F
enimore stood blinking in the sudden glare. He had no right to do anything more. This was strictly a police matter. In his role as “family detective” he had no authority to touch or examine anything. He hovered in the doorway. As “family physician” he did have the authority to determine if Marie was alive or dead. Although he already knew the answer, he bent and felt for her pulse. None. He turned and noticed the shelf from which the bust had fallen. It hung loose, attached at only one end. The nails at the other end, tired of the weight of Hercules' bust (or whoever he was), had simply let go of the wall. The shelf, warped and stained, looked as if it had been with the house since it was built. But the nails, instead of bent and rustyâwere straight and shiny, as if just brought home from the hardware store. (If he had been on the police force, he would have carefully removed one nail and pocketed it.) Instead he stared hard at the nail, committing its shape, size, and color to memory.
Turning back to the body, he fixed its angle permanently in his mind. He circled the room once looking for any obvious traces the murderer might have left behind. Finally his eyes came to rest on the piece of sculpture Marie had been working on. A male figure. The top half of the man emerged from bluegray stone. He looked like a sailor, about to hoist a sail. His arms stretched upward as if hauling on some ropes and he wore the suggestion of a yachting cap.
He reminded Fenimore of someone.
“Doctor?” Mrs. Doyle called up the stairs. “Is everything all right?”
He flicked off the light, closed the door, and went to answer her.
Â
When the police had left, the rest of the family members had been notified, and sedatives were administered to the two aunts, Fenimore took Mrs. Doyle into the library for a private word. She had almost required a sedative herself. She had taken complete blame for the tragedy.
“Oh, Doctor, I should have stayed with her. Or at least lured her downstairsâaway from the studio. How could I have been soâ?” She covered her face with her hands.
“Now, now.” He patted her shoulder. “It wasn't your fault. That bust was set to fall on Marie sometime, whether you were there or not. But if you insist on blaming yourselfâ” His eye held a glint. “I know how you could make amends.”
Mrs. Doyle glanced up, warily.
“How would you like to take a vacation at the seashore?”
“In December?”
“Mmm.”
“But the office ⦔
“I can manage,” he lied bravely.
“My clothes ⦠?”
“You and Judith are about the same size. I'm sure she could lend you some things to tide you over until I can bring your own things down.”
“I'll need my wool slacks, two pairs of long johns, my flannel wrapper, my bedroom slippers, and ⦔ She was rummaging in her pocketbook for her apartment key.
“Your bathing suit?”
She cast him a baleful glance. “What about my karate class?”
“I'll take care of that,” he said blithely.
“You?” She surveyed him skeptically. Fenimore was not known for his athletic prowess. His attributes lay elsewhere.
“Not me, personally,” he assured her. “I have a substitute in mind.”
Mrs. Doyle tensed. “And who might that be?”
“Oh, an acquaintance,” he said airily.
Mrs. Doyle's eyes narrowed. Fenimore turned away, pretending a fascination in an ancient map of Seacrest.
“You wouldn't!” She addressed the back of his neck. “You wouldn't wish that, that ⦠on a bunch of defenseless, little old ladies.” Her voice had risen an octave.
“Oh, so they're defenseless now. I thought they were hardy, agileâ”
Mrs. Doyle glared.
“He told me he's well trained in the martial arts.”
“A likely storyâ”
A light tap on the door. “Mrs. Doyle?” Judith.
“What's my excuse for staying?” whispered Mrs. Doyle anxiously.
“I need your help,” Judith said in a louder voice.
Fenimore opened the door.
“It's time for Emily's bath, and with her poor hip it's really a two-person job. I used to ask Marie, but ⦔
Fenimore said. “She's all yours, Miss Pancoast.”
Mrs. Doyle handed him her key. “Don't forget to water my violets,” she said sternly.
Before she left the room, Fenimore whispered, “In between your nursing duties, keep your eyes and ears open for anything unusual and report back to me.”
As he watched his capable nurse return to the parlor, his spirits rose. With Doyle on the sceneâhis occasional WatsonâFenimore's expectations for finding the murderer soared.
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Before leaving Seacrest, Fenimore stopped at the inn. Although he had no desire for a Scotch, he ordered one. He had figured out who Marie's sailor was. He looked more at home pouring drinks than hauling sails.
“Hi, Doc! Hear there's been more trouble up the hill.” Frank paused for enlightenment.
As Fenimore told him about Marie, he watched the bartender closely. He had been leaning with both hands on the bar. He sagged noticeably. From the shock of a personal lossâor merely a financial one? Marie had probably paid him handsomely for posing.
“She was working on a sculpture before she died. Was it you?” Fenimore asked.
“Yeah. She came in here one day and asked me to pose for her. With my clothes on, you understand.” He actually blushed. “I was surprised to see her. She never comes in here. We were in high school together. Before she married Pancoast. But she never went high-hat. When we met in town she always had time for a chat. She even came to a class reunion once. Anyway, she said she had this idea about sculpting a sailor and she thought I had the right build.” Again he reddened. “Well, since she's had all this trouble and everything, I didn't like to turn her down. So I said, âWhat the hell, if the wife agrees.' It turned out she only needed me for a couple of sessions. Made a lot of sketches. But when it was time to go into stone, she explained, she wouldn't need me anymore. She wanted to pay me, but I wouldn't take anything. Then, just this afternoon, my wife calls and says Marie sent us a big Christmas basketâfull of fruit and candy and cheese. Can you beat that? Her thinkin' of usâwith all the trouble she has ⦠had?” He brushed a quick hand across his eyes.
Fenimore concentrated on his Scotch.
“The Pancoasts are fine people,” the bartender said finally.
“Yes, they are,” Fenimore agreed. To himself, he added, “With one exception.”
Fenimore made one more stop before heading back to Philadelphia. Whenever he came into Ben's Variety Store, he was overwhelmed by the number of objects stuffed into such a small cinder-block structure. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling crammed with everything from kitchenware to office supplies, from hardware to cosmetics. With one quick look, Fenimore
took in coffee grinders and frying pans, spiral notebooks and legal pads, wrenches and screwdrivers, face creams and nail polish. Whoever was in charge of the inventory was a genius. He suspected that Ben handled it himself.
A wholesome, dry goods smell permeated the place, reminding Fenimore of a store he had frequented in his youth. That store was long gone. He always tried to find an excuse to come to Ben's when he was in Seacrest. This time he had a ready-made excuse. Hearing Ben shuffling around in the darker storage regions, he squeezed his way between the crowded shelves to the back. He found him sorting screws.
Fenimore coughed.
Ben peered at him. “Oh, it's you.”
“I'd like to see your nail collection.”
“Over here.” Ben led him through the murky gloom to the next aisle. Yanking a small flashlight from his belt, he played its beam over the nails.
Fenimore studied them carefully. Although the assortment was vast, none of them exactly resembled the one in Marie's studio. He frowned. “Is there any other store in Seacrest that sells nails?”
Ben snorted. “Dime store. Cheap stuff. Bend if you look at them. Made in Yugoslavia.” He shut off the flashlight.
“Is it open?”
“Nope. Not 'til May first. When the tourists come.”
“Well, thanks.”
“Umph.”
As Fenimore groped his way out, he wondered how Ben's customers ever found anything.
Â
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12/22 Mildred Pancoast's Diary:
Dear Diary,
Â
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Marie is gone. And the killer didn't need a doll to set up this scene in the dollhouse. He (she?) used a clothespin. Poor Marie, reduced to a clothespin wearing an apron. If the killer can just use clothespins, there was no point burying the dolls. He can get clothespins anywhere. The house is full of them. And the hardware stores. Even the supermarkets. I'm not safe anymore, Diary. He can make a doll of me anytime. Tomorrow. Today. Maybe he's making one right now. Oh, God!
B
ecause of a fitful night, Fenimore overslept. When he came into the office Horatio was already there stuffing, stamping, and sealing the monthly bills.
“Why is everyone up so early?” Fenimore yawned.
“Not
everybody
.” Horatio nodded at Sal. The cat lay on her back, four legs extended, as if she had died in her sleep and rigor mortis had set in. “And where's Doyle?” the boy asked, casting an accusatory glance at the empty desk that dominated the center of the room like a throne.
“
Mrs
. Doyle.”
“I thought we were supposed to call all the broads âMzzzzzz' these days.”
“Right. All except
Mrs.
Doyle.”
“Huh.”
“Mrs. Doyle will be out of town for an extended period. She's looking after a patient of mine in Seacrest.”
Horatio frowned. “Who's gonna do all the work?”
“We'll manage. How's your mother?” Fenimore had followed Mrs. Lopez's case closely and made several house calls since his initial noctornal visit. (These subsequent calls had been made in the daytime, however.)
“Great. Whatever you did worked. She's starting to bug me again.”
Fenimore bent to stroke Sal, who had risen from the dead to wrap herself around his left leg. When he unbent, he said, “I have a proposition for you.”
Horatio looked up warily. Some of his employer's former propositions had ended in disaster.
“Didn't you mention that you were studying the martial arts?”
“Not
studying
. This guy knows a few moves and after school sometimes we go over to the yard and practice 'em.”
“Would you care to demonstrate?”
“Here?” Horatio cast a disdainful eye around the cluttered office.
Fenimore opened the cellar door and with a broad sweep of his hand said, “Be my guest.”
Always happy to stop working, Horatio obeyed.
The cellar was cool, clean, and welcoming, thanks to the recent yard saleâa perfect place to work out or demonstrate karate moves. After Horatio had shown Fenimore a few, the boy assumed a fighting stance. With a gleam in his dark eyes, he slid his left foot forward and raised his right knee, pointing it directly at Fenimore.
“Wait a minute,” Fenimore stalled, feeling a surge of terror. “What's that called?”
“The Back Leg Roundhouse Kick.”
Fenimore backed away.
With a grin, Horatio lowered his leg.
Fenimore's vision of himself lying prostrate on the cellar floor slowly receded.
As they made their way upstairs, Fenimore told Horatio's back, “You'll do.”
“Do what?”
“As Mrs. Doyle's sub.”
Horatio turned on the stair. “You want me to do all those fucking forms?”
“No, indeed.” Fenimore's tone was solicitous. “I wouldn't dream of asking you to do forms.” He shut the cellar door firmly. “I want you to teach her karate class.”
It was Horatio's turn to wear a look of terror. “Those cackling broads?”
Fenimore nodded.
“You're crazy.”
Fenimore had banked on this, and moved on. “See that?” He pointed to his microscope, its brass fixtures gleaming under the bell jar on his desk. It had belonged to his father, and to his grandfather before him. Fenimore had seen Horatio covertly admiring it. Once the boy had asked Fenimore to show him how it worked, but Fenimore had been too busy. “I found some old slides the other day. I'll give you some lessons.”
Quick to recognize a bribe, Horatio said, “Forget it.”
Fenimore pointed to the centrifuge next to it. Once he had caught Horatio playing with it. The boy had filled the tubes with water and set them spinning. “See, I didn't spill a drop,”
he had exclaimed when Fenimore came in. At the time, the doctor had not been amused, but now he said hopefully, “I'll teach you how to spin down urine samples.”
“No way.” Horatio continued energetically stuffing, stamping, and sealing.
Fenimore decided to drop the subject until he could come up with some better inducements. He settled into his favorite armchair to read the latest issue of
JAMA.
While he was absorbed in an article on cardiac transplants, an hour passed. When he looked up, Horatio had left for the day. The boy only worked until noon on Saturday. Fenimore was thinking seriously about lunch when the telephone rang.
“Could you throw in some electrocardiograms?” a familiar voice asked.
“What?”
“You knowâalong with the microscope and the centrifudge.”
“Centrifuge.”
“Whatever. Will you teach me to read them?”
“Do you know how long it took me to learn to read them?”
Silence.
“Twelve years. More than two thirds of your lifetime. And I'm still learning.”
“Nothing fancy. Just the basics.”
“Just the basics.” A sudden thought came to Fenimore. He could use someone to set up the electrocardiograph and prepare his patients for him. He had never been able to afford a technician. They were too expensive.
“Hurry up, for Chrissake! I'm using the dealer's phone and he's gettin' nervous.”
Fenimore sighed deeply. “All right, Rat. It's a deal.”
“But if any of those old broads hurt me,” Horatio warned, “I'll sue.”
“Don't worry. If any of those charming, elderly ladies harms a hair of your head, I'llâI'll send you to medical school.” He laughed heartily.
When he was done laughing, the boy said quietly, “That's a deal.”