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Authors: Robin Hathaway

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The Pirate's House, 1734 (date on dranipipe) was haunted, supposedly. A pirate was supposed to have lived there. He went on a wild sea trip and never returned. At one o'clock in the morning one could plainly hear his chains rattle as he endeavored to climb the cellar stairs.
—
We Women Magazine of Bridgeton, New Jersey,
October 1945
O
ne of the side effects of watching TV with Miss Cunningham, Mrs. Doyle quickly discovered, was listening to her acid comments during the commercial breaks.
During the first break, she began: “I don't know how you can watch this. The outcome is so obvious. A child of three could figure it out.”
At the next break: “All they do is run around and fall down, or drive around and crash into things … .”
And at the third break, with a superior smirk: “Simple minds have simple pleasures … .”
Mrs. Doyle had to bite her tongue to keep from saying, “Nobody asked you to watch it with me!” But remembering her mission, she smiled sweetly instead.
Promptly at eleven o'clock, while the credits were still rolling down the screen, Mrs. Doyle rose to go.
“Oh, don't rush off. Won't you stay for a cup of tea?”
To her surprise, Mrs. Doyle thought the invitation sounded sincere. “Well …” Dr. Fenimore's warning flitted through her mind. After all, Miss Cunningham was the number one suspect in a potential murder plot. Part of a threatening note had been
written in her hand. Yet here she was, about to drink tea brewed by Miss Cunningham and eat cookies baked by Miss Cunningham. Curiosity won out over caution. “Don't mind if I do,” Mrs. Doyle said, and sat down again. Her only regret—that the hot tea wasn't a cold beer.
When they were settled with their cups, Mrs. Doyle said, “This is such a lovely colonial town. It's a wonder more tourists don't come here.”
“Oh, we make every effort to keep them out. We don't want Winston turning into a little Williamsburg.” She wrinkled her nose. “What brings you down here, Mrs. Doyle?”
“My nerves.” She tried, without success, to look nervous. “I've been overworked, and recently I just decided enough was enough. Mrs. Ashley was kind enough to offer me her spare room for a little while.”
“How do you know Mrs. Ashley?”
The question caught Mrs. Doyle off guard. “Uh … through the Colonial Society. I handle some of her secretarial work.” (She must remember to inform Mrs. Ashley of this.)
“So you're a secretary. Don't you find it tedious?”
“Oh, no. When you work for Dr. Fen—” she stopped. She must be tired. She had better leave before she made any more slips.
“So you work for a doctor. That is more interesting. Mrs. Ashley is always running to doctors. One of her medical entourage was down here for her house tour. Then he turned up again for the Strawberry Festival—a Dr. Fenwick or Fosdick—I forget his name. Seemed a bit of a fool to me. The second time he came down, he had a girlfriend in tow. Perfectly nice, but almost half his age … .”
Mrs. Doyle suppressed a smile. “Well, when they're relaxing, even doctors have their foolish moments, I suppose.”
“I feel doctors should retain their dignity at all times,” Miss Cunningham said stiffly.
“Was that the day of the accident?” Mrs. Doyle changed the subject. “Agatha was telling me about poor Susan.”
“Yes. Shocking episode. Susan should never have been diving alone. I don't know what Lydia could have been thinking of.”
“Young people don't always inform their elders about their doings. Maybe Mrs. Ashley didn't know her granddaughter was diving by herself.”
“Well, she knows everything else that goes on in this town. I don't know how she missed that. And Tom Winston—giving her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Disgusting!”
Mrs. Doyle recoiled at this sudden spate of venom. “He did save her life,” she couldn't help saying.
“Hmph.” The sound implied that when the lifesaving technique is so revolting, it might be better to die.
“Were you there when they brought her up from the river?”
“Oh, yes. The Reverend was driving the tractor and Tom was in the back of the cart with her.”
“Could you see her face?” Mrs. Doyle pretended to a ghoulish delight in every detail.
“Yes. When he carried her in, her head flopped over his shoulder and I saw her face. She always has a tan, you know. The outdoor type. But it had turned a ghastly gray. And her wet hair was skinned back tight against her scalp. Her eyes were closed, of course, and sunken. Her head looked like a skull.”
“Mercy.” Mrs. Doyle hung on every word, and clicked her tongue with seeming relish. “How do you suppose it happened? Did you hear?”
“A defective air hose, I understand.”
“Do you think someone might have damaged it on purpose?”
“Oh, no. No question of that.” She was quite positive. “There's no doubt it was an accident. The thing simply wore out.”
“Well, I certainly hope she checks her equipment in the future. But these young people—you never know what they'll be up to next.”
“Yes. It was different in our day. We had to toe the mark. Except for Lydia, of course. She was wild even then. And her granddaughter takes after her.”
“Mrs. Ashley—wild? That's hard to believe.”
“Yes. You wouldn't think it now. She's so
respectable,”
she stressed the word. “But she had a whole slew of boys on her string—and there's only one way you can manage that.”
“How?” This time Mrs. Doyle's curiosity was honest.
“Give them what they want, of course. Mark my words, flies won't come where there's no honey.”
“Do you mean to say, Mrs. Ashley had—er—loose morals?”
Miss Cunningham's laugh was short and nasty. “It paid off too. Edward Ashley was my beau first. But when you come down to it, there's not a man alive who can resist easy virtue.”
Mrs. Doyle shook her head. “Mrs. Ashley. Who would have thought it?”
“Yes. That's everyone's reaction. That's why I don't mention it to many people. But you seemed a down-to-earth sort of person. I didn't think you'd be shocked. And of course there was that year she disappeared to Europe, before she met Edward. We were all sure she was pregnant before she left … .” Miss Cunningham yawned ostentatiously. Like some animals or insects after ejecting their poison, all she wanted to do was crawl back in her hole and rest.
Mrs. Doyle took the hint. “Well, I must be going. Thank you again. I certainly enjoyed the program—and the tea.” (She was feeling no ill effects so far.)
“You don't mind walking home alone this time of night?” she asked.
“Oh, no. I would think twice in the city. But here I feel perfectly safe.”
“Well, be careful when you pass the pirate house,” she said maliciously. “It's two doors down from me, and on moonlit nights, the ghost has been known to rattle its chains.” Miss Cunningham
snapped off the porch light before Mrs. Doyle was halfway down the steps. Thoughtfulness was not her strong point.
Mrs. Doyle walked along the quiet main street. The large shade trees in full June leaf blocked the light of the moon and stars. As she passed the pirate house the only sounds she heard were the crickets in the field beyond and her own footsteps.
I
t was Sunday and Greg's day to mind the store. Jennifer was spending a lazy afternoon catching up on overdue correspondence and dirty laundry. Once again, she had failed to lure Fenimore to south Jersey on a treasure hunt.
“But—I'm behind on my journals. I have to keep up.” He squelched her plan with yet another “but.”
She scanned her bookcase for something to read while waiting for her laundry to dry. She passed quickly over Faulkner, Conrad, and Hardy. Too heavy. She was in a lazy mood and wanted something light—like a mystery.
For Kicks
by Dick Francis? She'd read it too recently.
Strong Poison
by Dorothy Sayers? Maybe.
Death of a Ghost
by Margery Allingham?
Her eyes swept back to that spine and stuck.
Gangs in one form or another have been around for hundreds of years. Pirates were probably some of the original bad gangs … .
—Steve Nawojczyk,
Street Gang Dynamics
R
eturning from hospital rounds that same day, Fenimore ran into Rafferty on Walnut Street.
“Where you been keeping yourself?” the detective asked.
“Working,” Fenimore said. “I sent Mrs. Doyle down to south Jersey to keep an eye on that patient of mine. Now I have double duty.”
He nodded. “Any new developments?”
Fenimore told him about the brick.
Rafferty said he'd take a look at the note and warned him to be careful. Then, abruptly, he drew Fenimore into an empty bus shelter—a glass L-shaped enclosure on the corner. “This gang thing is getting me down. There were two more stabbings this week. And the victims won't help us. They're scared shitless … .”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, these guys are vicious. They threaten to maim or kill—not just the victims, but members of their families as well, if they squeal. When we question them, we run into a wall of silence.”
Fenimore took note of his friend's worn face and bloodshot eyes. “Come on, Raff. You need a drink.”
They found a tavern nearby and consoled each other over a few beers.
T
hat same Saturday, Mrs. Doyle rose early. It was bright and clear. A perfect day for birding. After packing away Agatha's farmhand breakfast, she decided to set out across the fields for that distant house she had spied from her window the day she arrived.
She was careful to walk at a pace consistent with bird-watching, pausing often to consult her bird book and to scan the sky with her binoculars. She kept the house in her line of vision to avoid getting off course. When she was midway between the Ashley farmhouse and her destination, she was overwhelmed by the utter loneliness of the place. And the silence. It was so different from the city, where you couldn't walk two paces without bumping into someone and there was the constant background noise of horns, sirens, and backfires. Here there was nothing to block the horizon but a single lonely tree, and no noise other than the low buzz of insects or the occasional cry of a bird. To a veteran city dweller, it was unnerving. The best thing to do, she decided, was not to think about it. She plodded on.
After about a half-hour, she found herself a few yards from the mysterious house. Up close on a bright day, it looked much less
mysterious than from a distance at dusk with a fine mist rising. It was smaller than the farmhouse. Not really a house at all. A cottage. She circled it and found that the far side, the side that faced the river, was decorated with an intricate design. The initials “R & A” and the date “1734” were framed by vine-like coils. It reminded Mrs. Doyle of a sampler her grandmother had stitched as a child. But instead of blue yarn, this design was worked in blue brick. Dr. Fenimore would go wild, she thought. But the cottage had fallen into disrepair. The brick that formed the left foot of the letter “A” had dropped out, leaving one leg shorter than the other, giving it a lopsided appearance. The windows and door were securely boarded up. They returned her curious stare with a blank look. All efforts on her part to find a way in—short of wielding an ax—proved futile. There were no doorknobs, no keyholes, no visible hinges or locks.
A light breeze caused the tall grasses near the river to sway, bringing the salty, faintly rotten smell of brackish water. Moving away from the cottage, she examined the wharf. Slowly deteriorating, the wooden planks on the creosote pilings had ragged gaps. She peered through one of the holes at the murky water sliding underneath. An iron ring was embedded in one of the pilings—a mooring for the occasional fisherman and his boat.
Mrs. Doyle circled the cottage once more, scanning the ground. For what? She had no idea. She found a couple of beer cans, some cigarette butts, and half a melon rind—covered with flies. Any one of which could have been left by a careless fisherman. A ladder lay on the ground, cast there by whoever had boarded up the windows, she decided. But it was lying under the wall with no windows—the one with the beautiful brick design. She took a last look around before starting back.
Zing!
The bullet hit the corner of the cottage—about a yard from her head—and ricocheted into the field.
Mrs. Doyle had not run for anything but an occasional bus for over twenty years. She was amazed at her speed and litheness. She fairly floated over the rough terrain at a speed that would have
impressed the most fanatical fitness instructor. It took her only ten minutes to cover the same ground that she had previously covered in thirty. Surely she was a candidate for
The Guinness Book of World Records.
When she reached the barnyard, she was puffing and had a searing pain in her left side. She had to sit down on the nearest thing—a wooden bucket that was conveniently overturned. Mr. Jenks came around the corner of the barn. Although they had had dinner together every night since she had arrived, they had hardly exchanged a word. Agatha had done all the talking. Now he came over to her.
“That was some dash, Mrs. Doyle.” He chewed thoughtfully on a piece of straw. “Didn't know you went in for joggin'.”
Mrs. Doyle's laugh bordered on the hysterical. “Oh, every now and then I like to stretch my legs,” she said. “The sight of so much open space inspired me after being cooped up so long in the city.”
“I can see that.” He nodded and switched the straw to the other side of his mouth. “You're a bird-watcher, I see.”
“Yes.” She patted the binoculars hanging from her neck and winced at the bruise beneath where the glasses had bounced against her chest during her flight. “Fascinating creatures,” she went on. “I was looking for a special kind of kingfisher … .” She paused and drew a painful breath. “A ‘halcyon,' I think it's called. It's supposed ‘to frequent marshy places.'” Like a schoolgirl, she quoted her textbook.
“Lots of kingfishers down by the river,” he said. “They're flashy fellas. I like the more useful martin myself. They feed on mosquitoes. I build houses for them because they do us such a service.”
“You don't say.” Was she really sitting on a bucket discussing birds and bugs after such a close brush with death?
“Yep,” Jenks elaborated. “The average martin eats over a thousand mosquitoes a day. See that house up there.” He pointed to a pole that rose fifteen feet in the air. Perched on top was a birdhouse resembling a dollhouse. But instead of one entrance, it had about twenty little doorways to allow the birds to fly in and out. “I made that,” he said. “I've made about a hundred of them over
the years. I get the kids to sell ‘em at their roadside stands. Give 'em a bit of a commission.” He talked about his small enterprise as proudly as any Wall Street businessman might talk about his. “I'm workin' on one now. Like to see it?”
“Yes, indeed.” Mrs. Doyle cautiously got to her feet. She had recovered from the immediate effect of her run, but she knew that tomorrow she would feel the aftereffects in her joints. “Tell me, Mr. Jenks, are there many hunters in these parts?”
“Hunters? Oh sure. They come for the deer in the fall. And then there are the muskrats. Mrs. Ashley lets 'em hunt muskrat on her property when they're in season. There's a big muskrat dinner down at the firehouse every year. People come from all over.”
“Ah, that explains it,” Mrs. Doyle said. “But they ought to learn how to aim.”
“Aim?” He looked puzzled.
“One of your muskrat hunters just missed me out there in the field. That's why you saw me trying to break the record for the hundred yard dash just now.”
Mr. Jenks stared at her. “You don't shoot muskrat, ma‘am,” he explained carefully. “You trap 'em. Anyway, muskrat season don't begin until October.” Then he added, “This is June,” in case the immensity of her ignorance extended to what month it was. “Besides,” he went on, “ever since Mr. Ashley was shot in that hunting accident, Mrs. Ashley hasn't let a hunter set foot on her property.”
“Oh.” Slowly the enormity of Jenks's words sank in, and even though it was June, Mrs. Doyle shivered. Delayed shock, she diagnosed. Shakily, she started for the house.
“What about my birdhouse?” he called after her.
“Later,” she muttered between chattering teeth.
When she reached the house, she found Agatha in the kitchen. “May I have some brandy?” she asked. “Had a bit of a spell. Must be the heat,” she explained.
Agatha was very solicitous. She settled Mrs. Doyle in a chair
and rushed for the brandy. The spirits did the trick. In a few minutes she was feeling better. She decided to query Agatha about the brick cottage.
“Oh, I don't go down there,” she said in a hushed tone.
“Why not?”
“It's haunted.”
“Poppycock.”
“No, really. Mr. Ashley's great uncle lived there. Nathan Ashley. A queer old fellow. The black sheep of the family. When he was dying …” Agatha's voice dropped another notch. It was Mrs. Doyle's turn to learn about the black dog. “And ever since, on moonless nights, when people pass by there, they say they can hear that dog howling. Of course, it might be the owls nesting in the eaves … .”
“What are you two up to?” Mrs. Ashley came in the kitchen.
“I was just telling Mrs. Doyle about the black dog.”
Expecting her hostess to greet this news with a laugh, Mrs. Doyle was astonished to see her turn pale and fall silent. “We don't want to frighten our houseguest, Agatha,” she said finally. “What are we having for dinner?”
“Chicken pot pie.”
“One of my favorites.” Her color returned.
During dinner, Mrs. Doyle tried to think of an excuse for asking Mrs. Ashley to drive her into town. She wanted to call Dr. Fenimore and tell him about her harrowing experience. But she didn't want to confide in her hostess. It would alarm her and might even be injurious to her health. She could hardly concentrate on Agatha's stream of chatter. She kept hearing the
zing
of that bullet, and seeing the little puff of brick dust rising so close to her head. Gradually some of Agatha's words filtered through.
“ … and Mrs. Ashley thought it would be a wonderful way for you to meet all the neighbors, and vice versa.”
Mrs. Doyle looked up from her plate. “What would?”
“The party!” Agatha beamed. “You haven't been listening. Mrs. Ashley has invited half of Winston over to meet you next Saturday.”
“Oh, no.” Mrs. Doyle intended to be miles away from Winston by Saturday.
“Amory Barnes is coming down for the weekend. And Peter Jordan, Miss Susan's boyfriend, will be here … and Tom Winston. She had the devil of a time getting him to come; he hates parties. And the Reverend. She's even asked Miss Cunningham because she knows you and she are such good friends.” Agatha smiled wickedly. “I'm going to make a special dessert from the colonial cookbook, and serve punch as well as tea … .”
“Wait a minute.” Mrs. Doyle raised her hand to stop the flow. “I may not even be here next Saturday.”
“Not be here?” Agatha's face fell. “Oh, Mrs. Ashley will be so disappointed. She's been planning this party all day, and I'm sure she's asked half the people by now.”
“Well, my employer may need me back at the office … .”
“Surely you can stay a few more days. Just till Saturday.”
“Well …” Mrs. Doyle felt her resolve weakening.
“Listen to this dessert recipe.” Hoping to whet Mrs. Doyle's appetite and convince her to stay, she read from the old cookbook: “Half a pound of sweet almonds; six eggs; four ounces of thick cream; one half cup of raisins …”
As Agatha read, Mrs. Doyle reconsidered. It would be a good opportunity to observe Mrs. Ashley's neighbors. Some of them she hadn't even met, such as the Reverend Osborne and that Amory fellow. And what could happen to her here in the house, surrounded by all these people? But she wouldn't take anymore bird walks. “All right,” she heard herself say.
“Oh, Mrs. Doyle!” Agatha clapped the book shut, sending up a shower of dust. She came around the kitchen table and grabbed both her hands. “I'm so glad.”
Agatha is a good soul, thought Mrs. Doyle, unconsciously
crossing her off her suspect list. “Well, I'll be off to bed.” She yawned. “I've had a busy day.”
As she prepared for bed, Mrs. Doyle thought over the day's events. Despite the tale of the black dog, she was convinced her experience at the “haunted” cottage had nothing to do with the supernatural. That bullet and its perpetrator belonged to the very real world. She decided to keep her future bird-watching rambles closer to home—at least until she had talked to Dr. Fenimore. Tomorrow she would think of an excuse to ask Mrs. Ashley to drive her to town.
W
hile Mrs. Doyle slept, Fenimore laboriously tried to catch up on his back issues of
JAMA
. The telephone rang. Not a house call, he hoped. He would never refuse to make one, but he had just gotten settled. “Hello?”
“Doc …” Very faint.
“Rat?”
“I'm hurt bad … .”
Fenimore shot out of his chair, dumping Sal from his lap. “Where are you?”
“Ninth and Catherine … .”
“What … ?”
“Can you make it to the hospital?”
Barely audible, “I dunno … .”
“Get going. I'll meet you in the ER.” He grabbed his briefcase.
“Did a kid just come in here?”
The ER receptionist looked up from her magazine.
“Dark hair, dark skin, brown eyes.” He tried to jog her memory. “Horatio. Horatio Lopez.”
“Oh, yes. They took him to the OR.”
Bad news. If it had been minor they would have treated him in the ER.
“If you're family,” the receptionist said, “could you give me his insurance …?”
Fenimore dove into the bowels of the hospital and found the staff elevator. Inside, he punched the button for the ninth floor. As it crawled upward, he repeated prayers from childhood he thought he had long forgotten.
Stepping into the hall, he hailed a nurse in green scrubs who was passing through. “Polly!”
She turned.
“Who's on tonight?” He nodded at the operating room.
“Martinez.” She eyed him keenly. “What's up?”
“Friend of mine.”
“That kid?”
“He works for me.”
“I'll keep you posted.”
“Thanks. You can find me on the eighth.”
He took the fire stairs to the eighth floor where there was a small waiting room. He could have scrubbed up and gone into the OR, but Martinez was one of the best surgeons on the staff. Fenimore would only be in the way. He slumped into a shabby vinyl chair and began leafing through a battered
Sports Illustrated,
not seeing it.
He glanced at his watch. 9:35. How did it happen? He was a careful kid. Streetwise. He didn't belong to a gang. His mother kept a good watch on him—and his associates. A no-nonsense mom, she watched over her kids like a hawk. What about
her?
Should he call Mrs. Lopez? He decided to wait until he had more news.
What the hell had the kid done? Committed the cardinal sin of walking to the corner store? He threw the magazine down and went to the window. Lousy view. If he craned his neck he could just make out the first two letters of the PSFS sign glowing red
against the night sky. The Philadelphia Savings Fund Society had been long gone, but the sign continued to glow—a landmark almost as sacrosanct as the Liberty Bell.
9:40. Had time stopped?
What if he didn't make it?
Maybe he should call his mother. But the family had no phone. The only number Fenimore had for Horatio was at a deli a few blocks away. The owner would have to send somebody over to tell her. And what if they garbled the message and alarmed her more than … He had been about to say “necessary.” How did he know how necessary that alarm would be?
“Doctor?”
“That kid was born under a lucky star. Missed the heart and all the major blood vessels. They're moving right along. Should be closing up soon.”
He sank back into his chair.
“How did it happen?”
He shook his head, feeling his stomach slowly unclench. The nurse reached over and gave his hand a quick squeeze. “I have to contact his mother,” he said. “But she doesn't have a phone. I didn't want to alarm her
unnecessarily,”
he spoke the word with relish.
“Hard to believe someone doesn't have a phone these days, with all the kids jabbering away on their cellulars.”
Fenimore nodded, making a note to buy Horatio a cellular tomorrow. He'd tell him he must have one so he could reach him in emergencies. Would he believe that? Would his mother? Mrs. Lopez was a proud woman. “Thanks, Polly.” He stood up.
“You sure you're OK?” She observed him closely. “You look like shit.”
Fenimore grinned. “I've just experienced what my patients go through all the time. It was a good lesson.” He picked up the battered
Sports Illustrated
from where he had thrown it. “They should get some new magazines.”
When he reached the ninth floor, the twin doors to the OR swung open. An orderly wheeled a gurney out. It passed quickly, IV swinging. Two surgeons followed close behind, removing their masks. One said something. The other laughed and punched his arm. Release of tension. Martinez stopped short when he saw Fenimore.
“How'd it go?” asked Fenimore.
“Another gang victim.” The surgeon shrugged.
“He's a friend of mine.”
Martinez's eyebrows rose. “When he came in he was hemo-dynamically unstable, but he's healthy. He'll be fine.” He took Fenimore's arm. “Let's go see him.”
“He's a good kid,” Fenimore said. “I don't know how he got mixed up in this.”
“Initiations,” Martinez said, tonelessly. “We see a lot of them this time of year.”
“What do they do?”
“To become a member of some gangs, you have to stab somebody. Nothing personal.”
Fenimore heard the bitterness in his voice and glanced at him sharply. Did Martinez know about these things firsthand?
“I'm glad you're here,” the surgeon said. “You can contact his next of kin.”
Fenimore nodded. “I'm going to see his mother.”
They entered the recovery room, the surgeon leading the way. A nurse was adjusting Horatio's IV, another was checking his EKG on the monitor. Fenimore picked up the chart at the end of the cot and flipped through it. No complications. A simple stab wound in the back. An inch to the right or left and the knife would have connected with his heart or a major blood vessel, and the kid would have been …
“Everything in order?” Martinez spoke to the nurses.
“His vital signs are good,” said the one with her eyes glued to the monitor.
Taking the chart from Fenimore, the surgeon made a notation.
“Call me at home if anything comes up,” he told the same nurse. “I'll look in first thing in the morning.”
She nodded.
In the hall, Fenimore said again, “Thanks.”
“Check in with me in the morning,” Martinez said.
They parted, the surgeon for home, Fenimore to see Mrs. Lopez and tell her about her son. He must hurry; he wanted to get back before Horatio woke up.

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