ago. It was a hodgepodge of hand-me-down furniture and knickknacks picked up at thrift shops and the Salvation Army. His father's 1890s microscope still sat on his desk under a bell jar (which Mrs. Doyle dusted religiously) and the creaky centrifuge his father had used for spinning down urine samples still rested on a windowsill. Fenimore used it occasionally. “Why not, if it works?” he argued.
“I had a call while you were out,” he said abruptly.
“Oh?”
“Emily Pancoast.”
“Not her heart, I hope.” Emily had had a pacemaker installed several years ago.
“No. Her niece just died.” And he told her about the doll.
“Couldn't she have been mistaken? I mean, maybe it just fell over, or one of the children—”
“It happened twice. The first time they blamed it on a mouse. Then it happened again—in the same room.”
“‘The
Two
Bad Mice,'” said Mrs. Doyle.
“In the
same
room, Doyle.” He glared at her.
His glare didn't bother her. She was too excited. He only called her “Doyle” when they were about to embark on a case.
Mrs. Doyle called up a picture of Emily, the elder Pancoast sister—her straight back and stern mouth (which broke into a surprising smile at the slightest hint of a joke). She would never disturb Dr. Fenimore on a mere whim. She must sincerely suspect something—or someone. She was thoughtful as she returned to her typing, part of her mind remaining with the dollhouse. She had never seen it herself, but the doctor had described it in detail to her many times. It was the prize of Seacrest. Everyone who summered there knew about it. And every Christmas the sisters held an open house for the local people to come view it. They couldn't have an open house in the summer because the crowds would have been too great.
“What's my schedule tomorrow, Doyle?”
Pulling back from her reverie, she checked his calendar. “Three patients in the morning—”
“And the afternoon?”
“Only one. Mr. Elkton at three o'clock.”
“Could you move him up to noon?”
“I suppose—”
“Think I'll nip down to Seacrest tomorrow. The funeral's at four.”
The door to the cellar flew open. Doctor and nurse turned
abruptly. A Hispanic teenager emerged with a smudge of dirt under one eye and a cobweb over one ear.
“When did you last clean that place?” Horatio glared at his employer.
“Why, uh—” Fenimore stuttered.
Mrs. Doyle's eye was drawn to the rolled-up paper tube under the boy's arm. “What's that?” she demanded. She always suspected Horatio of light-fingered tendencies. (The name “Horatio” was a gift from his mother when she ran out of saints. Her nickname for him was “Ray,” but he preferred to be called “Rat.”)
“Just some old poster,” the boy muttered.
“Let me see.”
Reluctantly Horatio unrolled the tube, revealing a replica of a famous painting. In the warm sepia tones popular at the turn of the century, a dramatic scene was depicted. A small child lay outstretched on a makeshift bed. From one end of the room, her father stared at her anxiously. At a table nearby, her mother sat, head bent in distress. To the left of the child was a neatly groomed man with a beard. He too stared at the child. But his expression was more thoughtful than anxious. The caption under the painting read: “The Doctor.”
“I love that picture,” Mrs. Doyle sighed. “You'll never see the likes of him again.”
Fenimore looked slightly put out.
“What d'ya mean?” asked Horatio.
“He's kind and good and—not rich,” she said.
“Can't you be kind and good
and
rich?” the boy countered.
“It's
much
harder,” Mrs. Doyle said firmly and turned back to her typewriter.
“Let me see, Rat.” Fenimore reached for the poster. Glancing at the bottom, he read the inscription aloud: “Keep politics out of this picture.” His laugh was harsh. “‘Keep
profit
out of this picture' is more like it.” He handed it back to the boy.
“Can I keep it?”
“It's an antique,” Mrs. Doyle objected.
“Why do you want it?” Fenimore was curious.
“It's a nice picture. We don't have any. My mom'd like it.”
“Help yourself,” Fenimore shrugged. “It's a dead issue,” he added, more to himself than to them.
Bewildered by the reaction caused by his new acquisition, Horatio rolled it up and carefully slipped a rubber band around it. He turned back to his employer. “When did you last clean out that cellar?” he repeated. “It's a fuckin' fire hazard.”
Mrs. Doyle winced. She had hoped after a year in the doctor's employ, the boy's language would have improved.
Fenimore looked guilty.
“You could have a great yard sale!” The boy brightened. “I'll help you clean it out, if you give me a cut.”
Such business enterprise in one so young impressed Fenimore. “Well, now—”
“Just a minute,” said Mrs. Doyle. “If there are to be any cuts around here, I want—”
“Enough!” Fenimore held up his hands. “I have more important things to think about than cellars and yard sales. We can discuss this later. Back to work.”
Grumbling, his employees obeyed, and Fenimore placed a long distance telephone call.
“The Seacrest Police Department, please.”
Mrs. Doyle paused in her typing to blatantly eavesdrop.
“This is Dr. Fenimore, the Pancoasts' family physician. I've just learned about the death of Pamela Pancoast—”
A long silence followed during which Fenimore listened intently. “Is that so? Interesting. I'll drop by tomorrow. Around two?”
When he replaced the receiver, Mrs. Doyle noticed a change in her employer's expression. From grave anxiety to eager anticipation.

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