I
t was Memorial Day weekend. Seacrest was officially open for the summer season. The main street was decked with flags and clogged with creeping cars.
Fenimore was in one of them.
The sidewalks were packed with people in various stages of undress, tank tops and jeans, halters and shorts, swimsuits and T-shirtsâor just swimsuits.
How he wished he were one of themâhere on a holidayâwith nothing more important to worry about than whether to have a hotdog or a cheeseburgerâwhether to swim or to sunbathe. Instead, he was here to investigate the murders of five people and the cause of insanity in another. Of course, he had no one to blame but himself. He didn't have to play detective. For that matter he didn't have to work as hard as he did as a physicianânot in these days of HMOs and group practice. If he played the game, he could have every other weekend off. Take trips. Play golf. No one was stopping him. It was his
choice. If only he didn't value his freedom so damned much. Unfortunately, like that “hardy race of barbarians” he had been reading about in Gibbon's
Decline and Fall
(Fenimore's idea of light, summer reading), he too “despised life when it was separated from freedom.” So why don't you shut up, Fenimore? He pressed the accelerator and actually moved three inches without hitting the car in front of him.
Unfortunately, he knew of no shortcut to the Pancoast house. To while away the time, he studied the stream of humanity on either side of the car. The quantity of exposed skin was predominantly pale. By the end of the weekend most of it would be varying shades of pink, scarlet, and vermilion. The odor of suntan lotion, popcorn, and hot asphalt filtered to him through his inefficient air conditioning system. (He never had it repaired until it conked out entirely.) Like a magic carpet, the smell of the sea carried him back to childhood summers he had spent at the seashore. Long, limitless lazy days that all ran into each other. Whoops! Almost ran into that young woman. She had been about to edge her way between his car and the one in front, dragging two small blond boys behind her.
He rolled down the window. “Carrie!”
Her frown was instantly replaced by an incredible smile. “Doctor?” She came up to the window. “What are you doing here?”
“Decided to drive down to see the Pancoasts. Forgot it was the Big Weekend.” He shrugged at the crowd.
She opened the back door, and pushing her small brothers ahead of her, got in. “I'll give you a hand,” she said. “See that little side street?” She pointed a few yards in front of the car.
He nodded.
“When you get there, turn right.”
Ten minutes later, he obeyed.
“Okay. Now make a left at the next corner ⦠. Now a right ⦠That's it. Now another left. Now look straight ahead.”
There was the hill, and at the top, the rambling back of the Pancoast house.
“Well, I'll be damned.”
“We'll get out now,” she said, shepherding her brothers out the door.
“I'm sure glad I ran into you,” Fenimore said, with feeling.
“You almost ran
over
me,” she said, with a laugh.
In his rearview mirror, he watched them continue to wave as he made his way up the hill.
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He hadn't told Carrie his real reasons for coming to Seacrest. The primary one was the investigation, of course. But there was a secondary one: to relieve Doyle of her nurse/companion duties and take her back to Philadelphia. Emily's hip had mended and her “spells” had disappeared as soon as he had reset her pacemaker. Doyle seemed unable to shed any further light on the Pancoast murders. Now he needed her back at the office desperately, before the Medicare authorities arrived with a warrant for his arrest.
It was a relief to leave the overcrowded village behind. To catch a glimpse of the seaâunimpeded, and a whiff of the seaâunpolluted. He pulled up to the back door.
Mrs. Doyle came out to meet him. “I was expecting you to come from the other direction,” she said.
He explained about Carrie's shortcut. “If it weren't for running into that child,” he said, “I'd still be down there frying like a sardine.”
The aunts were waiting inside. They greeted him warmly, welcoming him as their longtime physician and friend. He wished he could return their greetings with the same enthusiasm. But now, in his mind, an ugly question mark hung over both of them.
During lunch, he was caught up on all the latest news.
The good news: Susanne had made a remarkable recovery. Once she had determined to stop the sedatives, Susanne had devoted herself to caring for her children and was also helping to care for Mildred's. She had started a small day care center in a wing of the aunts' house. The aunts were more than happy to have the wasted space put to good use. A few children from the neighborhood were attending too. But not nearly as many as Susanne would have liked. Unfortunately, the Pancoast house had acquired a taint. Some parents were afraid to send their children to the “Death House” as it was sometimes now calledâin hushed tones.
The bad news: Mildred was not progressing. She spent most of her time babbling about bathsâand refusing to take one. It required a nurse and two attendants to get her into the shower. They only attempted it once a week. They simply couldn't afford the extra staff required to do it more often.
Emily was crocheting an afghan.
Judith was experimenting with some new recipes. Someone had given her a wok and a wok cookbook for her birthday. On April 5 she had quietly celebrated her eightieth year.
“She's tried out every Asian dish on us,” Mrs. Doyle said.
“It's a wonder we aren't all speaking Chinese,” Emily said.
Judith laughed. “It keeps me busy. And my mind off ⦔
There was a painful pause. Fenimore filled it by describing an episode featuring the Red Umbrella Brigade. It seems Mrs. Dunwoody discovered that the umbrellas she had ordered for graduation were black instead of red!
“Oh no,” gasped Mrs. Doyle, the only one present who fully appreciated the gravity of the situation. “What did she do?”
Fenimore smiled. “The only thing a gracious, elderly lady proficient in the martial arts could do.” He paused, letting them hang. “She called the mail order house and told them to get their butts moving or she would beat them black and blue.”
Mrs. Doyle breathed more easily. “But,” she said, “Mrs. Dunwoody shouldn't have said âblack and blue.' One of the miracles of karate isâit leaves no mark.”
“Details, details, Doyle,” replied Fenimore. “Whatever she said, the red umbrellas arrived early the next morning by Federal Express.”
After lunch Fenimore excused himself and hurried down to the police station to catch up on the most recent developments.
The ladies passed the afternoon more pleasantly, playing gin rummy, sipping iced tea, and dozing on the big screened porch. (Judith and Emily had both skipped their naps in order not to miss a moment with Mrs. Doyle.) But their determinedly cheerful conversation was occasionally marred by references to the nurse's imminent departure.
“How will we ever manage without you?” Emily said.
“We'll miss you so much,” Judith added.
Mrs. Doyle tried to soften her leave-taking with fervent promises of return visits.
About four o'clock, Judith excused herself to prepare yet another Asian feast.
Fenimore arrived back at the house deeply discouraged. He had learned that all the experts' tests for fingerprints and DNA had been dismal failures. The murderer had eluded the most modern laboratory techniques. The solution to this case, as he had predicted, would not be found in the laboratory, but elsewhere.
Fenimore had no trouble praising Judith's dinner. It was superb. He had second helpings of everythingâincluding two cups of sake (provided by the teetotaling aunts as a sign of their high regard for him).
After dinner, while the ladies were washing up (Fenimore had offered to help, but they had shooed him out of the kitchen), he decided to take a walk. Maybe if he gave the Pancoast case a rest, a new idea would come to him. Sometimes when you are too uptight, he rationalized, the obvious solution escapes you. Maybe if he relaxed awhile he would be more successful. He ducked under the mammoth American flag, which hung like a curtain from the porch roof, and ambled down the hill toward the town.
It was dusk. The village of Seacrest, which on a winter's night boasted only a few street lamps, was ablazeâas if charged by some super electric battery. The streets and boardwalk surged with light from shop windows, restaurants, and movie marquees. At the far end of town, where a visiting carnival had parked itself, the colorful lights of a Ferris wheel spun against
the night sky. Fenimore paused to listen to the faint tinkle of the carousel. The sake had produced a light of its own inside him. Deciding to postpone any further investigations until the next morning, he headed for the inn.
The Tale of ----- ----- *
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S
erving drinks, Frank greeted Fenimore like a long-lost brother. In a few minutes, the doctor was seated comfortably at the bar, surrounded by congenial villagers. Ever since that first day, when Fenimore had been forthright with them about Pamela's death, they had accepted him. Tourists didn't frequent the inn. It was too far from the boardwalk. At one time, it was a coach stop on the old turnpike and the center of all social activity. Now the inn was off the beaten track and depended mainly on local trade.
Fenimore ordered Scotch, fearing an order of sake would seem too effete for the locals. He had another. And another. For the first time in months, he felt strangely carefree. Another doctor was covering for him this weekend. He didn't have to drive home tonight. Mrs. Doyle was coming back with him on Sunday to take care of the mess at the office. And Jennifer was home. He had to admit he had missed her and was inordinately happy over her return. Of course, he still hadn't solved the
Pancoast case. But there hadn't been a murder for several weeks. Maybe the murderer was going through a midlife crisis and had decided on a career change. He allowed himself a laugh at his own black humor, drank deeply from his drink, and forgot what time it was. At some point, he lifted his glass and offered a toast to the assembled company à la Ben Jonson: “In short measures, life may perfect be ⦠.”
“Here! Here!” His companions agreed.
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Sometime later, as he walked up the hill (wove would be a better description) in the dark, he whistled a favorite Bohemian air which his mother had taught him. It was a merry melody she used to sing to him while supervising his bath. In translation it went:
Don't forget your nose,
my dear,
And don't forget your neck.
Be sure to wash your toes,
my dear â¦
What was that rosy glow in the sky? Could dawn be breaking already?
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And don't forget your ears,
my dear,
A son with dirty ears,
is what every mother fears,
âa sign of Great Neglect.
He focused on his watch. The hands and digits glowed a fuzzy green. Everything was glowing. Twelve o'clock. He'd better get home before he turned into a pumpkin. What was dawn doing out at midnight? “Midnight Dawn.” Was that a title to a poem? If not, he would write one ⦠.
Halfway up the hill, he halted. The rosy glow was flickering.
Dawn doesn't flicker.
He took a deep breath to replenish his oxygen. Mixed with the smell of the sea was the acrid smell of something burning.
E
ver since his days as an intern, Fenimore had been able to throw off the effects of sleep or alcohol at a moment's notice. He could receive an urgent call in the middle of the night from a sick patient, and answer the phone without a trace of grogginess. The few times he had become thoroughly soused and his help was needed, he had sobered up instantly. By the time Fenimore reached the brow of the hill, all outward and inward signs of inebriation had left him.
The flames were concentrated on the right side of the house. They were coming from a second-floor bedroom. Fire sirens could be heard in the distance. Someone else must have seen the glow. He was running for the front door when he collided with Judith. Barefoot, in a long nightgown, she was holding a sweater wrapped around her head. He grabbed her arm. “Where are Doyle and Emily?”
She turned toward the house and pointed to the widow's walk, which hung suspended from the burning bedroom.
Through the smoke, he could just make out two figuresâa portly one, supporting a longer, slender one in her arms.
Suddenly the place was alive with yellow-slickered firemen, hauling hoses, ladders, and shouting at each other. Fenimore grabbed the arm of one and pointed to the widow's walk. Another fireman, having already taken in the scene, was fixing a ladder in place. He scuttled up the rungs while two other firemen arranged a net under the balcony. Fenimore watched the fireman lift Emily from Doyle's arms and arrange her over his shoulders in the traditional “fireman's grip.” Slowly, steadily he made his way down the ladder with his burden. Cautiously, Mrs. Doyle followed close behind. As Fenimore watched, the small balcony let go of the house and fell with an explosion of sparksâto the garden below.
A noise at Fenimore's elbow made him turn. A short, bald fireman in a yellow slicker stood beside him. The fireman looked up, his face illuminated by the flames.
Judith.
A scene from the evening after Pamela's funeral flashed through Fenimore's mind. A lighted bathroom window. A drawn shade. The silhouette of a bald head moving across it. Then darkness.
The sweater which Judith had wrapped around her head to conceal its nakedness had fallen to her shoulders. A fireman must have given her his slicker to wear.
She smiled a mad smile. “I almost got them!” she cried.
Firmly, Fenimore took her elbow and steered her between the firemen and over the hoses which crisscrossed the front lawn. She made no attempt to escape. When they reached the
nearest police car, he settled her into the front seat and shut the door. Walking around to the other side, he spoke in a low voice to the officer behind the wheel. “Take her down to the station and lock her up,” he said. “And be careful. She's dangerous.”
The officer glanced at Judith sitting calmly beside him, her hands folded in her lap. As he started the motor, he gave Fenimore an odd look.
The Tale of ----- ----- *
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