Mrs. Doyle sat in the visitor’s lounge at the end of the hall, leafing through a year-old copy of People. Who were all these people? she wondered. Had they really been famous a year ago? She threw the magazine down and began to pace. She shared the lounge with two other occupants—a skinny woman and a blubbery man. Jack Sprat and his wife, in reverse. What would she do if anything happened to the doctor? She refused to think about it. He had a strong constitution. He was going to be fine. She decided to look for a pay phone and check on the children.
Rafferty paced his office. It was eleven thirty. Where was Fenimore? Did he forget? Or was he deliberately avoiding him? He reached for the phone and dialed.
“Doctor’s office,” a young male voice answered.
“That you, Rat?”
“Yeah.”
“Where is Doyle?”
“At the hospital with the doc.”
“Helping him with a case?”
“No. She’s helping him.”
“What?”
“The doc took sick this morning and he’s in the hospital again.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?”
“I was gonna. . . .”
Rafferty hung up and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair.
Mrs. Henderson had been sitting in the cocktail lounge of the Barchester Hotel for fifteen minutes, and she was not amused. She was unaccustomed to being kept waiting, and Dr. Fenimore was usually so prompt. Could she have mistaken the time? She glanced at her watch for the hundredth time. Her nieces and nephews told her she was getting forgetful, but she noticed that they often forgot things too. It wasn’t a matter of age, it was a matter of overload. We’re all doing too many things these days, she thought.
She tapped her fingers on the glass tabletop and played with the slim, elegant matchbook with “Barchester” printed in a silvery blue. For once, she blessed Philadelphia for its backward ways. They still allowed smoking in some of the more elite cocktail lounges. She took a cigarillo from her handbag and signaled the waiter. After he lit it for her, she ordered a martini, straight up, with an olive. If she had to wait, she might as well enjoy herself.
CHAPTER 35
It wasn’t clear whose idea it was, but after Fenimore’s friends had paid their respects at the ICU, they gathered, by common consent, back at his home office to determine who had caused the doctor’s present deplorable condition.
When they arrived, Mrs. Doyle discovered a string of telephone messages from Mrs. Henderson, becoming more and more incoherent as they progressed. (Horatio had stopped answering after the third phone call.) The number left on the tape turned out to be the cell phone of her chauffeur. When Mrs. Doyle spoke to him, he said he would bring her around right away. Doyle wasn’t sure whether “bring her around” referred to her geographical location or her physical condition.
Someone made the decision to order enough Chinese food to last the night, and they settled into the living room wearing expressions of grim determination. Rafferty ran the meeting and Doyle took notes (her hand was clearer than Jennifer’s), while Jennifer, Horatio, and Mrs. Henderson, looked on—the latter consuming cups of black coffee at a rapid rate. Tanya sat in a corner absorbed in reading a little green book.
“First,” said Rafferty, “does anyone know the doctor’s latest thoughts on the Ashburn case?”
Silence.
“We could look through his desk. He often makes notes,” said Jennifer.
Doyle disapproved of this invasion of the doctor’s privacy at first, but, convinced by the others of the urgency of the situation, she finally agreed. She went into his inner office and came back with three sheets of paper. One was mysteriously headed PPIS, another read MEDICAL EXPERTISE, and the third bore the title ALIBIS, but was blank below. Rafferty scanned the first two sheets. Noting that Mrs. Henderson’s name appeared under both headings, he decided not to pass the sheets around. He read the first list aloud, discreetly omitting the elderly woman’s name. After her third cup of coffee, she appeared on the verge of sobriety. By the time Rafferty reached Jack Newborn, she said brightly, “Wouldn’t it save time if you just passed the sheet around?”
“Er . . . I thought . . . if I read . . .”Rafferty fumbled.
“Nonsense. Let me have it.” She reached out and grabbed the first sheet. “What does ‘PPI’ mean?”
Rafferty cleared his throat. “I don’t know what the initials stand for, but judging from the names on the list, I think it refers to—er—possible suspects.”
“That can’t be,” she said adamantly, “because my name’s on the list.”
Silence.
To everyone’s surprise, Mrs. Henderson burst into hearty laughter. “Why that old buzzard!” she said. “Wait ’til I get my hands on him.”
The meeting moved on. After everyone had read the PPI list and digested the motives Fenimore had jotted next to each name, Rafferty passed around the Medical Expertise list.
“Well, he’s wrong there,” Mrs. Henderson chuckled. “I haven’t the slightest idea how an IV works.”
When Rafferty came to the Alibis list, he held it up to show the group. “As you can see, the doctor hadn’t gotten very far with this. But we discussed it, and I know what he was looking for. Since Chuck was murdered by a large dose of potassium injected into his IV line, the crime must have been committed after Chuck was admitted to the CCU. What we need to find out is where all the PPIs were between the time Chuck was admitted and when he died. To be specific, between one-thirty and three-thirty that afternoon.”
“I was chairing a meeting of the Historical Society at Twelfth and Locust,” Mrs. Henderson spoke up, a mischievous glint in her eye. “And I have thirty witnesses to prove it.”
“That’s a relief,” said Rafferty. “I was feeling a little nervous with a possible killer in the room.”
General laughter relieved the tension.
Turning serious again, Rafferty said, “How are we going to find out the rest?”
“Can’t you just ask them for their alibis?” said Jennifer.
“I could,” Rafferty said, “but I’d rather not get their wind up just yet. The killer is more likely to show his or her hand if they think we don’t suspect them.”
“I could do it.”
Everyone turned to look at Horatio, who had been silent until now.
“I could just hang around the boathouse and keep my ears open. I’d just be a dumb kid askin’ stupid questions ’cause I wanna learn how to row. Nobody’d suspect me.”
Rafferty looked thoughtful. Then he said, “When can you start?”
“Tomorrow—right after school.”
Shortly after this decision was made, the party broke up. Everyone seemed satisfied, except Tanya. Toward the end of the meeting, she had finished her book and heard Rat volunteer for something. She sensed that it might be dangerous. Before Horatio left, she whispered in his ear, “Be careful, Rat.”
“Sure.” He planted a kiss on her nose.
Later, when Tanya was helping Mrs. Doyle clear away the remains of the Chinese food, she noticed that Horatio’s fortune cookie was still intact. She broke it open and pulled out the slip of paper. “Look before you leap,” the message read.
Unaware of the plans being made in his very own living room, Fenimore dozed fitfully in the ICU. He was dimly aware of figures flitting to and fro on rubber-soled shoes, the hum of medical equipment, and whispered consultations. Dr. Larkin had dropped by once, right after Fenimore had been admitted, but that was long ago. No one had paid much attention to him since. That was probably a good sign. Too much attention in the ICU was usually not a good thing. He wondered how Doyle was coping with her teenage charges, whether Jennifer would come see him tomorrow, and if Rat was behaving himself. His last thought, before he dozed off, was: I hope no one tampers with my IV!
Rafferty had had the same thought in the middle of the meeting. Not wanting to alarm the others, he had kept it to himself. As soon as he got outside, he dialed he
adquarters on his cell and ordered a twenty-four-hour police guard outside the ICU.
CHAPTER 36
Horatio knew nothing about boats. He didn’t even know how to swim. A Philadelphia ghetto doesn’t provide much opportunity for learning either of these things. But he had plenty of questions.
As he trotted along Kelly Drive, dodging cyclists, joggers, and Rollerbladers, he wondered how those skinny little boats stayed above water. What were they made of? And how fast could they go? Spying a shabby sign that said ROWBOATS FOR HIRE, he left the path and headed down to the river’s edge. The dock was a shoddy patchwork of weathered wood, but the rowboats looked sturdy enough. If he took his time and stuck close to the shore he should be okay. He approached the man dozing on a rickety chair, and coughed.
“Wha—?”
“I wanna rent a boat.”
The man looked him over. “Ever rowed before?”
“Sure.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Look, man. I’ve got money.” Horatio showed him the brand-new ten-dollar bill Mrs. Doyle had given him from petty cash.
“You have to sign a slip.” The man reached in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled printed form, which, when signed, would release him from all responsibility for injuries (such as drowning, etc.). Horatio signed. The man pocketed the new ten and gave Horatio an old five. As an afterthought, he reached into a bin behind his chair and handed the boy a faded orange pillow with straps attached to it.
“What’s that?” the boy asked.
“Ain’t you ever seen one?”
“Oh sure,” the boy said quickly. He grabbed it and tossed it into the boat.
When Horatio climbed into the boat, it rocked violently. Seating himself cautiously, he carefully placed the oars in the locks on each side.
“Watch out for the falls,” were the man’s parting words. But he neglected to mention in which direction the falls were—up or downriver.
Horatio edged his new vehicle gingerly along the shore. His destination was not far. He could see the Windsor Club dock about one hundred yards ahead, where two young men were sliding a boat into the water. His plan was to ease up to the dock and pretend to be a dumb city kid. Pretend? He laughed out loud, scaring a duck—or was it a goose?—from the water. He would come every day after school until they got used to seeing him hanging around. Pretty soon they wouldn’t take any notice of him and he could ask as many questions and eavesdrop as much as he wanted.
He caught on to the rowing quickly. He was strong and the boat slipped easily through the water. He liked knowing he was causing it. He also liked the feel of the sun on his back and the breeze ruffling his hair. This is cool, he thought, and suddenly wished Tanya were with him.
By the time he reached the Windsor dock, the two rowers had left. The only person in sight was some phony-looking dude in plaid shorts, a T-shirt with some fancy gold picture on the pocket, and sandals which probably cost a grand apiece.
“Hi ho!” The dude greeted him with a lethargic wave and sidled over to the edge of the dock.
“Hi.”
“What’s your name, mate?”
Mate? “Rat.”
“Of course.” A knowing smile crept over his thin lips. “That’s why you’re ‘messing about in boats’.” He chortled, referring to that other Rat in Wind in the Willows.
“Huh?”
He shrugged. “A literary allusion.”
“Uh-huh.” What a pain in the ass, thought Horatio. But he might know something. “What’s your name?”
“Looking somewhat affronted, he finally drawled in his funny accent, “Geoffrey Hunter-Powell.”
“A mouthful,” Horatio muttered. But the name rang a bell. It was on the two lists the doctor had made. This must be that British scout from Henley. He was glad he’d paid attention during the meeting last night.
“Are you a rower?” Rat asked.
“Sculler.”
“Whatever.”
“Occasionally. But I don’t compete.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged.
“It looks like fun,” Rat said.
“If you enjoy working up a sweat,” he said.
“Did you know Chuck?”
“Chuck?”
“The guy that died?”
“Oh—a bit.”
“Did you visit him at the hospital?”
“Whatever for?” His surprise seemed genuine.
“To see how he was.” Slimebag, Horatio thought.
“No. He was only an acquaintance, you know.”
Horatio wanted to puke but restrained himself. He was doing this for the doctor, he reminded himself, and kept his cool.
“Hey, Geoff! Who’s your friend?” An African American rower joined them. With a friendly grin he leaned down and shook Rat’s hand.
“His name’s ‘Rat,’ ” said the slimebag. “He likes ‘messing about in boats.’ ” He gave the newcomer a sly grin.
The newcomer ignored him. “You thinking about becoming a rower?” he asked Horatio.
Horatio flushed. “Maybe.”
“You can take lessons, you know.”
“Yeah?”
“They have some brochures in the boathouse. I’ll get you one.”
Geoffrey, looking bored, moved away.
When the black rower returned with the brochure, he said. “I’m Hank. Anytime you have any questions, let me know.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Horatio glanced at his watch and was surprised to see that his hour was almost up. He had to return the boat. As he rowed off he thought, I talked to two suspects. Not bad for the first day.
CHAPTER 37
Rafferty called Horatio at home that night and demanded a full account of his progress. The boy reported that the British dude hadn’t gone to the hospital to see Chuck and seemed bored with the whole thing. And Hank Walsh was a nice guy.
“How did you get to the boathouse?”
“By boat.”
“Can you swim.”
“No.”
“For God’s sake, Rat, did you wear a life jacket?”
“Huh?”
“It’s a puffy vest, usually orange, with buckles and straps.”
“Oh, that. I thought it was a pillow. I sat on it.”
Rafferty groaned. “Listen, next time you set foot in a boat you wear that pillow.”
“Okay, okay.”
After the policeman calmed down, he said in a quieter tone, “You did well, Rat. Keep up the good work.”
The next day it rained. Not a gentle patter but a torrential downpour. Horatio stayed in the office, and when he had finished his work he played a raucous game of Monopoly with Tanya. He taught her how to steal money from the bank and hide it under the table, and then objected hotly when she tried to rob him.
Mrs. Doyle decided to order pizza for dinner. She was too tired to cook. Besides, she was worried. When she called the ICU that evening, the report was “No change.” While the teenagers had a friendly fight over the last piece of pizza, the nurse tried to immerse herself in a romance novel. Somehow Lady Bottomly and Lord Topperfield’s lovelife failed to hold her attention.
The following day, the sun was shining. When Doyle called the ICU, she was told the doctor had a good night and would probably be moved to a private room the next day. Exhilarated, the nurse pounded out twenty Medicare forms on the word processor and agreed to watch Oprah with Tanya. She had to renege on the latter, however, because the show’s guests were unsuitable. They were all young women who had been abused by their fathers. Doyle grabbed the remote, and, to Tanya’s disgust, changed the channel. They watched an old black-and-white movie starring Clark Gable and Carole Lombard. Mrs. Doyle was in ecstasy, while Tanya played solitaire and prayed that Horatio would show up soon. But, of course, he didn’t, because the sun was out and he was down on the river.
As Horatio made his way to the boat rental, he passed a man on the riverbank who was using some kind of weird equipment. Al
ways curious, the boy stopped and asked, “Whatcha doin’?”
“Surveying,” came the curt reply.
Not easily put off, Horatio asked, “Surveying what?”
“The riverbank. We’re planning to put a marina here—once we get rid of those old boathouses.”
Horatio’s interest quickened. Glancing around, he spied the man’s briefcase, leaning against a tree. On it, engraved in gold, was the name—W. Ott—one of the names on the doctor’s lists. Turning back to the man, he said, “Hey, that’s cool. Are you the guy who’s gonna build it?”
“I’m the principal architect,” he said pompously.
“Is it true they’re gonna be video games and a skateboard rink?”
Warming to the boy’s enthusiasm, Ott said, “I believe those are included in the plans.”
“Wow! When will it happen?”
“Not for some time, I’m afraid. These things aren’t accomplished overnight.” He frowned. “Unfortunately, there are a few obstacles in our way. For example, those ugly eyesores must come down.” With a sweep of his hand, he gestured at Boathouse Row.
“Huh, that shouldn’t be hard. One stick of dynamite and poof!” Horatio laughed.
The architect looked at Horatio with renewed interest.
“Besides, that rowing thing is dangerous. Didn’t some guy drop dead here a week ago?” Horatio asked. “And didn’t some old guy almost drown?”
“Now that you mention it, there was a rowing accident here. They took the fellow to HUP and he died in the CCU.”
“Were you there?” Horatio feigned a look of grisly curiosity.
“No, but I work nearby, at the Architecture School.” Tiring of Horatio’s company, he began to fiddle with his equipment again.
Taking the hint, the boy ambled away. He had found out what he wanted to know.
It was Horatio’s lucky day. When he arrived at the boathouse, dutifully wearing a faded orange life jacket, Frank O’Brien was on the dock instructing some new recruits in the basic steps of rowing. Trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, the boy sat in his battered rowboat, well out of the way. As the young men, looking strong and fit, listened intently to their coach, Horatio tried to think of some way to get his attention. He had an idea. He would stage a minor accident. The coach’s back was to him and the students’ attention was fixed on their teacher. Horatio ducked down low and began to slowly rock the boat. Unfortunately, despite its age (or perhaps because of it), it was sturdily built and didn’t tip easily. Giving up, Horatio slipped over the side and began splashing and yelling for help. To make his plight seem more realistic, he had removed the life jacket. He also let go of the side of the boat. Suddenly, he realized he really did need help. Despite his flailing arms and churning feet, he was sinking and the water was closing over his head!
The Doctor Rocks the Boat Page 13
