TUESDAY, AROUND NOON
T
he minute Fenimore stepped into his office, he sensed that something was amiss. The atmosphere was charged. Mrs. Doyle sat stiffly at her typewriter. Horatio was hunched over a file drawer, filing for all he was worth. Sal was cowering under the radiator, only an inch of tail visible.
“Good morning,” Fenimore chirruped, although it was after noon. The return trip from Camp Lenape had taken longer than he had expected.
They each bestowed on him a glacial stare, Sal's the most frigid. She had emerged from under the radiator and was arranging herself artistically on top of it.
“You're early, aren't you?” he remarked to Horatio.
“Teachers' meeting. Got a half day off,” he muttered.
“And you came right here?”
He nodded.
For some reason, this pleased Fenimore inordinately.
Apparently, his feelings were not shared by Mrs. Doyle.
“Any messages?” he asked his nurse.
Wordlessly, she handed him a pile of slips. Usually she commented
on the more urgent ones. Not today. The first one read: “Jennifer. 10:15.” No hint of trouble there. The rest were routine calls for office appointments or prescription refills.
“Any drop-ins?”
Mrs. Doyle shook her head. Horatio banged shut his file drawer.
“What
is
the matter?” asked Fenimore.
“One of your slippers is missing.” “She thinks I stole it!” His employees spoke simultaneously.
Fenimore glanced at the floor by his chair that was usually occupied by a pair of disreputable slippers. Today there was only one.
Only a stranger to Fenimore's establishment would wonder at the stress Mrs. Doyle laid on this seemingly minor incident. The doctor valued his slippers more than all the gold in Fort Knox.
“What would I want with a fucking old slipper?” Horatio spat out the words.
“I didn't mean to imply that he took it,” Mrs. Doyle justified herself. “I only thought he might have misplaced it.” She continued pounding the life out of the typewriter.
Sal, disgusted with the low tone things had taken, landed with a graceful leap and took off for parts unknown.
“Now see here, you two.” Fenimore adopted his most soothing manner. “I'm sure there's some reasonable explanation.”
They ignored him, pretending to be absorbed in their work.
“A man comes home after a hard morning's work and what does he find? Dissension, dissolution, and discord.”
“Piffle,” said his nurse.
“Bullshit,” said the boy.
“Let's begin at the beginning.” Fenimore used his most conciliatory tone, the one he reserved for the interrogation of suspects in his most difficult cases. “When did you first notice the slipper was missing, Mrs. Doyle?”
“About half an hour ago.”
He turned to Horatio. “Did you leave the office at any time after you arrived?”
He shook his head.
Back to Mrs. Doyle. “What was the first chore you gave him to do?”
“Clean up the waiting room.”
Fenimore glanced in the waiting room. It was cleaner than he'd ever seen it. The rug had been vacuumed, the sofa pillows plumped, the magazines stacked into neat piles.
“I went into the kitchen for a few minutes to make a cup of tea,” Doyle murmured defensively.
“That's when I stole it!” Horatio's eyebrows shot to the ceiling.
“Where would he have put it?” Fenimore exclaimed. “He would have had to be Houdini.”
Horatio sent Fenimore a look, transmitting the complex message that if he had wanted to steal the slipper and conceal it in that brief time, he could have managed it, but what would he want with a fucking old slipper?
“I'm sure it will turn up,” Fenimore said hastily. “Now let's forget all about it.” He struggled into his white lab coat and went to the sink to wash his hands, symbolically washing them of the whole unsavory episode. “Who's my first patient?”
Mrs. Doyle consulted his appointment book. “Mrs. Johnson at one o'clock. You said to reschedule all the morning patients.” Her voice was peevish with disapproval. Not of his rescheduling, but of his taking off for New Jersey without telling her why.
“Great, then I have time for a sandwich.” He took the well-traveled tuna sandwich from the cooler and, ignoring its soggy condition, settled into his old armchair to eat it. From habit, he was about to shed his shoes and replace them with his comfortable old slippers, but he caught himself in time. He had no desire to reopen wounds. He wriggled his toes painfully in their
confined space (he sorely missed those slippers) and flipped open the can of Coke that had been his companion since early morning. A deep swallow of the tepid liquid caused him to grimace. But the thought of traipsing to the kitchen for a glass and tussling with an ice tray for a single cube was even less appealing. He drained the can.
The other occupants of the room followed suit. Mrs. Doyle removed her hermetically sealed lunch box from her desk drawer and methodically laid its contents on a paper napkin that she had previously spread on her desk. Salad in a plastic container, a thermos of soup, three crackers, and an apple. She believed in a well-balanced diet.
“Think I'll grab a frank.” Horatio slammed shut the file drawer he had been working on and glided down the hall. His destination, the corner vendor, Fenimore surmised.
Sal made a dignified entrance, head and tail held high, padded over to her dish in the corner, and filled the uneasy silence with noisy munchings on something revolting called Kitty Chow.
It was a relief when the telephone rang.
“Fenimore?” Rafferty.
“Speaking,” Fenimore responded nervously.
“I just received a call from a detective employed at the Riverton Police Department. I'd asked him to make a routine visit for me to Camp Lenape.”
“To what purpose?” When nervous, Fenimore's speech became more formal.
“TO COMPLETE A WILD-GOOSE CHASE I'D SENT HIM ON!” he shouted.
“Oh?”
“It seems that a certain Lenni-Lenape, by the name of John Field, also known as Roaring Wings, had already been informed of his sister's, Joanne Field, aka Sweet Grass, death when my man arrived.”
“Uh, well, I thought he should be notified as soon as possible, and since he didn't have a phone ⦔
“You took it on yourself to hightail it down there at the crack of dawn and blab the whole thing. Right?”
“Put coarsely.”
“We policemen are known for our coarseness.” He took a deep breath. “Now, if it wouldn't inconvenience you too much, perhaps you would be kind enough to honor me with your presence and share the essence of your little tête-à -tête?” When really angry, Rafferty could outdo Fenimore in formality.
“Er, I'm expecting a patient.”
Fenimore's ear reverberated with the sound of the receiver being replaced.
Hastily exchanging his lab coat for his suit coat, Fenimore was halfway down the hall when he paused to call over his shoulder, “I won't be long, Doyle. Ask Mrs. Johnson to wait.”
“Yes, Doctor.” She looked after him curiously.
Â
After Rafferty had finished raking Fenimore over the coals for being an “insufferable, interfering, amateur meddler” and had gleaned every bit of information that the doctor had acquired during his interview with Roaring Wings, he settled down to a rational, nearly-but-not quite-friendly discussion of the case.
“What was your overall impression of Roaring Wings?” The policeman's gaze was no less forceful than the Native American's.
Fenimore thought a moment. “Proud, introverted, bordering on the fanatical where his tribal origins were concerned.”
“Umm.” Rafferty ran his hand through his thick black hair. “I had a visitor this morning. A representative from Higgins, Marple, and Woski. It seems that Sweet Grass had taken out a life insurance policy worth a hundred thousand.”
“Beneficiary?”
Rafferty drummed his fingers on the desk. “Her brother.”
Fenimore considered. “That makes sense. There was no point leaving it to her fiance. His coffers were already overflowing.”
“Did Roaring Wings impress you as the greedy type?”
“Not in the usual sense of acquiring material things for himself. But he is a crusader. He has a cause. He told me about his plan to re-create a Lenape village in south Jersey. The project calls for the construction of authentic dwellings, a âbig house' or large barn for traditional ceremonies and a museum to house artifactsâweapons, pottery, ornamentsâthat have been found in the area. The land has already been acquired from the government. But this legacy would certainly help him with this project and to realize his dream.”
“Interesting.”
Fenimore, suffering from guilt pangs over Mrs. Johnson, said, “I'd better be getting back.”
Rafferty made no objection, but as Fenimore rose to go he remarked, “Next time you get any bright ideas about the early bird catching the worm, forget it.”
Fenimore made a speedy departure.
Once outside, he remembered that he hadn't returned Jennifer's call. He hastened to the nearest phone booth. He didn't like to make personal calls from the office with two pairs of ears flapping. Three, if you counted Sal, who understood every word he said.
“So you aren't dead.” Jennifer made no attempt to disguise her relief.
“Nope.”
“You're on a new case?”
“yet.”
“Can you talk about it?”
“Nope.”
“How about dinner tonight, here. I have a mad desire to feed monosyllabic medical men. Besides, Dad has a new acquisition he's dying to show you.”
“On the Lenapes?”
“I don't think so. But I'll show you our shelf on them. And for an aperitif you can take a look at the Chandlers.”
Mr. Nicholson's
new
acquisitions were usually several hundred years old, and Jennifer's dinners were always a culinary treat. Plus the shelf on the Lenni-Lenapes and some early Chandlers added up to just what the doctor ordered, especially after a day spent with ill-tempered employees and an irate law enforcement officer. “I'll be there,” Fenimore said.
Unfortunately, such a prescription was not in store for him.
TUESDAY EVENING
B
ack at the office, Fenimore found not only an impatient Mrs. Johnson but also a message from Polly Hardwick marked “Urgent.”
She answered on the first ring. “Andrew? Thank heavens. Could you come for dinner tonight? Something awkward's come up and we're feeling rather low.” The request itself hardly qualified as urgent, but her voice held a desperate note that he could not ignore.
“Of course. What time?”
“Sevenish.”
For the second time in ten minutes, he uttered the words, “I'll be there.” Being in two places at once defied even Fenimore's extraordinary abilities. Reluctantly he dialed Jennifer's number. She was disappointed, but somewhat mollified when he promised to come the following evening.
Â
In contrast to his former visit, tonight the Hardwick mansion was brightly illuminated and the semicircular drive was filled with three carsâa red Jaguar, a white Audi, and a blue Mercedes.
How patriotic, Fenimore thought, as he pulled up behind them in his battered, mud-brown Chevy, destroying the whole effect. (Mud-brown wasn't his favorite color, but it had been in stock and cheaper than the azure blue.)
Polly must have been watching for him, because she opened the door before he touched the bell.
“Come in.” She grabbed his arm and drew him into a small room off the center hall. Cluttered with books and papers, it appeared to serve as an office or study. “I wanted to talk to you before we joined the others.” Her face was drawn and her voice held an unusual quaver.
He waited for her to regain control.
“Ted thinks Sweet Grass committed suicide. And,” she paused, “he thinks we're all to blame.”
“Nonsense.”
“He's convinced of it, and he's making us all miserable.”
“I'll talk to him.”
“Would you, Andrew? I don't think I can go through another day like this.”
“What happened?”
“He accused each of us, individually, of insulting Sweet Grass. And he blamed me for”âher voice trembled and her eyes were too brightâ“for pushing her over the edge.”
“Where did he get this idea? There's no evidence of suicide. The cause of death hasn't even been established.” He failed to mention that the last time he had talked to Ted, the young man had accused Roaring Wings of killing Sweet Grass. “He's just upset.”
“He found her diary.”
“Oh?”
“He refuses to read it to us, but he says she recorded things we said and did that hurt her deeply.”
“I see.”
“Andrew, don't look at me like that. I feel so dreadful. I'll
admit I didn't think she was right for Ted in the beginning. You know how mothers are about their sons. No one's good enough for them.” (Actually, he didn't know. His own mother had had no delusions about her sons and would have been pleasantly surprised if anyone had wanted to marry them.) “But I didn't mean any harm,” she finished.
“Social slights are not a common cause for suicide,” Fenimore said. “It may have relieved Sweet Grass to write about them in her diary. Many diarists do that. Even the famous Pepys. But to kill herself over them?” He shook his head. “I seriously doubt it.”
“Could you convince Ted of that?”
“I can try.”
“I knew I could count on you.” She squeezed his arm. Her normal color had returned, and her voice had regained some of its old assurance. “We better join the others. They'll be wondering what happened to us.”
Polly ushered Fenimore into a pale green and ivory living room, highlighted here and there by small objects of silver and brass. Although the entire family was assembled, Fenimore did not feel he was interrupting anything. No conversation or interaction of any kind seemed to be taking place. Ned Hardwick was fixing himself a drink in the bay window where the bar supplies were arranged. Ted, holding an untouched drink, was staring moodily into the cold fireplace. A sturdy, compact woman sat on the sofa, ostentatiously reading a book. A younger, frailer woman with a cloud of white-blond hair was hovering over the fish tank, making “kiss-kiss” noises to some tropical fish. A third woman, in a long lavender print dress, her dark hair pulled back in a bun, reclined in a Victorian chair. Her bemused expression remained unchanged while Fenimore was being introduced.
“You all remember Dr. Fenimore. Bernice?” Polly spoke sharply, and the compact woman on the sofa closed her book.
Flora of Japan
was the title.
“Good to see an unfamiliar face,” she said and energetically shook his hand.
“And Lydia?”
The woman with the bemused expression lifted her right arm at the elbow and languidly wiggled her fingers at him.
“Kitty! I wish you'd leave those fish alone.”
Kitty turned, startled by her mother's waspish tone.
“Sorry, dear, but I wanted you to greet Dr. Fenimore.”
She made a little dip, a remnant of the curtsy she had been taught at dancing school, and turned back to the fish.
A look of pain crossed her mother's face. “That's the lot. Except for Ted, of course.” She smiled tentatively at her son. He gave Fenimore a quick nod. Polly went over to the coffee table and plucked a cigarette from an exquisite porcelain box.
“Mother!” came from two directions at once. Ted was absorbed in his thoughts and Kitty in her fish, but Bernice and Lydia both cast their mother stern looks.
She stopped, the cigarette halfway to her mouth. “Oh, very well,” she said and dropped it back in the box, flipping the lid shut.
I don't know why you keep the filthy things around,” said Bernice.
“They must be horribly stale.” Lydia made a face.
“I keep them for my guests. Andrew, will you have one?” she offered in a mocking tone.
“No, thanks. I prefer this.” He took his pipe from his jacket pocket.
“How naughty,” Lydia said.
“And a doctor, too,” Bernice added.
“I also drink,” he said placidly.
“What'll you have?” Ned, taking the hint, spoke from the bay window.
“Scotch, please, with a little water.” He took a seat on the sofa next to Bernice.
Polly wandered restlessly around the room. Ned left the bay window to play host. “Well, Fenimore, what d'ya think of my little harem?” He handed him his drink.
“I'm overwhelmed.” He took a deep swallow, insulation against the difficult evening ahead.
“My âMayflowers' I call them.” He bestowed a doting glance on each of his daughters in turn.
“And what do you call Ted, Father?” Lydia inquired with a mischievous glint.
“My only son and heir,” he said quickly.
Ted remained entranced by the empty fireplace.
“Mother's money goes to us girls,” Lydia informed Fenimore, “to make up for Daddy's medieval ideas.”
“Really, Lydia, must we divulge all our family secrets?”
“Oh, I'm sure they're safe with Dr. Fenimore, Mother. He's taken the Hippocratic oath.”
“I don't know if that applies to money matters,” her mother said.
“Put your fears to rest, Polly,” Fenimore hastened to reassure her. “I rarely discuss money matters. They bore me.”
“How quaint,” said Lydia. “That isn't true of most of your colleagues, I understand.”
“True,” her father broke in, “some doctors have more interest in the financial rewards of medicine than others. But I assure you, Fenimore is the exception. Didn't I see you drive up in that same old Chevy you had as a resident, Fenimore?”
Fenimore laughed. “That would be a miracle, Ned. I shelved that car fifteen years ago.” Fenimore was known for driving ancient cars and hanging onto them until they fell apart. “But this one's the same color and a similar model.” Before the Hardwicks could delve any deeper into his finances, Fenimore directed their attention to the musket hanging over the mantel. “Is that a family heirloom?” he asked.
He couldn't have chosen a better topic. His host beamed and
immediately launched into the story of the weapon's origins. It seems it belonged to an ancestor who had fought at Fort William Henry in the French and Indian War. Ned gently removed the musket from its place of honor and handed it to Fenimore to examine. It was a handsome specimen, immaculate and well oiled, ready for instant use. He trusted it wasn't loaded. Carefully, Fenimore returned it to its owner.
“My ancestor fought with honor against the French,” Ned said, replacing the gun on its rack.
“Did your ancestor die in that battle?” Fenimore asked politely.
Ned nodded. “First Lieutenant Willard S. Hardwick, of the King's Regiment. He was one of fifty soldiers massacred by the Indians who were fighting with Montcalm. You may remember the incident?”
Fenimore nodded. The British had already surrendered when some Mohawks on the French side had set on the unarmed soldiers and killed them.
“A dreadful thing, actually. Some of the Indians who had joined the French cause got out of hand and tomahawked ⦔
Ted looked away from the fireplace for the first time and stared at his father. “I didn't know you were such an expert on Indian folklore, Dad.”
“Not folklore, Son. History.”
A deep flush spread from Ted's neck to his face.
Polly, stepping into the breach, turned the conversation swiftly. “I'm planning an unusual exhibit for the Flower Show this year, Andrew.”
Everyone who's anyone in Philadelphia gardens. Polly was exceptionally talented in this field. She was president of a prominent garden club. Her own garden was a showplace. “It isn't until March,” she said, “but the preparations began last summer.” She took a seat near the fireplace and seemed more relaxed as she discussed her favorite subject. “The theme this year is âGardens:
Past and Future.' At first, we toyed with the idea of a Martian rock garden, but the possibilities seemed a trifle limited.”
Fenimore silently agreed.
“So we decided to stick to the past and do a garden from ancient Rome.”
“But, Mother, Rome has entirely different flora from North America,” Bernice objected. “It's a drier, much warmer zone. How do you plan to protect the plants?”
“Now, darling, a Ph.D. in botany doesn't give you the right to dictate my choice of plants for the Flower Show. There are such things as greenhouses. Some of the specimensâthe hibiscus, oleander, and olive treesâhave already been shipped from California and are doing quite well.”
“Yes, but once you get them into that great, drafty mausoleum downtown, I wouldn't give you two cents for them.”
“The club is taking every precaution. We're creating a kind of atrium and installing electric heaters behind a network of mosaic walls.”
“As you can see, Doctor, expense is no object,” Ted spoke sharply. “And when the club has exhausted its funds, the members will be more than happy to dig into their own coffers to take up the slack, right, Mother? That's why, to become a member, you have to be pretty well-heeled.”
“Darling, you know how I hate those vulgar expressions.” Polly rose. “I'll be right back. I want to show Andrew our plans.” She was back in a minute, bearing a large roll of paper under one arm. Unfolded, it was the size of a world map, and when she spread it out on the coffee table, two thirds of it drifted to the floor.
The next half hour was spent admiring the blueprint for a Roman garden, circa 100 B.C.
Bernice leaned over to take a look. “Good heavens, Mother, olive and orange trees? And who's going to construct all this?”
She indicated the maze of walls and pathways with a sweep of her hand.
“Some of the husbands have volunteered, and ⦠a few of the sons.” She looked at Ted, who ignored her.
“Oh, Mother, you must have a pool!” Kitty joined them. “There's room for one right there.” She pointed a small finger with a much chewed fingernail. “And I could pick out the fish. Oh, please let me, Mother.”
“We'll see.” Her mother cast her a puzzled glance, as if unsure who she was or where she came from.
Lydia was the only one who declined to offer an opinion on the plan. She remained draped in the Victorian chair, observing. Fenimore was unsure whether she felt above it all, or was simply bored by a scene she had witnessed many times: her mother showing off her expertise before another audience.
A uniformed woman appeared in the doorway. “Dinner is served.”