The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call (22 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

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B
ack in Philadelphia, Mrs. Doyle approached her desk cautiously. Resting on top of her typewriter was a small package, tastefully wrapped in pink tissue paper and tied with white satin ribbon. She was not accustomed to receiving gifts at eight o'clock in the morning. Or at any other time, for that matter. Dr. Fenimore was nowhere to be seen.
As if expecting it to explode, she ripped off the wrappings and stood a safe distance away while observing the contents. A small white jewelry box. Warily, she lifted the lid. Inside, on a bed of cotton, lay a delicate brooch. It was in the shape of an umbrella, made of gold and—
“Garnets, Doyle.” Fenimore stood in the doorway. “I couldn't spring for rubies.”
She took out the brooch and pinned it to the lapel of her freshly starched uniform.
“I thought you deserved something—” he mumbled.
“Oh, Doctor—” Ferociously, she attacked a pile of Medicare forms.
 
This touching scene was followed by a not so touching one. Horatio arrived and learned that he had missed a helicopter ride by five minutes.
“But we couldn't wait,” Fenimore explained. “It was an emergency.”
“Five minutes!”
“We didn't know you would be only five minutes and we thought Mrs. Doyle's life was in danger.”
Horatio scowled at the nurse.
The nurse smiled complacently.
“
M
aybe I'm wrong,” Fenimore said.
He and Jennifer were in her apartment enjoying a final glass of wine at the end of a pleasant evening. Jennifer had made dinner and she and her father and Fenimore had talked about books and watched
Spellbound,
starring Ingrid Bergman and Gregory Peck. Fenimore had requested that film because he had wanted to compare Peck's behavior with Adam's.
A few minutes earlier, Mr. Nicholson had excused himself and retired with a book under each arm—one in Latin and one in Greek. They had laughed about that, and sat in easy silence sipping their wine, until Fenimore had made his remark.
“What do you mean?” asked Jennifer.
“Maybe I'm wrong about this whole medical business. Insisting on practicing solo. Working alone. Maybe teams
are
better. Maybe they get more done. Save more lives. Get more people well.”
Jennifer set down her glass and looked at him.
“Well, I was wrong about Judith. Maybe I'm wrong about this too.”
“Anyone can make a mistake.”
“But what a mistake! Do you realize she could have gone to prison for life?” He set his glass down next to hers. “She was so depressed by all the deaths in the family, she didn't even protest. What could I have been thinking of? She had no motive. I knew that. But I just barreled along. I was so tired of the case, so sick of it, so anxious to close it, I jumped at the first opportunity to accuse somebody. And Judith—of all people!” He stood up and began to pace, continuing his soliloquy. “If I'd had a partner or a group to consult with they might have stopped me, urged me to reconsider, made other—better suggestions. But no, I had to do it all by myself. Perfect Andrew knows all the answers.” He paused to look down at her. “And I was wrong. Dead wrong.”
“That doesn't mean you'll be wrong the next time, or the time after that. And you've often been right. Look at your past record. Besides,” Jennifer went on, “you did consult Rafferty. And he was the one who set you on the wrong track. He was the one who suggested that one of the Pancoast sisters might be guilty.”
“And was I ever suggestible!” He stopped pacing.
“It works both ways,” Jennifer continued. “Teammates and consultants can give bad advice as well as good.”
He sat down beside her.
“You can't suddenly decide that the individual is worthless because of one isolated case.”
He took her hand.
“And Judith
has
forgiven you.”
He pulled her close.
The question really was, could he forgive himself?
“
W
here is ‘Pomp and Circumstance'?” asked Mrs. Doyle, frantically.
“On the Main Line,” said Fenimore.
“No, I mean the tape. We need it for the ceremony.”
Fenimore scrabbled through the box of dusty casette tapes at his elbow and came up with it. “Here.” He handed it to her.
She rushed off to attend to some other urgent duty.
The graduation of the karate class was to take place at one o'clock and there was still much to be done. The punch and cookies were in the kitchen. Jennifer had donated her punch bowl and a ladle. Horatio had swept out and hosed down the cellar. An enormous bouquet of old-fashioned yellow roses decked the hot water heater. This arrangement was a gift from the Pancoast sisters, who had sent their regrets, feeling that a long trip in the heat would be too much for Emily.
The diplomas were nestled in a basket on a card table set up at one end of the cellar. In front of the table, twenty-five folding
chairs were lined up, in rows of five each. Guests and wellwishers would have to stand along the walls, as there were no more chairs.
“Where are the fuckin' umbrellas?” Horatio was nervous because he had been pressed into taking part in the ceremony.
“They're up here,” called a muffled voice from above.
“Well, bring them down for Chrissake!”
There was a dragging, thumping noise.
“Hold on.” Horatio rushed up the stairs to help Mrs. Doyle with the heavy cartons of red umbrellas.
By twelve forty-five all the graduates and their guests were miraculously assembled. Jennifer had even brought her father, to swell the crowd. And Fenimore had badgered some of the neighbors to come. The neighbors on either side of Fenimore's house had needed no persuasion. They were curious to see who had caused all those mysterious thumps and shouts during the past six months.
Mrs. Doyle had written a speech, and Horatio, under duress, had agreed to hand out the diplomas and the umbrellas. “Do I have to say anything?” he asked, anxiously.
“God, no,” Fenimore said quickly.
The boy looked relieved.
As the first strains of “Pomp and Circumstance” filtered from the tape player, the ladies, clad in their customery karate attire—red leotards and black belts—took their places one by one. Mrs. Doyle, in her role as mistress of ceremonies, wore a simple navy blue suit. Its only adornment—a charming brooch in the shape of an umbrella. She cleared her throat:
“Today I would like to welcome this year's graduates of the karate class—”
Wild applause.
“—otherwise known as the Red Umbrella Brigade—or RUB.”
More applause.
When her speech was finished, the graduates-to-be lined up to receive their awards. As Mrs. Doyle read off their names and they each stepped up, Horatio slapped a diploma in one hand and shoved a red umbrella in the other. After the last graduate had returned to her seat and the applause had died down, Mrs. Doyle made an announcement: “Since Dr. Fenimore so kindly lent us these premises for our classes, we'd like to present him with a small token of our appreciation.”
Everyone looked at the doctor. He blushed.
“Please step up, Doctor.”
Acutely embarrassed, he shuffled forward. Mrs. Doyle handed him a beautifully wrapped package about the size and shape of a shoe box.
Fenimore mumbled, “Thank you,” and hurried back to his spot against the wall.
Later, when they had retired upstairs for refreshments, the graduates and guests gathered around the doctor to watch him open his present. He pulled off the wrappings to reveal what was—in fact—a shoe box. He lifted the lid. There lay a pair of the most beautiful, top-of-the-line, brand-name sneakers. Lifting one out, he held it up for everyone to see.
“Cool,” came from Horatio in the rear.
“I am overwhelmed,” Fenimore said. “Now I can never give up my fitness classes!”
Much laughter.
As Fenimore sipped punch and nibbled cookies with Jennifer and her father, Jennifer said, “What's going to become of your kamikazi sneakers?”
“Oh, I'll keep them around for emergencies,” Fenimore said.
“Such as?”
“A leak in the roof or a flood in the cellar. I wouldn't want to soil those beautiful, state-of-the-art specimens with tar or water.” He grinned.
Mr. Nicholson broke in, “I'm sorry I couldn't find that eighteenth-century French medical text you were looking for … .”
“Oh, don't worry about it.”
“I'm sure Jennifer would have found a copy for you,” her father continued, “if she hadn't cut her trip short. When she walked in the door a month early, you could have knocked me over with a feather.”
Fenimore looked at Jennifer.
Jennifer looked at her punch.
The Doctor Digs a Grave
THE DOCTOR MAKES A DOLLHOUSE CALL. Copyright © 2000 by Robin Hathaway. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
 
 
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin's Press.
 
 
eISBN 9780312273415
First eBook Edition : April 2011
 
 
First Edition: January 2000

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