The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest (27 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

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Fenimore was uncomfortable. His forty-five-year-old bones were not happy in his crouched position, and he cursed the heavy flashlight in his pocket that dragged on his shoulder. Horatio, on the other hand, completely unencumbered, lay at ease on the grass beside him. The chauffeur had disappeared, his cigarette fumes long since dissipated. A light had blinked on in a window above the garage. His apartment, Fenimore surmised. He wondered why he had left the car outside. Was his employer planning another trip this evening? Then he realized he probably had orders to drive Jennifer home. Or at least to the station. Horatio was suffering withdrawal symptoms. At Fenimore's request, he had left his Walkman in the car. The faintest leakage of music might give them away, Fenimore had explained. Besides, he needed the boy's extra pair of ears to listen for suspicious sounds.

Horatio bent toward Fenimore. “How long we gonna be here?”

“I don't know,” Fenimore whispered.

The boy sighed. Immobility was not his forte.

Fenimore glanced at his watch. The phosphorescent hands read 9:45. Surely the tape had run out by now. What could she be doing?

Jennifer glanced at the clock. “I must be going.”

With a jolt, Bannister came back to the present. Early American coins and colonial cookbooks faded before the attractive
twenty-first century woman beside him. “Don't rush off. My chauffeur will drive you home.” He was refilling her sherry glass.

“No, really.” Jennifer rose quickly. “I have to get up early â¦ .”

Grabbing her around the waist, he twisted her right arm behind her back and clamped his mouth against hers. As he pressed her down onto the sofa, she tried to reach her left pocket for the beeper or mace. But it was caught behind her, beneath her, completely out of reach. She concentrated all her being on fighting off the descending Bannister.

“She's taking an awful long time,” Horatio whispered.

“I know it!” Fenimore bit off the words. It was after ten o'clock. He had to do something. Assuring himself that the chauffeur was nowhere to be seen, he began to edge his way from the shelter of the bushes toward the terrace. Horatio, only too glad to be active again, followed him. When they reached the French doors, the boy took a tool from his pocket and neatly removed a pane of glass near the door handle.

“Where'd you learn that?”

Putting his hand inside, the boy turned the handle. It opened easily. Silently, they made their way single-file toward the central staircase.

Jennifer raised her knee sharply. It found its mark. Bannister reared up, writhing in pain. Still groaning, he reached for the gun rack above their heads. Before Jennifer could move, he had a pistol in his handâone of the antique onesâand was pointing it at her.

It was too old to work properly, she thought. And only a fool would keep a loaded gun on display. He was just trying to scare her. But his face was contorted. His eyes crazed. She raised her arms in a futile protective gesture. “Don't!” she screamed.

For a split second, Fenimore and Horatio paused on the staircaseâthen leapt forward. Bannister's back was to the door. Jennifer, from her supine position, saw them enter through the angle of Bannister's elbow. Fenimore drew the offending flashlight from his pocket and brought it down with all his strength.

Bannister fell, his head narrowly missing Jennifer's lap. The gun dropped to the floor and went off, creating a sizable hole in the wall at the other end of the room. Jennifer jumped free and ran to Fenimore. For the next few seconds, Horatio kept his eyes politely fixed on Bannister's prostrate form.

“Owen, dear,” a female voice spoke from the doorway, “OhâI didn't know you had guests.”

They all turned (except Bannister). Mrs. Bannister had come home.

CHAPTER 63

W
hile Fenimore held the dazed Bannister at bay with the flashlight, Jennifer called 911. Horatio blocked the door to the den in case Bannister should try to make a break for it. Rachel Bannister sat in a corner of the sofa, staring, as if in a trance.

After what seemed an eternity, a police siren disrupted the silent neighborhood. Dogs began to bark. Lights sprang on. The doorbell rang insistently, accompanied by repeated thuds on the oak door, followed by the order: “Police! Open up!”

Horatio ran down the stairs to obey.

Bannister, still dazed, rode in the police car, while Fenimore and his friends followed in Fenimore's car. Mrs. Bannister chose to remain at home.

Once at the police station, however, Bannister revived and began demanding his rights. He accused Fenimore, Horatioâand even Jenniferâof breaking and entering, and claimed he had drawn a gun only to protect himself and his property.

While a detective dealt with Bannister's blustering, Fenimore arranged to have Peter Jordan come in to the station. Since the youth lived nearby, they didn't have to wait long. The boy arrived with his mother, who was close to hysterics. Once order was
restored, Peter was only too glad to talk. He had been suffering for weeks from a guilty conscience and confessed, blaming everything on Bannister. Last year, the boy had been booked on a minor drug charge at college (smoking and selling marijuana) and Bannister, a friend of the family, had gotten him off with a small fine and a reprimand. In return, the lawyer had asked Peter to do him a favor: play a few practical jokes on an old friendâLydia Ashley. The plan had been to introduce Peter to Susan and let the young man take it from there, but in the process, he had fallen for the girl. He admitted playing most of the tricks on Mrs. Ashley, but hotly denied that he had done anything to harm Susan.

“Somebody else tampered with her diving equipment,” he swore, glaring at Bannister.

“And the snake?” put in Fenimore.

“What snake?” The boy looked honestly baffled.

“Never mind.” One of Bannister's henchmen had probably come up with that one.

Throughout the boy's confession, Bannister had sat hunched in his chair, silent and sullen.

When Peter finished, the detective turned to the lawyer. “And what do you have to say?”

“Horseshit.”

At this, Paula Jordan emerged from her corner and flew at Bannister, hissing like a panther. She would have scratched his eyes out if a police matron had not stepped forward and restrained her.

Jennifer chose this moment to produce the bottle of Lydia's medicine.

The detective examined the bottle with interest, while Fenimore looked on in amazement.

When Jennifer disclosed where she had found it, Fenimore was stunned.
The arrogance of the manâto keep this evidence in his medicine chest!

Careful not to touch the sides of the bottle, the detective spilled a few tablets into Fenimore's palm. They were the same color,
size and shape as Doplex, but when Fenimore looked at them closely under the light, he saw that a different name was engraved on each one: QUINIDINE. He told the detective, “These pills could have been fatal to my patient.”

“You didn't tell me that!”
Peter screamed at Bannister.

The detective looked from one to the other.

As Jennifer returned to her chair, Bannister spit at her.

On the way home in the car, Fenimore remarked to his two passengers, “Now you've had a glimpse of high society, how do you like it?”

Neither Jennifer nor Horatio felt the question deserved an answer.

CHAPTER 64

T
he next morning, when Mrs. Doyle heard about Jennifer, she was horrified. “I knew she should have taken my course,” she said. She had once given a course in karate to some elderly lady friends. “It's designed more for muggings than rape,” she admitted, “but it could be adapted.”

Fenimore looked gray, and not from the early morning light. He was suffering from aftershock. He should have been there sooner for Jennifer. He left Doyle and disappeared into his inner office to listen to the tape that Jennifer had handed him just before they had parted the night before.

Horatio wandered in late, looking bleary-eyed.

Mrs. Doyle glanced at him expectantly.

“What?” He stared at her.

“Well, you
were
there weren't you?” She hungered for more details.

Horatio stashed his boom box in the corner, slipped on his Walkman, and began filingâhis foot tapping out the rhythm to his own private concert.

Reluctantly, Mrs. Doyle returned to her typing.

Midway through the morning, Fenimore gave a shout, “Come in here, both of you!”

Horatio and Doyle exchanged glances, but hastily obeyed.

“I want you to listen to this tape.”

“Tape?” Mrs. Doyle was in the dark.

“Jennifer taped her evening tÃªte-a-tÃªte with Bannister,” Fenimore explained grimly.

Doyle's eyes lit up. At last she would hear what really happened.

“I'm going to play a portion of their conversation, and when I raise my hand I want you to listen especially carefully to Bannister's next words. He is speaking about Mrs. Ashley and he begins a sentence that he doesn't complete. I want you to try to complete it for him. Got it?”

His two staff members nodded.

Fenimore pushed PLAY.

JENNIFER:	So, tell me the story.
BANNISTER:	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 â¦ .
JENNIFER:	And the fourth?
BANNISTER:	The fourthâbelonged to a farmer in south Jersey.
JENNIFER:	Belonged?
BANNISTER:	Yes. When he died it went to his widow.
JENNIFER:	Would she sell it to you?
BANNISTER:	She might â¦ (his voice changed, taking on a nostalgic tone). 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 â¦ .
JENNIFER:	Perhaps the old adageâ“opposites attract â¦”
BANNISTER:	Bullshitâsorry.
JENNIFER:	Have you asked her?

Fenimore raised his hand to alert his audience.

BANNISTER:

Twice â¦ . Oh, you mean about the coin. No. You see, no one knows where it is.

Fenimore pressed STOP.

“Asked what?” said Mrs. Doyle.

“Exactly â¦” Fenimore looked at her keenly.

“To get hitched,” said Horatio.

Fenimore beamed at him. “Right, Rat. Jen was talking about the coin, but Bannister was talking aboutâmarriage. I think Bannister asked Lydia to marry him
twice
, âonce before â¦ . ,'” he quoted. “But âbefore'
what?”
he asked urgently.

Horatio shrugged. Mrs. Doyle shook her head.

“Well, I have a hunch,” Fenimore said, “and I'm going to follow it up. Thank you both.” He dismissed his two employees.

They returned to their desksâHoratio happy, because he had been of help, and Mrs. Doyle dejected, because she had not heard the juiciest part of the tape. (She didn't know that the tape had run out before the action had begun.)

In the privacy of his office, Fenimore made a few phone calls.

Toward noon the phone rang.

Jennifer.

“Oh, my dear, how are you?” Mrs. Doyle's voice was full of honest comfort and concern.

“I'm OK, Mrs. Doyle. It was my own fault. I should have known better.”

“Pshaw. We all should have known better.”

“I called because I forgot to tell the doctor something important.”

“I'll put you right through.”

“Thanks.”

When Fenimore answered, Jennifer told him about the recipe. As she explained what she had in mind, he listened intently.

CHAPTER 65

A
fter Jennifer hung up, Fenimore turned from his cluttered desk and stared at the wall. Now he had the motiveâthe one for the “pranks” at least. Greed. But there was more to it than that, he was certain. And if his hunch was right, the answer lay with Lydia. He had to see her. He had to tell her about Bannister anyway, and that could only be done in person. He called Jennifer back and asked if she would like to take a trip to south Jersey.

It was late afternoon when they arrived at the Ashley farm. There were no cars in the drivewayânot even Lydia's vintage station wagon. And no one in sight. He hadn't thought to call first; he had been so sure she would be home. Where could you go in south Jersey? Fenimore knocked on the door while Jennifer waited beside him. No answer. He turned the knob. It opened. Country people never lock their doors, even in this age of lawlessness and violence.

From the doorway, Fenimore called out, “Lydia? â¦ Susan?”

Silence.

“Agatha?”

“Come on.” Jennifer grabbed his hand and led him out into the field.

Fenimore scanned the empty barnyard for Jenks. He followed Jennifer who was half walking, half running across the field toward the ruins of the distant cottage. As they drew near, Fenimore was dismayed again by the pile of charred rubble that had once been a charming colonial dwelling. The only thing that had remained intact after the explosion was the brick fireplace and its chimney. It reared up from the ashes, sharply silhouetted against the sky. Jennifer ran toward it.

“Careful!” Fenimore warned.

An acrid smell of smoke still lingered, causing their eyes to water and their noses to run. As Jennifer entered what was left of the cottage, she slowed down and stepped more cautiously. Chunks of roof and charred beams were crisscrossed over brick foundations, blocking her passage. Everywhere there were gaping holes to the cellar beneath. When she reached the center of the house, she stopped, realizing it would be next to impossible to measure distance amid so much debris. When Fenimore joined her, she said, “Did you bring the tape measure?”

Nodding, he drew a shiny round case from his pocket. When he pressed a button, a sturdy metal ruler shot out.

“State of the art,” Jennifer said with approval. She had half-expected him to produce an old cotton version that curled at the end and buckled in the middle. She took out the sheet of paper on which she had scribbled her calculations. After adding all the numbers in the recipe, she had come up with a total of 33Â½. Using the chimney as her home base, she began measuring feet by walking toe-to-heel outward, toward the other side of the cottage. This would give them an idea of the general location. They could use the tape measure later for greater accuracy.

“Watch it!” Fenimore warned. Jennifer teetered on the edge of a gaping hole, the same one Mrs. Doyle had almost fallen into. She turned sharply to the left and looked down into another hole between some floorboards. “There's the tunnel!” she said excitedly.

Fenimore stepped carefully over the rubble toward her. Sure enough, through the gash in the remaining floorboards he could
see an archway made of neat brickwork, leading to a dark passageway: the smugglers' means for importing illicit goods for centuries, and Mrs. Doyle's means of escape. “Now don't go jumping down there,” he warned.

“We have to explore it sometime.”

“But from the other direction. From the river.”

“All right.” Resigned to postponing that expedition, she returned to her measuring.

“You know â¦” Fenimore was staring at the chimney. “We have no reason to believe the numbers in that recipe refer to feet. Maybe they refer to something else.”

“Inches?” mocked Jennifer.

He moved toward the fireplace and began to count the bricks from the bottom of the fireplace to the top, before it broke off to form the chimney. “That's it!” he cried.

“What?”

“The fireplace bricks come to exactly 33 Â½, from top to bottom. Count them yourself.”

She did. “And it all fits in,” she said eagerly. “There's an oven in the side of the fireplace. Cookies are baked in an oven. That must have been a clue. Come on. We have to get a ladder.”

But when they returned to the farmhouse, Lydia's station wagon was parked in the driveway and there was a light in the window. The treasure hunt would have to wait.

“How nice to see you!” Lydia exclaimed when she opened the door. “I'm all alone. The Jenkses are on vacation and Susan's gone up to Philadelphia for a few days to shop for the wedding, although I can't imagine what she needsâto be married in a field! A new pair of jeans?” She laughed.

“Lydiaâ” Fenimore stopped her. “I have some news.”

Startled by his somber tone, she asked, “Susan â¦ ?”

“No,” he hastily reassured her.

She led them into her study. Before they were seated, Fenimore asked, “Do you have any scotch?”

“Goodness, Andrew, this must be serious,” she said lightly. As
far as Lydia was concerned, if the news didn't involve Susan, it couldn't be serious. She disappeared to the kitchen and returned shortly bearing a tray with a siphon, a bucket of ice, three glasses, and a very dusty bottle of scotch. The scotch was not pure indulgence on Fenimore's part; he had a question to ask Lydia and, as her physician, he felt she should be well fortified. He waited until everyone had tasted their drinks before he began.

As he unveiled Bannister as the villain behind all of Lydia's troubles, he watched her closely. She grew pale, but remained calm and self-contained. When he had finished, she said simply, “I can't believe it.”

Fenimore was not surprised by her stoicism. He knew from experience that older people were not easily shocked. They had seen too much. Since she had taken his first news so well, he decided to forge ahead with his question. “When your husband Edward died, was there an autopsy?”

She frowned at this unexpected turn in the conversation. “Yes,” she said, “it was required because it was an accidental death.”

“Did the coroner remove the bullet?”

She nodded. “But they couldn't trace it. And the hunter never came forward.”

Fenimore was silent.

“What is it, Andrew?”

“How well did you know Bannister?”

“Very well. We grew up together. He was a beau of mine for a while, before I met Edward. He asked me to marry him. I even considered it. He was bright and witty and charming. But there was a certain hardness â¦ . Then I met Edward, and Owen simply ceased to exist.”

“Did he ever approach you again? After Edward died?”

“Oh, yes. He called me often in Philadelphia. He was very consoling. He took me to a play, a concert. We had dinner a few times. One night he shocked me by proposing marriage again. I had no idea he had been carrying a torch all those years. I refused him, of course. No one could replace Edward. I remember he
became enraged. For a minute I was afraid â¦ .” she paused. “But then Susan came in from a date, interrupting us, and Owen regained his self-control. After that, I never saw him againâexcept on business matters. He still acted as my solicitor.”

Fenimore avoided her gaze.

“Andrew?”

He had gone this far, he had to finish.

Jennifer sent him a wary glance and went to stand behind Lydia.

“I think,” he said slowly, “Owen Bannister may have shot your husband.”

Jennifer placed both hands on Lydia's shoulders and held her. But she had underestimated the older woman. They both had.

“I know,” she said.