The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest (26 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest
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F
enimore spent a restless night. He hadn't mentioned it to Jennifer, but he was beginning to think that their near-collision after the party was no accident. He had a faint suspicion that it might have been set up by their host. The chauffeur with the cell phone and the familiar face of the other driver lingered in Fenimore's mind. They could have been working for Bannister. They could have been watching for them and when he and Jennifer left the party, the driver could have sped ahead to wait for them in that driveway. The car that hit them was much heavier and sturdier than Fenimore's old Chevy. It was built to withstand a crash much better than his. Whoa, Fenimore. This is all speculation. Back off. If you really think Bannister was behind the crash you have to prove it. On impulse he decided on a frontal attack.
He dialed Bannister's office and gave his name. The secretary put him right through. A good or bad omen?
“Fenimore? What can I do for you?” His voice was easy, self-assured, registering no surprise that Fenimore was alive and well and able to use the telephone.
“I need some information. We had a slight accident on the way home last night.”
“Oh? Sorry to hear that. Nobody hurt, I trust.” His tone was polite, neutral.
“No. But I'm afraid I destroyed one of your neighbors' flower beds. I'd like to make amends, but I don't know the fellow's name … .”
Either innocent or too astute to fall into his trap, Bannister failed to offer the neighbor's name before Fenimore gave him the address.
“The address was 110 Magnolia Drive,” Fenimore said.
“Bill Randolph. Tennis partner of mine.”
“Thanks. Good party, by the way … .
“We'll do it again. The party, not the flower bed.” Bannister rang off with a laugh.
After he hung up, Fenimore sat pondering. Was he on the wrong track or was Bannister a good actor? In his
Who's Who
blurb, which Fenimore had looked up that morning, it had mentioned that he was a member of Grease Paint, the drama club at his college. Hardly the sort of acting experience to prepare him for the polished performances he was delivering today. Fenimore paced his office twice. Sat down. Stood up. And dialed another number.
“Nicholson's Books,” Jennifer announced.
Speaking in a high, fluting voice, Fenimore said, “I'd like a copy of
War and Peace
in Serbo-Croatian.”
“Just a minute. I'll transfer you to our foreign language department.” (Her father.)
“Jen, wait …”
“Wise guy.”
“I need some advice.”
“From me? Since when?”
Mrs. Doyle came in just in time to catch the end of Fenimore's conversation.
“Do you think Bannister suspected us?”
Silence. “Maybe. But not of anything specific. Only in a general sort of way.”
“Do you think he arranged that accident?”
“Oh, no,” she gasped. “It happened too quickly. Bannister would have had to be superman to plant a driver at that location between our finding his coins and the end of the party.”
Not superman, Fenimore thought. Just
super smart
. If he had had two men at his command, the chauffeur and … Jennifer had apparently forgotten about them. “Thanks.”
“Anytime,” she said.
He proceeded to consult her on problem two: the coin collection. Did she have any ideas how they could find out more about it?
“Elementary,” she said, after the slightest pause. “Plant someone in their home. Wasn't Rachel Bannister bemoaning the loss of her housekeeper? As I remember, that was one of the high points of the less-than-sparkling dinner conversation.”
“My dear, you're wasting your talents as a bookseller. Whom?”
“Whom what?”
“Should I plant?”
“Doctor,” Mrs. Doyle interrupted. “You have an emergency on the other line.”
“Never mind,” He told Jennifer. As he hung up, he smiled mysteriously at Mrs. Doyle.
After taking care of the emergency call, he turned to his nurse. She had felt a twinge of jealously after eavesdropping on his call to Jennifer. Had he found a new Watson? But the next moment her fears were dispelled.
“Have you ever been a housekeeper, Doyle?”
“All my life,” she said, matter-of-factly.
He described the job he had in mind for her.
She hurried home to pack, while Fenimore forged her references.
Fenimore woke up in the middle of the night.
What if that chauffeur and his buddy were the two thugs that had kidnapped Doyle?
He would cancel the housekeeping scheme tomorrow.
M
rs. Doyle was sorry her trip to the suburbs was canceled. She had been looking forward to a few days ensconced in suburban splendor. As it turned out, however, circumstances transpired to make her trip superfluous.
Jennifer stopped by the office to announce that she had received a call from Owen Bannister, inviting her to look at some bird prints he had just purchased. She had showed such an interest in the ones he already owned, Bannister said, he thought she would enjoy these new acquisitions.
“I've never been invited to see someone's etchings before,” she told Fenimore with a wicked grin.
“You're not going.”
“What do you mean. It's the opportunity we've been looking for. An act of God.”
“Of the Devil!”
“Don't worry. I can take care of myself.”
“That's what they all say.”
“I've accepted.”
Fenimore stared.
“I'm taking the 6:35 Paoli Local tonight. His chauffeur is picking me up at the station.”
“Bravo!” said Mrs. Doyle.
“Way to go!” said Horatio.
Sal rubbed against her ankle.
“You're crazy,” said Fenimore. “What exactly do you expect to find?”
“Evidence.”
“Of what?”
“That remains to be seen. One thing's for sure, you're not going to find out anything sitting around here.”
The other three nodded. Well, Sal didn't exactly nod. Her tail did.
Outnumbered, Fenimore began a strategic retreat. “All right. But you won't be alone. I'll be sequestered on the grounds after dark. And you'll have my beeper. If you need to summon me, all you have to do is press the button.”
“I doubt if that will be necessary.” She turned to go. “Besides,” she said, glancing back, “Mrs. Bannister will be there.”
“Don't count on it.”
With a toss of her head, Jennifer made for the door.
“Wait.” Fenimore rummaged in a drawer and came up with two objects. His beeper and a miniature tape recorder—equipment he had found useful on his own surveillance assignments.
Jennifer examined the tiny recorder. “Cute.”
Fenimore winced. “You wear a jacket with two big pockets,” he ordered, “and keep the beeper in one and the recorder in the other.” He reached in the drawer again and drew out a silver cylinder about the size of a cigar. “Take this too.”
“What is it?”
“Mace.”
“But I only have two pockets.”
Doyle and Horatio laughed.
Fenimore glowered. “That recorder holds only a two-hour tape,” he warned. “Your rendezvous must be over by then.”
“Yes, sir.” Jennifer saluted.
After she had gone, Mrs. Doyle had second thoughts. “Do you think she'll be all right?”
Fenimore glared at her.
“I'm coming with you, Doc,” Horatio announced.
“Certainly you are. Why not? Nobody pays any attention to what I say. Not Lydia. Not Susan. Not Doyle. Not Jennifer. Why shouldn't you come, Rat? Of course you'll come. Bring Sal. Bring your boom box. Bring your mother … .” He disappeared into his inner office, slamming the door behind him.
Horatio and Doyle looked at each other. They both began to giggle.
B
annister was at the door to greet her. “So glad you could come, my dear.” He started to take her jacket.
“No,” she stopped him. “I'll keep it, thanks. Is Mrs. Bannister in?”
“I'm afraid not. She had a garden club meeting tonight,” he said smoothly. “She was sorry to miss you.” Placing his hand under her left elbow, he guided her gently toward the staircase. “The prints are this way.”
(Jennifer slid her right hand into her right pocket.) “I've been looking forward to this all day.” (She flicked on the tape recorder.) “I've been doing some research on bird engravings.” (This was true. She had spent the morning poring over all the antique bird prints in the bookstore's collection in preparation for tonight's session.) “I had no idea there were so many … .” They reached the top of the stairs. He steered her toward the den. “Most people just think ‘Audubon,' and …” she rattled on.
The den (“lair,” substituted Jennifer) had been prepared in advance. There were asters on the mantel, the sofa pillows had been freshly plumped, a bottle of good sherry and two glasses rested on the coffee table. His collection of antique firearms gleamed in their
rack above the sofa, as if they had been recently dusted and polished. As they crossed the threshold, Jennifer took a deep breath.
“Now sit right there.” Bannister waved her to the sofa. “I won't be long.” He disappeared into a large closet at the other end of the room.
Jennifer reached into her left pocket, assuring herself of the beeper—and mace.
“Here we are!” He came back, bearing a large portfolio. As he sat down beside her and untied the strings, he wore the expression of an eager boy about to show off his most precious toys.
Jennifer was not deceived.
Fenimore decided to wait until dark before entering the grounds. Unfortunately, this time of year complete darkness did not arrive until after nine o'clock. He decided to park the car at the station and wait. Horatio filled the time listening to his favorite music. To Fenimore's intense relief, he had brought his Walkman instead of his boom box.
Fenimore fidgeted and tried to read the morning
Inquirer.
Horatio tapped his foot and sang along with the music only he could hear.
Fenimore fantasized about Jennifer and Bannister. Stop! He's old enough to be her father. “So am I!” he spoke aloud.
“What?” Horatio looked at him.
“Nothing.” Fenimore lapsed into silence.
When they had exhausted the bird prints, which Jennifer had to admit were exquisite and must have cost a small fortune, Bannister poured the sherry. Jennifer strained her ears for the sound of Mrs. Bannister's return, although she knew it was too early. The clock on the mantel read 8:30. She decided to waste some time in the powder room. She asked him where it was. Once there, she realized Bannister had sent her to his own private bathroom. On the back of the toilet rested a shaver, a bottle of expensive aftershave,
and a pair of elephantine toenail clippers. She slid open the door to the medicine cabinet. A scentless deodorant, Band-Aids, foot powder, condoms. Condoms? Surely Mrs. Bannister was past the age of conception. But
she
wasn't. Jennifer shuddered. On the upper shelf ranged an array of medicine bottles, many revealing his age. Zocor (cardiac problems), Fosamax (bone density), Valtarin (arthritis), Viagra! Swallowing hard, she continued her search. Doplex (blood pressure). She paused and took out the bottle. Holding it close to the light, she reread the label. “Two tablets, twice daily. Lydia Ashley.”
Lydia's medicine!
Still holding the bottle in her shaking hand, she sat down on the toilet seat. Should she take the bottle with her or leave it? Finally, she slipped it into her pocket, praying that in her excitement she hadn't destroyed Bannister's fingerprints with her own. She shoved the remaining medicine bottles together, hiding the gap, and remembered to flush the toilet before returning to the den.
“Are you feeling all right?” Bannister asked.
“Fine,” she said brightly. Well, she
had
been in the bathroom a long time. She resumed their small talk. It was more imperative than ever, she realized, that she not arouse his suspicions. “Do you collect anything else, Mr. Bannister?” she asked.
“Owen.”
“Owen. Besides prints—and guns?” She cast a glance at the array of antique firearms displayed in racks above their heads.
“How long have you known Fenimore?” Bannister ignored her question.
“Oh, not long. That was our second date. And now that he's found out what a lousy bridge player I am, I'm sure it will be our last.”
“You know about his other occupation?” He watched her closely.
“He has another?” She paused, her sherry glass halfway to her mouth.
“He's a private investigator.”
Her eyes widened. “He doesn't look like one.”
Bannister laughed. “You mean he doesn't wear a trench coat and look like Bogart?”
Jennifer laughed too.
Bannister seemed suddenly to relax.
Jennifer took a sip of sherry and repeated her question. “So, do you collect anything else?”
His answer was delayed, as if he was coming to a decision. Finally he said, “My prize collection is … coins.”
“Oh?” Her tone registered only polite interest, but her heart skipped a beat.
“I began collecting as a boy when I saw an early American cent in a shop window. I paid a dollar for it—an enormous sum at the time. But here, I'm giving away my age.” He smiled coyly.
Jennifer forced a smile.
“Later, when I was in college, my grandfather died, leaving me his entire collection.”
“May I see it?”
“You're really interested?” He was incredulous.
“Oh, yes.” She twisted toward him, flipping her right jacket pocket nearer, hoping his voice would carry to the tape inside.
Misinterpreting her move, a lascivious look crossed his face.
She drew back. “My father has a coin collection,” she lied, “but it's of ancient Greek coins.”
“Indeed.” He stood up. “I'll be right back.”
Glancing out the window, Jennifer was relieved to see that it had grown dark. Fenimore would be on the grounds by now.
Bannister came toward her carrying what looked like a picture in a frame. But when he drew near, she saw that the “picture” was actually rows of coins inserted in slots in a velvet background. There were five vertical rows with twelve coins in each. Every row was complete except for the fifth row. Between the second and third coins there was a gap. It stood out like a hole in a row of perfect teeth.
“Ugly isn't it?” he said.
“Pardon?”
“The hole.” He sat down beside her—a little closer this time. “The missing link in my otherwise perfect early American collection.”
Jennifer felt the intensity of the man. She imagined that every hair on his body was standing upright. “Which one's missing?”
“The strawberry leaf,” he said. “But to understand its significance I have to tell you the whole story.” He took her hand.
She started to pull away but he closed his other hand tightly over hers. It was her left hand he had imprisoned, making it impossible for her to reach her left pocket, the one that held the beeper—and the mace.
Fenimore decided to approach the house from the side. There was more shrubbery there—azaleas and rhododendrons—to conceal them. Horatio had brought a few tools in case Jennifer sent an emergency call and they had to break into the house. Bannister was too secure for an alarm system. So far Fenimore's pager had remained mute. He was grateful. He wondered how Jen was making out.
Poor choice of words
. Progressing.
“Doc,” Horatio whispered.
“What?”
“The garage.”
Fenimore looked toward the garage. A man was slouched against the fender of a car, smoking a cigarette. It was too dark to tell the make of the car, but Fenimore was sure the man was the chauffeur he had seen the night of the party. He had looked husky and fit that night. Crouched behind the rhododendrons, Fenimore prayed his pager would remain inert.
“So, tell me the story,” Jennifer coaxed. The clock read 9:15. She realized with a start that the tape must be running out.
“The strawberry leaf is very rare. There are only four known to exist. One belongs to a man in Morristown, New Jersey. Another to the Philadelphia Numismatic Society. The third is in the Wilmington Historical Museum … .” He paused.
“And the fourth?”
He squeezed her captive hand. “The fourth—belonged to a farmer in south Jersey.”
Jennifer maintained her bland expression. “Belonged?” she asked innocently.
“Yes. When he died it went to his widow.”
“Would she sell it to you?”
“She might.” He dropped her hand. “We were sweethearts once. She was a rare beauty. As rare as that coin. And such vitality. I could never understand why she married Edward. A stolid, unimaginative man. No wit. No verve …”
Which you have in abundance, Jennifer mused. “Perhaps the old adage, ‘opposites attract …'”
“Bullshit—sorry,” he said.
“Have you asked her?”
“Twice … . Oh, you mean about the coin. No. You see, no one knows where it is.”
Jennifer raised an eyebrow.
“That's the story I wanted to tell you. The coin was originally owned by Edward's great-uncle, Nathan. He was a queer old boy. A bachelor who lived alone in a cottage on Edward's property and liked to play practical jokes—especially on the family. He played his biggest joke when he died. He hid the strawberry leaf coin somewhere, and locked the secret of its location in a code … .”
Jennifer prayed the tape was still running. “What sort of code?”
“A page torn from an old cookbook.”
Jennifer's eyes widened—this time in earnest.
“I was Edward's executor, and I still take care of his widow's legal affairs. The page was among Edward's effects. Everyone in the family knew that it was supposed to be a clue, but no one has ever been able to decipher it. None of the relatives have much interest in coins, and I doubt if they have any idea of its value … .”
“Which is?”
“Ah …” He wore a superior smirk.
“I see.” She shifted on the sofa, moving a little away from him.
“Have you showed the page to anyone outside the family? Perhaps a new pair of eyes …”
He surveyed her thoughtfully.
Her heart beat faster.
Rising, he went to a filing cabinet in a corner of the room and returned with a sheet of paper. “This is just a photocopy. You have to imagine the condition of the original; the paper is yellow and brittle with age.”
Jennifer studied the page. Taken from the dessert section, it bore three recipes. The center recipe was for a kind of cookie called “sand dollars,” and was circled lightly in pencil. Across the top of the page, scrawled in an old fashioned hand, were the words “Grandmother's favorite!” There were no other marks on the page. The recipe had only a few ingredients and the directions were simple. Jennifer read it aloud so it would be recorded on the tape.
Sand Dollars
1 cup butter
2 eggs
4 cups flour
1¼ cups sugar
5 tablespoons milk
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon vanilla
¼ teaspoon salt
Cream sugar and butter. Add eggs and sift dry ingredients. Add vanilla. (Add milk as needed to moisten.) Spread on cutting board. Chill in spring house overnight. Use a small amount at a time. Roll out fairly thin on old linen towel. Bake in very hot oven for 8 to 9 minutes. Serve with home-made vanilla ice cream.
“Each generation has done the obvious, of course,” Bannister continued. “Added up all the numbers in the recipe and translated them into feet. Then they counted that number of feet from various landmarks on the property—the house, the barn, the cottage,
an old cedar tree—to various points outward. But wherever they dug, they turned up nothing. The granddaughter, Susan, is trying a different tack, I believe. Searching under water.”
Jennifer turned the page. Blank.
“I didn't photocopy the other side … .”
“No reason to … .” She sat silent, pondering.
He waited expectantly.
“I'm sorry,” she spoke at last. “I really have no idea … .” She returned the sheet.
His disappointment was palpable.

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