The Doctor Rocks the Boat

by Robin Hathaway

  By eleven everyone was quite drunk, except Fenimore. He had sipped slowly, deliberately rationing himself. He wanted to be sober, in case of an emergency.

  But there was no emergency. At one point Charlie and Fenimore ended up in the men’s room together. Fenimore took the opportunity to ask him again about Burton’s motive. Feeling no pain, Charlie made a confession: Burton had been blackmailing him for years. “He threatened to tell Caroline about Chuck’s cardiac condition if I didn’t pay up,” he said.

  So that’s how Burton paid for his spread in the Poconos; the exotic, imported woods; the fine food and wines. Of course, Charlie’s part in all this wasn’t exactly sterling. He decided not to disclose Burton’s greater deception. The fact that Chuck had not suffered any SCD tendency. That he was perfectly healthy. Burton had lied about Chuck’s condition so Charlie would continue to pay up.

  “Why did you let Chuck row, Charlie, when you knew he was at risk?” Fenimore asked.

  “Let him? Are you crazy? You’ve never had kids, have you, Fenimore?” He zipped up. “Chuck was of age. He did what he wanted. He wouldn’t listen to me, or to anyone else.”

  Fenimore knew firsthand this was true. “Then why were you afraid of Caroline finding out?”

  They were washing their hands.

  “I wasn’t. It was Chuck. He knew if his mother found out, she’d be nagging him to quit rowing every day of his life. He wouldn’t have a moment’s peace.”

  “What are you going to do?” Fenimore asked anxiously. He suddenly remembered the Mafia-like shove he had once received from Charlie.

  “Relax, Fenimore. I’m a law-abiding citizen. You know the old adage, ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right.’ ” He patted his arm. “Shall we rejoin the party?”

  To Fenimore’s dismay, they had two more rounds of drinks, and then Charlie said, “Burton, you have to stay at my place tonight. You’re much too drunk to drive to the Poconos.”

  “Awr no, I’m awr right.” He rose clumsily to his feet.

  “What about you, Charlie?” Fenimore said. “Maybe I’d better drive you both home.”

  “Nah, I’m fine.” And, indeed, he seemed fine. Maybe he had been rationing himself, too.

  “Well, I would like a ride home,” Jennier said, still elegant, if slightly tipsy.

  “I’ll take care of you,” Fenimore told her.

  “Lucky boy.” Burton gave her a lascivious look.

  It took all Fenimore’s restraint not to punch him.

  Charlie left an enormous tip for the bartender, which he richly deserved, and they staggered out to the street.

  “Swell party!” Charlie said, giving Fenimore and Jen each a bear hug. Burton was about to follow suit, but Charlie grabbed him and steered him toward the parking garage. The last Fenimore and Jennifer heard of the two doctors, they were singing some old college song—off-key.

  When they reached the car, Jennifer asked, “What was that all about?”

  “The old-school tie gone awry,” Fenimore said grimly.

  CHAPTER 46

  Fenimore couldn’t sleep. He was deeply worried and furious with himself for telling Charlie about Burton. He should have kept his mouth shut and gone straight to Rafferty. Poor judgment. What the hell was the matter with him?

  He got up and paced the room. He tried to read, to no avail. Sal, registering her annoyance, moved into Tanya’s room. He went downstairs to the kitchen and made some chamomile tea. It didn’t help. Nothing helped. He went back to bed and lay, staring at the dark rectangle of his bedroom window. He watched it change from black, to charcoal, to gray. When it was pale gray, he got up and dressed.

  His first thought was to call Rafferty, but it was Sunday, the only day his friend was free to be with his family. Instead, he called Charlie.

  “Hey, Fenimore. That was some party. I needed that. It was like a good old-fashioned Irish wake—”

  “You’re comparing me to a corpse?”

  “Well, you were a little stiff last night.”

  “How is Burton?” Fenimore asked, uneasily.

  “Great. He’s stuffing his face with ham and eggs, topped off with some hair of the dog—a Bloody Mary. Want to talk to him?”

  “Yes.”

  As soon as Burton got on the phone, Fenimore said, “I’d like to drive your car out to you. That way you can leave for home right from Charlie’s. It would save you a trip.”

  “That’s damned nice of you, Fenimore—”

  “What’s damned nice?” Fenimore heard Charlie in the background.

  “Wait a minute,” Burton said, and Charlie came back on.

  “We’re going for a row this morning, Andy. Want to join us? Oh, that’s right, you’re off rowing for a while. You’re on the wagon. Ha, ha, ha. Well, we’ll miss you. . . .”

  “Charlie, how many Bloody Marys have you had?”

  “Now, Fenimore, none of your Calvinist sermons.”

  “I’m no Presbyterian.”

  “You act like one sometimes.”

  “I thought Burton only rowed rowboats,” Fenimore said tensely.

  “That’s right. But I’m going to teach him the real thing today.”

  Fenimore heard Burton yell something in the background, but he couldn’t make it out. He urgently repeated to Charlie his offer to drive Burton’s car out to him. But Charlie squelched that. “We have other plans. Sorry you can’t join us.”

  Before Fenimore could answer, Charlie hung up.

  Fenimore called Rafferty and told the policeman his fears.

  “What time do you estimate they’ll get to the boathouse?” Rafferty asked.

  Fenimore calculated how long it would take them to finish breakfast, then the trip from Bryn Mawr to Boathouse Row with traffic. “About an hour, give or take a few minutes.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  He had barely hung up when Doyle, Rat, and Tanya piled into his bedroom and dragged him downstairs for a sumptuous breakfast of bacon, eggs, and waffles with fresh strawberries. But he was too anxious to eat. He swallowed only enough to satisfy the three cooks. Apparently, breakfast had been a group effort: Doyle had done the eggs, Rat, the bacon, and Tanya, the waffles. When they were finished, Doyle cleaned up and the teenagers tried to entice Fenimore into a game of gin rummy. But he said he was meeting some friends at the boathouse.

  “Not rowing?” Doyle asked sharply.

  “Heaven forbid,” Fenimore assured her and hurried upstairs to dress.

  CHAPTER 47

  An ambulance and two police cars were parked in front of the boathouse. A cluster of curiosity seekers were trying to peer through the fence. A policeman was protecting the gate to the dock. Fenimore pushed his way through the rubberneckers.

  “I’m a doctor—and a member of the club,” he told the guard.

  After Fenimore showed identification, the guard let him pass. He was approaching the dock at a run when he saw two medics lift Burton onto a gurney. Charlie and Rafferty were standing to one side, looking on. Fenimore watched as one medic pulled a blanket over Burton’s face.

  When Fenimore was sure his legs would carry him he went over to the two men.

  Rafferty looked up. Charlie averted his gaze.

  “An accident,” Rafferty said.

  Charlie shifted slightly.

  The medics raised the gurney and moved away.

  “What happened?” Fenimore finally managed to ask.

  “We were out on the river,” blurted Charlie, eager to talk. “Each in a single. I was shouting directions to Dan. And he was doing well. I looked away for a minute, starting to pull upriver, when I heard a yell. I turned to look and he had tipped. The shell was upside down and Burton was nowhere in sight. I told him about that string that releases the shoes, but . . . I guess he forgot.”

  Fenimore felt cold, remembering his own plunge.

  “Anyway, I dove in and freed him, and managed to drag him onto the dock. Some young rowers were there, and gave him CPR. . . .”He faltered.
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br />   “Go on,” Rafferty prodded.

  “While they were working on him, I called 911. But by the time they got here, he . . . was gone.”

  “I came in while they were giving CPR,” Rafferty said. “It seems you miscalculated, Fenimore. You forgot it was Sunday and traffic was light. They got here sooner than you expected.”

  Charlie looked bewildered. He thought Rafferty had come in answer to the 911 call. He began to shake.

  “Someone get a blanket!” Fenimore shouted.

  A young man disappeared into the boathouse and returned with a gray blanket. Fenimore threw it over Charlie’s shoulders. “He’s in shock,” he told Rafferty. “He’d better come home with me.”

  The policeman nodded. “Take him home. I’ll be in touch.”

  Back at the house, Fenimore took Charlie into his inner office. He sat him down and drew a dusty bottle of scotch from a drawer. He poured two shots into a tumbler and gave it to him. Charlie reached for it. He was shaking so badly he had to use both hands to get the glass to his mouth. Fenimore waited, letting the drink take effect. When Charlie stopped shaking, he asked him again, “What happened?”

  Charlie repeated verbatim what he had said on the dock. This time he added, “Those kids rescued both shells.”

  They sat in silence for a while. Then Fenimore drove Charlie home.

  Later that night, Fenimore lay awake, going over Charlie’s story. Something nagged at him. Something was not quite right. The next morning, he rose early and went down to the boathouse. A bunch of young rowers were just returning from their early morning practice rows. Fenimore stopped them. “Were any of you fellows here yesterday during the accident?”

  “I was.” A young man stepped forward. “I helped with the CPR.”

  “So did I,” spoke up another.

  “Did you see who was in The Zephyr?” Fenimore asked.

  The two youths who had spoken up looked puzzled. “No,” said the first. “Both men were in the water by the time I saw them.”

  “Me too,” said the second. “But no one’s allowed to use The Zephyr except the Ashburns,” he added.

  Meaning Charlie must have been in The Zephyr . . . Or was he?

  Fenimore went to the bay and scanned the oars. The Zephyr Pair were in their usual niche, a little separate from the regular oars. They were lighter, he remembered. Regular oars would be too heavy for the lighter craft—dangerous, even. He went outside and asked one of the rowers, “Do you know if the oars were lost yesterday?”

  “Oh, yeah. We managed to save the shells, but not the oars. They slipped down river ahead of the boats and went over the falls.”

  “Lucky it wasn’t the Zephyr’s,” Fenimore said. “They’d be hard to replace.”

  “Yeah. They were custom-made.”

  Fenimore knew it would be difficult for an expert to row The Zephyr with ordinary oars, let alone a novice who was navigating a shell for the first time. Also, Burton was heavier than Chuck—by a good ten pounds. The extra weight might upset the balance. Of course, capsizing wouldn’t have been the end of Burton. He could swim. But he had been locked into those shoes! And who knew how long it took Charlie to release him? There were no witnesses.

  Fenimore walked up Kelly Drive, deep in thought. Absently he dodged cyclists, joggers, and strollers. “No one’s allowed to use The Zephyr except the Ashburns.” The boy’s words echoed in his ears. He kept walking. The crowd on the path was growing, and he was having trouble avoiding a collision. He paused by the statue of Jack Kelly. The sculptor had captured the famous rower in the first step of the rowing cycle—the catch. The green-bronze figure gleamed in the sun, full of vigor and grace. That’s what the sport was all about—grace under pressure. The old Hemingway maxim. But that had nothing to do with putting a novice in an especially light shell with a pair of too-heavy oars. The odds were unfairly stacked. He shouldn’t have been in a singles shell the first time out anyway. Charlie should have taken him out in a double until he learned the ropes. Burton didn’t have a chance.

  Fenimore slowed down.

  A jogger swerved around him.

  Fenimore had slowed down because he again remembered Burton—after the cardiology lecture—feigning a yawn. Right after he killed Chuck!

  He stood still.

  “Watch it!” A cyclist narrowly missed him.

  He started walking again, still thinking. And shortly after the lecture, Burton must have gone down to the river, rented a motorboat, and tried to drown me! Fenimore shivered.

  But how did he know which boat I would choose? he asked himself.

  That wouldn’t be hard. Most of the rowers knew he always used The Folly, his father’s old shell. All Burton would have had to do was ask someone.

  So Burton had committed one murder, attempted another, and—for icing on the cake—there was the blackmail scheme. . . .

  He stepped off the path and made his way to the river. Finding an empty bench, he sat and watched a mallard mother lead a string of half-grown ducklings downstream. Spring was moving on. He thought about mother-love—and Caroline. In her zeal to protect her son, she had almost murdered him. Charlie’s comment came back to him: “You’ve never had any kids, have you, Fenimore?”

  He remembered a play he had seen a long time ago—The Winslow Boy. It was about a boy who was accused of stealing a postal order. The boy’s father risks their modest savings and the ruin of the family to clear the boy’s name. The play is not about theft, however. It is about honor. A word seldom used today. In the end, the lawyer who clears the boy’s name, explains that right, not justice—as defined by the letter of the law—has been done. Justice is easy. Right is hard, he explains.

  Shall I forget the whole thing?

  Rafferty’s scowling face rose before him. Taking the law into your own hands, Fenimore?

  A shell glided past, casting its slim shadow on the water. Such a peaceful sight. Fenimore turned away. He would call Rafferty in the morning and tell him his suspicions. Sunday was a day of rest.

  EPILOGUE

  When Fenimore came into the office Monday morning, Mrs. Doyle handed him four pink message slips in the order in which they arrived. Mrs. Henderson’s was on top:

  Boathouse Row has been officially registered as a national historic landmark! Shall we have a drink to it?

  Your Prime Suspect,

  Myra

  The next one was from the Department of Human Services:

  We would like to set up an appointment to discuss the whereabouts of Tanya Gonzalez at your earliest convenience.

  Ms. Stephanie Patterson, Senior Case Consultant

  Next—from Jennifer:

  I’ll be out of town again this weekend. Take care.

  Jen

  And finally—from Rafferty:

  I have some questions about that drowning yesterday. Can you make dinner tonight at the Raven?

  Raff

  Fenimore lined up the slips on his desk in no particular order. He closed the door to his inner office. He reached for the dusty bottle of scotch (which wasn’t as dusty as usual because it had been used recently). Then, although it was barely ten o’clock, he poured himself a stiff shot.