The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call by Robin Hathaway Page B

chat. She even came to a class reunion once. Anyway, she said she had this idea about sculpting a sailor and she thought I had the right build.” Again he reddened. “Well, since she’s had all this trouble and everything, I didn’t like to turn her down. So I said, ‘What the hell, if the wife agrees.’ It turned out she only needed me for a couple of sessions. Made a lot of sketches. But when it was time to go into stone, she explained, she wouldn’t need me anymore. She wanted to pay me, but I wouldn’t take anything. Then, just this afternoon, my wife calls and says Marie sent us a big Christmas basket—full of fruit and candy and cheese. Can you beat that? Her thinkin’ of us—with all the trouble she has … had?” He brushed a quick hand across his eyes.
    Fenimore concentrated on his Scotch.
    â€œThe Pancoasts are fine people,” the bartender said finally.
    â€œYes, they are,” Fenimore agreed. To himself, he added, “With one exception.”
    Fenimore made one more stop before heading back to Philadelphia. Whenever he came into Ben’s Variety Store, he was overwhelmed by the number of objects stuffed into such a small cinder-block structure. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling crammed with everything from kitchenware to office supplies, from hardware to cosmetics. With one quick look, Fenimore
took in coffee grinders and frying pans, spiral notebooks and legal pads, wrenches and screwdrivers, face creams and nail polish. Whoever was in charge of the inventory was a genius. He suspected that Ben handled it himself.
    A wholesome, dry goods smell permeated the place, reminding Fenimore of a store he had frequented in his youth. That store was long gone. He always tried to find an excuse to come to Ben’s when he was in Seacrest. This time he had a ready-made excuse. Hearing Ben shuffling around in the darker storage regions, he squeezed his way between the crowded shelves to the back. He found him sorting screws.
    Fenimore coughed.
    Ben peered at him. “Oh, it’s you.”
    â€œI’d like to see your nail collection.”
    â€œOver here.” Ben led him through the murky gloom to the next aisle. Yanking a small flashlight from his belt, he played its beam over the nails.
    Fenimore studied them carefully. Although the assortment was vast, none of them exactly resembled the one in Marie’s studio. He frowned. “Is there any other store in Seacrest that sells nails?”
    Ben snorted. “Dime store. Cheap stuff. Bend if you look at them. Made in Yugoslavia.” He shut off the flashlight.
    â€œIs it open?”
    â€œNope. Not ’til May first. When the tourists come.”
    â€œWell, thanks.”
    â€œUmph.”
    As Fenimore groped his way out, he wondered how Ben’s customers ever found anything.

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    12/22 Mildred Pancoast’s Diary:

    Dear Diary,
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    Marie is gone. And the killer didn’t need a doll to set up this scene in the dollhouse. He (she?) used a clothespin. Poor Marie, reduced to a clothespin wearing an apron. If the killer can just use clothespins, there was no point burying the dolls. He can get clothespins anywhere. The house is full of them. And the hardware stores. Even the supermarkets. I’m not safe anymore, Diary. He can make a doll of me anytime. Tomorrow. Today. Maybe he’s making one right now. Oh, God!

CHAPTER 19
    B ecause of a fitful night, Fenimore overslept. When he came into the office Horatio was already there stuffing, stamping, and sealing the monthly bills.
    â€œWhy is everyone up so early?” Fenimore yawned.
    â€œNot everybody .” Horatio nodded at Sal. The cat lay on her back, four legs extended, as if she had died in her sleep and rigor mortis had set in. “And where’s Doyle?” the boy asked, casting an accusatory glance at the empty desk that dominated the center of the room like a throne.
    â€œ Mrs .