The Doctor Digs a Grave

by Robin Hathaway

  Mr. Wendkos was a wisp of a man in a shiny blue suit, pink shirt, and wild tie (pink water lilies floating on a maroon pond). When Fenimore came in, the manager was nursing a paper cup of coffee large enough to keep three Eagle linebackers awake.

  “Yeah, that’s one of my vans.”

  “Would you have a record of who rented it on October 29th?”

  “I might.” His eyes flicked over Fenimore.

  Whoops. Wrong dress code. “Uh, I’m an undercover man for Detective Rafferty, Homicide Division.”

  The man tipped the white cup to his mouth. Fenimore watched his Adam’s apple jerk up and down. “What’s his number?”

  Had he worn his customary suit and tie, he never would have had this trouble. Silently he cursed Horatio and gave the man Rafferty’s number.

  While the man was making the call, Fenimore glanced around the office. Two yellow vinyl-covered chairs, repaired here and there with utility tape, a coffee table with a smeary plastic top, a pile of dog-eared Popular Mechanics, and an ashtray the size of a Frisbee with a nude woman decorating the bottom. When you looked at her a certain way, she swiveled her hips and winked at you. Rafferty’s cantankerous early morning squawk drew his attention back to the phone. Mr. Wendkos covered the mouthpiece and looked at Fenimore. “Name?”

  He told him.

  “Fenimore,” the man said into the phone.

  More squawks. But they must have contained an affirmative somewhere, because the man hung up and went over to his filing cabinet. “My girl usually does this,” he said over his shoulder, “but she’s always late.”

  To convey his sympathy for all employers with delinquent employees, Fenimore tried out one of Horatio’s grunts, “Uh.” It seemed to do the trick.

  “Here it is.” He pulled three copies of a form, one white, one yellow, one pink, from a folder and squinted at the name. Carbon copies like that would soon be as obsolete as his father’s old medical apparatus, Fenimore noted. “I remember this one,” Wendkos said. “It was that homeless fellow from across the street.” He nodded at a ragged little park on the other side of Broad street. “Normally I wouldn’t have rented it to him. But he paid cash, and these days you can’t be too picky.” He referred gloomily to the state of the economy.

  Fenimore saw “CASH” scrawled across the bottom of the top sheet but was unable to read anything else. “What’s his name?”

  “It says here Joe Smith.” He shrugged.

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Tall. Skinny. Long hair. Dirty beard. Dirty brown sweatshirt. Black jeans. Sneaks.” Noticing Fenimore’s expression, he laughed. “Don’t worry, they never change their clothes.” He took a big slug of coffee. “He’ll be easy to spot. As you go into the park, he’s always on the first bench to the right.”

  Fenimore dropped a ten-dollar bill on his desk. “Thanks for your trouble.”

  “No trouble.” He quickly pocketed the ten.

  Fenimore crossed Broad Street at the light and entered the park. The first bench on the right was empty. But the second one to the left was occupied. Wrapped in several layers of sweaters, blankets, and scarves, it was impossible to determine the figure’s real size, shape, or sex. From the shoes he surmised it was female. He took a seat on a bench nearby and stared at a bed of ivy full of discarded beer cans, fast-food cartons, and empty cigarette packs. He glanced again at the figure on the next bench. Two shopping bags bulged at her feet. Another rested on the bench against her side. From the corner of his eye he watched her reach under the filthy yellow blanket, which served as a shawl, and draw out a small paper bag. She sprinkled some of its contents on the ground. Popcorn. From nowhere, pigeons came, surrounding her feet.

  “Excuse me, ma’am.” Even though he was several yards away, the stench of stale beer and urine was overpowering. “Where is the fellow who usually sits over there?” He pointed to the bench on the right.

  The woman looked at him but seemed to be focused on something inside her head.

  “Do you know where he went?” The popcorn was all gone. Two pigeons continued to peck hopefully around her feet. He could see a bare toe poking out of a hole in one of her shoes.

  He tried again. “The fella over there. Have you seen him lately?”

  She looked at the empty bench and shook her head.

  “Where did he go?”

  She shrugged.

  Who invented the shrug? Some caveman? Or cavewoman? When her husband asked her what she thought of his latest cave painting, had she shrugged? And the age of noncommunication was launched?

  “How long has he been gone?”

  Another shrug.

  “A day, a month, a year?” If she shrugged again, he’d shake her.

  She produced more popcorn from under the layers of blanket and scattered it. More pigeons came. (Or were they the same ones?)

  Beaten, he stood up and turned to leave.

  “About a week.”

  He swiveled around.

  “He was sick.” She pointed to the flagstones in front of the empty bench. He looked down and saw stains. They could have been vomit. “I looked for a cop. But there’s never one when you want ’em.”

  “What happened then?”

  “He conked out.”

  “For how long?”

  The pigeons absorbed all her attention.

  “How long was he out?” Please, lady, he prayed.

  “‘Til the cops came.”

  “And when was that?”

  “I dunno. I don’t have no watch.” She spat on the flagstones, and the pigeons scattered.

  “Did they take him away?”

  She nodded, peeking into her little paper bag. Finding it empty, she crumpled it and tossed it under the bench.

  “Did you know he rented a car?”

  She stared. “He didn’t have no car.”

  “Sorry. I meant a van. A gray van.”

  “He never had one.”

  “Not even for a day?”

  She shook her head.

  He tried a different tack. “Did he ever go over there?” He pointed across the street to the pink fluorescent sign blinking BUDGET RENT-A-CAR in big block letters.

  “Sure.”

  “He did?”

  “The manager useta buy him coffee.” Her tone was resentful. “Sometimes he’d give me some.” She groped in one of her shopping bags and pulled out a filthy plastic cup.

  Fenimore took the hint. Before heading for the police station, he stopped at the nearest fast-food place. He ordered a sausage burger, a large coffee with sugar and cream, and a large bag of popcorn. When he delivered these items to the woman on the bench, she accepted them as her due.

  To gain the cooperation of the sergeant at the Ninth Precinct, Fenimore was once again forced to call on Rafferty’s services. This time the detective’s ire rose to a fever pitch. Nonetheless, Fenimore came away with the following report:

  On the evening of Saturday, October 29, a homeless man was found unconscious in Randolph Park and taken to Franklin Hospital. Severe food poisoning and MVA were diagnosed. He died a few hours later. There was no identification and no inquiries were made about him. He was buried in the pauper’s cemetery with full religious rites performed by Father O’Hare, a local priest who volunteers for such services.

  Fenimore considered this information carefully, before calling Rafferty from a pay phone. The voice that greeted him was not reassuring. He persevered, requesting an exhumation of Joe Smith, an autopsy of Joe Smith, and that a copy of the report on Joe Smith be sent to him as soon as possible.

  “You’d better be on to something, Fenimore. These routines you’re asking for aren’t cheap.” (His department was economizing that month.)

  “I assure you, this information is vital to the solution of the case,” he answered, adopting his most formal manner.

  “I’ve let you have a pretty free hand, Fenimore, because the Hardwicks are such a prominent family,” Rafferty said. “But we’ve already put m
ore time and money into this case than usual.”

  “Oh? And what line of inquiry are you planning to pursue?”

  “The obvious one, the one we coarse policemen usually blunder along with and come up with the right solution ninety-nine percent of the time.”

  “And who’s your obvious suspect this time?”

  “The brother, of course. He’s the beneficiary and the only one who would know about that burial ground.”

  “I knew about it.”

  “Should we make you a suspect?”

  “Give me another twenty-four hours, Raff, and I’ll prove this case falls into that one percent category.”

  Rafferty acquiesced with a grunt.

  On the way home, Fenimore saw a pompous medical colleague approaching. Seeing no way out, he paused to greet him. The man, visibly startled, hurried on. At first, Fenimore was offended. Then, remembering his attire, he grinned. This new identity would come in handy. Think of all the boring encounters he could avoid. As he let himself into his vestibule, he was whistling.

  “That you, Doctor?” Mrs. Doyle called out.

  “I’ll be there in a minute.” He ducked up the front stairs to his bedroom to change. Perhaps some day he’d become adept enough to change in a phone booth.

  CHAPTER 31

  MONDAY AFTERNOON

  “Dumdeedumdeedum,” Fenimore hummed as he worked the mortar and pestle that had once belonged to his grandfather. He had known it would come in handy someday. That’s why he hung on to these old things that people were always nagging him to get rid of. His grandfather had been a strong believer in the efficacy of herbal cures.

  The herb that Fenimore was busily pulverizing was foxglove, the leaves he had snitched from Roaring Wings’s bungalow. The Lenape’s recipe for tea had also called for marjoram, anise, and cinnamon, all of which his spice cabinet supplied.

  He glared at the uncooperative kettle as Mrs. Doyle came in to make herself a cup of tea. “Boil, damn it!”

  “Now, Doctor, a watched kettle …”

  Damn the woman and her homilies. He turned his back on the kettle. It immediately began to boil.

  Pouring the steaming liquid over his mixture of herbs and spices, he stirred and sniffed with pleasure. Mrs. Doyle watched him take a sip. “Delicious,” he pronounced. “Want some?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll take a beer, though.” She had noticed several bottles on the back of the refrigerator door. Beer was the only exception Mrs. Doyle made to her healthful diet.

  Fenimore tut-tutted primly.

  “Spoilsport.” She dunked her tea bag. Suddenly she looked up. “What a pity Officer Santini isn’t here to sample your brew. Shall I call him?”

  Surprised by the vehemence of the doctor’s negative response, she returned to her desk to tackle the latest accumulation of Medicare forms.

  He made another cup of tea, exactly like the first, and, with infinite care, poured an ounce into a plastic tube. He sealed it, labeled it, and gave it to Mrs. Doyle. “Call the lab and have them pick it up—express. And tell them to get the report to me today.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Unable to hide her curiosity, she asked, “Testing for arsenic?”

  “No. Glycosides.”

  She knew she shouldn’t ask. “What’s a glycoside?”

  Her reward was exactly what she had feared—an in-depth lecture on the chemistry of plants. When he had finished, she had learned that a glycoside was a compound that, when mixed with water, usually gives off sugar. Different plants contain different types of glycosides. She called the lab.

  When the report came back a few hours later, Fenimore grabbed it and disappeared with it into his inner office.

  Preparing to leave for the day, Mrs. Doyle was stopped in her tracks by an explosion.

  “That lets him out!”

  “Did you say something, Doctor?”

  He burst from his office, waving the lab report. “Look at this, Doyle.” He showed her the results of some tests that were totally incomprehensible to her. “This may let Roaring Wings off the hook.”

  “Of course.” She nodded politely.

  “He made his tea from foxglove, Digitalis purpurea, which is the usual kind of dig grown in this country, and the glycosides it produces are digitoxin glycosides. But the glycosides found in Sweet Grass’s blood serum were different—they were digoxin glycosides, the same kind found in her medicine. Digoxin is produced from a species of digitalis rarely found in this country: Digitalis lanata. It has white flowers instead of purple and is found mostly in the Balkans. There were no digitoxin glycosides present in her serum sample, only digoxin glycosides.” He waited for her congratulations.

  “Brilliant, Doctor.”

  He smiled with satisfaction. “Yes, actually, it is. I’ve got to call Raff.” He went back to his inner office to make the call.

  Mrs. Doyle stood beside her desk with her coat on, thinking. She was afraid this case was beyond her. She couldn’t seem to get hold of it. Usually, by now, she would have come up with some helpful suggestions. The best she could do was hang around and offer moral support. She decided to stay until Fenimore had finished with Rafferty. She sat down at her desk, pretending to attend to some last-minute details. She was glad she did. When he came out, his ebullient mood had vanished.

  “What did he say?”

  “‘You’re a busy little bee, Fenimore,’” he quoted Rafferty. “‘First you present us with another body. Then you throw doubt on our prime suspect. Why don’t you behave like a normal doctor and play golf!’”

  CHAPTER 32

  MONDAY EVENING

  Fenimore hurried down Walnut Street to Nicholson’s Books. It was gratifying, he thought, after reneging on two dinner invitations, that the Nicholsons still wanted to see him. They must value his company, he decided, because he shared their interest in history and old books. Jennifer, he hoped, valued him for something more. She did not discourage easily, he knew. Her willingness to put up with his idiosyncrasies over the past two years without any commitment from him had convinced him of this. When it came to important things, Jennifer could be very patient. She was in no hurry to marry; she enjoyed her work and had her father to look after. And she wasn’t anxious to start a family early. Her mother had been forty-one when Jennifer was born, and she hadn’t turned out too bad, she had told him wryly. Well, at least her father liked her, she assured him.

  Father and daughter shared an apartment over their bookstore. It was one of the last independent bookstores in Philadelphia. The front of the store was devoted to contemporary stock, best-sellers, and so on, but the rabbit warren of smaller rooms in the back housed a collection of rare books that was sought out by scholars, young and old. Professors and students came there in search of books that were either unavailable in the libraries or too expensive for their pocketbooks. Sometimes these scholars turned Nicholson’s Books into a research library. But the bookseller and his daughter overlooked how often they came and how long they stayed, without making a purchase. Mr. Nicholson was a scholar in his own right but without the benefit of degrees. His knowledge of classical and medieval history was legend, and it had been acquired not at a university but by devouring and remembering the contents of the books that passed through his store. And, unlike certain university scholars, he was happy to share his knowledge with anyone who happened to wander in.

  Fenimore followed Jennifer up the narrow stairs, inhaling the delicious cooking aromas filtering down from above. The spaciousness of the apartment always took him by surprise. Built in the twenties, it had high ceilings and wide windows, carved cornices and fine moldings. His favorite room was the library, where they always gathered before and after dinner. This was where Jennifer deposited him now, among the glass-fronted bookcases and stained-glass reading lamps, in the squashy easy chair that was always reserved for him. When Mr. Nicholson handed him a martini made exactly to his specifications, the stresses and strains of a doctor/detective’s life melted away, and he basked in thi
s little bit of heaven.

  After their initial greeting, the doctor and bookman shared a few minutes of contented silence, sipping their drinks, while Jennifer finished whatever she was doing in the kitchen. When she rejoined them, with a glass of Chablis, Fenimore thought she looked especially well. Her fair skin and dark hair made a striking contrast, and her face was flushed, as if with excitement (at seeing him, or from the heat of the stove she had probably been slaving over all day?).

  “We’re having a cold dinner tonight,” she said. “We were very busy in the store today and I didn’t have time to cook.”

  “Where are all those enticing smells coming from, then?” asked Fenimore.

  “From the apartment above. We rented it to a bachelor who’s a gourmet cook.” Fenimore didn’t know which he resented more, the fact of the bachelor living in such close proximity to Jennifer, or the fact that he wasn’t going to have the chance to sample his cooking. He must have looked crestfallen, because Jennifer said quickly, “Never mind. We’re having shrimp salad and corn muffins. I defrosted a batch. And for dessert, apple cobbler with whipped cream.”

  Fenimore relaxed. All three dishes were favorites of his. He’d worry about the bachelor later.

  Unable to contain himself any longer, Mr. Nicholson said, “I’ve made a few acquisitions since you were here last, Doctor.”

  Fenimore turned reluctantly. Usually fascinated by the older gentleman’s rare book finds, tonight he would have preferred simply to sit and enjoy Jennifer. He hadn’t seen her for a while, and the last time had been under rather constrained circumstances. But the bookman was handing him a heavy, dusty tome, and there was nothing to do but put down his martini and lift it into his lap.

  As he opened to the title page, the odor of must and mildew obliterated all the tantalizing aromas from above.

  MATERIA MEDICO