The Doctor Digs a Grave by Robin Hathaway Page A

entirely different flora from North America,” Bernice objected. “It’s a drier, much warmer zone. How do you plan to protect the plants?”
    â€œNow, darling, a Ph.D. in botany doesn’t give you the right to dictate my choice of plants for the Flower Show. There are such things as greenhouses. Some of the specimens—the hibiscus, oleander, and olive trees—have already been shipped from California and are doing quite well.”
    â€œYes, but once you get them into that great, drafty mausoleum downtown, I wouldn’t give you two cents for them.”
    â€œThe club is taking every precaution. We’re creating a kind of atrium and installing electric heaters behind a network of mosaic walls.”
    â€œAs you can see, Doctor, expense is no object,” Ted spoke sharply. “And when the club has exhausted its funds, the members will be more than happy to dig into their own coffers to take up the slack, right, Mother? That’s why, to become a member, you have to be pretty well-heeled.”
    â€œDarling, you know how I hate those vulgar expressions.” Polly rose. “I’ll be right back. I want to show Andrew our plans.” She was back in a minute, bearing a large roll of paper under one arm. Unfolded, it was the size of a world map, and when she spread it out on the coffee table, two thirds of it drifted to the floor.
    The next half hour was spent admiring the blueprint for a Roman garden, circa 100 B.C.
    Bernice leaned over to take a look. “Good heavens, Mother, olive and orange trees? And who’s going to construct all this?”
She indicated the maze of walls and pathways with a sweep of her hand.
    â€œSome of the husbands have volunteered, and … a few of the sons.” She looked at Ted, who ignored her.
    â€œOh, Mother, you must have a pool!” Kitty joined them. “There’s room for one right there.” She pointed a small finger with a much chewed fingernail. “And I could pick out the fish. Oh, please let me, Mother.”
    â€œWe’ll see.” Her mother cast her a puzzled glance, as if unsure who she was or where she came from.
    Lydia was the only one who declined to offer an opinion on the plan. She remained draped in the Victorian chair, observing. Fenimore was unsure whether she felt above it all, or was simply bored by a scene she had witnessed many times: her mother showing off her expertise before another audience.
    A uniformed woman appeared in the doorway. “Dinner is served.”
    One by one they filed into the dining room. Fenimore found himself seated on Polly’s left, Lydia’s right, and directly across from Bernice. As he shook out his linen napkin, he wondered who would be the first to mention Sweet Grass, the only reason he had come. Would it be up to him? He hoped not. The grapefruit course passed in silence. But when the soup arrived, Lydia turned to him and asked, “Are you related to the author?”
    It had been a long time since anyone had connected him with James Fenimore Cooper, the prolific author of books about a more youthful America. Had the nation’s recent interest in preserving the wilderness and helping Native Americans sparked a renewed interest in his works? “Yes and no,” he said.
    â€œHow yes?” She arched a perfect jet brow.
    â€œI’d rather begin with the no. My father claimed absolutely
no connection with the great author. He said all his ancestors were rascals and rogues.”
    She smiled. “And the yes?”
    â€œOne day my mother became annoyed with this routine and decided to look into the matter. She was from Prague and could trace her origins back over five hundred years, and she always wanted to do the same for my father.”
    â€œPrague?” His dinner partner’s eyes shone. “Kafka country!”
    â€œEr …” Fenimore cleared his throat. “I don’t think Mother was a big Kafka