MAY
J
ennifer pulled at her skirt, ran her hand through her newly cropped hair, and pressed the bell. She hadn't seen him for several months and he wasn't expecting her. She was about to press the bell again when the door opened.
“Hey!” Horatio.
“Hey,” she replied weakly.
“Come on in.” He stepped back to let her pass. “Nobody's home.” He followed her into the waiting room. “Doyle's at the Shore and Doc's making rounds. How's Europe?”
“Still intact.”
“Meet any Frenchmen?”
Jennifer thought of the string of ancient, garrulous booksellers she had wined and dined in an effort to acquire rare books. “A few.”
“Cool.”
Sal looked up from her place on the windowsill.
“Hi, Sal.” Jennifer waved.
The cat looked away, out the window.
“She's a moody old thing,” Horatio apologized, rubbing Sal's head. He sprawled on the sofa. “You're back early, aren't ya?”
Jennifer sat rather stiffly on her straight-backed chair. “A little.”
“Can I getcha something?” He suddenly recognized his position as host.
“I
am
thirsty. Would he have a Coke?”
“I'll check.” He disappeared to the kitchen. Jennifer heard him breaking ice from a tray. She went to join him.
“You don't have to wait on me.” She grabbed a glass from the cupboard and held it out to receive the ice cubes. As he was returning the tray, she caught sight of the contents of the freezer compartment. A steak and a box of French fries. Below, in the refrigerator part, nestled among the cans of Coke, lay a jug of cheap wine. (Fenimore had simple tastes.)
They took their drinks back to the waiting room. Horatio drank his from the can. “Did you eat a lot of crap suzettes and stuff?” He stretched out on the sofa.
“I had horse meat in Paris.”
Horatio made an unattractive gagging noise.
“It's really very good. You wouldn't be able to tell it from cow meat if it weren't for the signs.”
“Signs?”
“In France, if a restaurant serves horse meat they have to display a sign out front with a horse's head. It's usually painted gold or bronze.”
Horatio shook his head. “How could you eat it?” His acquaintance with horses was limited to those ridden by members
of the Philadelphia police force (which he observed from a respectful distance) and the sorry nags that pulled the buggies full of tourists around Independence Hall.
“Cows are nice too,” she said.
“I've never seen a cow.”
Suddenly, Jennifer was acutely aware of the confines of Horatio's world. He had probably never been to a farm. He had probably never seen the ocean either.
“I've seen an elephant though. My dad took us to the zoo once.”
“I've never tried elephant,” Jennifer said blandly. “But in this town in Italy, I had ravioli at a little restaurant. It was delicious. But when I came out I passed the door to the kitchen. It was wide open, and hanging on the wall from hooks, skinned and waiting for the meat grinder, were three cats!”
Sal stopped in the midst of a wash and stared at Jennifer.
Horatio laughed. “She heard that.”
Jennifer heard something else. A key in the lock. She sat more rigidly upright.
“There's the doc,” Horatio said, unnecessarily.
When Fenimore came down the hall, the three occupants of the waiting room looked at the doorway expectantly. As always, the doctor paused to glance in and see if there was a stray patient he should greet. He didn't see Jennifer at first. Her chair was off to his right.
“Look who blew in.” Horatio nodded at Jennifer.
He turned.
“I came back a little early,” she murmured apologetically. “Dad was tired of baked beans and tuna and sent me an SOS.”
“Well ⦔ Fenimore pulled himself together and spoke heartily. “That's great. Why don't we all go out and celebrate.” He included Horatio and Sal with the sweep of his hand.
But Jennifer had caught his first look and her self-confidence was restored. She sent Horatio a warning glance.
“Sorry, man.” The boy rose languidly. “I have plans.” He disappeared down the hall toward the front door. They didn't speak until the door slammed behind him.
“What do you feel like? French, Italian?” he asked.
“You know,” she said, “I've had my fill of Continental cuisine. What I really crave is something American.”
“Cheese steak?” He grinned.
“Well, maybe not quite that. How about a juicy steak, French fries, and a bottle of wine?”
Fenimore was thoughtful. “In that case, I don't think we need to go out. I have all those ingredients right here.”
“What a coincidence.” Jennifer maintained a poker face.
“But the steak is frozen,” he said.
“How long will it take to defrost?”
“An hour or so.”
“We could start on the wine.”
“Don't move.” Fenimore disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned with two glasses brimming with wine, Jennifer had moved onto the sofa. She looked especially well, he thought. She had a slight tan, picked up on the Mediterranean beaches. Her eyes seemed to have picked up some of the intense blue of the Mediterranean Sea as well. And her hair was different. Close-cropped, revealing the lovely curve of her head. Setting the glasses down on a table covered with last year's
magazines, he joined her on the sofa. On impulse, he ran his hand down the back of her head. “New cut?”
She nodded.
“Paris?”
She nodded again.
“Too bad.”
Her eyes widened.
“It can't be repeated.”
“I can always go back.”
“Not right away.”
“No ⦔
Sal, deciding enough was enough, jumped from the windowsill and padded over to the sofa, careful to give Jennifer a wide birth. (She had not forgotten the ravioli story.) She leapt onto the vacant cushion next to Fenimore and rubbed her head against his thigh.
“Hey!” Fenimore reached back with one hand to remove her.
“Careful!” Jennifer warned. “She's jealous.”
Fenimore let go of Jennifer and placing both hands under Sal's forelegs, raised her to eye level. “You're not jealous, are you?”
“Growrrr!” She snarled and twisted.
He dropped her like a hot potato.
“I told you.” Jennifer was lounging back on the sofa, observing them through narrowed lids. She looked like a cat herselfâa fragile, blue-eyed feline.
“How much do you weigh?” He surveyed her.
“What a question.”
“Seriously.”
“About a hundred and twelve.”
In his mind's eye, Fenimore compared her to an equivalent weight at the gym. Jennifer's weight was distributed differently, of course. Without warning, he scooped her up and started for the stairs.
“What are you doing?”
“Testing my strength.”
“But it's not good for you.”
He halted mid-stairs, his expression grim. “I'm too old?”
“Heavens, no,” she said quickly. “But you're not in shape.”
A glint came into his eye.
“Andrew?” She stared up at him from the crook of his arm. “You haven't been working out?”
Suddenly shy, he nodded.
“What's come over you?”
“What would you do, if you were suddenly surrounded by two fitness freaks and a bunch of Olympic octogenarians?”
“The karate class?”
He nodded.
“Poor Andy.” She reached up and patted his cheek.
“Enough.” He strode up the rest of the stairs, carried her down the hall to his bedroom, and dumped her unceremoniously on the bed.
“What have you been doing while I was away? Reading
Gone With the Wind
?”
He grinned evilly and sat down on the bed. “I may not look like Clark Gable, but ⦔ He caught her up in a smothering embrace.
Jennifer laughed.
He drew back abruptly. “What's the matter?”
“Nothing. It's just ⦠you're so different.”
He held out his arm and flexed his biceps.
“Good grief.” She touched the sinewy bulge gingerly.
“You like it?”
“Wellâ”
“You don't. You prefer the wimpy type.” He looked crestfallen.
She laughed again. “You were never wimpy. It's just that I have to get used toâ”
“The new me?”
She nodded.
“Let's begin.” He drew her close. He could feel her heart beating against his chest. And the beats were not the normal seventy-two beats of a human. Nor even the hundred and thirty beats of a small mammal. They were the one hundred and sixty-six beats ⦠of a bird.
T
hey had moved to Fenimore's living and dining area. Situated between the office and the kitchen, it was a pleasant, unpretentious space, furnished with an old couch, a worn oriental rug, a couple of nondescript lamps, and shelves of books. They had lit a fire in the fireplace. Although it was May, spring was late and there was a chill in the air. They had finished the steak. Their dirty dishes and empty wineglasses rested in the sink. The remains of the fire glowed in the grate. Sal, her jealous rage forgotten, dozed on the hearth. Their coffee cups were nearly empty when Jennifer asked, “What's new with the Pancoast case?”
If she had turned into a witch, doused the fire, and poured gall into his cup, she could not have destroyed Fenimore's mood more completely. For a few blissful hours he had forgotten Seacrest, the Pancoast family, the murderer who lurked in their midst, and the sorry part he was playing in the whole affair. Jennifer's unexpected return had erased all that completely from
his mind. Now it came roaring back, like an angry tidal wave, full of sound and fury.
“I don't want to discuss it.”
“Andrew!”
“It's hopeless. The police are bungling idiots. Even Doyle has failed me. And here I am stuck in Philadelphia, forced to wait for the next phone call to tell me about the next murder.” He was pacing now.
“Can't you get someone to cover for you?”
“No.” He stopped and stared down at her. “I'm a doctor first. Detecting is a hobby. I have no right to dabble in it. I'm no expert. They'd be better off without me.”
“Then all they'd have is the âbungling' police. At least with Doyle on the scene and you within call, there's a chanceâ”
He sat down again, his head in his hands.
“How many are left?” she asked.
He glanced up. “Emily, Judith, Mildred, Susanne.” He ticked them off on one hand.
“And the children?”
“Oh my God ⦔
Jennifer was silent. After a moment she said, “What about Rafferty?”
“What about him?”
“Can't he help?”
“He's in the wrong state. All he can do is give advice.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“Yes.” His voice was weary.
“What did he say?”
“The usual. Mind your own business. Oh yes, and he thinks
I'm too close to the Pancoast sisters to see them objectively.”
“Are you?”
He frowned. “I don't know.”
They were silent.
Suddenly he said, “Do you know what âkarate' means in Japanese?”
“No.”
“âEmpty hand.' In self-defense, it meansââwithout a weapon.' With me, it sums up my role in this case. I dove inâand came up empty-handed.” He held out both hands, palms up.
She grabbed his hands.
After a moment Jennifer murmured, “I must go. Dad will think I've been mugged.”
Fenimore let her go.
Jennifer went upstairs and exchanged the tent-size T-shirt Fenimore had lent her for her own blouse and skirt, and slipped her bare feet into her sandals.
When she came downstairs, Fenimore was waiting in the hall. “I'll walk you home,” he said.
Although the intense glow of the early evening had faded with the fire, a small ember remained. The yellow disk of the city hall clock, the tiny white lights that decorated the trees along Broad Street, and the flickering gaslights in front of the Academy of Music all contributed to rekindling that ember. When he left her at her apartment door, his good-night embrace was unusually fervent and he mumbled into her collarbone, “Glad you're back.”