“Do you mean, under this wise and dignified exterior,” he struck his chest, “there’s a brash, fun-loving youth yearning to get out?” Why didn’t she give him his book? Could she possibly want to prolong this interview? Actually, there weren’t too many fifteen-year-old fathers around, were there? “Would you like to go to a movie?” he blurted.
“Sure.”
She hadn’t even asked which one.
“But we have to eat first,” she said. “I’m starving.”
“Er.” Fenimore, an inveterate homebody, was not familiar with the city’s restaurant scene, although he’d heard that Philadelphia’s was above average.
“Come upstairs. You can talk to Dad, while I see what’s in the fridge.” She opened a door he hadn’t noticed before, revealing a narrow flight of stairs. A real city girl, he thought—lives over the store. Completely captivated, he followed her.
“Where did you come from?” Jennifer roused Fenimore from his reminiscences as she staggered in lugging a huge cardboard box.
“Let me …” Fenimore reached for it.
“Don’t touch.” She swiveled it out of his way. “It’s very delicate,” she explained.
Fenimore read the label: APPLE IMAC
“What’s this?”
“I’ve been planning to get one for a while. It’s time we got the store online.” Gently, she set it down, and looked for a sharp instrument. Grabbing a pair of scissors, she began carefully to cut the binding tape.
Fenimore grimaced. Everybody was getting wired. He wasn’t really a Luddite, but he wasn’t ready to embrace cyberspace either.
“Where do you want it, Jen?” Languid Lanky Locks suddenly appeared from the back.
“In the office, Greg.” Apparently, she had no qualms about letting him put his hands on it.
Like a windup toy that has been suddenly activated, Greg marched with his burden to the back office. Jennifer followed quickly. By the time Fenimore reached the office, Greg had the instruction book out and was flipping through it. After a quick glance at the main diagram, he began jamming wires into holes at lightning speed.
What had happened to his half-hour deadline? Fenimore thought, irritated.
“Where did you learn all this, Greg?” Jennifer was looking at him with admiration.
“Oh, we used to hack around in the dorms.” He plugged in one last wire and pressed a button. Miraculously, the screen glowed, a gong sounded, and the IMAC icon grinned at them. “Up and running,” Greg said.
That all-too-familiar phrase grated on Fenimore’s ears.
Casually, the youth offered his seat to Jennifer.
“Wow!” She slid into it. “And I thought this would take weeks.”
Greg shrugged, and Fenimore resisted the desire to slug him. Instead, he asked Jennifer, “Are you free Saturday?”
“Hmm?” She was rapidly typing her name in a wild, exotic font.
“So long, Jen.” Greg slouched toward the door, back in languid mode.
“Thanks Greg.” She looked up and bestowed her most radiant smile on him. “What were you saying?” She turned to Fenimore with the remains of the smile.
“I wondered if you’d like to go to a Strawberry Festival next Saturday?”
“Where is it?”
“South Jersey. An old friend of mine …” (He should have omitted the “old.”) “She’s having it at her farm.”
Her eyes caressed the computer. “By Saturday, I’ll probably be all teched out.” She sighed. “Sure, I’ll go.”
Her smile, although several killowatts lower than the one she had bestowed on Greg, restored Fenimore’s good humor.
The Doctor Consults a Detective
CHAPTER 12
Detective Rafferty had chosen a quiet table in a corner of the Raven. This dim bar and grill, on Spring Garden Street, was their favorite hangout. It was supposed to owe its origins to Edgar Allan Poe, who had once lived nearby.
“You’ve got a pager.” Rafferty was quick to notice the box on his belt.
Fenimore had forgotten about it. He gave it a pat. “Yep. Finally took the plunge and entered your world of high tech.”
“And high time. Your patients must be tired of sending those smoke signals.” Rafferty’s work as Chief of the Detective Division required the use of highly sophisticated electronic equipment every day. “You’ll get used to it, Doc. Pretty soon, like the lady who’s just discovered shopping on the internet, you’ll wonder how you did without it.”
A waiter plunked two perfect martinis in front of them, followed by a plastic bowl of peanuts. The doctor and policeman were regulars. They didn’t need to order. Rafferty grabbed a handful of peanuts. Only a few escaped his grasp. That was OK—Fenimore hated peanuts.
The first thing you noticed about Dan Rafferty was his size. Doorways shrank when he graced them and people of normal stature became puny by his side. The most solid chairs seemed suddenly flimsy when he sat on them, and silverware—even the blunt, substantial kind that the Raven provided—looked exquisitely fragile in his hands.
He had black hair and blue eyes. The hair was dusted with gray now, but the eyes had lost none of their intensity. The detective had risen through the ranks, starting as a foot patrolman like his father. His pet peeve was muggers—bullies and thugs who preyed on the old and the weak. He was famous for his ability to walk that fine line between protecting the innocent from harm and protecting the rights of those accused of harming. He had been happiest when he had worked on the street. But at forty-five, the department had decided he, like the aging athlete, couldn’t move fast enough. They promoted him to Chief of the Detective Division—a desk job full of paperwork, endless meetings and bureaucratic red tape. He longed to be back on the street. Once he told Fenimore, “You’re lucky, Doc. You can practice till you’re in your grave.” Fenimore had agreed at the time. But that was a few years ago. Now he wasn’t sure. More and more doctors were joining HMOs and moving their offices into the hospitals. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold out as a solo practitioner.
When their steaks arrived, Rafferty said, “What was that thing you wanted to talk to me about?”
Fenimore shook out his napkin and filled him in on the Ashley case. When he finished, Rafferty asked to see the note. Fenimore handed it over. The detective felt the paper carefully, then held it up to the little table lamp, searching for a watermark. “Nothing here.” He handed it back. “Have you got the photograph?”
Fenimore produced it from a folder he’d brought with him.
“This is just a photocopy, you know.”
Fenimore knew.
Rafferty flipped it over. His expression didn’t change when he saw the inscription, but he said, “Let me take this to our lab and run some tests.”
Fenimore nodded, carefully drawing two more items from his folder—the piece of twine that had held the photo to the carcass, and the envelope with its ugly stain and perforations in the corner.
Rafferty studied these exhibits briefly. He poked the twine through the two perforations. A perfect fit. “What did you say that fellow wanted your patient’s farm for?”
“A trash disposal plant.”
“Bullshit. The city’s not planning anything like that. Jersey would have a cow!” He laughed at his feeble joke.
Chalk one up for Doyle, Fenimore thought.
They relaxed after that, exchanging views on the general news and last night’s baseball game. Rafferty was an ardent Phillies fan. No amount of poor performances could dampen his enthusiasm. Fenimore rooted for them too, but more quietly. And he could never resist needling his friend after the Phils had suffered one of their inexplicable losses to an obviously inferior team.
“Ahh—just an off night,” Rafferty said. “They’ll be back in form tomorrow.”
“They need some new pitching material,” Fenimore said.
“Nah, they’re all right. Just saving themselves for later in the season.”
“The Christmas season?” Fe
nimore couldn’t resist.
Rafferty bristled, but before he could come up with a retort, Fenimore’s pager began to bleat. Fenimore nearly jumped out of his chair. People at neighboring tables stared. Rafferty laughed. “Thought you weren’t on call tonight, Doc.”
Fenimore read the number on the pager’s small screen. Mrs. Ashley. “Excuse me.” He went quickly to the pay phone at the back of the restaurant.
He returned in a few minutes.
“Have to go?” Rafferty looked up from the piece of leaden pie he was eating. Desserts were not the Raven’s specialty.
“No. It was Mrs. Ashley. The lady I was telling you about. She couldn’t find her nitros. Had to call her pharmacy for a refill.”
“Senile, huh?”
Fenimore laughed, trying to imagine that powerhouse of administrative ability senile. “No,” he said slowly. “Far from it. She never loses anything.” He was beginning to think Doyle’s warning about the two women’s safety was on target after all.
“Well, there’s always a first time. How important are those pills?”
“Very.”
“You’d better get a cell phone,” Rafferty said, patting the bulge in his own jacket pocket.
“You’d better stay out of the rain,” Fenimore retorted. “You’re so wired, if you step in a puddle you’ll be electrocuted.”
Rafferty grinned.
Before going to bed, Fenimore checked on the blood sample he had left at the hospital lab. His guess had been right. It was stored blood. It had been taken from a hospital refrigerator where it was being kept to help some patient in an emergency. It had never pulsed through the circulatory system of a cow—aristocratic or otherwise.
The Doctor and the Bookseller’s Daughter Go to the Strawberry Festival
CHAPTER 13
I have no doubt many persons have heard a remark made of the durability of the bricks of which our old houses are composed; their enduring quality is owing principally to a law which was passed in 1683, regulating the size of bricks. The brick to be made must be 2 ¾ inches thick, 4 ½ inches broad, and 9 ½ inches long to be well and merchantable burnt. They were to be viewed and appraised by two persons authorized by the court, and if they found the bricks faulty, they were to be broken, and the makers of them fined by the court.
—An Historical Account of the First Settlement of Salem (1839) by Colonel Robert C. Johnson, from Down Jersey by Cornelius Weygandt
Whoever wrote, “What is so rare as a day in June …” knew what they were talking about. The day of the Strawberry Festival dawned without a cloud in the sky or a drop of humidity in the air. Fenimore awoke with that Saturday anticipation he had had as a boy—when anything was possible.
By eleven-thirty he had completed his hospital rounds, seen three office patients, and even signed some Medicare forms. He left the office whistling. On the way to the car, he reminded himself that the purpose of today’s excursion was not purely pleasure; he had a serious mission to accomplish. He continued to whistle, serious mission not withstanding.
To save Fenimore from having to park, Jennifer was waiting outside the bookstore. She had a wicker basket over one arm. Lunch, he hoped. Signing Medicare forms always gave him a hearty appetite.
Jennifer slipped quickly into the seat beside him, but not before the driver behind them began to honk. As Fenimore drove off, he savored the fleeting impression of bare arms, lavender print, and a light floral scent. Having Jennifer at his side was like stumbling unexpectedly into a cool garden in the city. “Rus in urbe,” he murmured.
“I beg your pardon” asked Jennifer.
“Garden in the city,” he mumbled.
Fenimore had the disconcerting habit of uttering Latinisms at odd times. Jennifer had never regretted not taking Latin until she had met Fenimore. When she had been a teenager, it had been the only time she had rebelled against her father’s wishes. “What am I going to do with a dead language?” she had demanded, and signed up for French instead. Now she wished she had taken both. Above the noise of the traffic, they heard the resonant tones of the City Hall clock striking noon.
He was heading toward the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, but their progress was slow. “Everybody seems to be headed for the shore,” he said. “I forgot about the weekend crowd.” He glanced at his watch. “Veni, vidi, sedi.”
“Excuse me?” She tried to hide her annoyance.
“I came, I saw, I sat,” he translated.
She laughed, grudgingly. “It should open up once we cross the bridge. Have you been to this place before?”
“Yes. But it’s easy to get lost. Here.” He handed her a rumpled map.
As they drove, he filled Jennifer in on Lydia Ashley’s problem and the real purpose of their visit.
“Good grief!” She stared at him. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just be yourself. But keep your eyes and ears open and report anything unusual.”
Before she could answer, there was a bend in the road and a house suddenly appeared on their right. He stopped short. “Sorry,” he said, but his eyes were riveted on the house. Built primarily of red brick, the side facing the road had a “patterned brick end” worked into the wall with blue bricks. The design included two initials, J & W, and the date, 1725. This was framed by an ornate zigzag border of blue bricks. How had he missed this on his first trip down? “That’s called a diaper pattern,” he said. “Very unusual.”
“Hmm.”
“The main body of the wall is Flemish bond,” he explained. “But the pattern is worked in blue brick. The technique goes back to the Middle Ages in France. The French taught it to the English. If you really want to trace it back, you can find ornate brickwork in Babylonia in the fourth century B.C.” He stopped, afraid he was boring her.
“Those first settlers must have really cared about their homes,” she said. “I guess they didn’t have to worry about being transferred.”
“No,” he laughed, “they were farmers.” With a shock, he realized how important it was to him that she like this place.
“Why don’t we picnic there.” Jennifer pointed to an ancient sycamore on the other side of the road.
Hoping no trigger-happy farmer would pop up with a shotgun, Fenimore cautiously parked his car under the tree.
“I don’t think any farmer will mind if we borrow his shade for a half-hour.” She had read his mind.
He glanced over his shoulder.
“And stop worrying about bulls!” (She had known him for over three years.)
He gave her a weak smile. As she began to break out the contents of the picnic basket, he asked, “How is the book business?”
“Not bad. But we’re running out of space. We have to reduce our stock. I have to control my impulse to buy books or Dad and I will be out in the street—or living in a motel. It’s an addiction, I’m afraid.”
“Not a bad one,” said Fenimore. “I like books as well as bricks. Actually they have a lot in common—one builds buildings, the other—”
“—civilizations.” Jennifer laughed. “That’s too philosophical on an empty stomach.” She munched meditatively on a carrot. “Maybe I should start a B.A … .”
He looked up from his deviled egg.
“Biblioholics Anonymous. If I get a craving for a book in the middle of the night, I’ll call you—”
“And I’ll tell you to go watch TV.”
“That would be like sending a drunk into a bar.” She laughed. “Our TV is in our library, remember?”
“Don’t worry about your addiction,” he reassured her. “You’ll be too busy with your computer to have time to buy books.”
“The computer makes it easier to buy them.” She handed him a chicken leg. “All you have to do is press a button and you can order a whole roomful of books.”
Fenimore looked aghast.
“Yeah, it’s scary. I have to be careful. It’s almost as bad as those day traders. Beep, beep, whoosh! and you’re the proud owner of two thousand bus
hels of soybeans!”
Fenimore shuddered.
“On the other hand, it’s great for inventory.” She poured lemonade into a paper cup and passed it to him. “Why don’t you get one?”
“Mrs. Doyle takes care of my inventory. She tells me when a patient dies or a new one arrives. I don’t need a computer.”
“That’s what people said about the telephone. Think of it, you could store all your patient’s histories, do your billing and your taxes in half the time, and Mrs. Doyle could devote herself to her nursing duties. Why are you so threatened by it?” She looked at him sharply.
Fenimore busied himself, stuffing their trash into a plastic bag.
“I’d be glad to show you how mine works,” she went on. “With your brains you’d have it eating out of your hand in no time.”
He was starting to mellow when the lazy hum of bees was replaced by a high-pitched whine. “Mosquitoes!” he cried.
Slapping their necks and ankles, they threw the remains of their lunch in the basket and ran for the car. As Fenimore turned the key in the ignition, he said, “Now we know why south Jersey is so underpopulated.”
CHAPTER 14
The first Faire in the village of ____ was held October 16th and 17th of 1695 … . The little village was then a large active port … and had been declared a Port of Entry for the Crown with a customs house … . The wharf stood at the beginning of Ye Great Street … . Also at the foot of the street stood a store and the jail. The store was made of local stone … and the second story facing the river had small slotted windows made to slip guns through as protection against pirates that might come up the ____ River.
—from the Cumberland Patriot/The Cumberland County Historical Society. Fall 1999
The green fields gave way to marshier ground, threaded by twisting streams bordered by reeds and cattails. They passed a roadside stand attended by two sun-bleached children—a girl and a boy. The girl had pigtails, and they both had freckles. They were selling strawberries in pint baskets. Jennifer ordered Fenimore to stop. They bought three baskets. The children waved until they were out of sight.
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