The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call (12 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call
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She gasped. “What happened?”
“Five muggers knocked silly, now cooling their heels in the lockup.”
Mrs. Doyle smiled. “I told you, Doctor. Who says you can't teach old dogs new tricks?”
“I concede. But I don't think your lady friends would appreciate that appellation.”
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Doyle snorted. “They'd take it as meant—as a compliment.”
After Fenimore hung up, he sat staring at the telephone. Maybe Doyle was right. Maybe parties were a death knell for the Pancoasts. Maybe he should attend this one. He wasn't in a Valentine mood. Fenimore riffled through the mail. Medicare forms. Medical journals. Pharmaceutical ads. A postcard. On the front—a picture of a Parisian cemetery. He flipped it over. In Jennifer's hand he read:
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
Paris is dead—
Without you.
He glanced at his watch. Only noon. If he hurried he could take care of his hospital patients and still make Seacrest in time for tea.
A
fter her talk with Fenimore, Mrs. Doyle went in search of Susanne or Adam. She found Susanne first—in the kitchen—helping the aunts make tea sandwiches.
“Of course,” she responded to Mrs. Doyle's request. “We're almost finished here. I'll get my purse.”
As soon as they were settled in the car, Susanne began to talk. She told the nurse how recent events were playing havoc with the family's nerves.
“Not just Mildred's,” she said. “Adam's been terribly irritable, which is very unlike him. He snaps at the children and me. Yesterday he sent Tad to his room for next to nothing and when I tried to intervene, he walked out.”
Mrs. Doyle clucked sympathetically. She was used to people confiding in her. They often told her the most intimate details of their personal lives on buses and trolleys. They had been doing this since she was in high school. She finally decided she had the kind of homely face that people thought they could
trust. When she was younger, she would have gladly traded her face for a more beautiful one and put up with a little mistrust. But at fifty-eight, she had accepted it and tried to live up to the faith people placed in her.
“Adam's having trouble at school too—” Susanne took a turn a little too sharply. Mrs. Doyle grabbed the door handle.
“What sort of trouble?”
“Oh … the headmaster wants him to be easier on the boys. Not demand so much from them. Give them better grades for less work. It would make the school look better. But Adam has very high standards. He believes strongly in academic excellence. He thinks we're too soft as a country academically and that we're falling behind in the science race.”
“Has he ever thought of teaching at a university?”
“Oh no. He feels that it's crucial to teach science at an early age—especially physics. If you wait too long—until they're in college—you'll lose some of the best minds.”
“Hmm.”
“He's very concerned that America is falling behind other countries—like Germany and Japan—in the sciences. Those countries have much stiffer science requirements. Teaching physics is almost a religion to Adam. A sort of—mission.”
Mrs. Doyle was amazed to learn how much was seething beneath the surface of such a seemingly casual and relaxed young man. “Perhaps a vacation—” she suggested. “Does he have a spring break?”
“Yes. The boys get off for ten days in March. But Adam always spends his vacations on his boat.”
“Boat?” Mrs. Doyle noticed they had left the town of Seacrest and were driving along the beach.
“Yes. He has a Lightning. A small craft. He stores it in the aunts' carriage house in winter. The boat has room for only two people and I'm rarely free to go with him because of the children. Here's Mildred's house.” She drew to a stop in front of a spacious ranch house overlooking the beach.
A motherly, middle-aged woman answered their ring. She introduced herself as Mrs. Perkins. (A member of the generation that still believed in last names.) “Mrs. Pancoast asked me to stay till suppertime, because of the tea,” she told them. “The baby's having his nap and the other children are in the playroom. Shall I get them?”
“No, that won't be necessary,” Susanne said.
“Their mother seemed upset this morning,” Mrs. Doyle explained. “We just wanted to make sure they were in good hands.”
“And no wonder, what with all that's been going on!” Mrs. Perkins shook her head. “Poor things.”
Mrs. Doyle caught a glimpse of toys scattered about and a couple of soda cans resting on good pieces of furniture. But the untidiness was no more than what one would expect in a house with young children.
They apologized for intruding and went back to the car. On the way home, Mrs. Doyle said, “Why don't you and your husband try to get away for a few days during spring break? You could leave your children with some kind soul like Mrs. Perkins. It would do you both good.”
“That would be nice,” Susanne murmured. “I'll try to persuade him. But you don't know what it's like to compete with
a sailboat, Mrs. Doyle.” She took her eyes off the road to send her a quick smile. “Competing with a beautiful, younger woman would be much easier.”
Mrs. Doyle patted her shoulder. “It's worth a try.”
M
ildred was spending the interlude between lunch and the Tea at a table by the window—her Tarot cards spread out before her. She seemed strangely serene. Not the dazed, anxious person of earlier that morning. Mrs. Doyle came and stood behind her. “Mind if I look?”
“Not at all.” She continued to stare at the cards in silence.
Arranged in a semicircle, each card was decorated with a figure. The Emperor, the Fool, the Hermit—Mrs. Doyle read their captions to herself. They were brightly colored and resembled old paintings. “That's a funny one.” She pointed to the figure of a man hanging upside down.
When Mildred looked up, her smile was mysterious. “Would you like a reading?”
“Oh, heavens no. I don't believe in that stuff.”
“I feel good vibes coming from you, Mrs. Doyle. You have nothing to fear.”
“I'm not
afraid
,” she said huffily.
Mildred reached for a small chair and pulled it opposite her. “Have a seat.”
Slowly, against her will, Mrs. Doyle sat.
“When I do a reading, I always like to start from scratch.” Mildred drew the cards together, re-forming the pack. She took a small square of black silk from a wooden box at her elbow and wrapped the pack in it. The box was old and worn and looked handmade. She placed the wrapped cards in the box and closed the lid. “It's best to start fresh. I wouldn't want my wishes and desires to contaminate yours.”
“Hogwash.”
“That's what they all say in the beginning.” Again that enigmatic smile. “These cards have an interesting history, Mrs. Doyle. Some people believe their symbols may be traced back to Egyptian times. Others date them from the early Renaissance—”
While Mildred talked, the cards were being cooked or cleansed in the mysterious wooden box, Mrs. Doyle assumed.
“The Major Arcana, or figure cards, represent archetypes which Jung says we all have in common in our collective unconscious. The Empress, for example, is the mother figure. And the Hermit is—”
“Mrs. Doyle! Don't tell me you've succumbed?” Judith stood in the doorway.
“Oh, mercy no, I was just—”
“She was just about to let me do a reading,” Mildred said.
“Oh well, don't let me interrupt. I thought I'd go out on the porch for a breath of fresh air before the guests arrive.”
Mildred waited until the front door closed behind Judith
before she reached into the box and retrieved the cards. Slowly she removed the black silk and asked Mrs. Doyle to shuffle the cards. When the nurse had finished, Mildred asked, “Do you have some overwhelming question? Something that has been dominating your thoughts recently?”
Yes, she thought. Who is the murderer? “Not really,” she said.
“Then I will do the Whole Person Spread. This will give you an overall picture of yourself and help direct you toward the future path you should take.”
“Back to Philly and my karate classes?”
Mildred smiled tolerantly.
Mrs. Doyle tried to say “Hogwash” again, but somehow the word stuck in her throat. Instead she concentrated on the pretty pictures Mildred was laying on the table. There were four of them, in red and yellow, black and gold, The Magician, the Hermit, the Wheel of Fortune, and … Death.
Mrs. Doyle made an involuntary movement.
“No,” Mildred said quickly. “Death doesn't mean the end in this context. It means transition—a new beginning. The beginning of a new life, perhaps.”
“I like my old life,” Mrs. Doyle said querulously.
“These changes may not refer to time or place—but to the spirit,” Mildred assured her. “You may be about to move to a higher spiritual plane.”
Suddenly a familiar face flashed before Mrs. Doyle—Father Clancey's. Followed by a familiar voice with just a touch of an Irish brogue. “Testing the waters, Kathleen?” it said.
She let Mildred finish her reading, but she had lost interest. In the nick of time, she had been pulled back from the abyss.
M
rs. Beesley led the parade of senior citizens up the path to the Pancoasts' front door. Many of the ladies favored red pantsuits for the occasion. Many of the gentlemen sported red neckties. They all wore the same expressions of eager anticipation.
“I'm so glad we didn't disappoint them,” Judith said.
“Yes, it would have been a pity,” Emily agreed.
When the doorbell rang, they both went to answer it. Emily wielded her walker with the same exuberance as she had wielded her hockey stick as a girl.
Mrs. Doyle was the designated dollhouse guide. She guarded it like a sentry and fielded questions like a veteran museum docent. The aunts had primed her with answers to the most frequently asked questions, such as, “Is the chandelier real crystal?” and “Do the toilets flush?” The answer to both was—“No.” But she wasn't prepared for the shrewd heavyset woman in a pink pantsuit, who asked, “Where did the murders take place?”
“Uh—” Mrs. Doyle hesitated. Then, deciding on a straightforward
approach, she pointed, in quick succession, to the dining room, the carriage house, and the studio. But she underestimated her audience.
“You missed one. Who's that in the library?” Pink pants said.
“Probably a Pancoast who overdid the booze,” hooted an old codger who fancied himself the life of the party. “These displays are very realistic, you know.” He guffawed.
“Oh, Harry,” squealed a petite, blue-haired lady who was hanging onto his arm. The other women tittered.
Mrs. Doyle bent to look in the library. Lying in the middle of the miniature oriental rug was a clothespin. Tucked between its splayed halves was the harpoon which had recently hung over the mantel. Adorning the neck of the clothespin was a tiny red bow tie.
Dimly, Mrs. Doyle was aware of the doorbell. From a long distance, she heard Judith greet someone. Elderly faces tilted toward her—wearing inquiring expressions. She felt behind her for the banister to steady herself.
“I don't know who that is,” she managed to say. “Tea is being served in the dining room. Won't you go in, please?”
Always ready for refreshments—a change from their boring institutional diet—the senior citizens followed her suggestion and moved in a body toward the dining room.
“Mrs. Doyle! Look who's here!” Judith was approaching with someone in tow.
When she saw who it was, Mrs. Doyle almost fell on his neck. She restrained herself with difficulty.
“What's wrong?” Fenimore asked sharply, although her face told him all.
“Nothing. Just a bit tired. Think I'll sit down.” She promptly sat on the bottom step of the staircase.
“Judith, would you get my nurse a cup of tea? She looks a bit fagged.”
“Oh, dear Doctor, I'm afraid we've worn her out. She's been working since dawn. Stay right there, Mrs. Doyle. Don't move. I'll be right back. Oh, dear—” And Judith scurried off like the White Rabbit.
“Now,” said Fenimore.
“In the library. Look!” she commanded.
He drew a quick breath. “The other library. Where—?”
“Over there.” Mrs. Doyle pointed to a door down the hall, next to the parlor.
“Try to detain the guests in the dining room, Doyle,” he said, over his shoulder.
As Fenimore placed his hand on the doorknob, he felt a wave of déjà vu. How many more times would he have to go through this? Turning the knob, he went inside.
“Was that Dr. Fenimore I saw just now?” Mildred confronted Mrs. Doyle by the sideboard.
Mrs. Doyle's usual flair for repartee deserted her. She nodded.
“I want to speak to him. I want to know why he hasn't made more progress in his investigations. It's been months. I thought I saw him go in the library—” She started off.
“Mrs. Pancoast!”
She turned.
Mrs. Doyle forced a smile. “I think he's in the ‘men's'.”
“Oh, all right. But let me know as soon as he comes out.”
Her former dazed attitude had been replaced by a belligerent one.
It was Mrs. Doyle who felt dazed. She watched the guests gobbling their sandwiches and guzzling their tea as if through a thick fog. All the time she was watching them, her mind was in the library.
“Everything seems to be going well.” Emily brought her walker to rest beside Mrs. Doyle.
“Yes.” Mrs. Doyle pulled herself together. “They all seem to be enjoying themselves.”
“Judith told me we've exhausted you. We certainly appreciated your help, Mrs. Doyle. I hope you won't be too anxious to leave us.”
“I'll stay as long as you need me,” she said graciously.
“In that case, I must try to delay my recovery.” Emily smiled and moved off.
“Have you seen my father, Mrs. Doyle?” Susanne came up to her. “I seem to be always losing him.”
“No, I haven't,” she said shortly. Then, in an attempt to make amends, she added, “The aunts may have sent him on an errand.”
“Or … maybe he's in the library.” Susanne turned toward the hall.
“Wait!” Mrs. Doyle took her arm and drew her over to the table. “Why don't you have some tea first. You look a little peaked. It'll perk you up.”
“Oh, I don't know—”
“Here, I'll pour some for you.” Mrs. Doyle poured her a full
cup and escorted her to a chair next to a very loquacious senior citizen she had noticed earlier. She counted on Susanne's good manners to keep her beside him for at least a quarter of an hour. She glanced at her watch.
“Caught you!” Mrs. Beesley pounced on Mrs. Doyle. “Clock-watching, weren't you? Now don't worry. I promised to get you all home in time for supper.” To prove her statement, she began prodding the others toward the parlor. “Come now, everybody. Time to exchange your valentines.”
Good heavens! Mrs. Beesley had mistaken her, Kathleen Doyle—a young fifty-eight-year-old-for one of her senior citizens! Surely, Seacrest hadn't aged her that much? She scanned her reflection in the mirror over the sideboard.
It had.
Slowly she made her way out of the dining room in search of Dr. Fenimore. She found him emerging from the library. He too had aged.
“Edgar?”
“Yes. With the harpoon.” He scanned the hall. “Where is Susanne?”
“In there.” Mrs. Doyle pointed to the dining room
“I must tell her, before I call the police.”
“She's been looking everywhere for him.”
“I've really botched this, Doyle.” His face wore a look of anguish she had never seen before. “What about you? Have you uncovered anything?”
She shook her head. “They all seem such nice, normal people. Except Mildred. But she's just a … nut.”
“Whoever is behind this—” His tone was menacing.
Sporadic giggles and gruff guffaws emanated from the parlor. The senior citizens were enjoying their valentines.
Fenimore straightened his shoulders and went to find Susanne.

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