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

unusually high level of alcohol in Tom’s bloodstream and Fenimore knew the inn was Tom’s favorite haven for imbibing.
    â€œHi, Doc!” Frank hailed Fenimore as he slipped onto a barstool. “What’ll it be?”
    â€œNothing liquid, today. I need information.”
    â€œShoot.”
    â€œWas Tom Pancoast in here this afternoon?”
    â€œSure was. Left with a snootful too.”
    â€œAbout what time?”
    Frank looked at his watch. “Came in around noon. Left about one-thirty. Plenty of time to get tanked.”
    â€œHe’s dead.”

    Frank almost dropped the glass he was polishing.
    â€œAsphyxiated in his own car, in his aunt’s carriage house.”
    Frank’s eyes widened.
    â€œThey found him around two-thirty.”
    â€œSuicide?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œWhew!” The bartender wiped his forehead. “I knew that wife of his would get to him someday.”
    â€œCareful. That’s dangerous talk.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œDid you talk to Tom while he was here?”
    â€œYeah. Nothing special. Football mostly. He used to play for Brown.”
    Fenimore nodded. “Maybe I will take a beer. Draft.”
    Frank filled a glass and slid it toward him. “He didn’t act depressed or nothin’,” he said. “In fact, he was in a good mood. Told me a couple of jokes. This guy went into a bar—”
    â€œSome other time, Frank.”
    â€œOh, right.” He looked sheepish.
    â€œWhen he left, did he say where he was going?”
    â€œHe said he was going to ‘take a ride.’ The first time he said that, it scared the shit out of me, ‘cause he was in no condition to drive. But then he explained—‘take a ride’ means he goes and sits in his car in his aunts’ carriage house until he sobers up. Sometimes he even passes out there.”
    â€œDid the aunts know about this?”
    â€œIf they did, they looked the other way. They’re good scouts.”
    â€œWas this habit of his—common knowledge?”
    â€œHe didn’t make any secret of it.” Frank ran a rag over the
bar. “That car was like Tom’s second home. Probably wished it was his first home.” He snapped the rag.
    Fenimore finished his beer and paid for it, adding a hefty tip.
    â€œI’ll miss him,” Frank said. “One of my best customers.”
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    Fenimore’s next stop was the Pancoasts’ carriage house; a roomy place, large enough to store a sailboat as well as Tom’s car. A police officer, who looked no more than sixteen, presided over the site from a beach chair. They recruited them young in Seacrest. Fenimore showed him a slip signed by the Chief of Police.
    The car, a neat Porsche, had been gone over with a finetooth comb. No evidence of any clutter or debris on the floor, in the side pockets, or even in the glove compartment. In fact, it looked as if it had never left the showroom. “Was the car like this before you searched it?”
    The boy nodded. “Clean as a whistle. The only things in the glove compartment were the registration, the insurance, and the instruction manual.”
    Ruefully, Fenimore thought of his own beat-up Chevy and the junk collected in it. Tom must have been one of those car fanatics who had a heart attack over every scratch and stain. Fenimore was about to leave when he noticed a sticker on the back window. The sleek red and black logo of an exclusive squash club. Maybe one of Tom’s squash partners could shed more light on Tom. One of the cardinal rules of homicide detection: get to know the victim.
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    The squash court was noisy with resounding thwacks as two relatively young men engaged in a match. Fenimore waited patiently. He had had a hard time getting admitted to the club. Nonmembers in a small town were not looked upon with favor. Not until he placed a call to the Pancoast household and attained