When they crossed the road that led into Winston, Jennifer caught sight of the wide main street lined with old shade trees. “It’s so peaceful,” she said.
“It’s hard to believe, but this quiet town was a bustling port in colonial times.” Fenimore could never resist an opening for a history lesson. “I read that they held fairs here twice a year, and people came from miles around to buy and sell goods.”
“Maybe the Strawberry Festival is a descendant of one of those fairs,” Jennifer said.
For the second time that week, Fenimore passed through Lydia’s rusty iron gate and bumped along her poor excuse for a driveway. At the end, they caught sight of a tent—needlessly erected in case of rain—and Lydia herself, peering at them from under the brim of a white leghorn hat. Fenimore knew immediately that he had been missed. Recognizing his old Chevy, she gestured for him to park in the adjacent field.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” Lydia began accusingly. Catching sight of Jennifer, she became more cordial. “So glad you could come, my dear. I told Andrew to bring a friend.”
After the introductions, Lydia led them into the center of things. “Now I want you to meet everyone. Oh, good, here comes Amory.”
Fenimore spotted the now familiar courtly figure making his way toward them.
Lydia beckoned.
“Here at last!” He trotted up, ebullient and beaming, as if their arrival was the most important event of the day. Taking charge at once, he supplied each of them with a dish of strawberries, whipped cream, and a cup of punch. “This is made from a colonial recipe. It’s a great favorite in the neighborhood.”
“I’m leaving you in good hands,” Lydia said, and hurried off to attend to her many hostess duties.
As Amory guided them through the crowd, Jennifer—following Fenimore’s instructions—carefully observed her surroundings. Later she would describe the Festival as a cross between high tea at an English vicarage and the boardwalk at Atlantic City.
Bowls of punch and strawberries were set out on small tables under the trees. People helped themselves, on their honor to put fifty cents in the small baskets nearby. “The proceeds go to St. Stephen’s Church and Academy,” Amory explained, pointing to a steeple and a small group of buildings in the distance.
Besides the strawberry refreshments, there were hot dogs, popcorn, and soft drinks for sale. Cries of “Bop the Bottles!,” “Win a Teddy Bear!,” and “Fish for a Prize!” came at them from all directions. Most of the game booths were run by boys from the Academy. They were dressed in navy slacks and white sports shirts bearing the school emblem on the pocket, whereas the farm boys wore T-shirts and faded jeans.
“It’s their job to set up the booths and run them,” Amory said. “The last project of their school term. Ah, here’s the Reverend Osborne—our headmaster.” Amory paused before the punch bowl where Oliver, alias Percy, was laconically filling his cup. He was also in uniform—white slacks and a navy blazer, bearing the school emblem.
“Andy! Back so soon? Don’t tell me you find our bucolic charms so irresistible. You must have some other reason to grace this godforsaken hole two weekends in a row.” He gave Jennifer the cup he had just filled and began filling another.
“Strawberries,” Fenimore said quickly. “Can’t resist ’em.”
“Me either,” agreed Jennifer. “City strawberries taste nothing like these!” To prove her point she plucked one from her punch cup and ate it with relish.
“This is an old classmate of mine,” Fenimore introduced Oliver.
“You could have skipped the ‘old,’ Andy,” Oliver said, looking at Jennifer appreciatively.
“Then you must have known Auden too,” Jennifer said with a glint in her eye.
“The poet,” Fenimore prompted. Knowing that his friend had spent his college years in an alcoholic haze, he feared he might not remember the great man’s presence on campus.
“Oh, yes. I saw him shuffling down the halls. But my major was sociology and our paths seldom crossed.”
“Oh.” Disappointed, Jennifer changed the subject. “And what was our doctor friend like as an undergraduate?” She nodded at Fenimore.
“Andy? Serious. Very serious. Until exams were over. Then he cut up worse than the rest of us.”
Fenimore cast him a warning look, but there was no stopping him.
“Once he got so drunk he went over to one of the girls’ dorms and serenaded them under their windows. It was after curfew. In those days the girls, er, young women, had to be in bed by midnight. And some goody-goody called the campus cops. They came and dragged him off. Where did they take you, Andy?”
“Some cell-like room in the basement of a dorm where they let me sleep it off.” He laughed.
While the two classmates reminisced and Amory was distracted by some friends, Jennifer took off to explore on her own. Of course, the first booth that attracted her bore the sign USED BOOKS. A small, severe-looking woman stood guard over the wares. Every time someone came to browse, they would pull the books out of order. With a grim expression, she would set them right again. As soon as she was finished, someone else would come and scatter them. An exercise in frustration.
After glancing at a number of volumes, Jennifer’s hand lighted on a small, leather-bound volume of Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey. She riffled through it quickly and looked up. “How much is this?”
“They’re priced as marked,” the woman snapped.
“Oh, sorry,” Jennifer murmured. Finding the price penciled on the inside cover, she fished in her pocketbook for a quarter. As she held it out, a firm hand closed over hers.
“Ha! Caught you,” Fenimore exclaimed.
“Oh, but …”
“No ‘buts.’” He turned to the waspish woman behind the counter. Recognizing her immediately, he said, “Ah, Miss Cunningham, this young lady won’t be making her purchase. She has quite enough books.”
Miss Cunningham stared at him.
“But,” he went on, “I don’t want to deny you your sale.” He e took a quarter from his pocket and handed it to her. “Come along, Jennifer.” He steered her away from the book stall. “I’m going to challenge you to a rousing game of ‘Bop the Bottle.’ Nothing like exercise to take your mind off books.” He pointed to the pyramids of wooden bottles in a neighboring booth. Before Jennifer could speak, he had paid for three baseballs and placed one in her hand.
When she finally found her tongue, she burst out, “I wanted that book for business, not pleasure.”
“What’s that?”
“It was an early Jane Austen in perfect condition, and I could have had it for a quarter,” she wailed.
“Oh, in that case, I’ll nip right back and get it.” He shoved the other two balls at her and hurriedly made his way back to the book stall. But when he arrived he was at a loss. If he asked for the Austen book again, the woman would think he was mad. “Ahem,” he cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking of doing some research here—on your wonderful brickwork. As head of the Historical Library, I thought you might have some ideas about where I might start.”
“I might.”
“Does your library accept out-of-town members?”
“Not as a rule.”
“But you do make exceptions …?”
“If you have adequate references.”
“Is Lydia Ashley adequate?”
“Her Highness?” Her tone fell just short of a sneer. “I suppose.” She turned away to search for a membership card. It was the moment Fenimore had been waiting for. With the facility of a seasoned shoplifter, he slipped the copy of Northanger Abbey into his jacket pocket. Unfortunately his stethoscope was already stored there. He jammed the book down and prayed it was hidden from view. “Here we are.” She turned back to him. Why was his heart pounding when all he had done was retrieve a book he had already paid for!
“I knocked down all the bottles with one blow.” Jennifer reappeared at his side carrying a large purple teddy bear. “How
did you manage that?”
“I imagined they were your head.”
“Fine. I’m involved in the intricate process of joining the Winston Historical Library.” He bestowed a bright smile on Miss Cunningham, which she didn’t return. He signed the membership card with a flourish. “Would you like to join?” he asked Jennifer. “I’m sure Miss Cunningham has a card to spare.”
“Not unless she has references.” Miss Cunningham stared at the purple bear. It did nothing to increase Jennifer’s credibility.
“Well, now that I’m a member, I can recommend her,” Fenimore said. “She has an honest face, don’t you think?” He tilted Jennifer’s chin for the librarian’s closer inspection. Suddenly, he experienced a sharp pain in his left foot. Jennifer had brought her full weight to bear on it. He winced. “On second thought, I guess one out-of-town member is enough for one day.” He allowed Jennifer to drag him—limping—away.
“Well?” she asked, when they were barely out of the bookseller’s hearing.
He patted his pocket. “Light-Fingered Fenimore does it again,” he said. “For the preservation of independent bookstores, I’ve just antagonized one of my prime suspects. She’ll probably never speak to me again.”
“Never mind.” With the safe acquisition of the book, Jennifer’s good humor had returned. “I’ll talk to her and find out anything you want to know.”
“I want to know if she dislikes Lydia enough to plan an accident that might seriously injure her.” For a moment he looked as grim as Miss Cunningham.
“I’ll do my best,” Jennifer said seriously. Then she smiled. “Maybe my friend here can help.” She nodded at the teddy bear she had just won. “How ’bout it, Ted?”
Fenimore saw nothing strange in this. He once had a teddy bear that he talked to.
“Here you are!” Amory confronted them with two fresh cups of punch. “You gave me the slip. I’ve been looking all over for you. Tom wants to talk to you.”
Fenimore recognized the tall, sullen young man from the house tour, lurking behind Amory.
“Jennifer’s father is the proprietor of Nicholson’s Books,” Amory told Tom. “The best bookstore in Philadelphia.” Amory’s introductions always made the introduced feel either important or embarrassed, Fenimore noticed.
The young man gave a curt nod.
“Tom is our agricultural expert. He has a degree from the Bridgeton School of Agriculture, and he can turn the saltiest bogs and marshes into fertile soil for growing wheat and corn, right, Tom?” He patted the young man’s shoulder.
Tom shrank from his touch. “The thing I’m working on now is more important,” he said. “I’ve invented this machine that’ll harvest cranberries. Instead of picking the berries by hand, you flush them off the bushes with water.”
“Have you patented it?”
“Not yet. I’m waiting until I can get hold of some land near the river. If only Lydia would—”
“Didn’t you say you wanted to show the doctor something?” Amory interrupted.
Tom shrugged. “I thought you might like to take a look at my brickwork.”
“Is your house near the road?” Fenimore asked.
Tom nodded.
“Does it have the initials ‘J & W’ and the date ‘1725’ worked into the wall?”
“Yes. That’s it.”
“We just picnicked across from it,” he said. “Your ancestors were fine craftsmen.”
“The brickwork reminded me of my grandmother’s needlepoint,” Jennifer said.
“Uh-huh.” Tom’s attention had strayed. He seemed to be searching for someone in the crowd.
“You can’t beat bricks for strength and beauty,” Fenimore said. “And south Jersey has so many fine examples.”
“My people had their own kiln.” Tom’s interest was rekindled. “Every one of those bricks was handmade on the farm. The British tried to outlaw that. Tried to force us to import bricks from England. But we went ahead and made ’em anyway,” he said. “But the best example of brickwork in this county is the Ashley cottage—down by the old wharf. The one that should be mine,” he added under his breath.
“Well, we mustn’t keep you, Tom,” Amory broke in. “Have to show these folks around.”
Tom seemed only too happy to disappear into the crowd.
“Tom’s a lonely sort. Keeps to himself,” Amory said. “Good farmer, though. Real asset to the neighborhood. There’s our librarian!” And before either Fenimore or Jennifer could stop him, he had hailed Miss Cunningham. “Alice, here’s Dr. Fenimore.”
“Ah, the Court Physician,” she said. “Or is it the Court Jester?” She shoved something into Amory’s hand. “Here’s that list you wanted,” she mumbled, and moved on.
In the face of such rudeness, even Amory was at a loss. To cover the embarrassing moment, he hastily led them to a booth marked BAKED GOODS. Cookies, cakes, and tarts were on display. Of course, the person in charge was Mrs. Jenks. “Agatha, I’ve brought you some new customers,” Amory said. After the frigid Miss Cunningham, Agatha was like a warm hearth. “Agatha is the author of our magnificent punch,” he told them. “She concocts it from a colonial recipe. Right?”
She nodded and held out a tart to each of them to sample. They were light and flaky with a filling of—what else—strawberries.
“Delicious,” they all murmured. Jennifer bought a dozen for her father. “He has a sweet tooth, Mrs. Jenks. He’ll love these.”
“Oh, you must take him one of those.” She pointed to a lemon cake decorated with a creamy white frosting. “It’s my specialty.”
“It’s known simply as ‘Agatha’s cake’ in these parts,” Amory said.
“I’ll take one too,” Fenimore said.
As they passed the punch bowl, they caught sight of Oliver and waved. He was replenishing his cup again. Fenimore murmured to Jennifer that the taking of the cloth had not changed his friend’s drinking habits. Although the punch was only lightly laced with wine, if sipped all afternoon it could have a mellowing effect. But, after all, it was the last day of school for the headmaster as well as the boys, and that was something to celebrate.
Fenimore was feeling pretty mellow himself, without the aid of excess punch. The smell of freshly mown hay, the taste of strawberry tarts, and Jennifer at his side all contributed to his feeling of contentment. When he looked at Jennifer again, she was gazing intently at someone on the fringe of the field.
“What’s up?”
“That man. Doesn’t he look out of place?”
Following her gaze, Fenimore saw a man in dark city clothes leaning against a tree, smoking. Fenimore couldn’t see what he was smoking, a cigarette—or a joint. It was the man’s posture, languid, yet alert—ready to pounce at a moment’s notice—that informed Fenimore that he was urban, and not from the neighborhood.
“Urbs in rue,” he said. What was this obvious city dude doing at a country fair? For the second time that day, Fenimore’s mellow mood vanished.
CHAPTER 15
Fenimore was still reflecting on the man in the field when Amory said, “Here comes Susan.”
He looked up at the slim, tanned girl coming toward them, closely followed by her college-boy escort. Peter, was it? She was wearing ragged jeans, an oversized white shirt with tails tied at the waist, and sneakers with holes in them. Living proof that at nineteen you could wear anything and look wonderful. Today, Susan’s shining hair hung loose. As Fenimore introduced the young couple to Jennifer he was struck by the contrast between the two women—Snow White and Rose Red.
“Are you enjoying yourselves?” Susan asked. “Or are you sick of strawberries?”
“I never get sick of them,” Jennifer said.
“It’s good to get out of the city,” Fenimore said, politely.
“Yes, and it’s only a little over an hour’s drive,” Jennifer marveled. “It’s like being dropped into another time. How do you keep it this way?”
“We’re off the beaten track. Most people t
ake the expressway and head straight for the shore. If a stray tourist shows up here, we do our best to discourage them.” Her grin was wicked. “We keep an extra supply of mosquitoes on hand …”
Fenimore and Jennifer exchanged glances.
… sometimes they even twist the road signs so they point the wrong way,” Peter put in.
Susan poked him with her elbow. “That’s supposed to be a secret.”
Fenimore was shocked.
“Oh, I know it’s not very sporting, but it does protect the place from air pollution and postcard vendors. Have you played any games yet? Come on, Doctor.” She grabbed Fenimore’s arm. “You’ve got to try the fish pond. That’s my favorite—since I was a little girl. Everyone wins a prize. You can’t lose. You pay a dollar and win a fifty cent prize.” She pulled him toward the fish pond booth. Peter, apparently bored with the older folk took off in search of more exciting amusement.
“I’m not much of a fisherman,” Fenimore protested.
“No matter,” Amory assured him. “I guarantee you’ll catch something.”
Susan quickly outfitted him with a rod and reel. “The trick is to throw your line over the screen at the back of the booth.” The screen was painted with a dazzling array of rainbow colored fish. There was a long line of people ahead of them. When it was finally Fenimore’s turn, Susan cried, “Cast off!”
Fenimore obeyed while the others looked on. His line made it over the screen on the first try and he immediately felt a tug. The line shot up with a small package dangling from it. He grinned with the satisfaction of a schoolboy landing his first fish.
“What did I tell you?” exclaimed Susan.
They all gathered around to see what he had caught. Fenimore opened the tissue-wrapped package very slowly to prolong the suspense.
“Hurry up, Doctor,” someone urged.
He drew out a pair of cheap plastic spectacles with a nose and moustache attached.
The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest Page 7
