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Authors: Robin Hathaway

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A
s Jennifer looked through her mail, one item stood out from the rest: a burnt-orange envelope addressed in violent purple ink. She recognized the style at once. Natalie, her artist friend. She tore it open. The promised invitation to her New York show. The date—September 19th. At the bottom, Natalie had scrawled, “Bring your Dad—and that doctor fellow.”
Jennifer's stomach tightened. She hadn't written Natalie about the doctor's recent metamorphosis. She kept hoping she was imagining things and the next time she saw him he would have returned to his former, quirky, unpretentious self. She wrote:
Dear Nat,
Congratulations! You can count on Dad and me, but the “doctor fellow” remains in doubt.
Love,
Jen
Before sealing her note, she telephoned Fenimore's office. Mrs. Doyle answered. The doctor wasn't in. Was there a message?
She paused. Should she confide in Mrs. Doyle? Why not? “I just wanted to remind him about an art exhibit of a friend of mine. I mentioned it to him some time ago and he said he'd like to go.”
“Hold on. I have his personal calendar here somewhere.”
Jennifer heard her rummaging through a drawer.
“Here it is. What's the date?”
She told her.
“Hmm. He has something scrawled here. A benefit garden party at the Franklin Hospital.”
“I see. Well, I guess that's that.” She sighed.
“Humph. He never used to go to those things. In the old days he wouldn't be caught dead at one. He'd send them a small donation and forget it.”
Encouraged by this confidence, Jennifer said, “Mrs. Doyle, have you noticed anything—well—different about the doctor lately? I mean …”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
Jennifer went on. “He seems to be caught up in this social whirl, and he led me to believe that he didn't care about such things.” She paused. “You've known him much longer than I have … . I just wondered if you thought this recent behavior was, well, normal?”
“If wings on an elephant are normal!” she snorted. “To tell you the truth, I don't know what's come over him lately. I'm worried sick. He flits in and out of here like a social butterfly. His mail is fifty percent those fancy cream-colored envelopes to this benefit and that dinner party—things he would have tossed in the wastebasket six months ago.”
Jennifer took a deep breath. “Do you think it's … a woman?”
While Mrs. Doyle pondered this, Jennifer was amazed to find her stomach churning and her hands growing clammy.
“No,” the nurse said at last. “I don't think that's it.”
“What then?”
“Let me think about it. I knew something was bothering me, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I'll call you back if I come up with something. Meanwhile, I'll pass your message along to His Lordship, if I can catch him between social engagements.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Doyle.”
After she hung up, Mrs. Doyle thought back over the doctor's recent behavior—wallpapering the refrigerator door with society notices, jumping at his sister-in-law's dinner invitation, and this sudden flurry of social activities from tennis matches to tea parties. One morning he had complained to her about “tennis elbow,” another day she had come upon him scrounging in the hall closet for his golf clubs, and the next he was having a conniption fit over some missing gold cufflinks that he must have for a night at a theater gala! She couldn't think what had come over him. But she was certain of one thing. It had nothing to do with a woman. Jennifer could relax on that score. She hadn't heard him mention any women, and there had been no calls from agitated females asking for him. No, he was attending these social functions alone. No problem for an agreeable bachelor like the doctor. He was welcome anywhere.
During the day, as Mrs. Doyle deciphered endless insurance forms and talked to querulous patients on the phone, one part of her brain puzzled over the doctor's new social life. She couldn't make any sense of it. As she was getting ready to leave, the doctor came in.
“Well, Mrs. Doyle, I see you've put in a good day's work.” He eyed the neat pile of completed forms in the “out” box ready for mailing.
Mrs. Doyle sniffed. “And where have you been? There are a few messages for you.” She nodded at the enormous pile of pink message slips lying in the “in” box.
“Oh, in and out, and round about,” he singsonged.
He really was becoming insufferable. Also secretive. And she
was dying of curiosity. All she said was, “I'll be on my way, then.” She picked up her pocketbook.
“Any mail?”
She pointed to the pile of junk mail on his desk.
“No first class?”
“None.”
He seemed disappointed. Was he expecting something? More invitations, no doubt.
“Uh, Doyle …” he called after her.
She stopped dead. So that was it. How could she have been so stupid.
“Could you spare a minute?”
She turned back with a big smile.
“Suppose you wanted to get to know someone better. How would you go about it? This is purely hypothetical, of course.”
“Of course.” She thought a minute. “Hang around his or her haunts. Get to know the people they hang out with.”
“Hmm.”
“Invite the party to a party, then the party will have to invite you back.”
“Too circuitous. Would take too long.”
“Find out what their interests are and cultivate the same interests—bridge, bowling, gardening …”
“Might work …”
“Maybe if you told me a little more about this hypothetical person I could be more help,” she hinted.
“Too late.” He glanced at his watch. “I have a dinner engagement in an hour. And I still have to return these calls.”
“Good night, Doctor.”
“Night, Doyle.”
When Mrs. Doyle entered her apartment, she made straight for the phone and called Jennifer. “He's on a case,” she said, without preamble.
“How do you know?”
“Never mind. But I'm sure of it. Whenever he's on a case he's like a bird dog on a scent, or a horse with blinders on. Except for his patients, nothing else exists.”
“But doesn't he usually consult you when he's on a case?” Jennifer asked.
“He just did.”
F
enimore's efforts to flatter Mrs. Bannister à la Disraeli were not in vain. Three weeks later he received the invitation for which he had been waiting—a supper and bridge party at the Bannisters.
He invited Jennifer to join him, primarily because he couldn't face this gathering alone. Feeling remorseful for having misjudged him recently, she accepted. That's why, on an evening in late August, Fenimore and Jennifer were marching up a flagstone path to a Tudor mansion, much in the spirit of soldiers going off to war.
As they stepped inside, Fenimore was struck by the modesty of the interior. The rooms were large, but there were no obvious antiques. No paintings or sculpture by anyone remotely famous. No decorative flourishes of any kind. The first impression was one of shabby austerity.
Greeting them cordially, Rachel Bannister led them from the hall into a long living room where Owen Bannister was talking to a handful of guests in front of the fireplace. Because of the season, there was no fire, and the leaded casement windows were shut tight against any leak of precious cooled air. The chilly atmosphere gave Fenimore the uneasy sensation of being sealed in a
tomb. Over the mantel hung a portrait of a woman with a likeness to Rachel rendered in soft gray and buff tones. She was dressed in Quaker costume. Immediately Fenimore understood the modest decor. Mrs. Bannister was probably of Quaker decent. Although many members of that religious sect were wealthy, they did not display it ostentatiously. They had nothing against accumulating wealth—but they did so quietly, the same way they worshiped, and presented a plain face to the world. Their influence in Philadelphia had been strong ever since the days of William Penn, and they still held positions of power and prominence in the City of Brotherly Love. The portrait above the mantel was probably one of Rachel Bannister's grandmothers.
“Doctor.” Owen Bannister broke away from his other guests to greet him, but his attention was mainly directed to Jennifer. (Fenimore had noted that the lawyer had a weakness for a pretty face.) Leaving them to get acquainted, he went to look for the bar. Spying some bottles and glasses set in a niche at the other end of the room, he hastened that way. But because they were so inconspicuously displayed and Bannister had not offered Fenimore a drink, he suspected Mrs. Bannister did not encourage alcohol. Reluctantly, Fenimore decided to abstain.
When dinner was announced, those brave souls who had dared to walk the length of the living room to make themselves a drink looked awkwardly around for a place to put their glasses. There were no coasters in sight. One by one they surreptitiously made the return to the bar table and hurried to catch up with the group heading into the dining room. Fenimore was disappointed to find that Paula Jordan was not among the guests. He had hoped to quiz her some more about her son's antics.
He caught up with Jennifer, and when he took her arm she gave him a smile that made him almost forget he was on a case. He was just glad to be near her and to know that he would have the pleasure of her company during dinner.
Unfortunately, this pleasure was thwarted. Although Jennifer was seated on his right, his hostess was seated on his left and
throughout the meal required all his attention. She questioned him at length about his grandmother Sedgewick and her equestrian triumphs. He, in turn, complimented Rachel on
her
triumphs (upon which he had dutifully boned up in back issues of
Horse Country and Woman Rider
).
The meal, like the house and the hostess, was plain: meat, potatoes, and salad. Good quality, but without any special seasoning or garnishes. And
no
wine. Dessert consisted of a fruit compote. The most shocking event of the meal was when Fenimore and Jennifer turned down decaf in favor of regular coffee. The conversation was as bland as the food, covering such noncontroversial topics as vacations, gardening, and baseball. Fenimore admitted to a passing interest in the pre-series playoffs that were beginning that night. Bannister offered to show him to his den where there was a TV, before the bridge game began.
When they returned to the living room, card tables and chairs had been set up, and each table supplied with new packs of cards, score pads, and pencils. Bannister forgot about his promise of the TV, and the card-playing commenced in earnest. Fenimore and Jennifer's opponents were no-nonsense bridge fiends, heavily involved in tournaments. When Jennifer admitted, “My bridge is a little rusty,” they groaned audibly. The game demanded their full attention.
After two rubbers, someone called for a break. Fenimore decided to use “looking for the TV” as an excuse to explore the second floor. He had no idea what he was looking for. In fact, he had about decided that he was on the wrong track. No one as boring as the Bannisters could possibly invent an evil scheme such as the one launched against Lydia. Jennifer went to look for a powder room. Fenimore's search took him up a wide central staircase and down a long hallway. After poking his head into several nondescript bedrooms, he came upon a room at the end of the hall. The door was shut. He knocked. No answer. He opened it. Inside was a comfortable male nest. Bannister's hideaway, no doubt. Bookcases, a worn sofa, two soft chairs, and a desk. The
walls were decorated with a rack of antique guns (a hidden vice probably frowned on by his Quaker wife) and some framed bird prints. A huge television set dominated one end of the room. Fenimore went over to it, intending to punch the “on” button. In his haste, he hit the button below. To his surprise, instead of the screen beginning to glow, the TV itself began to rotate slowly to the left. Gradually the screen disappeared and was replaced by a curved, glass case—embedded in the rear of the TV console. Inside the case were shelves bearing objects Fenimore couldn't see. He ran his hand around the outside of the frame, searching for a light switch. He found one. When he pressed it, he illuminated rows of coins spread out on velvet cloths. The most complete collection of American cents he had ever seen.
Suddenly he understood. Bannister spent his days at a tedious job, helping elderly, often cantankerous widows with their estates, and his nights with a plain, dull, demanding wife. The marriage may have been arranged for the benefit of his law firm. Such arrangements still took place in certain social circles—even today. Bannister was an intelligent, vigorous person. He had to have some outlet. A scandal with another woman would ruin him professionally as well as socially. He craved something. Something outside his drab, humdrum existence. The best of something. This coin collection must have filled that void.
Fenimore imagined Bannister coming here after dinner—no, late at night—after a difficult day and having made perfunctory love to his wife. He pictured him quietly entering his den. Almost tiptoeing over to the TV set. Punching the next-to-top button. Waiting impatiently for the machine to complete its rotation. Flicking the light switch. Sinking into his comfortable armchair to enjoy—no, to revel in—his collection of coins, and the thought that he owned one of the best in the world!
“Bridge is resuming in the drawing room,” a voice spoke behind him in a mock-falsetto tone.
Fenimore jumped.
Jennifer's smile vanished. “What's wrong?”
He stepped aside, allowing her to see the contents of the case.
She moved closer. “Are they valuable?”
“Probably. Yes.”
He reached behind the TV and punched the second button from the top. Nothing happened. He punched again. Nothing. The set refused to revolve.
“Maybe there's a remote stick.” Jennifer went behind the desk and opened the top drawer. Fenimore felt sweat break out on his face as he waited for an alarm to bleat. Nothing happened. He went to the door and checked the hall.
“Here it is!” Jennifer held up the stick.
Together they examined it. It had the usual START, STOP, FAST FORWARD, and REWIND. But there was an extra button with no label at the end of the row. Before Fenimore could stop her, Jennifer pressed it. Slowly the coin case began to rotate away from them, and the TV screen re-emerged. Jennifer put the remote stick back in the drawer.
“Here you are.” Bannister stood in the doorway. “I've been looking all over for you.”
“Just catching up on those ball scores,” Fenimore said.
“Oh, right. I forgot I promised to take you to a TV. Well, I see you found it on your own.” He looked at Jennifer who was still standing behind the desk—an awkward position from which to watch the TV. “And—are you a baseball fan, Jessica?”
“Jennifer. Actually, I was admiring your bird prints.” She turned to the one nearest her.
“Yes. That's an original Audubon. Are you a bird fancier?”
“No. A print fancier.” She moved away from the desk. “My father and I own a bookstore which specializes in rare books and old prints.”
“Is that so?” He took them both by the arm and guided them from the room, as if they were two children who had strayed.
“So you prefer books and prints to baseball?”
“I used to like baseball, when I was in my teens. Actually I was quite a tomboy,” she chattered on. “I followed the games very closely.”
Bannister paused at the head of the stairs to give her an appraising glance. “You don't look like a tomboy,” he said.
Thank God for Jennifer, Fenimore thought. She's disarming him. But he underestimated the lawyer. As they started down the stairs, Bannister asked casually, “By the way, Fenimore, what
were
those scores?”
Jennifer stiffened under Bannister's hand. He was still holding her arm, although he had dropped Fenimore's.
“Guess I won't know till tomorrow,” Fenimore's tone was light. “When I turned it on they were into a commercial break and I didn't want to wait.”
Bannister smiled. “Oh, well, bridge is a better game anyway.” When they reached the bottom of the stairs, he finally released Jennifer.
As Fenimore and Jennifer took their places at the bridge table, their opponents fixed them with reproachful glares. Next to hardened criminals, there is no more dangerous species than the serious bridge player who has been kept waiting.
W
hen they had finished their fourth rubber, Mrs. Bannister announced that coffee and soft drinks were being served in the dining room. Fenimore looked for the liquor bottles that had been in the living room. Gone. If they had been there, he would have been tempted to have a scotch. The guests stretched and chatted and were gradually drawn by the fragrant aroma of coffee (even though it was decaf) into the dining room. Jennifer was heading in that direction when Fenimore waylaid her. “That was a pretty stupid bid you opened with … .” he spoke loudly.
Jennifer looked at him in dismay.
His back to the others, he winked.
“I beg your pardon?” She pretended indignation.
“If you'd followed my lead with a decent trick, we might have taken that last game.”
“I was trying my best.” She sounded hurt.
Fenimore guided her toward the stairs. At the bottom he spoke rapidly, in a low tone, “I forgot to turn off the light in the coin case. I don't dare go back up there. Pretend to be upset by my bullying, run upstairs to the den and turn it off. The switch is under the left side of the case. I'll keep Bannister occupied.”
Jennifer saw Bannister coming toward them and exclaimed, “If my game isn't good enough for you, you can bring someone else next time,” and she ran up the stairs.
“Don't be too hard on her. There's always the next game. Let sleeping dogs lie. Besides,” Bannister added with a smirk, “she has other assets more important than a head for bridge.”
A real chauvinist, thought Fenimore. “You're right,” he agreed heartily. “They haven't escaped me, I assure you. There's more than one way to
score
, isn't there?”
Bannister's laugh approached a schoolboy snicker. Then his manner changed. “Speaking of scores, this would be a good time to check those baseball scores.”
Fenimore cursed himself for his poor choice of words. “Never mind,” he said, “I can catch them tomorrow.”
“No, now you've got me interested. I'd like to see how the Phils are making out.” He started up the stairs.
Fenimore lagged behind. “I don't want to take you away from your guests …”
“Nonsense. They won't miss me.” He was halfway up the stairs. There was nothing Fenimore could do but follow.
“I thought you didn't care for baseball,” Fenimore spoke as loudly as possible to alert Jennifer.
“I loved it as a boy. Haven't had time for it in recent years. I'm surprised you have time, Fenimore, what with your practice—and your extracurricular activities.”
Fenimore felt cold. There was only one extracurricular activity Bannister could be referring to. “I manage to fit in a few games each season,” he said. “But the Phils were a big disappointment this year. They never got off the ground.” They had reached the top of the stairs and were turning down the hall that led to the den. No sign of Jennifer.
“I used to get season tickets, but found I was missing half the games.” Bannister was walking faster, a few feet ahead of Fenimore.
Fenimore pressed the button on his pager. The hall was filled with a series of shrill bleats. Bannister stopped short. “What the … ?”
With an apologetic look, Fenimore showed him the device. At the same time, over the lawyer's shoulder, he saw Jennifer emerge from the den. As she came toward them she made the victory sign behind Bannister's back.
“Could I use your phone?” Fenimore asked.
“Of course.” He directed Fenimore to a bedroom nearby. While Jennifer chatted with Bannister about rare prints, Fenimore made his bogus phone call.
The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. Jennifer and Fenimore lost the last rubber (as they had all the others), and graciously thanked their ungracious opponents. Rachel Bannister took Fenimore aside at the door and presented him with a faded black-and-white photograph—a group of young ladies on horseback—including their respective grandmothers. It seemed they had belonged to the same hunt club as well as the same school. Fenimore felt a twinge of guilt over the means he had used to get into the home of his hostess. But he dismissed it as soon as he remembered his motive.
On their way to the car, Fenimore noticed a man in a dark suit wearing a chauffeur's cap in deep conversation with another man in a Buick. As they approached, the chauffeur glanced at them, and the man in the Buick took off. The chauffeur began talking on his cell phone.
“Did you see him?” Fenimore asked Jennifer.
She nodded. “Coming to pick up one of the more affluent guests, no doubt.”
“I meant the guy who drove off.” Maybe he was imagining things, but he thought the driver resembled that city dude who was hanging around the Strawberry Festival.
Once in the car, Jennifer burst out, “I felt like Ingrid Bergman in
Notorious
when she was caught poking around her husband's wine cellar.”
“Ah, yes. And Cary Grant diverted Claude Rains by giving her a timely kiss. I wasn't so ingenious,” he sighed. “I had to rely on my prosaic pager.”
“If it hadn't been for your ‘prosaic pager' Bannister would have caught me red-handed,” she said.
They rode in silence, contemplating their narrow escape.
The winding road was dark except for an occasional pair of passing headlights or a light in a bedroom window. Fenimore missed the cheerful glow of the city. He could never understand why people thought the suburbs were safe. All that dark shrubbery surrounding their homes—ready-made camouflage for robbers or rapists. French windows and glass patio doors begging to be jimmied open or broken into. Some had alarm systems, of course, and watch dogs. But many had neither. Bannister had no security system, Fenimore had noted. And if there was a dog, it was certainly not in evidence. How did they sleep at night?
“What are you thinking?” Jennifer asked.
He glanced at her. A beam of moonlight had found its way through the windshield, turning her face a startling white. Her eyes seemed bigger and darker than usual. Bannister was right. She did have other assets. But not the kind he was referring to. She was beautiful. And tonight she had demonstrated the makings of a good investigator. A good partner in every way. “Uh … I was just thinking how dark it is out here, compared to the city.” His eye was drawn to a car emerging from a driveway up ahead. Was it going to wait for him to pass? Fenimore slowed down. The other car paused, as if waiting for him to go on. Fenimore pressed his accelerator.
“Watch it!” Jennifer cried.
The other car plunged into the road in front of them. Fenimore wrenched the wheel to the right, skirting the other car's tail pipe, landing them in a flower bed.
Jennifer and Fenimore sat motionless, reveling in the fact that they were still alive. A dog barked. Behind some trees, a light sprang up. Through the trees they watched the wavering beam of
a flashlight making its way toward them. The dog's bark grew louder.
“Hey there!” A man's voice. “Anybody hurt?”
“No. We're OK,” Fenimore called. Simultaneously they got out of the car and began stretching and bending to make sure everything was intact.
The flashlight played on their faces. A wet nose snuffled at their hands and feet. After playing his light on the ruined flower bed, the man said, “Been partying, huh?”
“Yes. And the only beverage served was coffee,” Fenimore said regretfully. “Sorry about your flower bed. I'll take care of the damage.” He handed the man one of his appointment cards. “Send me your bill.”
“A doctor, eh?” As he looked up from the card the glow of the flashlight revealed his sneer. “Well, you can afford it, then.” He glanced at the car. “Can't you do better than this? I thought all you docs drove Mercedes or BMWs.”
“This is my car,” said Jennifer, getting in the driver's side.
With one foot in the car, Fenimore asked, “Did someone come out of your drive just now?”
The man looked puzzled. “No. My wife and I have been in bed for over an hour. Unless it was one of my neighbors' kids. They turn off their headlights and sneak up here sometimes to park and neck.” He leered in the window beside Jennifer. “Was that what you two had in mind?”
Jennifer rolled up her window. Fenimore shut his door. After a few false starts and several showers of dirt, she maneuvered the car out of the flower bed and onto the road.
After they had been driving for a few minutes, Jennifer said, “I don't know how Scottie and Zelda managed it.”
“Managed what?”
“All those parties. Just one has aged me fifteen years.”
“The Fitzgeralds' hosts ran to friendly bootleggers, not ruthless lawyers,” he said.

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