The Doctor Digs a Grave (11 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor Digs a Grave
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LATER THURSDAY MORNING
F
enimore was seated in a straight-backed chair next to Mrs. Doyle's desk, a lavender towel draped around his neck. Mrs. Doyle was taking the last of her assorted packages from her purse and arranging them in a row on her desk when the doorbell rang.
Fenimore flinched. “Don't answer it.”
“Nonsense.” Mrs. Doyle started down the hall. “You can't go through life not answering the door.”
“I can try,” he called after her.
Mrs. Doyle peered through the frosted glass pane. “It's Horatio,” she called back.
“It can't be. He's not due 'til three. It's someone disguised as Horatio.”
“Yo, man. Let me in.” Horatio's familiar voice echoed down the hallway.
Mrs. Doyle opened the door. “What are you doing here?”
“It's a saint's day. I have off.” He sidled in. “Thought I'd drop by. My mom sent me to early Mass, and if I go home now she'll have me scrubbin' floors and washin' windows all day. Filing's
easier. Besides, here I get paid. Holy Christopher!” He caught sight of the doctor.
“Your epithets have been tempered by your visit to the holy sanctuary,” Fenimore said.
Horatio looked to Doyle for a translation. When none was forthcoming, he said, “What hit you?”
“Not what. Who. Two thugs looking for drugs.” He wasn't ready to reveal the whole story yet.
“Hold still.” Mrs. Doyle was trying to apply ointment to his cracked and swollen lips.
“Two hits in five days?” Horatio shook his head. “You better stay home, man.”
“I
was
home.”
Mrs. Doyle patted a scratch on Fenimore's forehead with something that stung. He winced.
“Better get out, then.”
“I was
out
the first time, remember?”
“I mean outa town.”
The doorbell.
“What is this? Grand Central Station?” Mrs. Doyle put down the jar of ointment, but Horatio was already at the door.
“Check who it is first, Rat,” Fenimore cautioned.
“It's a dame.”
“Woman, for God's sake. It's the nineties. What's she look like?”
“Small, dark … a babe.”
“Oh, no. Get rid of her. I can't let her see me like this.” He started to get up from the chair.
Mrs. Doyle pushed him down. “I told you to hold still.” With a brush, she applied a coat of pancake makeup to his chin.
“The doctor's not in,” he heard Horatio say.
“Who are you?” A female voice, faint but familiar.
“I'm his new employee.”
“Well, I'm his
old
girlfriend,” she said, not so faint.
The rasp of the chain being pulled back. Horatio opened the door a crack and leaned out. “By appointment only,” he said and pointed to the sign in the window.
“That's a very old sign. I happen to know he has hours this morning.”
The babe didn't look nearly as pretty with her eyes narrowed and her hands on her hips, Horatio decided. “What'll I do, Doc?” he called back.
“Let her in,” he sighed.
Horatio came in, followed by Jennifer.
Jennifer didn't see him at first. Mrs. Doyle's ample back, in a white starched uniform, blocked her view.
“I brought a book on the Lenapes … .” She caught sight of the cluttered desk. With its assortment of bottles and tubes, tissues and powder puffs, it resembled the cosmetic counter at Saks when someone was undergoing a makeover. “What's all this?”
Mrs. Doyle stepped aside to get something from her purse and Jennifer let out a gasp, just like in the TV sit-coms.
“I didn't want to let you in,” Fenimore said in an injured tone.
Jennifer paled as she contemplated his ravaged face.
“Next to me, Lon Chaney's a matinee idol.” Fenimore tried to grin, but it turned into a grimace.
“What happened?” she murmured, her eyes moving to the ravaged office.
“A nocturnal visit from a couple of thugs.”
“You told me your investigating was always done on a high intellectual plane.” Her voice bordered on the hysterical.
“Yes, well, last night it dropped a few notches.”
Doorbell.
“Bring out the music and the drinks,” Fenimore said. “It's party time.”
“No party,” Mrs. Doyle said sternly. “I'm not finished with you yet.”
Horatio had gone to the door again. There were male voices
in the hall. Fenimore froze. “What did I tell you,” he whispered. “More guests.” Warily, he watched the door to the hall until it was filled with Rafferty's reassuring frame.
“Well, well.” The policeman surveyed the chaotic scene. “Are we party crashing?” His expression didn't match his jocular tone. “Is it just starting—or breaking up?” He glanced at his watch. “And how come I wasn't invited?”
“An oversight,” Fenimore said. “Ouch.” Mrs. Doyle had jerked his chin front and center.
A uniformed officer came in behind Rafferty, followed by Horatio. Horatio slunk quietly back to his filing cabinet. He was never completely at ease in the presence of officers of the law.
“Gentlemen,” Mrs. Doyle turned on them, a powder puff in one hand and an atomizer in the other, “state your business and be on your way. As you can see, I'm caring for a patient.”
“Yes, ma'am.” Rafferty looked past her at the patient. “This is Officer Mario Santino.” He indicated the man in blue. “Since you were mugged in that alley, I thought you could use some protection. I brought him over to keep an eye on the store, only to find the horse has already been stolen.”
“This is not a store. I am not a horse. And you're mixing your metaphors.”
“From now on, wherever you go, he goes,” Rafferty said. “And wherever you stay, he stays. He'll make himself as inconspicuous as possible.” Considering the officer's husky frame, thick neck, and protuberant ears, not to mention his uniform, this seemed highly dubious.
Mrs. Doyle looked impatient. Jennifer, anxious. Horatio, uneasy. Fenimore, annoyed.
“When Mrs. Doyle gives up trying to make you look like Clark Gable,” Rafferty continued, “give me a call. I'd really like to hear the whole story—from the horse's mouth.” He turned and walked out.
In the silence that followed, Officer Santino smiled apologetically and found a seat in the corner. Horatio continued filing. Jennifer laid the book she had been clutching on a corner of the desk. Fenimore picked it up and riffled through it. Mrs. Doyle took out another parcel from her purse. This one was small, wrapped in brown paper, and tied with string. She placed it on the desk. Fenimore looked up. “Ah.” He recognized the wrapping instantly. “You've been to Otto's.”
Mrs. Doyle removed the wrapping. At first Jennifer saw only an empty jar. But on closer inspection, she noticed some black things curled on the bottom. As she watched, one of the black things separated itself from the other and started to move up the side of the jar. It had no legs. Like the toy animals you see stuck to the rear windows of cars, it adhered to the glass by suction.
“Ugh.” Jennifer shivered, as recognition dawned.
“Now, now,” Mrs. Doyle admonished her, “the leech is a much maligned creature. Just like the bat. They both suffer from bad press.” She picked up a pencil and placed it in the jar. They watched as the leech wrapped itself around it. As soon as she felt it was securely attached, Mrs. Doyle removed it and with a deft motion applied it to the outer edge of Fenimore's left eye.
“Doesn't it hurt?” Jennifer was horrified.
“Not a bit,” Fenimore said.
“What does it feel like?”
“Like a light pinch,” he said, shrugging.
Fascinated, Jennifer watched Mrs. Doyle draw out the second leech and apply it to the periphery of Fenimore's right eye.
“Now you watch. In no time that vivid purple will turn to a pale lavender and then fade away completely.” The nurse patted her patient's arm.
To pass the time, Jennifer asked, “How are bats useful, Mrs. Doyle?”
“Insects, dear. If it weren't for bats, we'd be overrun with them—gnats, flies, mosquitoes, and the rest. Bats do their work
at night, while we're asleep, so we don't appreciate them. Right, Doctor?”
He nodded. Like his two assailants, he thought bitterly.
The two women looked at him with concern. Slouched in his chair, still in rumpled pajamas, with a leech attached to each eye, he looked very forlorn and un-Fenimore-like.
Horatio, casting a cautious glance at the officer in the corner, left his filing cabinet to come inspect Mrs. Doyle's handiwork. “Whew,” he whistled. “Where'd you get those suckers?” He was the first to wake up to the fact that leeches don't grow on trees. Nor are they available in the average supermarket.
“A little drugstore on the other side of town,” Mrs. Doyle said enigmatically. She wasn't about to give out her trade secrets. If there was a run on leeches, they might not be available the next time she needed them.
Officer Santino coughed discreetly from his corner.
“Oh, Officer, would you like a cup of coffee or tea?” Having finished her work as a cosmetologist, Mrs. Doyle became the gracious hostess.
“That would be nice. Tea, please.”
“I think we could all use a cup,” she said. “Jennifer? Doctor?”
“I'll help,” Jennifer said, heading for the kitchen.
“Make mine java,” Horatio said over his shoulder.
While the women toiled in the kitchen in a very politically incorrect fashion, Fenimore chatted with Officer Santino. “It was my own fault. I opened the door.”
“Why did you?”
“They said they had a message from Rafferty.”
“Um.” Santino shifted on his chair. “After drugs?”
“No. They ransacked the place to make it look like a robbery, but they didn't take anything.”
“A warning?”
Fenimore paused. He would have to tell Rafferty anyway. He nodded.
Conversation lagged until the women came back with the drinks. “It's almost gone!” Jennifer stopped midway as she was handing Fenimore his tea.
“What?”
“The purple. Look, Mrs. Doyle.”
Mrs. Doyle sniffed, unexcited. She passed a pocket mirror to Fenimore.
“Bravo, Doyle. You've done it again,” he crowed. “That stint of yours in the theater has stood you in good stead.”
“Theater?” Things were moving too fast for Jennifer.
“Mrs. Doyle was once a member of Plays and Players,” Fenimore explained.
Horatio came to inspect. “Not bad.” He sent Mrs. Doyle a grudging look of admiration. “They could use you at the rings.”
“Rings?”
“Boxing, Doyle,” Fenimore explained. “Would you like to leave my services and patch up boxers after their fights? The pay's probably much better.”
Mrs. Doyle sniffed again.
“How do you get those suckers off?” Horatio was staring at the leeches.
For the answer, Mrs. Doyle drew the last surprise from her purse—a saltcellar. She sprinkled a little of its contents on each leech. They let go and fell into her palm. She returned them to the glass jar.
“I don't care how you
look,
”Jennifer said fervently. “How do you
feel
?”
“Fine. Right as rain. A-OK.”
She shook her head. “What happens to those?” She nodded at the leeches.
“Oh, they go in the refrigerator,” Fenimore said.
Jennifer suppressed a shudder, envisaging them between the mustard and the ketchup.
“Then back to the store,” Fenimore added.
“You mean they get recycled?”
“Well, I have no more use for them. And,” he lowered his voice, “with Hercules over there, I don't expect to.”
Jennifer shook her head again. “There must be something I can do for you.”
“Not a thing. This book you brought will keep me occupied for hours.” He tapped the cover of
The Lenape,
by Herbert C. Kraft. “It just happens to be a definitive work on the Lenape Indians.”

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