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Authors: Robin Hathaway

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BOOK: The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call
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I
t was after the rector had performed the little graveside ceremony over Edgar Pancoast's remains that Mildred came up with the idea of burning the dollhouse.
“But Mildred, what good would that do?” asked Emily.
Her eyes glittered. Dressed in black, except for a cape traversed by a single, diagonal slash of emerald green, she said, “If the house is gone, these ghastly murders will end.”
“I thought I explained,” Adam began wearily. “The house has nothing to do with it.”
“How little you scientists know. There's a whole world out there—teeming with spirits and auras and forces—you know nothing about.”
“And by avoiding black cats, stepladders, Friday the thirteenth—and burning down dollhouses, you keep them at bay?” He stared at her.
She narrowed her eyes and uttered an expletive that shocked even Mrs. Doyle. The aunts pretended not to hear. Despite all
the tragedies, they still could not bear the thought of destroying the dollhouse. Adam turned away.
Dr. Fenimore had been unable to attend Edgar's services because of an emergency in Philadelphia. But he had called Mrs. Doyle and instructed her to observe the Pancoasts carefully—before, during, and after the service. “People tend to let down their defenses during times of stress,” he said.
“Thanks for the psychology lesson,” she said.
Mrs. Doyle was doing her best as house psychologist now. She had planted herself on the love seat in the center of the parlor, from which vantage point she could see and hear everyone. But all she had determined thus far was—everyone's nerves were frayed to the breaking point. They were snapping at each other like a bunch of starving alligators.
Susanne was the only one not taking part. Isolated by the magnitude of her grief, she sat to one side, staring out the window at the bare winter garden. Adam came and sat beside her, placing his hand over hers.
Mrs. Doyle turned to look at Mildred. She was pacing restlessly, now and then picking up a knickknack and blowing off some invisible dust. Finally she threw herself down on the love seat beside Mrs. Doyle. “I don't know why they won't listen to me,” she muttered, still clutching a pink-cheeked shepherdess.
“It's because they're upset,” Mrs. Doyle said soothingly. “They can't think straight.”
“Then you agree with me?” She looked at her.
“Well, I—”
“You do, don't you? You see the connection. If the house is gone, the murders will stop.”
Sensing that the woman was verging on hysteria, Mrs. Doyle picked her words carefully. “Let's say, I think the murderer is a compulsive, methodical person, and he or she has set up this pattern of arranging a duplicate of each murder in miniature before committing the real murder. And he or she probably wouldn't commit another murder without first setting up such a scene, but—”
“You do see!” The glitter was back. “Adam! Everyone. Mrs. Doyle agrees with me. She thinks we should burn the dollhouse.”
“Wait—even if the dollhouse is gone, the murderer still has his or her reason to kill.”
Everyone's eyes were on Mrs. Doyle.
“But you said the murderer was very methodical and wouldn't commit a murder without first creating a scene in the dollhouse. Those were your very words,” Mildred confronted her.
The aunts looked distressed.
Adam shrugged.
Susanne continued to stare out the window.
“If you feel it's best, Mrs. Doyle—” Emily spoke hesitatingly.
“Yes, of course. We'll do anything—” Judith was too overcome to finish.
“I only thought that maybe if we upset the murderer's pattern—” Mrs. Doyle felt she was out of her depth. What would the doctor say?
“Well, when shall we do it, Emily?” said Judith.
“The sooner the better, I suppose,” Emily said.
Adam left the room.
Mildred smiled the smile of the victor.
Mrs. Doyle, the psychologist, remained rooted to the love seat, staring abashedly at her feet.
… they put it into the red hot crinkly paper fire …
 
—
The Tale of Two Bad Mice
by Beatrix Potter
MARCH
T
he dollhouse burning was delayed. It was a simple matter of logistics. It was too heavy and too cumbersome for the aunts to move, even with Mrs. Doyle's help. Edgar, of course, was no longer available. And Adam refused to have anything to do with the project. Mildred had come up with her own solution. She had offered to chop it up in the hallway and carry the pieces to the backyard for burning. But the aunts had steadfastly refused her offer. It was one thing to burn their prize possession. There was something clean and sacred about fire. But to wantonly hack and chop … It was unthinkable. So it remained in its place of honor on the platform in the front hall, until someone could come up with a solution for removing it.
Meanwhile, the Pancoasts continued to go through the motions of living—keeping as busy as possible. It was March. Winter was on the wane. And the town of Seacrest was remembering that it was a summer resort. Everywhere, there were
signs of preparation for the great onslaught of vacation people who would begin to arrive on Memorial Day. Shop owners were decorating their shop windows. Trucks were unloading goods of every description out front. Everything from cartons of suntan lotion to bales of T-shirts with “Seacrest” (or “Sexcrest”) emblazoned on them in fluorescent pink or orange.
When Mrs. Doyle went to do her weekly shopping, she noticed that the town had lost its dour, dead-of-winter appearance and had taken on a more cheerful aspect. Gone was the brown canvas that had covered the pavilion on the boardwalk to protect it from battering winter winds and corroding salt spray. Someone was energetically painting its roof a bright emerald green. The benches along the boardwalk were also receiving new coats of paint. And when she cast her eye toward the ocean, she saw several colorful sails bouncing on the choppy waves. A few enterprising sailors were actually braving the March winds.
Later, as Mrs. Doyle let herself into the house, loaded with bags of groceries, she felt exhilarated. Although her hands and feet were numb with cold, the glimpse she had had of a town renewing itself had warmed her spirits. She burst into the kitchen full of good feeling.
Emily and Judith were seated at the kitchen table, grimly staring at each other. They barely acknowledged her entrance.
“What's wrong?”
Emily pressed her hands to her eyes. Judith twisted her rings and looked away.
Mrs. Doyle put down her groceries with a thud. “Tell me.”
Judith took a deep breath. “Susanne was just here.”
“And?”
“Adam went sailing this morning and he hasn't come back.”
“Well—it's still light.”
“He promised to be back at three. He was supposed to pick up the children at the movies.” Judith said.
“And he never came?”
“No. They waited and waited. They didn't have enough money to call home. They'd spent it all on candy and popcorn. Finally they walked home. Susanne was frantic. She came up here looking for them. While she was here, the sitter called and said they had come home.”
“The sitter was there,” Emily explained, “because Susanne and Adam had planned to go away for a few days. The car was all packed—”
So Susanne had taken Mrs. Doyle's advice. “And he still isn't back?” she said.
“No,” Judith said. “And that isn't all—” She gave her rings a violent twist.
“The sailboat is missing from the dollhouse carriage house,” said Emily.
Mrs. Doyle thought of the colorful sails bobbing on the water. How cheerful they had looked. Heavily, she let herself down on the nearest kitchen chair. “Maybe one of the children took the boat to play with—” she murmured without conviction.
The doorbell.
“They're here,” Judith looked at Emily.
“I'll go,” said Mrs. Doyle. She went to the door, expecting
to find Susanne and the children. Instead, she found two strange, husky men standing on the doorstep.
“Sunflower Movers,” said the taller one.
“Oh, you must have the wrong house. No one is moving here.”
“Yes, we are,” Emily called out. “Tell them to come in, Mrs. Doyle.”
Mrs. Doyle stepped aside. The two men came into the hall.
“Where is it?” one asked.
“Over there.” Judith pointed to the dollhouse.
They looked puzzled. “But it's still full of stuff.”
“That goes too.” Emily joined them, her cane tapping lightly on the polished floor.
The man shrugged, looked at his partner, and back to Judith. “Where do you want it?”
“In the backyard—a good fifty feet from the house,” Judith said.
“Okay, ma'am. Whatever you say.” He took hold of one side of the dollhouse. His partner grabbed the other. In a matter of seconds they had transported the cumbersome structure—as if it were made of toothpicks—through the dining room, the kitchen, the pantry, and deep into the backyard. They set it down gently, hardly disturbing its fragile contents, and looked to the aunts for further instructions.
“That will be all, thank you,” Judith said.
The shorter man scratched his head and looked around. “Won't it get wet out here?”
“We've thought of that—” Judith began.
“Everything's taken care of,” Emily said.
When they were back in the hallway, Emily asked how much they owed them.
The taller mover, who was the spokesman, frowned. “Let's see. It's after hours. I'll have to charge you overtime. Then there was the trip up here. But it was a small job. Twenty-five should cover it.”
Emily drew a small needlepoint wallet from her pocket and carefully counted out the bills.
“Don't you want a receipt?” He had pad and pen ready.
“That won't be necessary.”
As soon as the door closed, Emily turned to her sister. “Do you have the matches?”
Judith handed her the box.
Mrs. Doyle followed the two elderly ladies out the back door into the garden. A few crocuses were up and some snowdrops. Judith plucked a handful of straw from a flower bed and quickly stuffed some into each of the small rooms. The wind, which had caused the choppy waves on the ocean earlier, had died down. Emily had no trouble lighting the match.
She touched it first to a curtain in the bedroom. The flame quivered, leapt, and spread. The towers, turrets, and balconies toppled first. Then the cupola on the carriage house and the porch with the gingerbread. One more bright, brief flare—a crackling sound—and all that was left was a pile of red embers and the smell of burnt plywood mixed with glue.
The two ladies waited in the garden until the embers turned to gray. Then, arm in arm, they walked slowly back to the house.
Mrs. Doyle followed at a respectful distance.
3/22 Mildred Pancoast's Diary:
Dear Diary,
 
They finally did it. The old birds took my advice and burned the damned dollhouse to the ground. Now maybe we'll have some peace!
A
dam's Lightning was found washed up on the beach a few days after his disappearance. Upon examination, the police discovered that the ropes which held the mainsail had been deliberately tampered with. They had been weakened by shaving with a knife so that they broke as soon as the sail was struck by the first hard gust of wind. There had been plenty of hard gusts the day he had taken his boat out.
Dr. Fenimore came down immediately. (Indeed, he was becoming a regular commuter.) He placed Susanne under sedation and asked Mrs. Doyle to arrange for someone to take care of her children. Mildred offered to keep them, but Mrs. Doyle thought she was too unstable for any additional responsibilities. The kindly and capable Mrs. Perkins was chosen instead.
Fenimore sequestered himself with the Seacrest Police for an hour. He was informed that the state police had been called in and were officially working on the case. Later, in the company of a state policeman, Fenimore was allowed to examine
Adam's boat—and the defective ropes. It was agreed that if Adam had fallen overboard, the water temperature that day (thirty degrees) would have prevented him from swimming more than a short distance without freezing, and he would have—ultimately—drowned. They had searched for eyewitnesses among the few hardy fishermen and sailors who had ventured out that day. But they could locate only one other sailor who actually remembered seeing Adam set out. It had been early, around 7 A.M. But he had lost track of him soon afterward. Sailing his own boat had required all his attention. It had been that kind of day.
After his consultation with the police, Fenimore came back to the Pancoast house to get a firsthand story of Adam's disappearance from the aunts. When he entered the front hall he was struck by the yawning chasm at the bottom of the staircase. Mrs. Doyle gave a quick, whispered account of the fate of the dollhouse.
He shook his head. “And the contents.”
“All gone. Up in smoke.”
He chastised himself for lamenting such a trivial loss, compared with the loss of Adam and the others. But he couldn't help feeling angry at such pointless destruction, and blamed Mildred for it.
Mrs. Doyle was careful not to reveal her part in Mildred's plan—or her own halfhearted acquiescence to it. She still wondered at herself. Had she really believed all that stuff about “breaking the murderer's pattern”? Or, like Mildred, was she becoming superstitious in her old age?
The aunts insisted on giving Fenimore a light supper before
he returned to Philadelphia. It was a quiet meal. Carefully skirting the subject which was foremost on their minds, they made desultory conversation about the weather, the food, and their respective states of health. Emily complained of headaches; Judith of arthritis, and Mrs. Doyle—of chronic indigestion. The doctor diagnosed “nerves” in every case and recommended exercise in the form of brisk walks. Except for Emily. Although her hip was healing nicely, brisk walks were still out of the question. For her, the doctor prescribed aspirin.
During dessert, in an attempt to divert them, Fenimore told them about the house calls he had made on Horatio's mother.
“How can people live in such a place?” murmured Emily, when he had finished.
“Maybe we could find them something better,” said Mrs. Doyle. “I think there was a vacancy in my apartment building—”
Fenimore was touched. He knew what a sacrifice it would be for Doyle not only to share her workplace with Horatio, but also her living quarters. He said only, “How would they pay for it?”
“Perhaps we could help,” Judith offered.
Fenimore shook his head vehemently.
“Why not?” asked Mrs. Doyle.
“Because Horatio and his mother, and probably all the rest of the family, suffer from a rare and incurable disease.”
“Oh no,” gasped the two sisters.
But Mrs. Doyle was suspicious. She had never known her employer to betray a patient's confidence before. “What's wrong with them?” she demanded.
Fenimore stared hard at his nurse. “Pride,” he said.
 
 
All the way home, Fenimore blamed the police, Mrs. Doyle, but most of all—himself, for incompetence in the Pancoast case.
“The only person who's helping me with this case,” he moaned to his car's interior, “is the murderer—by systematically eliminating the suspects—one by one.”
BOOK: The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call
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