The next thing Horatio knew, he was lying flat on his back, staring at a few puffy clouds in a blue sky and O’Brien’s face was a few inches from his own.
“You okay?” the coach asked.
Horatio looked from the blue sky into the coach’s eyes, which were almost as blue. “Uh-huh,” he said. He shook the water from his hair and tried to sit up.
“Take it easy,” the coach said, and gave him a hand.
The new recruits were all standing around, gaping at him. He felt like an idiot. “Sorry,” Horatio mumbled. “I guess I slipped.”
“Can’t you swim?” O’Brien asked.
He shook his head.
He turned to his recruits. “Which of you guys wants to teach this guy to swim?”
The wanna-be rowers looked at one another, each hoping someone else would volunteer. Then Hank appeared.
“Hey,” he said when he saw Horatio. “That’s the kid that was here the other day.”
Horatio held his breath, wondering what he would do if they suspected him of spying.
“He wants to row,” Hank said.
“Well he better learn how to swim first,” the coach grumbled. “He almost drowned.” But he eyed Horatio in a new way, evaluating his physique from head to foot.
“Shit, man. What’s the matter with you?” Hank said to the boy.
Horatio looked down at the water, wanting to jump in again.
Hank came closer. “Listen. You come back tomorrow and I’ll teach you to swim. And you come on foot. No more boats, until I tell you.” He stepped into Horatio’s rowboat. “I’ll take this back, Coach,” he said. “You leave this kid to me.”
The recruits looked relieved. The coach ordered them to bring down a shell while he showed Horatio out.
O’Brien led Horatio through the rows of bays, where the shells were stored on racks, and up a short flight of wooden stairs into the boathouse. There was a living room, with chairs, a sofa, a fireplace—even a bar and a TV. Over the mantel hung framed photos of past rowing teams who had won awards. When the coach saw Horatio looking at one picture, he said, “Those fellas won the Diamond Sculls last year—one of the highest rowing awards.”
“Wow!” Horatio stared intently. “Wasn’t that the race the guy who died was going for?”
O’Brien’s expression turned somber. “You’re really up on the rowing scene, aren’t you, kid?” He looked at the boy carefully.
“Yeah.” Horatio said. “I follow all the regattas. Were you here when Ashburn died?”
“Chuck didn’t die here,” he said quietly. “He died later, at the hospital. And, yes, I was there.” He passed a hand across his face, as if to wipe away the image. “Come on, I have to get back to my class.” He hurried Horatio to a wooden door, the upper half of which was made of colored glass.
Horatio thought the whole place was kind of pretty. Not an eyesore at all.
“When you come for your swimming lesson,” O’Brien said, “come to this door and press the buzzer. Someone will let you in.”
“Thanks, man. And I’m sorry about . . .”
“Forget it.” He grinned. “You learn to swim and who knows? Someday you may be a rower.”
As Horatio walked down the path to Kelly Drive, he was overwhelmed by a confusing mix of emotions: humiliated over his fake drowning prank; proud that he had gained some useful information for Rafferty; and exhilarated at the thought that someday he might become a rower.
CHAPTER 38
For the second time in a week, Fenimore awoke to find himself in a hospital bed. He looked around the bare room. Friends couldn’t be expected to send flowers twice in one week. Before moving he lay still, checking out various functions. No chest pain. His breathing was normal. He could see the crack in the ceiling; his eyes were okay. He could hear the murmur of traffic, punctuated by horns outside the window; his ears were intact. The smell of bacon and scrambled eggs reached him from the tray next to his bed. (How come they smelled so good and tasted so awful?) His nose was still working. He wriggled his fingers and toes. They all moved smoothly enough. What was he doing here?
Dr. Larkin appeared in the doorway. “Say, Fenimore, you’re looking chipper.”
“When can I leave?”
“Not so fast.” He came over to the bed. “You just left the ICU. We have to watch you, old boy.”
“I have work to do.”
“It can wait. We have your hospital patients covered, and I know you have a capable office manager.”
Fenimore smiled at this understatement. But his concerns weren’t for his medical practice. They were for the Ashburn case. Every minute he lay in the hospital, the case was growing colder.
Larkin listened to Fenimore’s chest, asked him to say “Ah,” and felt his neck and abdomen for stray nodes. When he was done, Fenimore asked again, “Seriously, how long will I be in here?”
“Two to three days, I should say. We don’t want to risk another relapse. If I were you, I’d take a few weeks off. Take a trip. Go to the shore or the mountains. A near-drowning episode is no joke, Andy—especially at your age.”
“I’m only forty-three.”
“That’s when we start to go downhill.”
“Speak for yourself,” Fenimore muttered to his physician’s retreating back.
Fenimore passed the morning consuming watery scrambled eggs, limp bacon, and tepid coffee; being prodded, poked, and interrogated by various unidentified people; and answering phone calls from concerned friends. Mrs. Doyle was first. After inquiring about his health, she assured him that Tanya was fine. She had a good appetite. “She put up a good fight with Horatio over the last piece of pizza last night.”
Jennifer was next. Her voice sounded faint and far away. She was heading for South Jersey and using her cell phone. “I’ll have to make it short because my battery’s running low,” she said.
Rafferty sounded brisk and cheerful, but when Fenimore asked him about the Ashburn case, he sensed the policeman was holding something back.
Rat was the last to call. Fenimore was touched to learn that the boy had skipped recess to call from a public pay phone. “Hey, man, when are they lettin’ you out?”
“Two or three days.”
“Well, don’t worry. I’ve got the office under control.” (No mention of Mrs. Doyle.)
“That’s great, Rat.”
“Yeah. And I’ll have some news for you pretty soon.”
“News?”
“I’ve been covering the waterfront.”
“What?”
“You’ll see. I left some stuff on your desk. Uh . . . there’s the bell . . . gotta go!” Click.
Fenimore was musing over his last call when an aide came in bearing a potted plant with a tall stem and huge, glossy leaves, but no flowers.
“There’s no card,” the aide said.
Fenimore rooted in the soil with his finger for a plastic tag that would identify the plant, to no avail. He didn’t need one, however. He recognized the plant right away. Oleander. And he was also familiar with its deadly qualities.
CHAPTER 39
Fenimore was released the next morning amid many dire warnings from Dr. Larkin. The first thing he saw when he returned home, was the pile of “stuff” Horatio had left on his desk. The top sheet bore a diagram rendered in Rat’s large, ungainly hand, labeled ALIBIS (SATURDAY/1:30 P.M. to 3:30 P.M.). The diagram showed the whereabouts of all the suspects at the time of Chuck’s death.
Fenimore called Rafferty. “Did you see this timetable of Rat’s?”
“Yeah, he faxed me a copy. Nice job. He’s a bright kid.”
“Did you check out these alibis?”
“Yeah, I called the Planning Commission. They were holding a meeting during that time.”
“That eliminates Wormwood, Newborn, and Grub.” Fenimore hated to relinquish Grub. She seemed such a likely candidate. “Are you sure there were no absentees?”
“I checked that out.”
“What about Hende
rson?”
“You mean you haven’t heard from her?”
“No. Why should I?”
“She found out she was on your suspect list.”
HORATIO’S DIAGRAM
“Oh my God.”
“She took it pretty well, but I’d check out any unmarked packages in the mail, if I were you.”
That explained the oleander. Myra’s sense of humor always had a touch of the macabre.
“She’s in the clear,” Rafferty went on. “I called the Historical Society and learned she was chairing a meeting of thirty members that afternoon, just like she said.”
“That leaves just three suspects: O’Brien, Ott, and Walsh Sr.”
“If you discount the parents . . .”
“I saw Ott roaming the campus at HUP that afternoon, and O’Brien and Walsh were hanging around the CCU.”
“All three had motives, but Ott’s was the strongest,” said Rafferty. “His whole career hangs on that marina, I’ll bet.”
“But which of the three would know how to handle an IV?”
“And how would they get ahold of potassium?”
They were silent for a minute, pondering these questions.
Finally Fenimore said, “Where do we go from here?”
“To lunch,” said Rafferty and hung up.
Fenimore glanced at his watch. Sure enough, it was after twelve. He didn’t feel hungry. He decided to take a walk—the only exercise his doctor allowed him. But before he could get out of the office, the phone rang. Dan Burton, offering his hunting lodge for the weekend—again. “It’s a great place to recuperate, Fenimore. Quiet, scenic. Bring your girlfriend.”
Fenimore told him he was much too busy to take time off right now.
“All work and no play makes Fenimore a dull boy,” Burton said. “If you change your mind, just give me a ding-a-ling. . . .”
Ding-a-ling? Fenimore felt a wave of nausea. As he replaced the receiver, he pondered Burton’s motive for badgering him to come to the Poconos. He barely knew the man.
It was a lovely day, and as Fenimore strolled down Pine Street he relished his liberation from the hospital and was happy to be alive. He breathed in the sweet scent of the linden trees and gazed benevolently on the sidewalk cafés overflowing with young people. He paused. And not so young people. He had spied a familiar face. He could never forget the strong, handsome features of the last Lenape chief. But what was he doing in the city which he professed to abhor? And why was he smiling? Roaring Wings never smiled. Seeking the cause for these two minor miracles, he glanced at the Indian’s companion. A shock ran through him.
Jennifer was talking animatedly while Roaring Wings listened intently with that serene smile on his face.
Fenimore looked around for some way to escape, but Jennifer had spotted him and beckoned. As Fenimore came toward their table, he saw that her color was high and she was flustered.
“You know Andrew Fenimore,” she said to Roaring Wings.
“Of course.” The chief rose and shook hands. “Won’t you join us?” he said politely.
“No, thanks. I’m just out for a stroll. Doctor’s orders,” Fenimore said.
“How are you feeling?” asked Jennifer.
“Much better, thank you. How is your book coming?” He was appalled by their formality.
Jennifer glanced at Roaring Wings, who answered for her. “She’s doing a fine job. I read the first chapter last night. Just the right tone.” Again he smiled.
Excusing himself, Fenimore left them.
When Fenimore arrived home, he still had no appetite. His mood was low and his thoughts confused. Maybe it was part of his convalescence. He knew that such a traumatic experience often had aftershocks. The mind and body don’t always heal simultaneously. Sometimes one lagged behind the other. His main thought was to get Jen out of town, away from Roaring Wings. Another thought intruded. Burton’s second invitation. Why was he so insistent? Could it have something to do with Chuck’s death? After all, he did falsify the boy’s records. Suddenly he had an idea. Why not kill two birds with one stone? Get Jen out of town and learn more about Burton. He reached for the phone and punched in Burton’s number.
CHAPTER 40
Once on the road, Fenimore had mixed feelings about the trip to the Poconos. He had no business taking a weekend off. He was backed up with work as a result of his two hospitalizations. He felt guilty about sticking Mrs. Doyle with Tanya for a whole weekend. Jennifer had accepted his invitation readily enough, so his fears about her and Roaring Wings were probably groundless. And he should be working on the Ashburn case. (Although, in a way, he was. Burton fit into it somehow. He was sure of it. He just wasn’t sure where.) His suspicions about his host had increased in direct proportion to the urgency of his invitation to come to his place. What if Burton was not merely a sleazy doctor who committed fraud (or “wrongdoing” as the media euphemistically calls it)? What if Burton was actually dangerous? By accepting his invitation he might be putting Jen in jeopardy. Take it easy, Fenimore. You’re overreacting—a symptom of your illness. Burton is probably just a good Samaritan—or simply a lonely bachelor seeking companionship.
“The covered bridge should be coming up soon.” Jennifer held the map in one hand as she gazed through the windshield.
“It better be. It’s getting dark,” Fenimore said.
“There it is!” Jennifer pointed at a peaked roof ahead. “According to the map, Burton’s place is only a few miles from here.”
As the car rumbled over the wooden bridge, Fenimore wondered when the bridge was built and whether it was up to its job. To his relief, they made it to the other side. “Now what?”
Jennifer squinted at the map in the waning light. “We go three miles, then make a right at Fox Creek Lane. It looks like the lane ends at the lake—and his house.”
“Thank God. I’m starved,” Fenimore said.
“Didn’t you say he was a gourmet cook?”
“That’s what he told me.”
“Let’s hope he’s going to practice his skills on us.”
Fox Creek Lane was a narrow, winding road lined with thick pine trees. Fenimore shut off the air conditioning and rolled down the windows. (His old Chevy still had windows with handles.) The fresh scent of pine filled the car.
“Umm.” Jennifer inhaled deeply.
Although their scent was pleasant, the pines hemmed the car in on both sides making Fenimore claustrophobic. They also darkened the road, forcing him to turn on his headlights. Twisting and turning through the tunnel of foliage, Fenmore was glad when they glimpsed the lake ahead, shimmering under the last rays of the sun.
Burton’s home was a sprawling, stone house surrounded by a wide screened porch overlooking the lake. Knowing their host was a bachelor, Fenimore wondered why he needed such a big spread. As they drove up, the doctor came out on the porch—a ghostly figure in the twilight. He must have been looking for them. He greeted them enthusiastically, seated them in comfortable wicker chairs, and told them to enjoy the view while he rustled up something to drink. The view consisted of a black body of water surrounded by more pine trees. The sinking sun cut a golden path across the dark surface. Fenimore glanced at Jennifer. She looked relaxed and content. “Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea,” he said.
She smiled. “Every now and then it’s good to get away. You gain perspective.”
Fenimore wondered if she was referring to him or to herself. She came over and kissed the top of his head. He grabbed her hand, pulled her down on his lap, and kissed her.
“Whew!” she came up for air.
Fenimore didn’t let her breathe too long.
“Well . . .” Burton stood before them, bearing a tray of gin and tonics and an array of hors d’oeuvres that would have been more appropriate at a wedding reception than in such a rustic retreat. “I see the mountain air has worked its magic already,” he said.
Jennifer blushed and went back to her chair.
Over drinks, Bur
ton answered Fenimore’s unasked question—why he needed so much space.
“My hobby is woodcarving. I need room to store my materials and also to display my finished products. I’ll show you my sculpture after dinner.”
They talked about the area. How developers and conservationists were at sword’s point. (So what’s new?) They all unanimously sided with the conservationists. “In the old days it was the loggers we wanted to get rid of,” Burton said. “Now it’s the developers.”
“Do you use local wood for your sculpture?” Jennifer asked.
“Not anymore. I import wood from all over the world—from Africa, Malaysia, South America. The wood around here is too inferior for my work.”
Dinner, a culinary delight, was served on the porch. Poached salmon, fresh asparagus, and crème brûlée—accompanied by some very good wines. Small candles scattered along the porch railing provided the only illumination, and they soon guttered out. In the deepening dark, Fenimore’s companions receded, becoming dis-embodied voices.
After dessert, a chilly breeze sprang up from the lake and Burton steered them inside for the liqueurs. The living room was vast. The stone walls soared to a ceiling filled with smoke-blackened beams and a fire flickered in a cavernous fireplace. But it wasn’t the beams or the fireplace that drew the guests’ attention. It was the animals—all life-size and native to the area—captured in wood. A deer caught on the verge of leaping over a stream; a bear rearing up from the underbrush; rabbits, raccoons, beavers, woodchucks, and birds—all the carvings rendered in poses so natural it was hard to believe they weren’t alive. The room had been transformed into a wooded glen.
The Doctor Rocks the Boat Page 14
