The Doctor Rocks the Boat (18 page)

“Huh, that shouldn't be hard. One stick of dynamite and
poof
!” Horatio laughed.

The architect looked at Horatio with renewed interest.

“Besides, that rowing thing is dangerous. Didn't some guy drop dead here a week ago?” Horatio asked. “And didn't some old guy almost drown?”

“Now that you mention it, there was a rowing accident here. They took the fellow to HUP and he died in the CCU.”

“Were you there?” Horatio feigned a look of grisly curiosity.

“No, but I work nearby, at the Architecture School.” Tiring of Horatio's company, he began to fiddle with his equipment again.

Taking the hint, the boy ambled away. He had found out what he wanted to know.

It was Horatio's lucky day. When he arrived at the boathouse, dutifully wearing a faded orange life jacket, Frank O'Brien was on the dock instructing some new recruits in the basic steps of rowing. Trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, the boy sat in his battered rowboat, well out of the way. As the young men, looking strong and fit, listened intently to their coach, Horatio tried to think of some way to get his attention. He had an idea. He would stage a minor accident. The coach's back was to him and the students' attention was fixed on their teacher. Horatio ducked down
low and began to slowly rock the boat. Unfortunately, despite its age (or perhaps because of it), it was sturdily built and didn't tip easily. Giving up, Horatio slipped over the side and began splashing and yelling for help. To make his plight seem more realistic, he had removed the life jacket. He also let go of the side of the boat. Suddenly, he realized he
really
did need help. Despite his flailing arms and churning feet, he was sinking and the water was closing over his head!

The next thing Horatio knew, he was lying flat on his back, staring at a few puffy clouds in a blue sky and O'Brien's face was a few inches from his own.

“You okay?” the coach asked.

Horatio looked from the blue sky into the coach's eyes, which were almost as blue. “Uh-huh,” he said. He shook the water from his hair and tried to sit up.

“Take it easy,” the coach said, and gave him a hand.

The new recruits were all standing around, gaping at him. He felt like an idiot. “Sorry,” Horatio mumbled. “I guess I slipped.”

“Can't you swim?” O'Brien asked.

He shook his head.

He turned to his recruits. “Which of you guys wants to teach this guy to swim?”

The wanna-be rowers looked at one another, each hoping someone else would volunteer. Then Hank appeared.

“Hey,” he said when he saw Horatio. “That's the kid that was here the other day.”

Horatio held his breath, wondering what he would do if they suspected him of spying.

“He wants to row,” Hank said.

“Well he better learn how to swim first,” the coach grumbled. “He almost drowned.” But he eyed Horatio in a new way, evaluating his physique from head to foot.

“Shit, man. What's the matter with you?” Hank said to the boy.

Horatio looked down at the water, wanting to jump in again.

Hank came closer. “Listen. You come back tomorrow and I'll teach you to swim. And you come on foot. No more boats, until I tell you.” He stepped into Horatio's rowboat. “I'll take this back, Coach,” he said. “You leave this kid to me.”

The recruits looked relieved. The coach ordered them to bring down a shell while he showed Horatio out.

O'Brien led Horatio through the rows of bays, where the shells were stored on racks, and up a short flight of wooden stairs into the boathouse. There was a living room, with chairs, a sofa, a fireplace—even a bar and a TV. Over the mantel hung framed photos of past rowing teams who had won awards. When the coach saw Horatio looking at one picture, he said, “Those fellas won the Diamond Sculls last year—one of the highest rowing awards.”

“Wow!” Horatio stared intently. “Wasn't that the race the guy who died was going for?”

O'Brien's expression turned somber. “You're really up on the rowing scene, aren't you, kid?” He looked at the boy carefully.

“Yeah.” Horatio said. “I follow all the regattas. Were you here when Ashburn died?”

“Chuck didn't die here,” he said quietly. “He died later, at the hospital. And, yes, I was there.” He passed a hand across his face, as if to wipe away the image. “Come on, I have to get back to my class.” He hurried Horatio to a wooden door, the upper half of which was made of colored glass.

Horatio thought the whole place was kind of pretty. Not an eyesore at all.

“When you come for your swimming lesson,” O'Brien said, “come to this door and press the buzzer. Someone will let you in.”

“Thanks, man. And I'm sorry about . . .”

“Forget it.” He grinned. “You learn to swim and who knows? Someday you may be a rower.”

As Horatio walked down the path to Kelly Drive, he was
overwhelmed by a confusing mix of emotions: humiliated over his fake drowning prank; proud that he had gained some useful information for Rafferty; and exhilarated at the thought that someday he might become a rower.

F
or the second time in a week, Fenimore awoke to find himself in a hospital bed. He looked around the bare room. Friends couldn't be expected to send flowers twice in one week. Before moving he lay still, checking out various functions. No chest pain. His breathing was normal. He could see the crack in the ceiling; his eyes were okay. He could hear the murmur of traffic, punctuated by horns outside the window; his ears were intact. The smell of bacon and scrambled eggs reached him from the tray next to his bed. (How come they smelled so good and tasted so awful?) His nose was still working. He wriggled his fingers and toes. They all moved smoothly enough. What was he doing here?

Dr. Larkin appeared in the doorway. “Say, Fenimore, you're looking chipper.”

“When can I leave?”

“Not so fast.” He came over to the bed. “You just left the ICU. We have to watch you, old boy.”

“I have work to do.”

“It can wait. We have your hospital patients covered, and I know you have a capable office manager.”

Fenimore smiled at this understatement. But his concerns
weren't for his medical practice. They were for the Ashburn case. Every minute he lay in the hospital, the case was growing colder.

Larkin listened to Fenimore's chest, asked him to say “Ah,” and felt his neck and abdomen for stray nodes. When he was done, Fenimore asked again, “Seriously, how long will I be in here?”

“Two to three days, I should say. We don't want to risk another relapse. If I were you, I'd take a few weeks off. Take a trip. Go to the shore or the mountains. A near-drowning episode is no joke, Andy—especially at your age.”

“I'm only forty-three.”

“That's when we start to go downhill.”

“Speak for yourself,” Fenimore muttered to his physician's retreating back.

Fenimore passed the morning consuming watery scrambled eggs, limp bacon, and tepid coffee; being prodded, poked, and interrogated by various unidentified people; and answering phone calls from concerned friends. Mrs. Doyle was first. After inquiring about his health, she assured him that Tanya was fine. She had a good appetite. “She put up a good fight with Horatio over the last piece of pizza last night.”

Jennifer was next. Her voice sounded faint and far away. She was heading for South Jersey and using her cell phone. “I'll have to make it short because my battery's running low,” she said.

Rafferty sounded brisk and cheerful, but when Fenimore asked him about the Ashburn case, he sensed the policeman was holding something back.

Rat was the last to call. Fenimore was touched to learn that the boy had skipped recess to call from a public pay phone. “Hey, man, when are they lettin' you out?”

“Two or three days.”

“Well, don't worry. I've got the office under control.” (No mention of Mrs. Doyle.)

“That's great, Rat.”

“Yeah. And I'll have some news for you pretty soon.”

“News?”

“I've been covering the waterfront.”

“What?”

“You'll see. I left some stuff on your desk. Uh . . . there's the bell . . . gotta go!” Click.

Fenimore was musing over his last call when an aide came in bearing a potted plant with a tall stem and huge, glossy leaves, but no flowers.

“There's no card,” the aide said.

Fenimore rooted in the soil with his finger for a plastic tag that would identify the plant, to no avail. He didn't need one, however. He recognized the plant right away.
Oleander.
And he was also familiar with its deadly qualities.

F
enimore was released the next morning amid many dire warnings from Dr. Larkin. The first thing he saw when he returned home, was the pile of “stuff” Horatio had left on his desk. The top sheet bore a diagram rendered in Rat's large, ungainly hand, labeled
ALIBIS
(
SATURDAY
/1:30
P.M
. to 3:30
P.M
.). The diagram showed the whereabouts of all the suspects at the time of Chuck's death.

Fenimore called Rafferty. “Did you see this timetable of Rat's?”

“Yeah, he faxed me a copy. Nice job. He's a bright kid.”

“Did you check out these alibis?”

“Yeah, I called the Planning Commission. They were holding a meeting during that time.”

“That eliminates Wormwood, Newborn, and Grub.” Fenimore hated to relinquish Grub. She seemed such a likely candidate. “Are you sure there were no absentees?”

“I checked that out.”

“What about Henderson?”

“You mean you haven't heard from her?”

“No. Why should I?”

“She found out she was on your suspect list.”

H
ORATIO'S
D
IAGRAM

“Oh my God.”

“She took it pretty well, but I'd check out any unmarked packages in the mail, if I were you.”

That explained the oleander. Myra's sense of humor always had a touch of the macabre.

“She's in the clear,” Rafferty went on. “I called the Historical Society and learned she was chairing a meeting of thirty members that afternoon, just like she said.”

“That leaves just three suspects: O'Brien, Ott, and Walsh Sr.”

“If you discount the parents . . .”

“I saw Ott roaming the campus at HUP that afternoon, and O'Brien and Walsh were hanging around the CCU.”

“All three had motives, but Ott's was the strongest,” said Rafferty. “His whole career hangs on that marina, I'll bet.”

“But which of the three would know how to handle an IV?”

“And how would they get ahold of potassium?”

They were silent for a minute, pondering these questions.

Finally Fenimore said, “Where do we go from here?”

“To lunch,” said Rafferty and hung up.

Fenimore glanced at his watch. Sure enough, it was after twelve. He didn't feel hungry. He decided to take a walk—the only exercise his doctor allowed him. But before he could get out of the office, the phone rang. Dan Burton, offering his hunting lodge for the weekend—again. “It's a great place to recuperate, Fenimore. Quiet, scenic. Bring your girlfriend.”

Fenimore told him he was much too busy to take time off right now.

“All work and no play makes Fenimore a dull boy,” Burton said. “If you change your mind, just give me a ding-a-ling. . . .”

Ding-a-ling?
Fenimore felt a wave of nausea. As he replaced the receiver, he pondered Burton's motive for badgering him to come to the Poconos. He barely knew the man.

It was a lovely day, and as Fenimore strolled down Pine Street he relished his liberation from the hospital and was happy to be alive. He breathed in the sweet scent of the linden trees and gazed benevolently on the sidewalk cafés overflowing with young people. He paused.
And not so young people.
He had spied a familiar face. He could never forget the strong, handsome features of the last Lenape chief. But what was he doing in the city which he professed to abhor? And why was he smiling? Roaring Wings never smiled. Seeking the cause for these two minor miracles, he glanced at the Indian's companion. A shock ran through him.

Jennifer was talking animatedly while Roaring Wings listened intently with that serene smile on his face.

Fenimore looked around for some way to escape, but Jennifer had spotted him and beckoned. As Fenimore came toward their table, he saw that her color was high and she was flustered.

“You know Andrew Fenimore,” she said to Roaring Wings.

“Of course.” The chief rose and shook hands. “Won't you join us?” he said politely.

“No, thanks. I'm just out for a stroll. Doctor's orders,” Fenimore said.