The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call by Robin Hathaway Page A

herself. She had taken complete blame for the tragedy.
    â€œOh, Doctor, I should have stayed with her. Or at least lured her downstairs—away from the studio. How could I have been so—?” She covered her face with her hands.
    â€œNow, now.” He patted her shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault. That bust was set to fall on Marie sometime, whether you were there or not. But if you insist on blaming yourself—” His eye held a glint. “I know how you could make amends.”
    Mrs. Doyle glanced up, warily.
    â€œHow would you like to take a vacation at the seashore?”
    â€œIn December?”

    â€œMmm.”
    â€œBut the office …”
    â€œI can manage,” he lied bravely.
    â€œMy clothes … ?”
    â€œYou and Judith are about the same size. I’m sure she could lend you some things to tide you over until I can bring your own things down.”
    â€œI’ll need my wool slacks, two pairs of long johns, my flannel wrapper, my bedroom slippers, and …” She was rummaging in her pocketbook for her apartment key.
    â€œYour bathing suit?”
    She cast him a baleful glance. “What about my karate class?”
    â€œI’ll take care of that,” he said blithely.
    â€œYou?” She surveyed him skeptically. Fenimore was not known for his athletic prowess. His attributes lay elsewhere.
    â€œNot me, personally,” he assured her. “I have a substitute in mind.”
    Mrs. Doyle tensed. “And who might that be?”
    â€œOh, an acquaintance,” he said airily.
    Mrs. Doyle’s eyes narrowed. Fenimore turned away, pretending a fascination in an ancient map of Seacrest.
    â€œYou wouldn’t!” She addressed the back of his neck. “You wouldn’t wish that, that … on a bunch of defenseless, little old ladies.” Her voice had risen an octave.
    â€œOh, so they’re defenseless now. I thought they were hardy, agile—”
    Mrs. Doyle glared.
    â€œHe told me he’s well trained in the martial arts.”
    â€œA likely story—”

    A light tap on the door. “Mrs. Doyle?” Judith.
    â€œWhat’s my excuse for staying?” whispered Mrs. Doyle anxiously.
    â€œI need your help,” Judith said in a louder voice.
    Fenimore opened the door.
    â€œIt’s time for Emily’s bath, and with her poor hip it’s really a two-person job. I used to ask Marie, but …”
    Fenimore said. “She’s all yours, Miss Pancoast.”
    Mrs. Doyle handed him her key. “Don’t forget to water my violets,” she said sternly.
    Before she left the room, Fenimore whispered, “In between your nursing duties, keep your eyes and ears open for anything unusual and report back to me.”
    As he watched his capable nurse return to the parlor, his spirits rose. With Doyle on the scene—his occasional Watson—Fenimore’s expectations for finding the murderer soared.
    Â 
    Before leaving Seacrest, Fenimore stopped at the inn. Although he had no desire for a Scotch, he ordered one. He had figured out who Marie’s sailor was. He looked more at home pouring drinks than hauling sails.
    â€œHi, Doc! Hear there’s been more trouble up the hill.” Frank paused for enlightenment.
    As Fenimore told him about Marie, he watched the bartender closely. He had been leaning with both hands on the bar. He sagged noticeably. From the shock of a personal loss—or merely a financial one? Marie had probably paid him handsomely for posing.
    â€œShe was working on a sculpture before she died. Was it you?” Fenimore asked.

    â€œYeah. She came in here one day and asked me to pose for her. With my clothes on, you understand.” He actually blushed. “I was surprised to see her. She never comes in here. We were in high school together. Before she married Pancoast. But she never went high-hat. When we met in town she always had time for a