The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest (8 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest
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“You can't beat bricks for strength and beauty,” Fenimore said. “And south Jersey has so many fine examples.”
“My people had their own kiln.” Tom's interest was rekindled. “Every one of those bricks was handmade on the farm. The British tried to outlaw that. Tried to force us to import bricks from England. But we went ahead and made 'em anyway,” he said. “But the best example of brickwork in this county is the Ashley cottage—down by the old wharf. The one that should be mine,” he added under his breath.
“Well, we mustn't keep you, Tom,” Amory broke in. “Have to show these folks around.”
Tom seemed only too happy to disappear into the crowd.
“Tom's a lonely sort. Keeps to himself,” Amory said. “Good farmer, though. Real asset to the neighborhood. There's our librarian!” And before either Fenimore or Jennifer could stop him, he had hailed Miss Cunningham. “Alice, here's Dr. Fenimore.”
“Ah, the Court Physician,” she said. “Or is it the Court Jester?” She shoved something into Amory's hand. “Here's that list you wanted,” she mumbled, and moved on.
In the face of such rudeness, even Amory was at a loss. To cover the embarrassing moment, he hastily led them to a booth marked BAKED GOODS. Cookies, cakes, and tarts were on display. Of course, the person in charge was Mrs. Jenks. “Agatha, I've brought you some new customers,” Amory said. After the frigid Miss Cunningham, Agatha was like a warm hearth. “Agatha is the author of our magnificent punch,” he told them. “She concocts it from a colonial recipe. Right?”
She nodded and held out a tart to each of them to sample. They were light and flaky with a filling of—what else—strawberries.
“Delicious,” they all murmured. Jennifer bought a dozen for her father. “He has a sweet tooth, Mrs. Jenks. He'll love these.”
“Oh, you must take him one of those.” She pointed to a lemon cake decorated with a creamy white frosting. “It's my specialty.”
“It's known simply as ‘Agatha's cake' in these parts,” Amory said.
“I'll take one too,” Fenimore said.
As they passed the punch bowl, they caught sight of Oliver and
waved. He was replenishing his cup again. Fenimore murmured to Jennifer that the taking of the cloth had not changed his friend's drinking habits. Although the punch was only lightly laced with wine, if sipped all afternoon it could have a mellowing effect. But, after all, it was the last day of school for the headmaster as well as the boys, and that
was
something to celebrate.
Fenimore was feeling pretty mellow himself, without the aid of excess punch. The smell of freshly mown hay, the taste of strawberry tarts, and Jennifer at his side all contributed to his feeling of contentment. When he looked at Jennifer again, she was gazing intently at someone on the fringe of the field.
“What's up?”
“That man. Doesn't he look out of place?”
Following her gaze, Fenimore saw a man in dark city clothes leaning against a tree, smoking. Fenimore couldn't see what he was smoking, a cigarette—or a joint. It was the man's posture, languid, yet alert—ready to pounce at a moment's notice—that informed Fenimore that he was urban, and not from the neighborhood.
“Urbs in rue,” he said. What was this obvious city dude doing at a country fair? For the second time that day, Fenimore's mellow mood vanished.
F
enimore was still reflecting on the man in the field when Amory said, “Here comes Susan.”
He looked up at the slim, tanned girl coming toward them, closely followed by her college-boy escort. Peter, was it? She was wearing ragged jeans, an oversized white shirt with tails tied at the waist, and sneakers with holes in them. Living proof that at nineteen you could wear anything and look wonderful. Today, Susan's shining hair hung loose. As Fenimore introduced the young couple to Jennifer he was struck by the contrast between the two women—Snow White and Rose Red.
“Are you enjoying yourselves?” Susan asked. “Or are you sick of strawberries?”
“I never get sick of them,” Jennifer said.
“It's good to get out of the city,” Fenimore said, politely.
“Yes, and it's only a little over an hour's drive,” Jennifer marveled. “It's like being dropped into another time. How do you keep it this way?”
“We're off the beaten track. Most people take the expressway and head straight for the shore. If a stray tourist shows up here,
we do our best to discourage them.” Her grin was wicked. “We keep an extra supply of mosquitoes on hand …”
Fenimore and Jennifer exchanged glances.
… sometimes they even twist the road signs so they point the wrong way,” Peter put in.
Susan poked him with her elbow. “That's supposed to be a secret.”
Fenimore was shocked.
“Oh, I know it's not very sporting, but it does protect the place from air pollution and postcard vendors. Have you played any games yet? Come on, Doctor.” She grabbed Fenimore's arm. “You've got to try the fish pond. That's my favorite—since I was a little girl. Everyone wins a prize. You can't lose. You pay a dollar and win a fifty cent prize.” She pulled him toward the fish pond booth. Peter, apparently bored with the older folk took off in search of more exciting amusement.
“I'm not much of a fisherman,” Fenimore protested.
“No matter,” Amory assured him. “I guarantee you'll catch something.”
Susan quickly outfitted him with a rod and reel. “The trick is to throw your line over the screen at the back of the booth.” The screen was painted with a dazzling array of rainbow colored fish. There was a long line of people ahead of them. When it was finally Fenimore's turn, Susan cried, “Cast off!”
Fenimore obeyed while the others looked on. His line made it over the screen on the first try and he immediately felt a tug. The line shot up with a small package dangling from it. He grinned with the satisfaction of a schoolboy landing his first fish.
“What did I tell you?” exclaimed Susan.
They all gathered around to see what he had caught. Fenimore opened the tissue-wrapped package
very
slowly to prolong the suspense.
“Hurry up, Doctor,” someone urged.
He drew out a pair of cheap plastic spectacles with a nose and moustache attached.
“Try them on,” Jennifer said.
“Yes, Doctor, let's see,” cried Susan.
Reluctantly he obliged, and was greeted with hoots of laughter.
“A Groucho Marx clone,” Jennifer said.
“No one would ever recognize you,” Amory added.
“Here, let me find you a mirror,” Jennifer began digging in her purse for her compact, but stopped suddenly, sensing something wrong. Fenimore was staring intently at a slip of paper that had fallen out of the wrappings.
“What's that?” Susan asked.
“Oh, nothing.” He stuffed it in his pocket. “Just some instructions from the manufacturer,” he said quickly. He looked for the kid who was running the fish pond booth, but there was no one in sight and the customer line was growing. “Isn't anyone else going to play?” he asked.
Before anyone could answer, Peter reappeared. “I'm off, Sue.”
“Oh, sure.” She nodded.
“I'll call you.” And without so much as a nod to Fenimore and the others, he headed toward the field where his car was parked.
Turning back to the group, Susan explained, “Peter has an important squash match at his club in Philly this weekend. His mother would have a conniption fit if he didn't show.” She raised her eyebrows. Then she said, “I've had enough fun and games. I'm going to do some serious diving.”
“Alone?” Fenimore watched Peter's Porsche leave the field in a flash of scarlet.
“Oh, it's perfectly safe as long as I stay near the dock.” She was pulling her hair back, preparing to make a braid.
“What do you look for when you dive?” Jennifer asked.
“That depends where you are. In the Florida Keys or the Caribbean you look for exotic fish and plant life. Here we look for smuggler's loot and pirate treasure. This area,” she waved toward the river, “was a favorite hiding place for pirate booty in colonial days.”
Fenimore nodded. “Your grandmother said Blackbeard frequented these parts.”
“That's right. And Captain Kidd is also supposed to have passed this way. But it's hard to find things in this river. It's muddy and visibility is poor. To see anything we have to wear headlamps with high beams—even in daylight. The closest we've come to finding pirate booty—is an old boot!” She laughed and hurried off to change.
After Susan left, Oliver joined them and they settled down to watch an impromptu baseball game started by the Academy boys in the field nearby. The Reverend and Fenimore began comparing college baseball feats.
“Remember the time I struck out three in a row from Dartmouth?” Oliver asked.
“You're dreaming, Percy. But remember that great save I made against Lafayette?”
“Bullsh … But those were the days, weren't they, Andy?” Oliver said dreamily. “We had such plans. Remember? You were going to be a fashionable Philadelphia physician and I was going to have a church on Park Avenue.” He glanced at Fenimore. “I guess you've achieved your goal?” He sounded a trifle envious.
Fenimore thought of his shabby Spruce Street office with its trickle of patients. One could hardly call it “fashionable,” but he couldn't remember ever wanting anything else. His dreams had always been modest. All he wanted were a few loyal patients and the freedom to continue practicing on his own. “I guess …”
“Well, I haven't,” he said, with more than a trace of bitterness. “I never planned to be buried down here in the boondocks. But I still have a chance …” He brightened.
“How's that?” Fenimore asked politely.
“I have this offer from St. Matthew's in Manhattan. They have a boys' school. But it's conditional. I have to prove my mettle. My record at St. Stephen's is good except in the athletic sphere.” He made a wry face. “I can't seem to come up with winning teams.
And the alumni are not amused. If I just had some decent playing fields …”
“How are you enjoying our rustic revels?” Lydia suddenly appeared.
“They're wonderful,” Jennifer said.
“Are you getting to meet everyone, Andrew?” She cast him a meaningful glance.
“Yes. I've spoken to almost everyone, I think. Except Fred Jenks. Is he around?”
“He stays behind the scenes at these affairs. He was very busy yesterday when we were setting up. But today—unless something breaks down and we need his help, he hides in the barn or sneaks off and goes fishing.”
“I think I'll try to track him down.”
“Go ahead. Try the barn.” She pointed behind the house. “But don't forget to come to the big tent at five o'clock for tea!” She left them.
Fenimore and Jennifer excused themselves, leaving Oliver to watch the end of the ball game alone. The sun was lower and the crowds thinner. Some of the boys were starting to close up their booths. As soon as they were alone, Fenimore stopped and pulled out the slip of paper that had fallen out of his fish pond prize. He showed it to her.
Dr.
Death of
a
The phrase was written in cursive with blue ink, but the word “Doctor” above was in black.
Jennifer stared.
“Don't worry,” he said. “We're probably dealing with a practical joker here, and his bark is worse than his bite.”
“How can you be sure?” She looked at him. “Until you've been bitten?”
He didn't answer.
After a moment, she asked, “Didn't he take a chance? Now you have a sample of his handwriting?”
“Or hers,” Fenimore said. “He or she must have been desperate, but decided it was worth the risk to scare me off.”
“He or she doesn't know you very well,” she said ruefully.
“There's Jenks now.” Fenimore saw a figure emerging from the barn. Handing Jennifer the purple teddy bear he had inherited, he said, “Meet me at the car,” and took off.
“Be careful,” she called after him.
When he was out of sight, Jennifer decided to use the time to mend fences. She found Miss Cunningham packing up the books she had been unable to sell.
“Can I help?” Jennifer asked.
The woman looked wary.
“I could carry some cartons to the car for you,” Jennifer persisted.
“They're heavy.”
“I know. I'm a bookseller.” She grinned.
“First, you'll have to get rid of that ridiculous animal.”
Jennifer set the teddy bear down under a tree. She held out her empty hands.
“Well, I suppose you can start with that lot over there. I'm parked behind the tea tent. It's a blue van.”
Jennifer easily hefted a large box of books onto her hip and took off. Her slight figure was deceptive. She was very strong.
“Hey, Mr. Jenks,” Fenimore said, catching up with him.
Jenks turned.
Silhouetted against the sun, Fenimore could hardly see his face, but he sensed that his expression was not friendly. “Sorry to bother you, but I'd like to ask you a few questions.”
Jenks grunted.
“First—could you tell me what happened the night of the fire?”
“Weren't no fire.”
“I know. But you didn't find that out until later. Right?”
Jenks looked across the field, apparently trying to remember that night three months ago. “I was doing my late night check, makin' sure everything was locked up. Didn't use to have to lock things,” he said. “It was about ten o'clock when I smelled smoke. I was standin' right about here. It was foggy. When the fog comes up from the river, you can't see a thing. But I followed my nose. When I got a few feet from the shed, I didn't see any flames, but I took the hose out anyway and sprayed the shed. When the smoke cleared all I saw was an old smoke bomb. Some kid sure made a fool of me!”
“How could you know what it was? You did the right thing.”
Jenks's face cleared.
“What about those cellar steps you were repairing, when Mrs. Ashley almost fell?”
“I don't know what happened, Doctor.” Again, he looked distressed. “I swear I locked the door when I was done.”
“Does anyone else have a key?”
“Only Mrs. Ashley. I keep meaning to get a second set of house keys made, but I never seem to get around to it.”
“Do you keep your keys with you all the time?”
“Yep—except when I'm asleep. Then they're on my bureau.”
“I know it's hard to remember, but did you miss them at any time?”
He shook his head slowly.
Fenimore said, “I'm sorry to take up your time, Mr. Jenks. But we're pretty worried about Mrs. Ashley.”

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