The Doctor Digs a Grave (20 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor Digs a Grave
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WEDNESDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER 9
T
he first call Fenimore made the next morning was to Myra Henderson.
“Doctor, I was just thinking about you. I was wondering if you would care to come to dinner and keep an old lady company. I make a mean martini.”
He laughed, touched that she would ask him. “I remember your martinis, and I'd be delighted another time. But right now I'm up to my neck in the Sweet Grass case.”
“So it is a case.”
“I'm afraid so. I know I can trust you not to mention—”
“Of course.”
“I need some specific information, which I thought you might provide.”
“I'll do my best.”
“You said that at the picnic, you and the other guests grilled your shish kebabs on skewers.”
“Yes, the old-fashioned kind, made from branches and whittled to a point. The Hardwicks were getting back to nature that day, in honor of Sweet Grass, I suppose.”
“Now think carefully,” he said. “Did you choose your skewer from a bundle, or did someone hand it to you?”
She was silent, trying to remember. “We were each handed one.
“Sweet Grass, too?”
“I think so. She was right next to me.”
“Who handed them to you?”
Another silence. “I'm sorry, I was talking to Sweet Grass and wasn't paying attention.”
“Polly, Ned, one of the girls … ?”
“I
am
sorry. I just can't remember.”
“Never mind.” Fenimore sighed. “What about later on? You said Ned was worried that the meat wasn't done enough, because some of it was pork.”
“Yes, that's right. Oh, Doctor, you don't think she died of trichinosis, do you?”
Fenimore coughed. “No.”
He was silent for so long that Mrs. Henderson finally asked, “Are you still there?”
“Yes …” He sounded far away.
“Was I any help?”
“You've been a great help.” He said quickly, “I hope you'll give me a rain check on that dinner invitation.”
“You have a standing invitation, Doctor.”
 
Later that morning, one of Rafferty's personal deputies hand-delivered the autopsy report on Joe Smith. The results were disappointing. Nothing new had been uncovered that would contradict the original cause of death, food poisoning. Fenimore rummaged through his desk for his notes on the homeless man. He found what he was looking for. Joe Smith had been taken to Franklin Hospital, and he too had suffered from MVA, the “Pearly Gates syndrome.” Therefore, a sample of his blood serum must have ended up in Applethorn's lab, and he could
check it out for digoxin glycosides. If some were present, chances were he had been poisoned by the same means and by the same hand as Sweet Grass. But this time, he and Horatio would not have to steal the blood serum. He would have enough evidence to get it by a court order.
WEDNESDAY, AROUND NOON
P
olly Hardwick met Fenimore at the door with a strained expression.
When he had called that morning to invite himself to lunch, she had been eager. But when he had requested that the entire family be present and said he would like to talk to each member individually, she had become uneasy.
“I'll try, Andrew,” she said, “but Bernice is downtown, and I don't know what Ned's schedule is.”
“Do your best,” he urged.
She led him past the small study in which he had learned the secrets of Sweet Grass's diary—the door was closed today—and straight on to the spacious living room. The late morning sun sifted through the gauzy curtains, lending the room an ethereal glow. A bowl of yellow chrysanthemums rested in a pool of light on the piano, and a taller vase of rusty mums decorated the mantel. Access to fresh-cut flowers on a daily basis was one of the few things Fenimore envied the rich.
“The girls are waiting in their rooms. The men are puttering in the garden. I told them I'd call them when you wanted them.
Oh, and Bernice telephoned to say she'd be late. Shall I call Lydia first?”
“Please.”
Lydia entered unhurriedly, dressed in a jade sweater and black pants, her dark hair tied back with a matching jade ribbon. She had a paperback book in one hand. (In case the interview grew too boring?) The cover was turned in, preventing him from seeing the title.
When Polly left them, Fenimore began without preamble. “What did you think of Sweet Grass?”
She shifted in her chair and turned the rings on one finger. “I hardly knew her. I'd met her only a few times, before, before she er …”
“Did you think she was a good choice for Ted?”
She sighed. “I suppose. She was earthy and arty, two attributes he admires. You know the type—torn jeans, wheat germ, and in her case the art thing was weaving.”
“She was quite good at it, I understand.”
“I haven't the foggiest.” She waved a lethargic, meticulously manicured hand. “I never saw any of her work.”
“On the day of the picnic, did you think she looked unwell?”
She frowned. “Now that you mention it, she did look a bit peaked. But I thought she was just worn out from all the wedding preparations. Mother had her jumping through hoops, you know.”
“Did you know that after she left here, she ended up in an emergency room with food poisoning?” Fenimore watched Lydia's reaction to this fabrication of his.
Her eyes widened. “But I thought she died of heart failure, from that childhood disease. Tet … whatever it's called.”
“That was the preliminary diagnosis. Since then we've learned that she took something internally, probably at the picnic, that caused her illness.”
“If that were the case, why didn't the rest of us become ill?” Her face was open, inquiring.
When Fenimore didn't answer, her face suddenly closed into a mask.
“Do you have any ideas?” he asked.
Avoiding his eyes, she said, “I'm sure with all your diagnostic expertise, you'll be able to come up with the answer, Doctor.”
Damn. By moving too fast, he'd lost Lydia.
“If you're finished with me …” She started to rise.
Reluctantly, he nodded. He watched her exit by the French door that opened onto the terrace. To read her paperback in the sun, while waiting for lunch to be served? He wondered fleetingly what it would be like to lead such a life of leisure.
“Next?” Kitty poked her bright head around the door.
“Come in, Kitty. I won't keep you long.”
“Oh, I don't mind. I have nothing to do.” She settled into a chair opposite him and smiled like a happy child waiting for her favorite TV show to begin.
“On the day of the picnic, the one celebrating your brother's engagement, did you notice anything unusual?”
“Well, it was very warm for October.”
“No, I mean about the people.”
She began to chew on her fingernail, “No. They were all Mother and Daddy's friends. That old Mrs. Henderson was complaining about the smoke and having to cook her own food.”
“What about your mother and father. Did they seem themselves?”
“Oh, sure. Daddy was bragging to everybody about his ancestors, and Mother was running around like Chicken Little crying, ‘The sky is falling.'”
“Not really.”
She giggled. “Well, she looked like a big chicken and she seemed upset about something.”
“Did you like Sweet Grass?”
Her smile vanished. “No.”
“Why not?”
“She wouldn't let me be in the wedding.” She stuck out her lower lip. “I know Ted would have let me. And I had such a pretty dress picked out. It was sky blue.” She smiled at the memory of it.
“That's too bad.”
She stood up and stamped her foot. “I hated her.”
“Now, I'm sure you don't mean …”
“But now there isn't going to be any wedding,” she said, a little smile creeping about her lips.
“Does that please you?”
She looked at him. “Oh, yes.” And after a second's pause, she added, “Now we have Ted back again.”
Polly was in the doorway. She must have been hovering nearby and overheard her daughter's outburst.
“Thank you, Kitty,” Fenimore said.
She gave her abbreviated curtsy, brushed by her mother without a glance, and joined Lydia on the terrace.
Polly looked worriedly after her, then back at Fenimore. “What was that all about?”
“Kitty didn't care much for Sweet Grass.”
“That's not surprising. She's crazy about her brother.” She came into the room. “Is it my turn now?”
He nodded.
“Sherry?”
“Yes, thanks.”
Polly went over to a polished wooden lowboy with a marble top and took out two small glasses and a decanter. The glasses, which she filled with gold liquid, were dainty and etched with a delicate vinelike pattern. She brought one to Fenimore.
He accepted it, wishing that his errand could match the glass in delicacy.
She settled into a corner of the sofa and took a sip of sherry.
Despite her size and age, Polly was a striking woman. Today she was wearing a green wool suit and a plaid scarf of matching shades fastened at her neck with a topaz pin. Her hair, once a ruddy blond, was muted now by streaks of gray and arranged in a becoming chignon. She used the minimum of makeup. Her mouth was colored a faint coral.
“How does your Roman garden grow?” he asked. He was determined to take a slower approach this time.
As always, at the mention of her favorite hobby, she brightened. “Everything's coming together. All the plants have been ordered. Some have even arrived. Would you like to see them?”
“Very much.”
She led him to the greenhouse that opened off the living room. When she opened the glass-paneled door, the change in temperature was startling, from comfortable cool to jungle hot. He followed her down the aisle between two walls of thick greenery.
“There's an olive tree.” She pointed to a slender tree with gray-green leaves in a terra-cotta pot. Fenimore recognized a tree he had seen by the hundreds dotting the hillsides near Florence. “And there's the oleander. That came a while ago.”
He bent to examine its long stems and glossy leaves.
“And there's some hibiscus. It's not flowering now, but it will be in time for the show.”
Fenimore's shirt was sticking to his back and his forehead was beading.
“We better get you out of here before you melt away,” she laughed.
Back in the living room, Polly's manner changed. “But surely you didn't come here to discuss my hibiscus, Andrew?”
He shook his head.“' Fraid not.” Fenimore began obliquely. “Do you have any lily of the valley around?”
Puzzled, Polly said slowly, “Not cut, but we have a few beds on the shady side of the house.”
“What about squill?”
“Sea onion.” She nodded. “By the terrace. I have one or two plants.”
“Dogbane?”
“What is this, Andrew? Are you starting a garden? I didn't think you had a green thumb.”
He sighed and put down his sherry, careful to locate a coaster. “I'd like you to think back to the day of the picnic,” he said.
Her brows knit.
“Do you remember how Sweet Grass looked that day?”
“Well, she was wearing—”
“No, I mean her face. Did she look pale or unwell?”
She shook her head. “To be perfectly honest, Andrew, I was so upset that day, she could have been naked and I wouldn't have noticed.”
“Why were you upset?”
“Oh, about the wedding and everything.” She put her glass down. “It's not what you're thinking. The fact that she was a Native American had nothing to do with it. It was her health. I couldn't stand the thought of my only son marrying someone who might not live long enough to raise his children.”
Fenimore blinked. “That's unfair. Many women with her condition live to bring up families.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Well, she did die!”
“Yes, but not from natural causes.”
If he had handed her a rattlesnake, she could not have recoiled more violently.
“Sweet Grass was born with a serious heart defect,” he went on, giving her time to recover her equilibrium, “which was corrected surgically when she was a child. She was on a daily regimen of digoxin to alleviate a minor side effect caused by that surgery. But her life expectancy was almost the same as any woman her age, with or without childbearing.”
“Then what did she die of?”
“Digoxin toxicity—the result of an overdose of the medicine she had been taking for years.”
“Then it
was
suicide?” She was full of hope. The suicide theory had suddenly become vastly preferable to its alternative.
He looked at her carefully. “That might explain the overdose, but not the burial.”
“Her brother,” she said quickly. “He's the only one who knew the Lenape burial customs and the location of that old burial ground. He must have found her dead in her apartment and taken it upon himself to bury her. The Lenapes probably consider suicide a disgrace, and he wanted to cover it up. It wouldn't have occurred to him to notify Ted—or us.”
Fenimore happened to know that the Lenape didn't consider suicide a disgrace. He merely said, “But he denied it.”
Her shrug implied what she thought his word was worth.
“Actually,” Fenimore spoke deliberately, “anyone who can read could find out about those burial customs. There are plenty of books on the Lenni-Lenape in the American Philosophical Society and at the university museum. And as for the burial ground, its location is public knowledge. The deed is registered in the Department of Records at City Hall.”
She was watching him keenly now. “What are you getting at?”
It was Fenimore's turn to shrug.
“Are you implying … ?” She was on her feet.
“I'm not implying anything. I'm trying to find out the truth.”
She towered over him, like an indignant goddess. “The truth? The truth is she was an unhealthy, unhappy girl, who did away with herself.”
Fenimore rose to meet her furious gaze. “On the contrary, she was a healthy, happy young woman looking forward to spending the rest of her life with the man she loved.”
“What's going on?” Ned Hardwick was in the doorway, flushed and muddy from the garden. “I heard voices.”
Fenimore looked at Polly.
She looked away. “Don't come in here with those muddy boots.” She spoke mechanically to her husband.
He glanced at his feet. “I'll be right back.” Turning, he disappeared into the mudroom.
Polly returned to her place on the sofa and stared mutely at the oriental rug. Fenimore remained standing, not wanting to be caught at a disadvantage again, stuck deep in a chair. They kept their silence until Ned returned.
He was wearing a pair of L. L. Bean moccasins, Fenimore noted. They looked brand new and in need of breaking in. Fenimore thought fondly of his own worn slippers, then remembered that one was still missing. Strange, how irrelevant thoughts come to you during moments of stress.

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