The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call by Robin Hathaway Read Free Book Online

with Frank, the bartender—had not furthered his investigation very much. But he had learned some things: first—that the back door to the Pancoasts’ kitchen was always left open. Therefore, anyone could have gone out the front door and come in again the back way on Thanksgiving Day without being noticed. Second—Mildred Pancoast’s passion for the occult was sometimes a cause of friction in the family.
    When Fenimore arrived back at the office, the day’s mail lay waiting on his desk. Mrs. Doyle had placed the most important piece on top—a postcard from Jennifer. Jennifer Nicholson was Fenimore’s constant companion—when she was in town. Now,
unfortunately, she was in the South of France. Her father, the owner and operator of an antiquarian bookstore, had sent her abroad on a search for rare books. Unlike some business trips, this one was a legitimate expense and Jennifer was expected to spend her time in metropolitan bookstores, not on Mediterranean beaches.
    The back of the postcard read: “Having a lousy time. Glad you’re not here.” The front bore a picture of a teeming bus terminal in Marseilles.
    Jennifer would have liked to be more than Fenimore’s companion. But Fenimore felt diffident about their ages. She was barely twenty-five and he was pushing forty-five. Whenever he was tempted to make their relationship more permanent, he envisioned himself as a senile invalid being waited on by Jennifer in her prime, and he resisted temptation.
    Before Jennifer left, she had given him a copy of her itinerary and said lightly, “Feel free to write.” Fenimore had not intended to. Unlike Jennifer, he was not much of a writer. But, somehow, after she had been gone less than a week, things kept coming up that he had been used to sharing with her. He missed talking to her. To his surprise, he found himself writing to her frequently. Not short notes, but letters—often four or five pages long.
    He felt like writing one now. His patient load was light this afternoon. He had a half hour before the first one was due. He cast a furtive glance at Mrs. Doyle. Assuring himself that she was immersed in Medicare forms, he slipped a piece of personal stationery out from under his blotter and began to write:

    Dear Jennifer,
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    Upon receipt of your postcard from Marseilles this A.M, I decided to take a moment out from my heavy schedule to inform you of a recent development.

    (His writing style tended toward the pedantic. On occasion, he had even been known to insert Latin phrases, such as “ tempus fugit” or “O tempora! O mores! ”)
    In this same vein, he described in detail the difficulties that had befallen the Pancoast family, filling six pages.

    Now, I must draw to a close, as office hours are about to begin. But I would appreciate it if you would apply your not inconsiderable intellect to the little problem I have just described.

    (Fenimore did not often indulge in flattery. This was a major departure for him.)
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    Sincerely, your friend,

    (His signature, like his prescriptions, could have been written by a chimpanzee for all the resemblance it bore to his name.)
    Checking Jennifer’s itinerary, he learned that she would be in Bordeaux the following week. He placed the letter in his
jacket pocket. “Think I’ll get a breath of air before the next patient, Mrs. Doyle.”
    â€œRight, Doctor.”
    As she watched his retreating back, Mrs. Doyle wondered in which mailbox he would drop his letter to Jennifer.
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    When Fenimore returned, there was another phone slip on his desk. This one was marked “Urgent!” The message read, “Call Emily Pancoast re: dollhouse???” (The question marks were Mrs. Doyle’s way of demanding an answer asap.)
    He dialed the Pancoast number.
    â€œOh, Doctor. Thank you for calling back so promptly.” Judith. “It’s the dollhouse again. Or rather—the dolls. One