“Now, are you going to tell me what's going on here?” Ned looked from one to the other as he made his way toward the sherry decanter.
Polly threw back her head like a great lioness. “Your so-called friend here has just implied that one of us is responsible for Sweet Grass's death.”
Never overly quick, except in surgical matters, Ned took his time. “How's that?”
“According to Sherlock here, one of us did her in.” Polly had not looked at Fenimore once since he had divulged his suspicions. As far as she was concerned, he no longer existed. A single remark had placed him outside the magic circle, in that vast gray void to which everyone not in the Hardwicks' social set was automatically consigned.
Ned examined his moccasins.
“What's all the commotion?” Lydia reappeared from the terrace.
“Oh, nothing, darling. We've just been accused of murder, that's all. Come in and join the fun.” Polly beckoned to her.
Lydia was barely seated, eyeing Fenimore quizzically, when
Kitty flitted in. After pausing briefly, she darted to the fish tank and shook a blizzard of food into the water.
“Don't overfeed them,” Polly spoke sharply.
Her daughter turned with an odd smile and crooned in a sing-song voice, “Lunchtime.”
“Dr. Fenimore won't be staying for lunch,” her mother said.
“Oh? Too bad,” Kitty said. “We're having my favorites. Shepherd's pie and raspberry Jell-O with whipped cream.” She clapped her hands.
Lydia looked amused.
Polly looked away.
“I must be going.” Fenimore moved toward the door.
The surgeon followed him. “I'll see you out.”
In the hallway, his host spoke in a low voice. “You mustn't mind Polly. I'm sure it's all a misunderstanding. She gets carried away at times, especially with anything concerning the family. She's like a lioness with her cubs,” he said, half proudly. “She'd do anything to protect us.”
Anything? thought Fenimore. “I understand,” he said.
“Say, Fenimore, how about coming to PSPS tomorrow afternoon. We're having a little reception in honor of the Winterberry Museum. It's the hundredth anniversary, you know. Be my guest. Show there's no hard feelings. What d'ya say?” He lightly punched his arm.
“I'll check my calendar and give you a call.” Fenimore stepped out the front door into bright sunlight.
As he walked to his car, he caught sight of Ted pruning a hedge. The young man waved and started toward him. Fenimore waited, his hand on the door handle.
“Thought you were staying to lunch,” he said.
“Change of plans.”
“An emergency?”
“Sort of.”
“Well, I'd better let you go.” He looked down at the shears in his hand.
“Where are you going to dump all those hedge clippings?” Fenimore asked.
“There's a compost heap over there.” He nodded toward a grove of trees halfway down the driveway.
Fenimore got in his car and turned the key. Ted stepped back. As he drove away, he watched the solitary figure in the rearview mirror move slowly toward the house.
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
A
t the foot of the driveway, Fenimore pulled over and waited. When he judged that the Hardwicks were well into their lunch, he got out and began walking back up the drive toward the grove of trees. For most of the way, he was screened from the house by a high, thick hedge of rhododendron and boxwood. But when he reached the grove, a vista opened up between the trees, and he could see the house and lawn. The lawn was empty, the terrace was vacant, and the hedge clippers were silent. Lunch must be in progress. Cautiously, he moved into the grove. The compost pile wasn't hard to findâhe fell into it. His foot sank into the soft mass of decaying matter. When he withdrew it, bits of grass clung to his pants. He didn't bother to brush them off. He would be covered with them before he was finished. The pit was filled almost to the brim with grass cuttings, twigs, and hedge clippings, the accumulation of a summer's refuse on a well-run estate. He turned over a pile of grass with his foot. The blades were yellowish brown and shriveled. He probed again. More of the same. Keeping the house in his line of vision, he picked up a nearby trowel and dug. There was something. He
pulled out a branch about two and a half feet long. One end was whittled to a point and charred. He examined the rest of it. Although no tree expert, it looked to him like a common variety, walnut or maple. He dug again and came up with two more. Both were pointed and charred and from the same tree. A crow cawed overhead, as if voicing outrage at his investigations. If only he had asked Mrs. Henderson how many people had been at the picnic, then he would know how many skewers to look for. Another probe uncovered three more. He wondered how long a Hardwick lunch lasted. He knew how long a Hardwick dinner lasted. Interminably. He glanced at his watch. They'd been at it about ten minutes. They must be well into the shepherd's pie. He dug again. Two more, identical to the others. He examined the trees nearest him. Maples, primarily. Comparing their branches with the cut ones, he decided they could very well have come from them. Another few minutes and he had come up with four more. He was perspiring. Between probes he cast anxious glances at the house. When he had unearthed sixteen identical branches he was ready to quit. One more try. He rummaged still deeper into the pile and pulled out number seventeen. Right away, he felt that it was different. Smooth instead of rough. And it wasn't stiff like the others. When he held it out, it drooped slightly. It had probably made a poor skewer.
He brushed the grass off his pants, collected the sticks under one arm, and headed down the drive back to his car. He was rounding the last rhododendron bush when he caught sight of something shiny gleaming in the sun. A car bumper. And not belonging to his car.
“Hi, Doctor.” Bernice waved from her red Jaguar. “I was afraid I'd missed you, but as I came in I saw your car.” She was smiling in such a friendly manner, it was obvious she had not been in touch with her family. She knew nothing about the recent brouhaha.
“I was just on my way out. Have to get to the hospital. If you
hurry, you'll be in time for the raspberry Jell-O.” If only she doesn't ask about the sticks.
“Collecting firewood?” She nodded at the sticks.
“Well, actually, I did snitch a few twigs.” He smiled, shamefacedly. “I've got a fireplace at home, and Philadelphia sidewalks don't abound with kindling.”
“Help yourself. We're drowning in it. You'll save the gardener a lot of bother. Sorry I missed you.” She smiled and started the motor.
“Wait.” He moved up to the car window. “I did have a question for you. It's kind of technical, but being a botanist, I thought you might know.”
She turned off the motor.
“Which plants have cardiac glycosides?”
“Wow,” she blinked, “that's worthy of a Ph.D dissertation.” She considered. “I can think of a fewâfoxglove, of course, and lily of the valley, and dogbane ⦔ She grimaced. “Sorry. It's been a while since I studied this. What's it all about?” She seemed honestly curious.
“A colleague of mine is doing research on the effects of digoxin and wanted to know which plants have a similar chemistry.”
“I can look them up for you when I get home.”
“I'd appreciate that.”
She took off with a wave.
If Bernice was faking her lack of knowledge about cardiac glycosides, she was a very good actor, Fenimore decided.
Â
Back in the city, Fenimore's first stop was Penn Bot, otherwise known as the Pennsylvania Botanical Society. He double-parked, to the consternation of other motorists, and dashed in the door brandishing a stick. The dignified dowager at the front desk looked up in terror.
“Quick. I'll give a donation to the first person who can identify this twig for me.”
“Well, I ⦔
“What is it, Ethel?” a chirrupy voice called from the next room.
“There's a âgentleman' here with a question.”
The owner of the chirrupy voice appeared. “Can I help you?” “Yes. What's this?” He waved the stick under her nose.
“Well, I can't identify it if you keep waving it about.”
“Oh, sorry.” He held it still. A cacophony of car horns rent the air.
“Ethel, would you see what that awful racket is about?” She was studying the stick carefully, turning it from side to side, feeling the bark. “You don't have any leaves, do you?” She looked at him reproachfully.
“Sorry.”
“Just a minute.” She left the room and came back consulting a book.
“There's a car double-parked, blocking traffic,” Ethel informed them.
“Oh, I wish they wouldn't do that. So thoughtless.” She was pondering a photograph. “Yes,” she said finally, “I'm sure this is it.” She showed him the picture.
He read the caption underneath. “Thank you very much.” He grabbed the stick and was almost out the door when he remembered his promise. Turning back, he scrawled out a check for twenty-five dollars.
“What a strange man,” said Ethel, staring at the check in her hand.
The other woman nodded. “You never know what's going to walk in that door.”
Â
His next stop was the Police Administration Building. Deciding not to double-park there, he found a space a few blocks away. When he entered Rafferty's office, he was out of breath.
The policeman peered at him over a mountain of paperwork. “To what do I oweâ?”
Fenimore tossed the stick on top of the mountain.
“What's this?”
Fenimore told him.
“I'll be. We can make an arrest, then.”
“Not quite. Give me 'til tomorrow. I think I can get a full confession.”
“That's dangerous.”
“I can manage it.”
“You'd better have some backup.”
“I'll call you if I need any.”
“I don't like this.”
“So long.” He was out the door.
Rafferty studied the stick Fenimore had left behind. When he had satisfied his curiosity, he placed it carefully in a bag and labeled it. When the case came to trial, it would undoubtedly be Exhibit A.
Â
That night, after a very full day, Fenimore would have liked to fall right to sleep. But he had some bedtime reading still to do in
Poisonous Plants of the United States and Canada.
He found oleander:
Oleander
(NeriumOleander)
is an ornamental evergreen shrub or bush, up to 20 feet tall, which has been introduced from the Mediterranean region â¦
Fenimore's eye moved quickly down the page:
Oleander is extremely toxic in all parts, green or dry, to all classes of livestock and to the human being. Leaves have been shown deadly at as little as 0.005 percent of the animals weight in horses and cattle ⦠. A single leaf is considered potentially lethal to the human being. Loss of human life, sometimes involving large numbers of persons during military operations, has repeatedly occurred when meat was roasted while skewered on oleander branches ⦠.
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 6:00 P.M.
T
he door to the Winterberry Museum was closed and gave no hint of the transformation that had taken place on the other side. It was so quiet that Fenimore thought he must have the wrong day. Cautiously, he turned the knob and was met with a rush of high-pitched chatter and a mixture of scents that had nothing to do with science. Toasted cheese and mushrooms vied with bay rum and Chanel. Expensively clad guests filled every available space, and flowers decorated every available surface. Chrysanthemums sprouted from the heart-lung machine, zinnias sprang from the megacolon display case, and ornamental shrubs surrounded the bronchoscopy exhibit. The women's committee had been working overtime. Gone was the pungent odor of formaldehyde, the respectful library hush, and the dust. Everything had been vacuumed and polished. The only thing that wasn't sparkling was the conversation: “I had no idea she was married again ⦔; “I hear they appointed Watson chief of staff ⦔; “So you finally threw caution to the winds and bought that boat ⦠.”
Fenimore anxiously scanned the room for the bar. He located
it in the Victorian doctor's office. Efficient, white-jacketed bartenders were serving drinks from behind the mahogany examining table. He moved toward it with as much alacrity as the crowd would allow. As he approached, he spotted the broad back of Ned Hardwick. The surgeon turned and greeted him. “Ah, there you are, Fenimore. I was afraid you'd forgotten. What will you have? I'm on the wagon tonight. A little stomach upset,” he explained, displaying a glass of Perrier with a twist of lemon.
“Scotch and water, please.”
Ned gave the order to the bartender.
“Quite a crowd,” Fenimore observed. “Are the receptions always this well attended?”
“Well, this is kind of specialâthe museum's hundredth birthday and all. And of course we don't usually hold 'em in here. Normally we gather in the front hall. But we usually have a pretty good turnout. You should come more often.”
“The flowers are impressive.”
“Yes, the women's committee went all out. Polly's the president this year.”
“I thought I recognized her hand. Where is she?”
“Er, she was down here at the crack of dawn, arranging things, but I'm afraid she overdid it. When she came home, she collapsed and went to bed ⦠.” His eyes shifted slightly, and Fenimore knew that Polly had stayed away on account of him.
“I'm sorry.” He took a deep swallow of Scotch.
An exuberant young couple advanced on Ned. “Dr. Hardwick, I want you to meet my wife, Nancy.”
Nancy grabbed his hand. “Oh, Dr. Hardwick, I've heard so much about you.”
Fenimore excused himself (unnecessarily, as his departure went unnoticed) and grabbed a cucumber sandwich from a passing tray. Young men in white coats darted everywhere, offering glasses of champagne and trays of succulent hors d'oeuvres. While Fenimore sipped and munched, he scanned the room for
a familiar face. Ah, he glimpsed a fellow classmate from medical school, leaning against the heart-lung machine. He looked as out of place and ill at ease as Fenimore felt. Dodging guests, waiters, and busboys, he edged over to him. “Pete?” He placed a hand on his arm.
“Andy?” He grabbed Fenimore's hand as if it were a life raft, and the two men happily embarked on a sea of reminiscences while consuming alcohol and cucumber sandwiches at an alarming rate.
Â
Later, back at the office, Mrs. Doyle was still working late when Horatio rushed in. “Where's the doc?”
“Who wants to know?”
He glowered. He had just spotted a pink message slip in the doctor's in tray, and he was in no mood to be trifled with. It read: “Call Dr. Applethorn. Re: Serum. Urgent.”
Mrs. Doyle glanced at her calendar. “At the moment, he's attending a very fancy party at the Philadelphia Society of Physicians and Surgeons.”
“Where's that?”
“Eighteenth and Walnut.”
“Oh, yeah. I know the place.”
“You do?” Mrs. Doyle was surprised.
Horatio slammed the file drawer he had been working in and reached for his leather jacket.
“You're not going there?”
“I hafta see him.”
“But he left specific instructions that he wasn't to be disturbed except for an emergency.”
“This is an emergency.”
“You're not sick?” She flashed him a quick look of concern.
He shook his head and sprinted for the door.
“Wait ⦔
But he was gone.
Â
Â
The large, round academic clock read 8:15. It was the one thing the decorators had been unable to disguise with flowers or ferns for the party. Fenimore, on his third Scotch and his fifth cucumber sandwich, was regaling his companion with an escapade he and some other medical students had taken part in, something to do with throwing water-filled balloons at trolley cars at Forty-second and Woodland. He was nearing the climax, when yet another white-jacketed waiter shoved a tray under his nose and strongly urged him to try the single watercress sandwich that remained. Although it looked a trifle world-weary and worn around the edges, by this time Fenimore was relaxed, hungry, and easily subject to suggestion. He popped it in his mouth. As he did so, he noticed Ned staring intently at him from across the room. Was he behaving improperly? It
had
been some time since he had attended such a formal affair. He straightened up from his lounging position against the heart-lung machine and felt his neck to make sure his tie was in place. He concluded the anecdote he had been relating with a little less animation than before. But his companion's appreciation was undampened and his enthusiasm encouraged him to launch into another tale. He was two sentences into his new story when he stopped, staring at a busboy who was hovering nearby. He bore such a marked resemblance to Horatio that he could have been his twin. Warily, Fenimore eyed his drink and put down the glass. Once before he had drunk too much and seen double. He had been on his way home after an especially wild fraternity party and he had seen two moons. He had diagnosed the phenomenon as due to the influence of excessive alcohol on the brain stem. But to see the double of someone who wasn't even there? And who was coming toward him with some urgency?
“Doc, I've gotta talk to you.”
“How the hell did you get in here?”
Fenimore's friend politely excused himself.
“And where did you find that getup?” He was referring to the white jacket.
“I stole it.”
“That's nice.”
Horatio glanced behind him. “I've gotta talk to you.”
Fenimore felt a hand on his shoulder. “The crowd seems to be thinning out,” Ned said, ignoring Horatio.
Fenimore looked around. The room was less crowded. The bartenders were beginning to stow their half-empty bottles in cartons. The waiters and other busboys were retrieving soiled glasses from odd corners of the room and stacking plates. All except Horatio.
“I want to show you something.” Ned, his hand still on Fenimore, steered him across the room toward the long glass case filled with rows of human skulls. It was illuminated tonight, in honor of the occasion. Horatio followed them. Ned turned on him abruptly. “Don't you have work to do?”
Horatio gave him one of his looks, but it was lost on the surgeon. He had already turned back to the display case. “Look here.” He pointed out a skull with very few teeth and read aloud from the placard underneath: “âSailor. Died of dagger thrust off Malta, 1816.' And over here, âMagyar from Transylvania. Guerrilla and deserter. Executed by hanging, 1861.'”
Fenimore glanced around for Horatio, but he had disappeared. Ned continued his guided tour of the skulls, and Fenimore obediently followed. Was he going to read every one of those damned placards? His knees felt like jelly and his head ached. Tomorrow's hangover must be getting a head start. Ned droned on. Fenimore surreptitiously stole a look at his watch. Almost eight-thirty. Wasn't this shindig supposed to be over at eight?
“And there, âRobber. Shot by gendarmes, 1862.' Seems we don't have any priority on violence, eh, Fenimore?”
“Umm,” was the best response Fenimore could muster.
Whether it was the liquor or the company, he was beginning to feel queasy. The skulls in the case seemed to be aging before his eyes. Once ivory, they were gradually turning saffron yellow. He glanced over his shoulder. The last guest had gone. The bartenders, waiters, and busboys had left. No sign of Horatio. He wondered what he had wanted to talk to him about.
“Take a look at this.” Ned had moved farther down the display case.
Fenimore, attempting to follow, staggered.
“Whoa.” Ned grinned. “You really did hit that Scotch, didn't you?”
Fenimore leaned against the glass case with care. Each skull wore a bright yellow halo. “Dizzy ⦠drink ⦔
Hardwick watched him slide to his knees, his fingernails scraping against the glass. He rested briefly, a surprised look on his face, before toppling sideways to the floor.
Ned waited a minute, gazing down at his inert body. Then he bent and began pawing through his pockets. He found what he was searching for. A ring of keys. Taking them, he headed for the door. Before leaving, he turned and hissed, “Did you really think I'd let my only son marry a squaw, Fenimore?”