The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest (15 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest
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“
H
i, Doc!” Horatio glanced up from the comic book he was reading. He had been in the hospital only two days and, except for a slightly paler complexion, he looked almost the same as before the attack.
“How're you feeling?” Fenimore came over to the bed.
“Good.”
“The wound give you much pain?”
He shook his head. “When can I blow this dump?”
Fenimore smiled. “Don't worry, they won't keep you a minute longer than they have to.”
“How's the office? Does Sal miss me?”
“Now that you mention it. She's been off her feed and she hangs around your chair all the time, sleeping either on it or under it.”
“No kidding.” He grinned.
“He's in there.” They heard the nurse's aide speaking to someone in the corridor.
A man in street clothes appeared in the doorway. “Horatio Lopez?”
Horatio stared.
“Detective Bryant, Philadelphia Police, Detective Division.” He flipped open his wallet, displaying his ID.
“Do you feel up to talking, Rat?” Fenimore intervened.
Horatio remained mute, his eyes fixed on the plainclothesman.
“I'd like to stay,” Fenimore said.
The detective made no comment. He drew a chair up to the side of the bed and sat down. “Now tell me what happened.” He pulled out a notebook and ballpoint. “Everything you can remember.”
To Fenimore's astonishment, the boy clamped his mouth shut and adopted a mulish expression.
“What time were you attacked?”
No answer.
“Mr. Lopez, if you refuse to cooperate, we can't find the people who tried to kill you.”
Horatio looked away, out the window.
“We think your attackers were gang members. Do you have any idea which gang they belonged to?”
He remained silent, his eyes riveted to the brick wall outside the window.
“Rat—he's trying to help you,” Fenimore put in.
“Look, kid, we know you're afraid, but we can't stop these attacks unless the victims give us a hand.”
No response.
The detective shut his notebook and stood up. “You're a disappointment. You could prevent someone else from getting hurt—or worse.” He paused at the door. “Think about that.”
After he left, Fenimore broke the silence. “I know you're scared, Rat, but …” he let the sentence hang.
When Horatio finally spoke, Fenimore had to strain to hear him.
“They said they'd kill my mom.”
“I'm not surprised.” Rafferty spoke to Fenimore over the mound of paper on his desk. “Threat of retaliation is their biggest
weapon.” He looked more exhausted than when Fenimore had last seen him. “We have to find other ways. You better get the kid out of town for a while.”
“Have you made any progress?” Fenimore asked.
He shook his head. “We're working day and night. But they're clever. They hide behind their organization. You can't arrest two hundred teenagers. The best you can do is haul in one or two of the leaders. But you can't touch them. All you can do is try to make them talk through intimidation. But it's a lost cause. Their fear of us can't begin to compare with their fear of their peers. They'd rather die than be ‘dissed.'”
“Where should I send Horatio?”
“As far away as possible. The shore, the Poconos. Does he have any out-of-town relatives?”
“I don't know.”
“Find out. He should leave as soon as he's released from the hospital.”
“What about his mother?”
“She'll be all right, as long as her son keeps his mouth shut.”
Fenimore rose, shaking his head.
“Not like our day—slingshots and BB guns—huh, Doc?” He returned to his mound of paperwork.
M
rs. Doyle was up early. As soon as Mrs. Ashley came downstairs, she said quickly, “Could you drive me to town? I have an errand.”
“Certainly. I need some supplies for the party. I was going in anyway. Agatha's told you about the party?”
“Oh, yes. It sounds lovely. It will give me a chance to meet everyone.”
“That's what I thought.” She gave Mrs. Doyle a conspiratorial wink. It alarmed Mrs. Doyle that Mrs. Ashley still treated this deadly affair like a game. “Have you had breakfast?”
“No,” said Doyle. “I wasn't hungry.”
“Well, we can grab a bite at the diner. Come on.” And off they went at a clip. Mrs. Doyle hardly noticed Mrs. Ashley's erratic driving, her mind entirely fixed on what she was going to tell Dr. Fenimore.
Her coins rattled down the phone's interior. Two rings and the doctor's voice: “Dr. Fenimore speaking.”
“Doctor—”
“Hello, Doyle. I was hoping you'd call. There've been a couple of new developments.”
“Oh?”
“First, Jennifer solved the problem of the threatening note—the one that fell out of the fish pond prize.”
“How?”
“
Death of a Ghost
is the title of a 1930s mystery by Margery Allingham. This reinforces Rafferty's theory that the title was torn from a list and doctored up. The owner of that list is probably a mystery fan and also one of our prime suspects.” He paused. “Now, all you have to do is find out which one of Mrs. Ashley's friends or acquaintances is a mystery buff—and in particular an Allingham fan. Then we'll know who asked Miss Cunningham to compile that list and who crossed off ‘Ghost' and substituted ‘Doctor' above it. We don't want to ask Miss Cunningham directly because then she would know she's under suspicion.”
“All right, Doctor.” But Mrs. Doyle was dubious. Mystery buffs, in her experience, were usually retiring folk who liked their adventures safely anchored to the page. They didn't often take part in them. But she said, “I'll have the perfect opportunity to check out the reading habits of Mrs. Ashley's friends this Saturday.” She told him about the tea party.
“Great. Go for it, Doyle. Incidentally, did you know that there was a tea party in Winston, right before the revolution, just like the one in Boston but on a smaller scale?”
“No, but let me tell you what happened—”
But once the doctor was launched on an historical anecdote, there was no stopping him. “One night the town fathers gathered in secret and they dressed up like Native Americans, broke into the cellar where the tea was being stored, dragged it to the town square and burned it. From that day on the people of Winston refused to drink any tea from Britain.”
“No wonder they drink so blasted much of it now,” Mrs. Doyle said bitterly. “They're making up for all those years of abstinence.”
“Oh, they didn't abstain. They just didn't import it legally. They smuggled it in from other countries. Not just tea, but sugar
and silks and brandy, and … keep your eye out for a tunnel while you're down there, Doyle. Phoebe Winston mentions one in her diary.”
“Now—about yesterday,” Mrs. Doyle spoke desperately.
“There's one more thing, Doyle … .” Fenimore told her about Horatio.
“Oh, Doctor. Is he all right?” Her own fears were forgotten in her concern for the boy.
He assured her he was. “Now it's your turn, Doyle. Shoot.”
“That's just what they did.”
“Eh?”
In a few sentences, she described her narrow escape.
When she had finished, he told her exactly what to do. “You get right back up here and bring that Ashley twosome with you!”
“But, Doctor …”
“No ‘buts.' That's an order. Or I'm coming down and getting all three of you.”
“But …”
“Doyle!”
She had never heard him so threatening. She plunged ahead anyway. “What about the tea party Saturday? All the neighbors gathered together under one roof. It's a golden opportunity to watch and listen and maybe solve this whole ‘little mental exercise.'” Her tone was heavy with sarcasm. “Such an opportunity may never come again.” She was surprised at her own enthusiasm.
There was silence on the other end of the line. For a minute she wondered if they'd been disconnected. A heavy sigh dispelled that idea. It was followed by a clearing of the throat—a delaying action she had often heard him use when talking to a patient. It gave him time to think. Finally, he said, “Under one condition …”
Her heart beat faster.
“I come down and supervise.”
“Oh, no,” she groaned. “That would ruin everything. The villain will never show his hand with you skulking around.” Poor choice of words. She bit her tongue.
“I … never … skulk.” He spoke deliberately.
“But it's such a wonderful chance—having them here all together,” she hurried on. “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. And if you come down, the guilty party may fly the coop.”
“Doyle, I think this bird-watching is having some side effects.”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind.” He was silent again. Suddenly he spoke up. “I have a better idea.”
“What's that?” she asked cautiously.
“I'll send Horatio down.”
Mrs. Doyle gasped.
“He's a smart kid and a good bodyguard. He saved my life once, remember?”
Grudgingly, Mrs. Doyle did remember. Once someone had tried to poison the doctor and Horatio had come up with the antidote in the nick of time. “But it will take time for him to recover, won't it?”
“Not much. He's young and resilient. The wound itself wasn't bad. It was the potential that was frightening.”
Mrs. Doyle
was
glad to hear that.
“I can kill two birds with one stone,” he went on. (The bird epidemic was spreading.) “I can get Horatio out of town and provide protection for you at the same time.”
“But how will I disguise him?”
“No disguise. You can introduce him as your nephew.”
Mrs. Doyle clutched the side of the phone booth.
“Are you still there?”
Mrs. Doyle's “yes” came out as a croak.
“He gets out of the hospital tomorrow. I'll take him home for his clothes and then right to the bus terminal. His life may be in danger, Doyle,” he reminded her.
Mrs. Doyle found her voice. “Well, he can't come down here
in that awful black outfit he always wears. He'll stand out like a sore thumb. You'll have to find him some clothes that look
country
. Blue jeans that are actually
blue
, and a lighter T-shirt.”
“Don't worry. I'll take care of it. You fix things with Mrs. Ashley. Don't even tell
her
Horatio's true identity. The fewer people who know about it, the safer he'll be. And Doyle!”
“Yes?”
“No more bird walks.”
“Yes, Doctor.” She replaced the receiver and went to look for Mrs. Ashley. They had arranged to meet at the diner.
Over coffee and doughnuts, Mrs. Doyle debated whether to tell Mrs. Ashley about the shooting episode. Perhaps her hostess could provide an explanation. But there was the problem of the older woman's health. She didn't want to alarm her in any way. And what if she decided to cancel the party? Then this opportunity to solve the mystery would be lost.
Mrs. Ashley was cheerily describing the guests she had invited. “This neighborhood is so quiet,” she finished, “you simply have to have a party now and then to liven it up.”
Mrs. Doyle choked on a piece of doughnut.
“Are you all right, my dear?” Mrs. Ashley patted her on the back.
When she had recovered, the nurse took the plunge. “I just talked to my sister,” she blurted, “and she told me my nephew is in the neighborhood. I was wondering if …”
“By all means. Have him stop by. Is he driving?”
“No, he's only fifteen. He'll be coming by bus.”
“Fine. We'll meet him. What's his name?”
Mrs. Doyle swallowed. “Horatio.”
“Oh … I've met him, then.”
“You have?”
“Yes. The doctor brought him down the day of the house tour. A fine young man.” Doyle had completely forgotten about that. “But I didn't know he was your nephew.”
You're not the only one, thought Doyle.
On the way back to the farm, Mrs. Doyle observed the “quiet” neighborhood with a jaundiced eye. Nothing but fields and trees, river and sky (and a lurking sniper or two). How she yearned for a nice dark alley, the cheerful din of a good traffic jam, and the sight of a row of roof tops bristling with TV antennas.

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