“Not yet. Would you like the pleasure?” He placed his feet on his desk.
“How much time do I have?”
“We have to notify the next of kin within twenty-four hours of identification.”
“Fiancés aren't ânext of kin'”.
“You must've been a whiz at genetics.”
Ignoring him, Fenimore asked, “Does she have any blood relatives?”
“When the fiance reported her missing, he mentioned she had a brother.”
“Where is he?”
“South Jersey, near Riverton.”
“That figures. The Lenapes settled around there.”
“There you go. At last you can put that history hobby of yours to some practical use.” Rafferty enjoyed poking fun at Fenimore's academic pursuits.
“Look, do you think you could bend the rules a bit?” Fenimore
asked. “I have a light schedule today, and I think I may know these Hardwicks. Maybe I can dig something up.”
“Haven't you dug enough up?”
Fenimore waited patiently, like a child who has asked for a special treat.
“Okay,” Rafferty brought his feet back to the floor with a thud. “You can have âtil nine o'clock.”
Fenimore was heading for the door when Rafferty hailed him. “You left your heart behind.”
He turned and grinned. “Why, Raff, I didn't know you cared.” He pocketed the plastic model and exited before the policeman could throw something at him.
STILL MONDAY MORNING
I
n the dim corridor outside Rafferty's office, Fenimore waited for the elevator and thought about the Hardwicks. Ned was already an established surgeon when Fenimore was a mere intern. As soon as Ned had begun practice, he had married Polly Matthews. Because Polly came from a prominent and wealthy Philadelphia family and her father was chief of surgery, everyone thought Ned had made “a good match.” This had nettled the young surgeon at the time, because he prided himself on his own origins. His family was of old Boston stock; his ancestors had arrived on the
Mayflower
in 1620. But the Hardwicks had lived in Philadelphia for only two generations, relegating him to a slightly lower rung than Polly's on the social ladder, even though her ancestors had not arrived in Philadelphia on the
Welcome
with William Penn until 1682.
Giving up on the elevator, Fenimore took the fire stairs.
While a young doctor, Fenimore had seen the Hardwicks fairly often. Polly was famous for her dinner parties. (People in Polly's circles never asked you over for dinnerâthey invited you to dinner parties.) She often invited a few younger staff members
to liven up the parties, and Fenimore, known even then for his witty repartee, was frequently included.
Fenimore had early grown tired of the Hardwicks' form of entertaining. By the time he was thirty, he preferred to spend his spare evenings at home with Sal and a good mystery. (That was before he met Jennifer, of course.) Now, Hardwick was a prominent surgeon. There wasn't a prestigious board in Philadelphia that didn't bear his name, and the only time Fenimore ever saw the famous surgeon was when he bumped into him at some medical meeting. Funny, he couldn't remember his son, or any of his children, for that matter. Of course that was more than twenty years ago. The children would have been very young at the time and not permitted to eat with the grown-ups. They probably lived their small lives upstairs under the watchful eye of an expensive nanny.
Fenimore pushed open the fire door and stepped into the foyer of the Police Administration Building. He captured a pay phone and dialed his office. After learning that there were no messages, he gave Mrs. Doyle her instructions. First, call Dr. Hardwick's home and ask for Ted. If Ted answers, or is called to the phone, pretend to be doing a television survey and ask what program he's watching. If the person who answers has never heard of Ted, say, “Sorry, wrong number,” and hang up. Second, call Dr. Hardwick's office. If he's in, ask how long he'll be there. If he's out, ask where he can be reached.
While Fenimore waited for Doyle to call back, he jealously guarded his pay phone and surveyed the scene before him. Armed men in blue uniforms led scruffy, handcuffed youths in and out of a network of mysterious rooms. None of the offenders looked particularly upset. On the contrary, they had the air of being in a familiar place, following a well-known routine and being bored with the whole procedure.
The telephone jangled in his ear. He grabbed the receiver to learn that Ted Hardwick had answered Ned Hardwick's home
phone; he did not watch morning television. Dr. Hardwick was not in his office. He was on his way downtown to chair a meeting at the Philadelphia Society of Physicians and Surgeons at 1:00.
Fenimore glanced at his watch. 12:30. “Thanks, Doyle.” Dodging an assortment of police officers and alleged criminals, he reached the sidewalk and hailed a cab, a luxury he indulged only in cases of emergency. He gave the cabby the uptown address, “Eighteenth and Spruce.”
Â
The home of the Philadelphia Society of Physicians and Surgeons, or PSPS (pronounced “pisspiss” by some heretical nonmembers), was an imposing combination of brick, marble, and wrought iron, located in the once fashionable part of town near Rittenhouse Square. The doctors who had founded the society in 1789 had held monthly meetings there to parade their titles and degrees while partaking of tea, sherry, and elegant pastries. The present members carried on this time-honored tradition.
But the society wasn't entirely social. It had some excellent academic resources: a museum with such tantalizing exhibits as the largest tumor excised in the United States before 1900; a library containing a firsthand account by Benjamin Rush of the yellow fever epidemic; and a small but exceptional herb garden providing specimens of plants and herbs used for healing before the advent of pharmaceuticals. Finding these resources useful on occasion, Fenimore paid his annual dues and skipped the social gatherings.
The wrought-iron gate stood open. He followed the brick path that wound through the herb garden. Strolling slowly among the beds, he could keep an eye on the gate without appearing to be overtly watching for someone. Now and then he stooped to read a label attached to a plant. “Marigold (ointment for ulcers).” “Horehound (tonic for colds and coughs).” “Rosemary (liniment).” “Garlic (antiseptic).” “Foxglove (heart failure).”
He snapped a leaf from the last and found a seat on a nearby bench.
A batch of early trick-or-treaters, wearing costumes and masks, scurried past the iron gate, giggling. A cat, a skeleton, and two witches. Funny about masks. He had been scared to death of them when he was small. When the trick-or-treaters had come to the door, he had dived under the dining room table. But he had soon outgrown that and donned the most hideous monster masks, all green and mottled and oozing with blood, and loved scaring the other children.
“Fenimore. What a coincidence!” Ned Hardwick loomed over him. He was a large man, immaculately groomed, his silver hair glinting in the sun. “Substantial” was the word that came to Fenimore whenever he saw him. “Sorry, old man,” the surgeon apologized. “Catching a catnap, were you? Can't blame you. Don't get much sleep, I guess. Hear you still make house calls?” Suddenly he noticed Fenimore's face. “What happened? Run into a door? Ha ha.”
“Slipped on some stairs,” Fenimore said casually, knowing that Hardwick's concern was only curiosity. He was still puzzling over Ned's greeting. What coincidence?
“Polly was just bugging me this morning to call you about a little problem we're having. Not medical, mind you.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice, and Fenimore caught a strong whiff of expensive aftershave. “Has to do with that little sideline of yours.”
None of Fenimore's colleagues approved of his “little sideline,” as they described his occasional forays into private sleuthing. But their reservations miraculously disappeared whenever something came up in their own lives that required his services. He waited patiently to hear the nature of Ned's little problem.
“This is the thing. My son's fiancée has disappeared. She's only been missing a little over twenty-four hours, but Polly's
upset. You see, the wedding's in three weeks and there's all the arrangements. My own theory is she's just panicked and run off to think things over. Women are as jittery about marriage as men these days, you know. Afraid of losing their independence, jeopardizing their careers ⦠They've been living together, of course, for over a year. âSignificant others' and all that. But actually tying the knot is a different thing, you know. Er ⦔ Suddenly remembering Fenimore's bachelor status, he said, “I guess you don't know. But let me tell youâ”
Apparently, Ted had neglected to tell his father about notifying the police. “When,” Fenimore broke in, “did your son last see his fiancée?”
Hardwick wrinkled his massive brow. “That's the funny part. We were all together at our home Saturday afternoon. Polly had arranged a party in her honor. She had invited a few family members and some old friends we wanted her to meet.”
To pass judgment before allowing her into the sacred family circle, no doubt, thought Fenimore.
“It was a nice affair. Polly always goes all out, you know, even though it was just a picnic.”
Fenimore did know. He had sat through a number of the Hardwicks' parties, usually drinking too much and counting the minutes until he could escape. Maybe Ted's fiancée had had similar feelings.
“Everyone liked the girl ⦠uh ⦠young woman. She's a dear child. Dark beauty. Ind ⦠er, Native American background. I always kid her, tell her her ancestors go farther back than mine, although mine came over on the
Mayflower.
Her anglicized name is Joanne Field, but her Indian name is Win'gay'musk, which means âSweet Grass.'”
Fenimore's face, from long experience as a physician and private investigator, gave nothing away.
“Can't get over running into you like this. Never see you at the monthly meetings,” Ned chided.
Fenimore mumbled something.
“Well, what d'ya think of our little problem?”
Why the “little”? To make it seem smaller? “I can't say, Ned. For a start, I'll check out Missing Persons and give you a call tonight.”
Ned wrinkled his brow again, mentally flipping the pages of his crowded social calendar. “Think we have the orchestra tonight. But we're dining in. You can probably catch me at home between six and seven.”
Accustomed to the odd priorities of people in Hardwick's circlesâthe orchestra took precedence over a missing prospective daughter-in-lawâFenimore nodded and they parted. Hardwick's broad, imposing back headed up the marble steps of the society while Fenimore's slighter frame slipped through the wrought-iron gate and turned down Walnut.
MONDAY AFTERNOON
M
rs. Doyle looked up from her typewriter and glanced at the clock. Fenimore had been gone for more than two hours, and all that had transpired were three routine phone calls and one teenage patient off the street with no appointment. The patient was a disreputable-looking youngster who could very well wait. She had told him the doctor wasn't a pediatrician, and he had given her a very hard look. Much too hard for such a young person, she thought. It had quite rattled her. She told him to take a seat, the doctor would be in shortly.
That was twenty minutes ago and he was still there, staring straight ahead, not touching the magazines. Maybe he couldn't read. From his appearance, that was possible. Faded jeans and a ragged T-shirt. Mrs. Doyle softened toward him. Illiteracy was a terrible thing. She volunteered at her local library to teach reading, and it was pitiful to see people older than herself who had lived their whole lives without reading a word. No lurid newspaper accounts. No sizzling romances. How did they stand it?
“Well, Horatio!” The doctor's greeting resounded in the waiting
room. “If you've come for your kitten, I'm afraid you're too early. My cat doesn't produce on demand.” He picked up Sal, who had been rubbing against the boy's leg.
“Uh, no. I came about somethin' else.” He stared at Fenimore's bruised face but made no comment.
“Well, come on back then.” Fenimore led the way to his outer office, his nurse's exclusive domain. “Have you met Mrs. Doyle?”
The boy nodded sullenly.
Mrs. Doyle pressed her lips together and continued typing.
“I see.” He waved him into his inner office, leaving the door ajar. “Well, what can I do for you? You look healthy enough.” Sal, who had been dangling over his arm all this time, leaped to the floor as Fenimore seated himself at his desk.
There was an awkward pause. Then the boy blurted, “Do you have some work for me? I could come after school.”
Fenimore felt Doyle's displeasure emanating from the outer office. He ignored her. “Have a seat.” He waved him into a chair that had started life in a Sunday school, moved on to a secondhand furniture store, and was ending its days in Fenimore's office. “D'ya know your alphabet?”
“Sure.” He looked offended.
“Good. Then you can file. Can ya read?”
“I'm fourteen, for Chrissake!” (Mrs. Doyle regretted her wasted sympathy.)
“Good. Then you can sort the mail. Can you type?”
He shook his head and muttered, “Do I look like a fucking secretary?”
“Good.” Fenimore glanced warily through the door at his nurse. “We wouldn't want to put Mrs. Doyle out of business.”
Mrs. Doyle, like the queen, was not amused.
“Well, Doyle, what d'ya think?” he called to her. “Can we find something for this young fella to do?”
She was still “Doyle,” at least. Her mood mellowed. Maybe this boy could lighten her load and she would have more time
to work on important thingsâlike this new case. She could attend to his language later. “Oh, well,” she shrugged.
“Fine. When can you start?” Fenimore asked.
“Tomorrowrightafterschool.” It came out as one word.
“Five dollars an hour. If you do well, we may up it to six.”
A flicker of a grin.
“And, Horatio?”
Mrs. Doyle blinked at the name.
“If Mrs. Doyle doesn't have work for you one day, would you be willing to do odd jobs? Clean the cellar or the backyard?”
His nod was quick.
“Okay. It's a deal. See you tomorrow. You can let yourself out.”
Fenimore came back to the outer office and settled into his favorite battered armchair. To avoid his nurse's eye, he fussed with his pipe.
“Since when do we need help around here? I've always thought I managed this office perfectly well. Your father never had any complaints.”
“Of course you do, Doyle. I wanted to give the kid a break.”
“Is he honest?”
“I haven't the faintest idea. I met him only yesterday. But he passed Sal's inspection.” He cast a fond look at his cat, who had settled herself on the windowsill. “Did you see how she wrapped herself around him?”
Unimpressed by Sal's preferences, she said, “Well, the first time I notice anything missing ⦔
“That goes without saying.” Fenimore finally had his pipe going and eased back in his chair. “Let me tell you how I ran into him,” he began, and out came the story of the burial of the cat, the discovery of the body, and his recent encounter with Ned Hardwick. He passed lightly over his own injury.
Mrs. Doyle listened attentively. When he had finished, she was silent.
“No comment?”
“I'm speechless.”
“A nice little Halloween story, eh?”
The phone.
Fenimore grabbed it ahead of his nurse. As he listened to the caller, a look of incredulity spread over his face. “That's bizarre.” He hung up.
“What's bizarre?”
“That was Rafferty. A small canvas bag was found buried near the woman's body. Would you care to guess what was inside?”
“A pair of smelly jogging shoes?”
“A Walkman, a wooden weaver's shuttle, and a jar of peanut butter.” He recited a verse he had learned in school:
“The Indian, when from life released,
Again is seated with his friends,
And shares again the joyous feast ⦔
“Of peanut butter?” she made a face.
“Tastes differ, Doyle.” He leaned forward. “Native Americans believe that life goes on after death.”
“So do we.” Mrs. Doyle was a good Catholic; Fenimore, a bad Anglican. He went to church only twice a yearâChristmas Eve and Easter Sunday.
“But not in the same way. We believe we leave our earthly desires and satisfactions behindâeating, drinking, lovemaking. The Native Americans don't. They believe they carry them along, all intact. They are still able to eat, drink, make loveâor warâafter death. That's why some of their most treasured possessions are often buried with them.”
“Should we envy or pity them?”
He took a long drag on his pipe and stared morosely at the brick wall outside his window. When he spoke, his tone was sober. “Pity the young man who may have lost his Indian maiden.”
The rest of the afternoon passed routinely for Fenimore. He ate a bologna sandwich on rye and saw three patientsâa stomachache, a sore throat, and a head cold. Most cardiologists would consider it beneath them to treat such minor ailments. Not Fenimore. He liked his patients and enjoyed making them well, no matter what ailed them. Besides, they helped put bread on the table (and cat food in Sal's bowl).
As Mrs. Doyle was preparing to leave, she couldn't resist offering him one of her home remedies. “Tea leaves soaked in warm vinegar and applied as a compress.”
Fenimore grimaced.
“There's nothing like it, Doctor, for reducing the swelling.”
When she was safely out the door, Fenimore placed another call to Rafferty. “Was there a tape in that Walkman?”
“Yeah.”
“Anything on it?”
“What did you expect, a complete description of her death and burial for police and reporters?”
“Zip?”
“Blank. Her friends and relatives gave her a blank tape, probably to dictate her impressions of the hereafterârecord those choirs of angels, the creak of St. Peter's gate.”
“I imagine that's pretty well oiled,” Fenimore said.
Rafferty laughed.
“By the way, Joanne Field had another name,” Fenimore said. “Sweet Grass.”
“Sounds like a pseudonym for marijuana.”
“It's a translation of her Algonquin name. Win'gay'musk.” Fenimore quickly filled him in on the Hardwick story.
Before Rafferty let the doctor go, he reminded him of his deadline. He must bring Ted Hardwick into the morgue to make a positive identification by nine o'clock that night.
When Fenimore hung up, he was alone. Mrs. Doyle and Horatio were long gone. Even Sal had disappeared on some mission
of her own. Except for the hum of the little refrigerator, which held his patients' blood and urine samples (and a couple of cans of soda), the office was still. Sitting immobile at his desk, Fenimore postponed the inevitable moment when he would have to cause pain. He could not put it off much longer. Rafferty had issued his ultimatum. Tomorrow morning,
The Inquirer
would have a full account of the discovery of the body, the radio would be bleating the news every fifteen minutes, and the TV would have a team of photographers panning the ancient burial ground. He glanced at his watch. 5:30.
He reached for the phone.
“Ned? This is Andrew. I'm trying to reach Ted. Yes, something has turned up. I'm sorry. I can't discuss it over the phone. I must speak to Ted first.” Fenimore moved the receiver an inch from his ear. People as prominent as Ned Hardwick were not accustomed to being refused anything. “Could you tell me where I can find your son?”
According to his father, Ted was teaching a class at the university and would be finishing up around 6:30. No, he didn't know which class or what classroom building. That would be up to Fenimore to ferret out. Fenimore called the registrar's office.
Armed with the necessary information, Fenimore arrived outside a lecture hall labeled ART HISTORY 101 just as the doors burst open and a crowd of noisy freshmen piled out. He waited while Ted answered the question of a last, lingering student. When the teacher was finally alone, Fenimore entered the hall, closing the door carefully behind him.