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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor Digs a Grave
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FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 4
“
G
ood morning, Mr. Liska.”
The gaunt man in the bed turned to look at Fenimore.
“How are you feeling?” Fenimore drew up a chair to the side of the bed and began taking his patient's pulse. It was rapid and his color was bad. “Is anything wrong?”
“They're going to catheterize me,” the man whispered.
“What?”
“They were in this morning. Four doctors—all in white. They said it was the only thing to do. They've got me down for Monday morning at ten o'clock.”
Fenimore went to the end of his bed and looked at the chart. There it was: “Catheterization. 11–7, 10:00 A.M.”
“I don't want it, Doctor.” His voice was high and peevish. “I'm eighty-six years old. I've lived my life. Why won't they let me be?”
“Don't worry.” Fenimore came back to the bedside and patted his hand. “I'll take care of it.” He completed his examination of Mr. Liska and hurried out.
“Larry?” He was calling from a pay phone in the lobby. The
hospital phones were too open and public for this type of private conversation. “Liska's going to be cathed Monday … . Yeah … Four of them ambushed him this morning. Bullied him to agree. We have to act fast. Meet me in the doctors' lounge. No, make it the coffee shop around the corner—less conspicuous—in ten minutes.” As he left the hospital, Fenimore's mouth was set in a grim line. It was still a free country, by God. And if someone wanted to die in peace … Besides, there was a good chance Mr. Liska would be around longer without the cath.
 
Larry added some cream to his coffee and stirred. “It was all settled. He was going home tomorrow. His niece was coming for him.”
“Well, it's all
un
settled,” Fenimore said.
“They gave it one last try.” Larry emptied half his cup in one gulp.
“Niece, you said?”
He nodded.
“You've met her?”
“Yes. She's in and out. Seems attached to the old boy—and it must be for real, 'cause he hasn't got a dime.”
“What's her name?”
Larry concentrated. “Martinelli … Florence.”
Fenimore jumped up, snapping his fingers.
“What the hell?” Larry stared at him.
“Do you have her number?”
“Whose?”
“Florence's?”
“She's over sixty years old, for God's sake.”
“I'll see you later.”
“So you don't need my valuable services after all?” Larry looked crushed.
“Sorry. Did I drag you away from something critical?”
“Yeah. A patient chewing me out for prescribing a drug that saved her life but gave her mild indigestion.”
“Then you owe
me
one,” said Fenimore.
“Who's your friend?” Larry whispered, catching sight of Officer Santino rising from a nearby table to join them.
Fenimore blushed. “Oh, a poor relation in need of a job.”
It took Fenimore a while to reach the niece. After playing phone tag for a few hours, he finally caught up with her and explained the situation. Larry had been right. She
was
fond of her uncle and more than happy to cooperate.
“This is what I want you to do … .” Fenimore outlined his plan.
She followed his instructions.
A few minutes later, the phone rang in the offices of Aggressive Cardiology, Inc., Thomas, Gilbert, Morris, and Lazarus. After reciting the names of the doctors, the receptionist asked whom the caller wished to speak to. Florence picked the first name on the list.
“Dr. Thomas is performing an angioplasty right now.”
“Then Dr. Gilbert?”
“She's on vacation.”
“Morris?”
“It's his golf day.”
“What about Lazarus?”
“I'll connect you.”
There was a long pause while they raised Lazarus. When he came on the phone, his voice was brusk and businesslike. “How may I help you?”
Florence had barely begun when Dr. Lazarus jerked the receiver away from his ear as if it were hot or contaminated. He spoke abruptly into the mouthpiece. “Of course. We'll take care of it. We'll cancel the procedure immediately.”
When Fenimore reported this news to Larry, Larry asked, “What did she say to him?”
“She said, ‘Lay off my uncle or I'll see you in court.'”
“But that's just an empty threat. She couldn't back it up.”
“Oh, I forgot to mention, she prefaced her remark by telling him where she was employed.”
“Where?”
“The district attorney's office.” Fenimore grinned. “Florence Martinelli is one of our assistant DAs.”
“How the hell did you know that?”
“I read the papers, my dear boy, instead of watching television. It pays to keep abreast of politics, outside the hospital as well as in!”
 
It was noon when Fenimore finally got back to his office. He headed straight for the kitchen and returned with a sandwich, a slice of bologna slapped between two pieces of rye bread, slathered with mustard, which he proceeded to wash down with a Coke.
“How can you swallow that stuff and call yourself a doctor?” Mrs. Doyle shook her head and began her own tidy, balanced meal: pasta salad, yogurt, and a peach. Later she would make herself a cup of tea.
“Tastes differ, Doyle.”
She pricked up her ears. “Doyle?” Was she back in his good graces? Maybe he had forgiven her for the spat with his new protégé over that slipper. Perhaps it was her cosmetic treatment. Dare she venture to ask him about the case? Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Doyle was a great one for homilies. “Anything new on that Indian girl?”
Still exhilarated from his morning's success with Mr. Liska, Fenimore was brought down to earth with a jolt. The Sweet Grass case had reached a stalemate.
“Do you suspect foul play?” Mrs. Doyle liked to dramatize things, the result of a steady diet of romance novels and TV
daytime drama. (She taped her favorite soaps during the day and watched them when she got home at night.)
“Perhaps.” Fenimore was preparing a pipe for his afternoon smoke.
She brightened.
Between puffs, he told her about the ER report and his interview with Applethorn. He watched her digest this information. From experience, he expected her to come up with some useful suggestions. If not now, at some future date. When he had finished, Mrs. Doyle went back to her typing and Fenimore opened the
Textbook of Cardiology.
Leafing through the index of this formidable tome (it weighed close to ten pounds), he came to “Digitalis Intoxication, 1024.” He turned to that page.
“Although digitalis is one of the cornerstones of the treatment for heart failure, it is a two-edged sword … .” He continued to read to the end of the article, the gist of which was it is easy to upset the balance of digitalis in a patient. A few milligrams in excess can cause irregularities of the heartbeat—arrhythmias, fibrillation, syncope, and ultimately death. He knew all this but wanted to make sure that no new knowledge had been added during the past year that he had missed in the journals. He reached for the phone and dialed. “Raff?”
“I thought things were too quiet.”
He told him of his findings in the ER report—Sweet Grass's death was probably caused by digitalis toxicity—and of his subsequent visit to Applethorn.
“Could she have accidentally taken an overdose?” Rafferty asked.
“Not likely. She'd been taking dig for years.”
“On purpose, then?”
“Sure. And buried herself, Lenape style, afterward.”
“She could have killed herself and left instructions for her brother to bury her.”
“Then why would she go to the ER to be cured?”
“She might have had second thoughts after taking the overdose. What have I done … ?” Rafferty enjoyed playing the devil's advocate, especially with Fenimore.
Fenimore pondered this. “It's a possibility. But I've read her diary and she didn't strike me as the suicidal type. She was the kind of person who dealt directly with a problem. Attacked it head on. If she thought her marriage couldn't weather Ted's family, she would've broken it off and gone on. Not done away with herself.”
“Is this opinion based on your seasoned experience in matters of the heart?”
Fenimore winced.
“Well, I hate to admit it,” Rafferty admitted, “but some evidence has come in that supports your theory. When we searched Sweet Grass's apartment, we found the bottle of her most recently acquired supply of digoxin tablets.”
“And?”
“There were a lot left. I'd say she hadn't taken more than she was supposed to.”
“There's only one other possibility, then,” Fenimore said.
“Right. Shall we review the suspects?” the homicide detective was eager to get down to the business of murder.
Fenimore obliged. “Her brother strongly disapproved of the marriage, and he would be the logical one to bury her in the traditional Lenape manner. He also is the only one who would benefit financially from her death—by the life insurance. On the other hand, the burial could have been arranged by someone else, to throw suspicion on Roaring Wings.” Fenimore paused, thinking. “Then there are the Hardwicks. None of the family wholeheartedly supported the marriage. They were all against it for one reason or another. Even her roommate, Doris Bentley, wasn't totally enthusiastic.”
“There are easier ways to prevent a marriage than by killing one of the partners-to-be,” Rafferty put in.
“True,” Fenimore said, “but I think they had all been tried—and failed.”
“Who's your favorite suspect?” prodded Rafferty.
“I'd rather not say.”
“Don't be coy.”
“Seriously, it's just a hunch.”
“Her brother? The groom's mother, father, sisters? Her roommate? Take your pick. More than one, if you like. But it would help to whittle the gang down a bit.”
“Sorry, Raff.”
A sigh, reminiscent of the steam engine, puffed down the wire. “Okay. You've helped us—coming up with the cause of death. But we need to see that ER report. You can probably get it faster than we can.”
Rafferty was under the misapprehension that the medical community was one big friendly family in which all knowledge was joyfully shared. The days of getting a patient's report without a legal hassle were over. “I'll give it a try,” Fenimore said. But he thought, What I'd really like to get hold of is Sweet Grass's blood serum sample, but I can't see Rafferty getting me a court order for that.
“By the way,” Rafferty said suddenly, “you never submitted a report on that break-in the other night.”
“I don't want to make an official complaint.”
“Off the record, then. What did they want?”
“Two hoods were sent to rough me up as a warning. Their parting words were, ‘Lay off the Lenape.'”
“Huh.”
 
When Horatio arrived that afternoon, he was in good spirits. A truce seemed to have been reached between Fenimore's employees.
The boy and the nurse spoke civilly to each other and went about their business. For this, Fenimore was extremely grateful. It had been hard for him to believe that Mrs. Doyle had turned into a bigoted monster overnight or that Horatio had maliciously copped one of his favorite slippers. The real cause of their peculiar behavior had dawned on him gradually: simple jealousy. His two staff members were jealous of his attentions. He supposed he should be flattered, but he would have preferred that they be indifferent to him and have a more harmonious office. He was grateful that today, at least, there was an armistice. Afraid of reigniting the contest, he waited until Mrs. Doyle disappeared to the lavatory before approaching Horatio with his proposal.
“Are you free tonight?”
The boy looked up from the file drawer.
“Could you meet me in the parking lot behind Franklin Hospital after dark?”
His eyes widened, but he nodded.
“Do you know anything about locks?”
He gave a slow grin.
“Fine. Bring the necessary tools.”

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