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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call
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JUNE
M
rs. Doyle had the Pancoast house to herself.
Neither Emily nor Mrs. Doyle had suffered any burns. Only mild respiratory irritation from smoke inhalation. Mrs. Doyle had been released from the hospital the next morning. But, because of Emily's age and cardiac history, Dr. Fenimore had insisted that she remain under observation for a few days.
Judith, of course, was in jail. Not in a cell, however. She was in the prison infirmary, in a state of shock, and she remained unresponsive to questioning.
Despite the extent of the fire, the damage had been minimal. It had broken out in the closet of Emily's room and spread to the adjoining bedroom where Mrs. Doyle had been sleeping. The firemen had managed to contain the fire in those two rooms. Judith's room, located across the hall, had been untouched.
When the smoke detector had started to bleat, Emily had cried out, alerting Judith and Mrs. Doyle. Then she had headed
for the widow's walk—the nearest means of escape. Mrs. Doyle had followed her out on the balcony. When Emily succumbed to the smoke, Mrs. Doyle had caught her before she fell. Judith had made her escape down the main staircase and out the front door.
When members of Edgar's former construction firm heard of the catastrophe, they readily volunteered their services. They promised to send carpenters and electricians to repair the damage immediately. Mrs. Doyle offered to stay on to let them in, provide coffee and soft drinks, and generally supervise the repairs.
She moved into another guest room, of which there were many. Except for the loss of her clothes and an unpleasant acrid odor, she was hardly inconvenienced at all. She borrowed a housedress of Judith's, ignored the odor which the smoke and water had left behind, and under the guise of putting the house in order, searched for new evidence. Dr. Fenimore may have been satisfied with his solution of the case, but Mrs. Doyle was decidedly not. Judith Pancoast—a murderer? Ridiculous. Mrs. Doyle prided herself on her intuitive sense about people. And just as she had sensed immediately that Carrie would make a good nurse, she knew that Judith was that rare thing—an innately good person—barely capable of the smallest unkindness—let alone murder!
She had lived closely with Judith for several months, watched her considerate care of her older sister, and her sincere concern for all the other members of her family. She would have made a wonderful wife and mother. When denied this role by her father, she could have become bitter and withdrawn. Instead,
she had turned her affectionate nature outward on her brother and sister, her nieces and nephews, and their children.
Mrs. Doyle was quite aware, however, that her
feeling
that Judith was innocent was not good enough. She must produce evidence to convince Dr. Fenimore and the police of their error. And enough evidence to refute Judith's damning confession: “I almost got them.” No easy task. This was the primary reason Mrs. Doyle had offered to stay on at the house. If there was any evidence to be found, surely it would be found there. She had been there twenty-four hours since the fire, frantically searching, and so far had come up with nothing.
 
Dr. Fenimore, on the other hand, seemed satisfied with the outcome of the Pancoast case. He was distressed, of course, that the murderer had turned out to be his old patient and friend. But hadn't Rafferty, the expert, warned him of this very outcome? And if he hadn't been so hardheaded and taken the policeman's advice earlier, he might have solved the case sooner and prevented a number of deaths. He did wonder what Judith's motive might have been. The psychologist, Dr. Landers, had told him emphatically that no murder was ever committed without a motive. But he brushed this aside. When someone says loud and clear, “I almost got them,” it's no time for nitpicking.
One thing did bother him. Judith's baldness. How had that escaped him? She had been his patient for years and he
had
examined her ears. How could he have missed her wig? He was chagrined. It was a matter of professional pride.
It seemed Judith had lost her hair as a child, after a severe
case of scarlet fever. It was before they had become patients of Dr. Fenimore's father. And probably by design, there was no mention of it in her patient file. Emily was the only other person who knew about it. It was a dark secret. Judith had changed her wigs gradually as she grew older, wearing ones with a little gray at first, then adding more gray, and finally adopting the silver wig which she now wore. Fenimore had learned all this from Emily on one of his hospital visits.
Fenimore, in turn, had told Emily that Judith had survived the fire unharmed. But nothing more. Emily must regain her full strength before she learned the terrible truth about her sister. He was glad Emily had not inquired why Judith had not come to visit her.
 
Mrs. Doyle had gone to the store for just three items—milk, bread, and orange juice. But she had come home exhausted. The supermarket had been teeming with boisterous tourists and she had been forced to wait in the “Express” line for over twenty minutes while the checker validated one of their credit cards. That tourist had been buying
a single
item—a bottle of catsup. Mrs. Doyle hoped he choked on it.
Her feet hurt. Her head hurt. After putting her purchases away in the kitchen, she dragged herself up the stairs. Since the workmen had left and she had the house to herself, she decided to take a short nap before dinner.
When she came into the bedroom, she glanced in the mirror—something she rarely did. Her reflection confirmed the way she felt. Bags under her eyes, fatigue lines around her mouth. And her hair, which had a mind of its own under ordinary
circumstances, had turned into a halo of corkscrews—courtesy of the damp sea air. Hunting for her comb, her eyes fell to the bureau. Next to her comb lay an assortment of small objects, forming a curious still life. The bottom half of a clothespin lay severed from its button-top. The top had been chopped off and decorated with a neat red cross. Nearby stood a bottle of nail polish of the same red hue. And beside the bottle lay a small tool. She bent to examine it. A pint-sized hatchet.
Mrs. Doyle caressed her neck gingerly.
 
Two days had passed since the fire. Fenimore was working late, puttering around his office, trying to make some sense out of the mountain of paperwork. Ms. Sparks had been more absorbed in “Mr. Lopez” than in her work, Fenimore thought ruefully. Yesterday's mail still lay unopened on his desk. Another stack had arrived that day. He was about to tackle the first pile when the telephone rang. Fenimore picked it up.
“Doctor … ?” A low, male voice—semifamiliar.
“Yes.”
“This is Ben—from Ben's Variety in Seacrest.”
“Oh yes, Ben. What can I do for you?”
“You'll probably think I'm crazy for calling—” He paused. “But this fellow came in a little while ago and bought a bottle of nail polish. Now, there's nothing in that. It was probably for his wife. But I didn't recognize him, and I know everybody in Seacrest—except for the tourists. And he wasn't a tourist.”
“Go on.”
“He didn't say anything. Just brought the bottle over to the
counter and paid for it. He was wearing dark glasses and some kind of official-looking cap.”
“How tall was he?”
“Average height. About five foot seven or eight inches. And thin. Very thin.”
“What made you uneasy?”
“The way he was dressed, for one. As if he were in disguise or something. And the calm, deliberate way he did everything. When he walked in the store, he went straight to the cosmetic section. That's how I knew he wasn't a tourist. The tourists stumble around blindly in here, looking for things. I don't cater to the tourist trade.”
“What else?”
“Well, he comes up to the counter. Opens his wallet. Counts out the exact amount very carefully. A dollar ninety-one it was with tax. He even had the extra penny ready. And when I asked if he wanted a bag, he still didn't talk. Just shook his head, as if he didn't want me to hear his voice or something. Then, he tucked the bottle carefully into his shirt pocket and walked out.”
Silence.
“See, I told you you'd think I was crazy. But with all the trouble up at the big house, I thought—”
“I appreciate your call, Ben. I'll look into it. Thanks very much.” He hung up.
“The calm, deliberate way he did everything.” What had Dr. Landers said about compulsive cases? They never get upset. They are always calm and deliberate. Even when they are planning a murder? He dialed the doctor's number. Thank God she was in. He asked his question.
“Oh yes. This type of individual would be especially calm and focused when planning a murder. Have you made any progress?”
“Not yet. But I think the case is about to break.”
“Good luck,” she said.
Close on the tail of that call, the phone rang again.
Doyle. “Something's come up … .”
“What … ?”
The harsh sound of the Pancoasts' antiquated doorbell carried to Fenimore over the phone line. “Hang on,” she said, “I'll be right back.”
He fiddled with the phone wire, trying to disentangle it. Sal, thinking it was a game, began batting it with her paw.
“It's the man to read the meter,” Doyle said, sounding out of breath. Then she added, in an oddly strained voice, “It's the
first man
.”
“What's that?”
They were disconnected.
“What the devil did she mean by that?” he said aloud.
“Is there something wrong, Doctor?”
“Oh, Mrs. Dunwoody—”
“I let myself in,” she said. “It's my turn to set up for the class tonight.” (Horatio had the ladies well trained.)
“Go right ahead,” he said absently.
“Was that Kathleen on the phone? I couldn't help overhearing.”
“Yes. We were interrupted by the doorbell. When she came back she said it was the meter man. But then—” Fenimore frowned—“she said a queer thing. She said, with great emphasis,
‘It's the
first man
.' Now what do you make of that?”
Mrs. Dunwoody pondered, but only for a moment. “Well, Doctor, to an old Sunday School teacher like myself, the ‘first man' will always be—Adam.”
 
Mrs. Doyle turned from the phone to face the man she had just let in. He wore his brown uniform cap pulled low over his forehead, and dark glasses. He carried a notebook in one hand and a heavy flashlight in the other. Around his waist hung a tool belt filled with tools—a hammer, a screwdriver, and—a hatchet.
“Why are you calling so late?” she asked. (It was after 8 P.M.)
He laughed. “With all the women working these days,” he said, “it's the only time I can catch anyone at home.” He spoke in a hoarse whisper and pointed to his throat. “Laryngitis.”
It all sounded plausible.
“Could you show me where it is? I'm new on this job.”
Mrs. Doyle gestured to the door at the end of the hall. “That goes to the cellar.” But she made no move to accompany him.
“I mean the meter. Could you show me where that is?”
“Sorry. I'm just a guest in the house. I wouldn't know.”
“Maybe we could find it together.” He moved a step closer.
Mrs. Doyle stepped back. “You take a look. If you can't find it, call me.”
“I think I'd find it quicker with your help.” He took another step forward and raised the heavy flashlight.
A
fter instructing the Seacrest Police to go to the Pancoast house, Fenimore called Rafferty. His friend agreed immediately to place one of the department's helicopters and a pilot at the doctor's disposal. Nearly half the members of the karate class had arrived, but no Horatio. Mrs. Dunwoody explained the situation to her classmates and they eagerly agreed to accompany the doctor. A police van that happened to be cruising in the neighborhood rushed the party, sirens screaming, to the Police Administration Building. The chopper took off from the roof not more than twenty minutes after Mrs. Dunwoody had decoded Mrs. Doyle's message.
Under any other circumstances, the flight would have been an aesthetic experience. The Philadelphia skyline was breathtaking—with its soaring glass buildings—ablaze with light. But these passengers, united by their common fear for Mrs. Doyle's safety, might have been flying over the dark, primeval forest of
William Penn's day, for all the attention they paid the glowing city.
The twenty-minute ride seemed interminable. The bright suburban sprawl of Cherry Hill, followed by the dark fields of corn and soybeans, and finally—the twinkling lights of Seacrest nestled beside the black ocean. As the helicopter descended, its passengers let out a communal sigh.
Following Fenimore's orders, the pilot landed in a field not far from the Pancoast house, hoping the noise of the chopper would not alert Mrs. Doyle's intruder.
“It would be best to take this fellow by surprise,” Fenimore warned the ladies as they prepared to disembark.
One by one, they quietly descended and made their way across the field toward the silent house. Several windows were illuminated. Mrs. Dunwoody was the first to press her face to the parlor window. She beckoned to Fenimore.
Seated at a card table, her back to them, was Mrs. Doyle. She seemed to be playing a game of solitaire. On the floor opposite her, leaning against a bookcase, sat a young man. His eyes were closed and he was trussed as neatly as a turkey ready for the oven.
Fenimore, not wanting to alarm his nurse by rapping on the glass, went around to the front door and rang the bell.
Expecting more police, Mrs. Doyle opened the door readily. There was already one policeman in the kitchen waiting for reenforcements to take the prisoner to the police station. She had offered to go with him, but the policeman had looked at her askance.
“Surprise!” Fenimore grinned. “Just thought we'd drop by for a game of gin.”
His nurse stared openmouthed.
“I brought along a few of your cronies, in case you needed help, but you seem to have everything under control.” He nodded at the bundle by the bookcase.
“Oh, Kathleen, are you all right?” cried Mrs. Dunwoody.
“We were so worried about you,” said another octogenarian.
Mrs. Doyle was quite unnerved by the sight of the doctor and her students showing so much concern for her. Her eyes grew moist. Recovering quickly, she demanded, “How on earth did you get here so quickly?”
“A little bird brought us,” said Fenimore. He drew her over to the window and pointed to the blue and silver chopper perched in the field, like a giant dragonfly.
“My word! I've always wanted to ride in one of those. Was it fun?”
“It would have been,” said Mrs. Dunwoody, “if we hadn't been worried to death about you.”
“How did you do it, Kathleen?” The ladies were admiring Mrs. Doyle's karate technique the way another group of women might admire the elaborate icing on a cake or some intricate embroidery stitch.
Mrs. Doyle smiled. “A clean chop to the carotid,” she said. “He was about to clobber me with that.” She pointed to the flashlight on the card table.
“And the knots,” exclaimed one lady, bending over the victim's wrists. “Where did you learn to tie like that?”
“Oh,” she blushed. “I have the Navy to thank for that. I did a stint of nursing in the service, you know. Now come on out to the kitchen and have some tea. The police can take care of that.” She cast a scornful look at Adam.
The members of the Red Umbrella Brigade trotted eagerly out to the kitchen. When the policeman heard them coming, he decided to wait for his reenforcements outside and ducked out the back door.
Fenimore remained in the parlor. As he stared at the neatly trussed bundle by the bookcase, he was overcome by remorse. How could he face Judith?

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