The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call (6 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call
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ecause of Fenimore's previous track record for crime solving, the Seacrest Police agreed to give him a complete briefing of Tom's death.
Fenimore's next stop was the inn. The coroner had told him that there was an unusually high level of alcohol in Tom's bloodstream and Fenimore knew the inn was Tom's favorite haven for imbibing.
“Hi, Doc!” Frank hailed Fenimore as he slipped onto a barstool. “What'll it be?”
“Nothing liquid, today. I need information.”
“Shoot.”
“Was Tom Pancoast in here this afternoon?”
“Sure was. Left with a snootful too.”
“About what time?”
Frank looked at his watch. “Came in around noon. Left about one-thirty. Plenty of time to get tanked.”
“He's dead.”
Frank almost dropped the glass he was polishing.
“Asphyxiated in his own car, in his aunt's carriage house.”
Frank's eyes widened.
“They found him around two-thirty.”
“Suicide?”
“Maybe.”
“Whew!” The bartender wiped his forehead. “I knew that wife of his would get to him someday.”
“Careful. That's dangerous talk.”
“Right.”
“Did you talk to Tom while he was here?”
“Yeah. Nothing special. Football mostly. He used to play for Brown.”
Fenimore nodded. “Maybe I will take a beer. Draft.”
Frank filled a glass and slid it toward him. “He didn't act depressed or nothin',” he said. “In fact, he was in a good mood. Told me a couple of jokes. This guy went into a bar—”
“Some other time, Frank.”
“Oh, right.” He looked sheepish.
“When he left, did he say where he was going?”
“He said he was going to ‘take a ride.' The first time he said that, it scared the shit out of me, ‘cause he was in no condition to drive. But then he explained—‘take a ride' means he goes and sits in his car in his aunts' carriage house until he sobers up. Sometimes he even passes out there.”
“Did the aunts know about this?”
“If they did, they looked the other way. They're good scouts.”
“Was this habit of his—common knowledge?”
“He didn't make any secret of it.” Frank ran a rag over the
bar. “That car was like Tom's second home. Probably wished it was his
first
home.” He snapped the rag.
Fenimore finished his beer and paid for it, adding a hefty tip.
“I'll miss him,” Frank said. “One of my best customers.”
 
Fenimore's next stop was the Pancoasts' carriage house; a roomy place, large enough to store a sailboat as well as Tom's car. A police officer, who looked no more than sixteen, presided over the site from a beach chair. They recruited them young in Seacrest. Fenimore showed him a slip signed by the Chief of Police.
The car, a neat Porsche, had been gone over with a finetooth comb. No evidence of any clutter or debris on the floor, in the side pockets, or even in the glove compartment. In fact, it looked as if it had never left the showroom. “Was the car like this
before
you searched it?”
The boy nodded. “Clean as a whistle. The only things in the glove compartment were the registration, the insurance, and the instruction manual.”
Ruefully, Fenimore thought of his own beat-up Chevy and the junk collected in it. Tom must have been one of those car fanatics who had a heart attack over every scratch and stain. Fenimore was about to leave when he noticed a sticker on the back window. The sleek red and black logo of an exclusive squash club. Maybe one of Tom's squash partners could shed more light on Tom. One of the cardinal rules of homicide detection: get to know the victim.
 
 
The squash court was noisy with resounding thwacks as two relatively young men engaged in a match. Fenimore waited patiently. He had had a hard time getting admitted to the club. Nonmembers in a small town were not looked upon with favor. Not until he placed a call to the Pancoast household and attained Judith's seal of approval had he been allowed entry to the holy sanctuary.
Fenimore had acquired the names of the two men—Josh and Henry—from the club manager. They were both occasional squash opponents of Tom's, the manager assured him. Finally finished, the two men sauntered off the court, wiping their dripping faces with snowy towels provided by the club.
“Pardon me, but—” Fenimore explained his mission.
The two men were suitably shocked at the news of Tom's fate. It is especially hard on young men to hear about the death of a contemporary.
“When did it happen?” asked Josh.
“This afternoon.”
They shook their heads.
“Does his wife know?” Henry asked.
“I believe so.”
“The poor kids,” Josh murmured.
“Did he seem depressed lately?”
They looked at each other.
“No way,” Henry said.
“Did he have any enemies?”
“Not
off
the court,” Josh said slyly.
Fenimore had a hard time believing that anyone would commit murder over a squash score. “Do you know if he had any
major problems? With money, for instance? Or in his marriage?”
At the word “marriage” the two men exchanged a quick look.
“I hear his wife was into psychics and things like that,” Fenimore pursued.
“It's a hobby of hers,” Henry offered.
“How about his boozing? Did his wife object to that?”
“Not enough to murder him if that's what you're getting at,” Josh said.
“He may have overdone the drink, but he wasn't a mean drunk,” Henry added.
“In fact, it usually made him the opposite,” put in Josh. “Friendlier”.
“Can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against him?”
They shook their heads quickly and in unison.
“He wasn't that kind of guy,” Henry said.
Josh nodded in agreement.
Fenimore thanked the two squash players and let them escape to their showers.
 
Fenimore had saved Mildred for last. He hated to interrogate someone so recently bereaved. But when murder was suspected such niceties could not be indulged. And as every detective knows, the murder victim's mate is always the number one suspect. He had called ahead to warn Mildred of his visit. As he approached the sprawling ranch house he had mixed emotions. A tricycle sat in the driveway and a pair of Roller-blades lay near the front door.
It was Susanne Pancoast who answered his ring. Her face was pale and strained.
“I'm sorry to intrude—”
“That's all right. The police just left. Mildred's expecting you.” She led him into a kind of sitting room or den. Mildred Pancoast was hunched over a card table. Some cards were spread out before her. When she looked up, Fenimore was confronted with a face ravaged by weeping.
“I'm terribly sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Pancoast. But we're anxious to get to the bottom of this.”
She gestured to a chair, low-slung, made of canvas and iron. When he slid into it, Fenimore found himself almost horizontal to the floor. Not the best position for conducting an interview. Awkwardly, he climbed out and moved to a more standard seat.
“You're that doctor-detective, aren't you?”
He nodded.
“He didn't do it,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Tom wouldn't kill himself.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“He wasn't depressed. He never talked about suicide. He didn't leave a note. Besides, he's a …” she swallowed, took a deep breath, and went on, “he
was
… a Leo. And Leos aren't suicidal.”
“I see.” Fenimore made a mental note to review the personality traits of the astronomical signs. He was a Pices, himself, and had never liked being born under the sign of a fish. He would have preferred Taurus—or Scorpio, whose traits seemed
much more like his own. “Did your husband have any enemies?” he asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“Money problems?”
“Who doesn't?”
“I thought all the Pancoasts were … er … rather well off.”
“There's never enough, you know.”
Fenimore didn't know. He had never wanted more. He had plenty to meet his needs, which, by most doctor's standards, were small.
“Did you ever hear any of the Pancoasts express a need for more money?”
“You're not going to get me to point the finger,” Mildred said quickly. “But I've heard all of them say, more than once, they could use more.”
“I see.”
“You probably don't see. You don't have kids, do you?”
He shook his head.
“They're what eat it up. The schools, the camps, their teeth, their lessons—music, tennis, riding, sailing.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Then there's saving for their colleges. It's endless.”
A child came to the door, sucking her thumb. It was hard to imagine such a small creature being such a huge burden. Her face also bore signs of weeping. “Come here, hon.” Mildred beckoned to her. The little girl ran to her mother and buried her head in her lap.
“Molly!” Susanne appeared in the doorway.
“It's all right, Sue,” Mildred said.
But Susanne led Molly away.
It was time to leave, Fenimore decided. He rose and thanked the young widow.
As he headed for the front door, he paused, realizing he had forgotten to ask the key question—what was she doing at the time of the murder? He turned. Susanne was right behind him. “Where was Mildred at the time of Tom's death?” he asked her.
She frowned. “At school. Picking up her children.”
“And you?”
“Me?” She was startled.
He nodded.
“The same place. We both have children at the school.”
“And your husband?”
“Adam? At school of course. A different school. The Academy. He teaches there.”
“Do you have a copy of his course schedule?”
“Not with me,” she said shortly.
“Of course not. Could you send me one?”
“I suppose, but—”
“Thank you.” Fenimore left hastily. There were times when his hobby left a bad taste in his mouth.
 
Back in the car, Fenimore pondered what he had learned:
1.
Tom had a drinking problem.
2.
He was not suicidal.
3.
He probably had no serious enemies.
4.
He was living beyond his means.
5.
All the Pancoasts were living beyond their means.
With the possible exception of the aunts. Although, even they invested heavily in dollhouse furnishings, which could be astronomically expensive.
What was he thinking?
What had the aunts to gain from killing Tom? They were the ones who held the purse strings! His thoughts were getting fuzzy. He switched his attention to alibis. At the time of Pamela's death, all the Pancoasts were gathered in one place, but at the time of Tom's death, they were scattered. Quickly, he drew up a list of their whereabouts:
ALIBIS FOR SUSPECTS IN THE DEATH OF TOM PANCOAST
SUSPECT
ALIBI
LOOPHOLE
Emily
Napping
Could slip down to carriage house at any time
Judith
Shopping
Could sneak back to C. H. at any time
Mildred
Picking up kids at school
It doesn't take an hour to pick up kids. Had thirty minutes to go to C. H.
Susanne
Picking up kids at school
Same as above
Adam
At Academy
Could have slipped out and gone to C. H. Academy only 3 miles from Seacrest
Edgar
At work on site a few miles from Seacrest
Could have slipped back to C. H. during lunch hour
Marie
Sculpting in studio at Pancoast house
Could have slipped down to C. H. while Emily was napping and Judith was shopping
Carrie
At school, having study hour
Could have slipped out and gone to C. H.
Frank
Bartending
Could have gone to C. H. on his break

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