The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest (23 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

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“
W
hat do you think those people were digging for?” asked Rafferty.
Mrs. Doyle shook her head.
“Fenimore?”
He didn't answer right away. Finally he said, “Everyone in these parts seems to be digging for something. Pirate fever has reached epidemic proportions. Maybe they were digging for treasure. Did you see any Spanish doubloons in that cottage?” he asked Mrs. Doyle. He was only half joking.
Almost asleep, Mrs. Doyle came to with a start. “What was that?”
“Never mind. We should let her get to bed,” Fenimore said.
“Wait.” Rafferty stopped him. “Doyle, do you think you could identify those two voices you overheard?”
“I—I don't know.”
“What about the man you struck. Would you recognize him again?”
“I saw him by candlelight,” she said, “and only for a split second.”
They realized that if she had waited more than a split second, she might not be here now.
Fenimore asked unexpectedly, “Did you ever discover which of Mrs. Ashley's neighbors was a mystery fan?”
Mrs. Doyle forced her mind back to the tea party—a million light years ago. “All but three,” she answered, as if in a dream. “Tom Winston prefers seed catalogs. Agatha—cookbooks. And Miss Cunningham,” she grimaced, “thinks mysteries are ‘the adult comic book.'”
“One more question,” Fenimore said. “During the tea party, do you remember seeing any of the guests go upstairs?”
“All of them,” she said firmly, “to use the facilities.” She answered their questioning stares. “It seems tea and punch have the same effect on the kidneys as beer, and there's only one bathroom in this house. It's on the second floor. I even met Jenks coming downstairs as I was going up to check Mrs. Ashley's medicines. He was in his work clothes, and I wondered why he didn't use the backstairs.”
They were silent, sorting out this information.
“Wait! I almost forgot.” Fully awake now, Mrs. Doyle told them about Mrs. Ashley's missing blood pressure pills. “That's why I called you in the first place. Mrs. Ashley didn't collapse until after I called. I noticed a gap in her row of medicine bottles, and I'd been worried about her condition. She was very pale and had been short of breath earlier. Then, as I came out of the bedroom, I heard cries from below. I looked down the stairs and saw Mrs. Ashley lying on the floor.”
“When do you think she last took her Doplex?”
Mrs. Doyle concentrated. “She forgot her morning dose and during the party she told me she had doubled her afternoon dose—to make up for it.”
“Her normal dose was two pills, twice a day. That means she took four in the afternoon. Not a good idea, but it shouldn't cause her to collapse,” Fenmore said. “There must have been something
else wrong with the medicine—or maybe someone substituted a different medicine altogether … .
“And then disposed of the bottle,” suggested Rafferty.
“The question is, what medicine was it and who made the substitution?” said Fenimore.
“Maybe that's what Jenks was burying in the garden,” said Doyle.
They were thoughtful.
Suddenly Fenimore said, “You
do
realize these people who blew up the cottage are the same people who are after Lydia's property. The ones who set up those accidents, wrote the notes, switched her medicines …” He ran out of steam.
“It must be an inside job,” Rafferty said. “Someone close to her, who knew her personal habits.”
“Someone out there!” Fenimore waved in the direction of the field.
“Look what I found!” Horatio burst through the kitchen door. He handed something to Fenimore. Fenimore examined it.
“What is it?” asked Doyle and Rafferty.
“A coin,” Fenimore said. “A copper cent,” he squinted at it, “dated 1792. Where did you find this, Rat?”
“The field is full of them. Everybody's picking them up.” Pulling a fistful from his pocket, he dumped them on the kitchen table.
“Show us, Rat.” Fenimore headed for the kitchen door.
Rafferty followed, grabbing the metal detector on his way out.
Mrs. Doyle, hazy with brandy, slowly made her way up the backstairs.
O
ne by one the tea party guests straggled into the house, their faces lined with fatigue, their eyes reddened by ash from the fire. But they were talking animatedly about the coins they had found. Fenimore came in last, ignoring the treasure buzz. He would remind them later that all their loot belonged to Lydia. He made a general announcement about Mrs. Doyle's return, then he quietly confronted the Reverend. “Perc—Oliver, can you tell me the name of the boy who manned the fish pond booth at the Strawberry Festival?”
Oliver looked at his former classmate as if he were demented. Slowly his brow cleared. Fenimore had been famous in college for asking damn fool questions that later turned out to have a point. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Baily. Ted Baily—fourth form.”
“Where can I reach him?”
Oliver frowned. “Tonight?”
He nodded.
“His parents are divorced. I think he spends the summers with his mother. I suppose I could find her number in my files. But I'll have to go over to my office and dig it out.”
“Would you? It's terribly important. Has to do with that explosion.”
“Now, wait a minute, Andy. Ted Baily's no angel—but he didn't blow up that cottage!”
“No, no.” Fenimore almost laughed at Oliver—the mother hen protecting his chick. “Nothing like that. Just get me the number.”
As soon as Oliver left, Fenimore sought out Miss Cunningham. She was slumped in a chair, eyes glazed—a pile of coins in her lap. “I wonder if you could help me?” he said.
She blinked up at him with red eyes.
“Now think carefully. Did you give a list of books—specifically mystery titles—to someone in this room during the Strawberry Festival?”
The look she gave him was similar to Oliver's.
“I know it's been a while,” Fenimore said. “But librarians are known for their excellent memories … .” he flattered.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I did give a list to someone … .”
“Yes?”
“It rather surprised me at the time. I thought this person had literary taste, but … he said that this mystery writer was one of his favorite authors and would I please compile a list of everything she ever wrote. Well, of course, that took a little time. Our library is primarily a reference library, and the little fiction we do carry is largely the classics—although we do stock a few lighter novels for the occasional summer person. Of course, if we were computerized, I could produce a list with a press of a few keys, but …” She rambled on.
From the corner of his eye, Fenimore saw that Tom had joined Susan on the love seat under the staircase. They were talking quietly, oblivious to everyone. Peter Jordan came down the stairs with his backpack and diving equipment, apparently preparing for a quick exit. When he reached the bottom step, his eyes swept the room, searching for Susan. When he saw her in deep conversation with Tom, he turned abruptly and headed for the front door.
Amory followed, attempting to bid him a cordial goodbye, but the door was slammed in his face.
“Who was it, Miss Cunningham?” Fenimore resisted the desire to shake her.
Agatha appeared with more tea cups and a plate of cookies. Spying Fenimore, she set them rattling on the table and rushed over to him. “Doctor,” she said urgently, “could I speak to you a minute?”
Leaving Miss Cunningham, his question still unanswered, he followed Agatha into the hall.
The housekeeper drew a medicine bottle from her apron pocket.
Before taking the bottle, Fenimore wrapped his handkerchief around it. Then he read the label: “Doplex—Two tablets, twice daily. Lydia Ashley.” The missing blood pressure pills. He spilled several into his palm. They were large, white, and looked difficult to swallow. Each pill had “Doplex” engraved on it in very fine print. “Where did you find these?”
“They came down the chimney!” Agatha went on, “It was during the tea party. I was passing some cakes, and as I went by the fireplace something white fell out and rolled onto the hearth. I picked it up. When I saw it was Mrs. Ashley's medicine, I put it in my pocket.”
Fenimore nodded.
“I was going to give it to her later, but with all the commotion of her getting sick and everything, I forgot all about it—until now.” Her eyes grew bright with tears.
“You did exactly right,” Fenimore reassured her, slipping the bottle into his pocket.
“How is Mrs. Ashley, Doctor?”
“I'm going to find out right now.” He went to the phone and placed a call to the hospital. After a brief conversation, he told her, “She's improving nicely.”
When he went back to the living room, Oliver had returned
with the Baily telephone number. He must have broken all speed limits to get to the school and back so fast. At Fenimore's request, the Reverend called Ted Baily's mother. She informed him that her son had just come in from the movies and had not yet gone to bed. Oliver introduced Fenimore and handed him the phone. He asked the boy one question: “During the Strawberry Festival, did anyone come around to the back of the fish pond booth and offer to take your place?”
The boy was silent for a minute. Then he said. “Now I remember—this guy did come around. He gave me two bucks and told me to get myself some ice cream while he manned the booth till I got back. I remember, because I was pissed off. When I got back he'd gone and there was a line of angry customers waiting. I thought it was a dirty trick.”
“It was. Do you know the fellow's name?”
“No. But I can describe him. He was a college type. I'd seen him around the Ashley place before. He drives a red Porsche.”
“Thanks, Ted. You've been a great help.”
Fenimore went to the living room window. Where Peter's car had been, there was now an empty gap.
After the last guest had left, and Susan, the Jenkes, and even Horatio had finally gone to bed, Fenimore and Rafferty took charge of the brandy bottle.
“Do you have any idea what's going on?” Rafferty looked at his friend ruefully.
Fenimore shook his head. “All I know is, the Jordan boy is involved. I thought some of those pranks had a college boy taint to them.”
“
You
should know.”
Fenimore had met Rafferty twenty years ago through a “fraternity prank.” The detective had been a rookie cop and the doctor had been an intern. The cop had threatened to arrest Fenimore and his friends for some high jinks, but Fenimore had sweet-talked him out of it. They had remained friends ever since.
Choosing to ignore this remark, Fenimore went on, “But I'm sure the Jordan kid is just a pawn, manipulated by some larger master mind.”
“Agreed,” said Rafferty. “He didn't impress me as any Einstein.”
Fenimore drew Lydia's pill bottle from his pocket, careful to keep his handkerchief around it. He told him where Agatha had found it. “After he got rid of this, he may have substituted some other medicine—one that caused her attack.”
“That's no prank. That's attempted murder.”
“
If
he knew what he was doing,” Fenimore cautioned. “His boss may not have told him what a lethal dose it was.”
Rafferty shrugged. “This is all speculation. What you need is evidence.” He took the bottle and the handkerchief. “I'll test this for his prints.”
“They may be smeared by Lydia's and Agatha's.”
Rafferty pocketed the bottle.
“I just can't see him blowing up that cottage.” Fenimore said. “Anyway, he was with us all afternoon.”
“There is such a thing as a timer.”
The two men sipped in silence, both dissatisfied with Peter Jordan as their prime villain.
“What I don't understand is the motive.” Rafferty tilted back dangerously on the legs of the spindly kitchen chair. “This is a nice farm and all,” he gestured out the darkened window, “but land is dirt cheap in south Jersey, and …”
“It's not the land,” Fenimore said. “It's what's under it.”
The chair legs came down with a thud. “Pirate treasure?”
Were those words ever uttered without a lustful look, Fenimore wondered. He nodded. “I think someone's on to something. The question is
who?”
Rafferty was thoughtful. “What about that list of mysteries. Did you get …?”
“Ohmygod. That Cunningham woman was about to tell me—but Agatha …” He looked at his watch. “Too late to call now.
Ohmygod,” he repeated, this time clapping a hand to his forehead.”
“What's up?”
“Dinner.”
“Oh, we can pick up something on the way home.”
“No—I mean, I was expected for dinner … .” Without further explanation, he hastened to the phone.
When he returned, Rafferty couldn't resist. “Jennifer?”
Damn the man. “Let's go,” Fenimore said.
On the way back to Philadelphia, Fenimore stopped at the hospital to look in on Lydia. She was wide awake, and her electrocardiogram had improved so much—there was no evidence of
torsade
—that he risked a question: “How long has Susan known Peter Jordan?”
“Peter … ?” Her brow wrinkled. “About a year, I think.”
“Where did they meet?”
She shook her head. “Susan has so many beaus, I can't keep track of them. Why?” She looked suddenly worried.
“Never mind.” Fenimore patted her hand. “Try to get some sleep.”
Fenimore double-parked in front of Rafferty's dark row house. The detective said “I can have the kid picked up. If his prints are on this bottle, we'll have enough evidence to—”
“Not yet. Let me know about the prints, but I'd rather not alert him and whoever he's working for just yet. He's my only lead to the rat behind this whole rotten business.”
“Right.” Laboriously, Rafferty extricated his large frame from the small car. Before shutting the door, he leaned in. “Thanks for the game,” he said, “but next time, you can skip the post-game party.”
Fenimore looked after his retreating back with affection.

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