The Doctor Digs a Grave

by Robin Hathaway

“I stole it.”

  “That’s nice.”

  Horatio glanced behind him. “I’ve gotta talk to you.”

  Fenimore felt a hand on his shoulder. “The crowd seems to be thinning out,” Ned said, ignoring Horatio.

  Fenimore looked around. The room was less crowded. The bartenders were beginning to stow their half-empty bottles in cartons. The waiters and other busboys were retrieving soiled glasses from odd corners of the room and stacking plates. All except Horatio.

  “I want to show you something.” Ned, his hand still on Fenimore, steered him across the room toward the long glass case filled with rows of human skulls. It was illuminated tonight, in honor of the occasion. Horatio followed them. Ned turned on him abruptly. “Don’t you have work to do?”

  Horatio gave him one of his looks, but it was lost on the surgeon. He had already turned back to the display case. “Look here.” He pointed out a skull with very few teeth and read aloud from the placard underneath: “‘Sailor. Died of dagger thrust off Malta, 1816.’ And over here, ‘Magyar from Transylvania. Guerrilla and deserter. Executed by hanging, 1861.’”

  Fenimore glanced around for Horatio, but he had disappeared. Ned continued his guided tour of the skulls, and Fenimore obediently followed. Was he going to read every one of those damned placards? His knees felt like jelly and his head ached. Tomorrow’s hangover must be getting a head start. Ned droned on. Fenimore surreptitiously stole a look at his watch. Almost eight-thirty. Wasn’t this shindig supposed to be over at eight?

  “And there, ‘Robber. Shot by gendarmes, 1862.’ Seems we don’t have any priority on violence, eh, Fenimore?”

  “Umm,” was the best response Fenimore could muster. Whether it was the liquor or the company, he was beginning to feel queasy. The skulls in the case seemed to be aging before his eyes. Once ivory, they were gradually turning saffron yellow. He glanced over his shoulder. The last guest had gone. The bartenders, waiters, and busboys had left. No sign of Horatio. He wondered what he had wanted to talk to him about.

  “Take a look at this.” Ned had moved farther down the display case.

  Fenimore, attempting to follow, staggered.

  “Whoa.” Ned grinned. “You really did hit that Scotch, didn’t you?”

  Fenimore leaned against the glass case with care. Each skull wore a bright yellow halo. “Dizzy … drink …”

  Hardwick watched him slide to his knees, his fingernails scraping against the glass. He rested briefly, a surprised look on his face, before toppling sideways to the floor.

  Ned waited a minute, gazing down at his inert body. Then he bent and began pawing through his pockets. He found what he was searching for. A ring of keys. Taking them, he headed for the door. Before leaving, he turned and hissed, “Did you really think I’d let my only son marry a squaw, Fenimore?”

  CHAPTER 39

  LATER THURSDAY EVENING

  The entrance hall of PSPS was deserted. A single lamp with a small green shade burned at the reception desk. Hardwick’s rubber soles made no sound on the parquet floor. He opened the heavy front door. It swung shut behind him with a soft thud.

  Eighteenth Street was empty. He went through the wrought-iron gate, turned right, and walked toward Spruce. A young couple, arms entwined, passed him. He averted his face. Another right and three more blocks to 1555. The front windows were dark. He climbed the three marble steps and with a pocket flashlight tried to determine which key in the bunch would open the front door. Two looked probable. As he rushed to insert the first, he dropped the whole set. They clattered on the marble stoop. He looked around. Fortunately, the day of the foot patrolman was over. He tried again. It didn’t fit. The second key opened the door easily. He closed it carefully behind him and stood in the vestibule, listening. A faint glow fell on the hall floor from a lamp in a room at the back of the house. The office? But a light didn’t mean it was occupied. People often left lights on—even TVs and radios—to fool burglars into thinking they were at home. He pushed open the vestibule door a little wider. It creaked.

  “Is that you, Doctor?” A woman’s voice came from the room with the light. “Thought I’d stick around and catch up on these forms.”

  Hardwick ducked into the hall closet and quietly closed the door. The only sound was his own breathing. Had she decided she was hearing things and gone back to her work? He opened the door a crack.

  “Meowerrrrrrr.”

  “Sal? Is that you?”

  “Owerrrr!”

  He closed the door.

  The sharp screech of chair legs being pushed back. The soft pad of rubber-soled shoes. Nurse’s shoes.

  “What’s the matter, puss?” Her voice, coming nearer.

  He could picture the cat crouched in attack position, ears back, tail twitching—facing the closet door. The nurse—staring at the closet door too. He gripped the knob, about to spring out.

  He heard a key turn.

  He rattled the knob.

  Quick, thudding footsteps running away. He shoved his shoulder against the door.

  “Nine-one-one? I have an intruder here.”

  He pounded on the door.

  “Owerrrrrrrrr!”

  “One-five-five-five Spruce Street. Please hurry.”

  He pounded and kicked the door.

  Even though Mrs. Doyle knew that Victorian houses were structurally sound, she prayed.

  CHAPTER 40

  STILL LATER THURSDAY

  Horatio peered out from behind the heart-lung machine where he had been hiding. At first all he could see were the rows of illuminated skulls. Hardwick had turned off the other lights when he left, but he had forgotten to switch off the light inside the display case.

  “Doc?”

  Silence as thick as cloth.

  He felt his way around the glass case that housed the giant and dwarf. He bumped into the cabinet full of pins, fish bones, and jacks. His foot touched something. He bent down. “Doc!”

  Frantically, he looked around for a phone. He ran out the door, almost letting it close behind him, but stopped in time to remove one sneaker and wedge it between the door and the door jamb. He reached the phone on the reception desk in two bounds.

  “Nine-one-one? Emergency. Eighteenth, between Spruce and Walnut. The big brick building with the fancy gates. Guy’s had an overdose. No, not that shit. Tell them to bring FAB. No, it ain’t a detergent. F-A-B. It’s an ant-i-body, for God’s sake. And step on it!”

  CHAPTER 41

  SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 13

  When Fenimore opened his eyes, they were all there, standing around the bed—Jennifer, Rafferty, Doyle, and Horatio. The only one missing was Sal. They had planned to smuggle her in, but when they went to look for her, she was nowhere to be found.

  “What happened?” He looked from one to the other. His head felt as if someone had cracked it open, removed its contents, scrambled them, and stuffed them back inside.

  “You ate one too many tea sandwiches,” Rafferty said.

  “The sandwich contained a new filling,” Jennifer elucidated, “mayonnaise and oleander leaves.”

  Fenimore moaned.

  “I told you you should change your eating habits,” Mrs. Doyle put in sternly.

  “Next time I’ll skip the mayonnaise,” he said.

  A smile went round the bed. He had cracked a joke, however feeble. He must be feeling better.

  He looked toward the window, where a huge floral arrangement blocked his view. They followed his gaze. Mrs. Doyle picked up the card that lay beside it and read: “‘When you’re feeling better, give me a call. I’ll fill up my mason jar. Myra.’”

  His two female visitors looked slightly put out.

  “Some private joke, no doubt,” said Mrs. Doyle.

  “No doubt,” Jennifer agreed.

  Fenimore cracked a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile and asked, “How long have I been in here?”

  “Three days,” said Rafferty promptly. “The first day got rid of the arrhythmias, the second, th
e fibrillations, the third, the syncopes.” He couldn’t resist showing off the results of his crash course in cardiology.

  Fenimore sat up. “Did you get Hardwick?”

  Rafferty looked at Mrs. Doyle. “Thanks to her.” He related how her quick thinking—locking the closet door—had rendered his capture easy.

  Everyone cast a respectful glance at Mrs. Doyle, even Horatio.

  “And I thought you weren’t interested in this case,” Fenimore said.

  Mrs. Doyle flushed. “If it hadn’t been for Sal …” and she related the cat’s role in the capture.

  “But how did I get here? Who found me? The last thing I remember, I was sinking to the floor with a bunch of skulls grinning at me.”

  All eyes turned on Horatio.

  “If it weren’t for him, you’d be six feet under,” Rafferty said. “Tell him, kid.”

  Without lifting his eyes from Fenimore’s counterpane, Horatio mumbled a barely audible account of his rescue. As he spoke, Fenimore noticed Mrs. Doyle gazing at him with a peculiarly saccharine expression. Some things had changed since he had lost consciousness.

  When Horatio had finished, Fenimore said quietly, “Thanks, Rat.” The image of an older Horatio in a white coat, with a stethoscope dangling from his neck, flashed through Fenimore’s mind. “What made you think of FAB?”

  “Just a hunch.” He shrugged. “I saw that fat old doctor hand the waiter a plate, and he said, ‘I think my friend over there wanted this.’ Guy looked suprised but he took it. I didn’t like that.”

  “You see, Rat, I was on my guard against tough hoods who attack with their fists, not a sneaky poisoner.” He closed his eyes.

  “Who happened not to be a woman, by the way,” Jennifer put in.

  Fenimore opened his eyes and smiled. The war between the sexes was still going on, How reassuring. It meant he really was still alive. He turned to Rafferty. “Something else I’d like to clear up. What did Hardwick want in my office?”

  The policeman grinned. “Sweet Grass’s blood serum. It seems your friend Applesauce—”

  “Applethorn.”

  “Whatever … discovered that some of her serum was missing.”

  “How the hell?”

  “Part of Applebutter’s routine is to do a volume check on his specimens every morning. When he found that there was a discrepancy of a few milliliters in Sweet Grass’s tube, he raised such Cain in the hospital that Hardwick heard about it. Naturally, he put two and two together—and came up with you.”

  “And he had no way of knowing that I’d passed the sample on to you. He thought I might still have it in my fridge.” Fenimore was feeling better.

  “Now it’s my turn,” Rafferty said. “How did that poor homeless guy fit in?”

  “Ah.” Fenimore was in his element as he unveiled the role of the homeless man to his attentive bedside audience. He hired ‘Joe Smith’ to do the dirty work—dig the grave, rent and drive the van, and bury the body. Hardwick even looked up Lenape burial customs. But after Joe dug the grave, he had to wait until dark to complete the burial. It was during this waiting period that Horatio and I appeared on the scene to perform our own burial. I noticed the van at the time and automatically memorized the tag number, but I didn’t give it a second thought until much later. It must have been parked over the grave to conceal it. The driver was nowhere to be seen.

  “While I was at my cardiology meeting and Horatio was at home, Joe must have buried Sweet Grass. Hardwick had, no doubt, instructed him in the traditional Lenape way to do it. Then Joe returned the van to Budget Rent-a-Car. He had probably arranged to meet Hardwick somewhere afterward to collect his payment. But he collected more than he’d bargained for—a leaf of oleander discreetly hidden in a burger or hoagie.”

  “Then who hit you?” Rafferty asked. “If Joe had left before you got back?”

  Fenimore was silent, thinking. “I have no proof, but I’ll wager it was Hardwick. I’ll bet he came back to the burial site to inspect Joe’s work. Surgeons tend to be compulsive that way. And, to his horror, who should he find parked a few yards from the grave but yours truly. He must have panicked. Even surgeons lose their cool once in a while. Afraid I would recognize him, he grabbed the nearest weapon at hand—my spade—and clobbered me with it.”

  His audience maintained a respectful silence, each imagining the dramatic scene.

  “I think Hardwick must have left the picnic on some pretext or other and followed Sweet Grass to the hospital,” Fenimore continued. “He knew that sooner or later she would collapse. Whether it happened on the road, at the hospital, or later, he couldn’t predict. He had to shadow her, remaining as inconspicuous as possible, until the poison took effect. He waited around while she visited her sick friend and when she emerged from the ER, he must have waylaid her. Ned could be very charming and persuasive when he wanted to be. Maybe he offered to drive her home and she accepted. She must have been feeling pretty rotten by then. He drove her around until the poison did its work. Then he delivered her to Joe to finish the job.” Fenimore lay back, exhausted.

  His friends were quiet, each thinking his or her thoughts.

  “Hardwick’s plan was a good one up to a point.” Fenimore roused himself. “If he had just poisoned Sweet Grass and let it go at that. No matter where she died, in all probability—with her cardiac history—her death would have been attributed to a complication of tetralogy of Fallot. But Hardwick, like most surgeons, was meticulous. He took extraordinary precautions. And his ethnic hatred ran deep. He decided that if her body were discovered, why not let the blame for her death fall on another Lenape, her brother, Roaring Wings. Hence the choice of a Lenape grave site and the traditional Lenape style of burial.” Fenimore paused, overwhelmed by the evil nature of his former colleague. “The event that he was not prepared for was Sweet Grass showing up in the ER. This caught him off guard and threw a monkey wrench into his plan. He knew that oleander glycosides would show up in the test for digoxin. Once she left, he had to steal her blood serum sample. Somehow he accomplished this. How, we may never know.”

  “Maybe he just put on a surgical gown, walked in during a frantic moment, and stole it,” Rafferty said. “The ER can get pretty wild at times.”

  “You’re probably right,” Fenimore said. “The nurse on duty told me it was a zoo that night. But there was no way Hardwick could have known that part of Sweet Grass’s serum sample had been sent to Applethorn’s lab. That’s where the element of chance came in, and it was ultimately his undoing. When he learned that I had the one piece of evidence that could do him in, he had no other course but to do me in.”

  After a pause, Fenimore said, “The thing I don’t understand, is why Sweet Grass left the ER in such a hurry. If she’d stayed, and let them administer FAB, she might still be alive today.”

  “I know why.”

  All eyes turned on Jennifer.

  “It was a simple case of denial. Sweet Grass thought she’d go to the ER for a quick cure. But when they decided to admit her, she panicked. Once admitted, she knew she’d be subjected to a battery of tests. They might keep her for days. That would mean postponing the wedding! She couldn’t face that. Not when it was so close. Not after waiting so long.”

  Fenimore fixed his eyes on a spot on the ceiling.

  “So, she decided to take a risk,” Jennifer went on, “leave the hospital, and hope her symptoms would subside after a good night’s sleep.”

  “Totally irresponsible,” Fenimore grumbled.

  “You’ve never been a bride on the brink of matrimony,” Rafferty reminded him. “Sounds plausible to me.”

  “Me too,” added Mrs. Doyle.

  Horatio had nothing to add to this topic.

  “What about her car?” Fenimore hastily changed the subject. “How did Hardwick dispose of that?”

  “That was easy,” Rafferty said. “He told me he drove it into the heart of North Philly and abandoned it. It was a nice little Toyota. He said he knew it would b
e stripped as soon as he turned his back.”

  Horatio nodded knowingly.

  “How did he get back to civilization?” Mrs. Doyle asked.

  “He had Joe follow him in the van. Then he waited while Joe returned the van. By that time it was dark. He met up with Joe somewhere in the park, paid him off, delivered the lethal sandwich, picked up his own car in the hospital lot, and drove home.”

  “One thing still puzzles me,” said Mrs. Doyle. “If Hardwick knew you had discovered the body, why would he want to hire you to investigate the case?”

  “He was under a lot of pressure from his wife and son to seek my services. If he’d refused, it would have looked suspicious. And when he found I was already involved, he probably decided this would be a good way to keep an eye on me. I’m pretty sure he had me under surveillance the whole time.”

  “One more thing,” Jennifer said. “Why didn’t Hardwick burn that incriminating stalk of oleander? Without that, there’d be no case.

  “He tried,” said Rafferty, “but it wouldn’t burn.”

  “Of course not,” Fenimore sat up in bed, “because he had just cut it from Polly’s oleander plant. It was still alive and green, whereas the other sticks had been lying around for weeks and were dead and dry.”

  “Right,” said Rafferty. “And he was such an arrogant S.O.B., he figured it would be perfectly safe to bury it in his own compost pit, on his own property. Who would ever find it?”

  “Super sleuth Andrew B. Fenimore, that’s who.” Jennifer grinned at him from the end of the bed.

  Fenimore suddenly felt on the road to recovery.

  A nurse popped her head in the door and frowned. “How did you all get in here?” Her tone was brusque.

  “They’re experts at subterfuge, Nurse,” Fenimore said. “I wouldn’t trust them out of your sight.”

  “Two at a time is the rule. I hope they didn’t tire you, Doctor.” She nudged them toward the door with a look, as effectively as if she were wielding a broom.

  “Next time, bring Sal,” he called after them. His cat’s disappearance was the only cloud on his horizon.