The Doctor Rocks the Boat (19 page)

“How are you feeling?” asked Jennifer.

“Much better, thank you. How is your book coming?” He was appalled by their formality.

Jennifer glanced at Roaring Wings, who answered for her. “She's doing a fine job. I read the first chapter last night. Just the right tone.” Again he smiled.

Excusing himself, Fenimore left them.

When Fenimore arrived home, he still had no appetite. His mood was low and his thoughts confused. Maybe it was part of his convalescence. He knew that such a traumatic experience often had aftershocks. The mind and body don't always heal simultaneously. Sometimes one lagged behind the other. His main thought was to get Jen out of town, away from Roaring Wings. Another thought intruded. Burton's second invitation. Why was he so insistent? Could it have something to do with Chuck's death? After all, he did falsify the boy's records. Suddenly he had an idea. Why not kill two birds with one stone? Get Jen out of town and learn more about Burton. He reached for the phone and punched in Burton's number.

O
nce on the road, Fenimore had mixed feelings about the trip to the Poconos. He had no business taking a weekend off. He was backed up with work as a result of his two hospitalizations. He felt guilty about sticking Mrs. Doyle with Tanya for a whole weekend. Jennifer had accepted his invitation readily enough, so his fears about her and Roaring Wings were probably groundless. And he should be working on the Ashburn case. (Although, in a way, he was. Burton fit into it somehow. He was sure of it. He just wasn't sure where.) His suspicions about his host had increased in direct proportion to the urgency of his invitation to come to his place. What if Burton was not merely a sleazy doctor who committed fraud (or “wrongdoing” as the media euphemistically calls it)? What if Burton was actually dangerous? By accepting his invitation he might be putting Jen in jeopardy. Take it easy, Fenimore. You're overreacting—a symptom of your illness. Burton is probably just a good Samaritan—or simply a lonely bachelor seeking companionship.

“The covered bridge should be coming up soon.” Jennifer held the map in one hand as she gazed through the windshield.

“It better be. It's getting dark,” Fenimore said.

“There it is!” Jennifer pointed at a peaked roof ahead. “According to the map, Burton's place is only a few miles from here.”

As the car rumbled over the wooden bridge, Fenimore wondered when the bridge was built and whether it was up to its job. To his relief, they made it to the other side. “Now what?”

Jennifer squinted at the map in the waning light. “We go three miles, then make a right at Fox Creek Lane. It looks like the lane ends at the lake—and his house.”

“Thank God. I'm starved,” Fenimore said.

“Didn't you say he was a gourmet cook?”

“That's what he told me.”

“Let's hope he's going to practice his skills on us.”

Fox Creek Lane was a narrow, winding road lined with thick pine trees. Fenimore shut off the air conditioning and rolled down the windows. (His old Chevy still had windows with handles.) The fresh scent of pine filled the car.

“Umm.” Jennifer inhaled deeply.

Although their scent was pleasant, the pines hemmed the car in on both sides making Fenimore claustrophobic. They also darkened the road, forcing him to turn on his headlights. Twisting and turning through the tunnel of foliage, Fenmore was glad when they glimpsed the lake ahead, shimmering under the last rays of the sun.

Burton's home was a sprawling, stone house surrounded by a wide screened porch overlooking the lake. Knowing their host was a bachelor, Fenimore wondered why he needed such a big spread. As they drove up, the doctor came out on the porch—a ghostly figure in the twilight. He must have been looking for them. He greeted them enthusiastically, seated them in comfortable wicker chairs, and told them to enjoy the view while he rustled up something to drink. The view consisted of a black body of water surrounded by more pine trees. The sinking sun cut a golden path across the dark surface. Fenimore glanced at Jennifer. She looked relaxed and content. “Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea,” he said.

She smiled. “Every now and then it's good to get away. You gain perspective.”

Fenimore wondered if she was referring to him or to herself. She came over and kissed the top of his head. He grabbed her hand, pulled her down on his lap, and kissed her.

“Whew!” she came up for air.

Fenimore didn't let her breathe too long.

“Well . . .” Burton stood before them, bearing a tray of gin and tonics and an array of hors d'oeuvres that would have been more appropriate at a wedding reception than in such a rustic retreat. “I see the mountain air has worked its magic already,” he said.

Jennifer blushed and went back to her chair.

Over drinks, Burton answered Fenimore's unasked question—why he needed so much space.

“My hobby is woodcarving. I need room to store my materials and also to display my finished products. I'll show you my sculpture after dinner.”

They talked about the area. How developers and conservationists were at sword's point. (So what's new?) They all unanimously sided with the conservationists. “In the old days it was the loggers we wanted to get rid of,” Burton said. “Now it's the developers.”

“Do you use local wood for your sculpture?” Jennifer asked.

“Not anymore. I import wood from all over the world—from Africa, Malaysia, South America. The wood around here is too inferior for my work.”

Dinner, a culinary delight, was served on the porch. Poached salmon, fresh asparagus, and crème brûlée—accompanied by some very good wines. Small candles scattered along the porch railing provided the only illumination, and they soon guttered out. In the deepening dark, Fenimore's companions receded, becoming dis-embodied voices.

After dessert, a chilly breeze sprang up from the lake and Burton steered them inside for the liqueurs. The living room was vast. The stone walls soared to a ceiling filled with smoke-blackened beams and a fire flickered in a cavernous fireplace. But it wasn't
the beams or the fireplace that drew the guests' attention. It was the animals—all life-size and native to the area—captured in wood. A deer caught on the verge of leaping over a stream; a bear rearing up from the underbrush; rabbits, raccoons, beavers, woodchucks, and birds—all the carvings rendered in poses so natural it was hard to believe they weren't alive. The room had been transformed into a wooded glen.

“You're very talented,” Jennifer said, sipping her crème de menthe. “Where did you study?”

“The Pine Lake Conservatory,” Burton said, a sly glint in his eye.

“You mean you're self-taught?” Fenimore said.

He nodded. “I've played with native woods since I was a boy. Later, when I could afford it, I imported more exotic types.” He stroked the sorrel neck of the deer. “This is from Tanganyika,” he said. He moved over to the bear. “And this mahogany is from the forests of Brazil.” He knelt beside a hare. “And the wood for this little fellow came from Hawaii.”

“Amazing,” said Fenimore.

“You see, choosing the perfect wood to match your subject is an art in itself. Making the right choice can determine whether your work is mediocre or a masterpiece.”

“Do you exhibit your work?” Jennifer asked.

“Occasionally.”

“In Philadelphia?”

He winced. “No. New York, London, Paris.”

Fenimore was suddenly struck by the doctor's metamorphosis from the boring, hail-fellow-well-met Burton had portrayed in his office, to the distinguished artist he was presenting tonight.
How many personalities did this man have tucked away?
he wondered. But Fenimore shouldn't have been too surprised. He knew some doctors wore a protective mask with their patients, preferring to keep their private lives to themselves. He had never felt the need to do that.

Beneath the smell of wood smoke and the lingering aroma of their gourmet dinner, Jennifer detected another, less appealing
odor. She couldn't quite put her finger on it. Then it hit her. Zoo! Like the distinctive smell of nursing homes, you can't completely hide the smell of live animals in captivity.

“How do you sculpt your subjects?” Jennifer asked demurely. “From photographs?”

Burton hesitated, then said, “No. I sculpt from life.”

“In the woods?” asked Fenimore. “That must be a problem. How do you get them to stand still?”

He smiled. “Would you like to see?”

His guests nodded. Burton led Fenimore and Jennifer through the rambling house. On the threshold to the kitchen, they paused. Furnished with two state-of-the-art stoves, a walk-in refrigerator, a massive freezer, and all the latest culinary apparatus, it was every chef 's dream. The center of the room was dominated by a thick wooden table that had been meticulously polished to show off its fine grain. To Jennifer, it looked like a chopping block—for a giant.

When they finished admiring the kitchen, Burton ushered them through a door into a large cinder-block room resembling a garage. But there were no cars in evidence, and the odor of animals, not automobiles, permeated the air. The walls were lined with cages, varying in size and strength. Only one cage was occupied by a small gray lump with a pink hairless tail. Jennifer identified a possum. The largest of the cages had heavy steel bars and could have easily housed the live model for the mahogany bear in the living room.

Fennimore reached out and shook the cage. It remained rooted. “Sturdy enough,” he said with wonder.

“But is it humane?” Jennifer couldn't help blurting.

Burton's eyebrows shot up. “I treat my animals very well. A sick or dead animal is of no use to me,” he said dryly. “And their confinement is only temporary.” He reached into the possum's cage and chucked it under the chin. The small mammal remained motionless. “Why even Beatrix Potter, the famous children's author, kept her mice and rabbits confined in her room while she sketched them.”

Confined, but not caged,
Jennifer thought. On their return trip through the kitchen, she eyed the chopping block apprehensively. What a perfect place to dismember a rabbit or a deer before preparing it for a gourmet meal—after it has served its artistic purpose.

Back in the living room, the fire had dwindled to a few red coals, and in the semi-darkness the sculpted animals cast out-sized shadows on the walls. The aura of a pleasant wooded glen had been replaced by the more sinister feel of the forest in
Hansel and Gretel
or
Snow White.
Fenimore and Jennifer felt heavily drowsy. The result of good food, wine, fire, and mountain air, Fenimore diagnosed.

“It's getting late,” Burton, the perfect host, said. “I'll take you to the lodge. It's only a short walk from here.”

Collecting their overnight bags, the small party made its way down the path, through the woods. The exercise roused the guests and they became aware of their surroundings. There was no moon and the darkness crowded in on them like thick cloth. The only illumination was the slender ray from Burton's flashlight. The dense darkness seemed to smother sound as well as sight. There was no murmur of birds, no buzz of insects, or shuffle of beasts. Everyone seemed to have been anesthetized for the night.

The lodge was completely dark when they entered. “No electricity,” Burton said, “or running water,” he added, as if these were points in its favor. But it had its own stone fireplace and all the necessary ingredients for building a fire had been provided—newspaper, kindling, and logs. Burton, an expert woodsman, assembled them quickly with the aid of his flashlight. “It gets cold in the mountains at night,” he said, “even in the summer.” Striking a match, he held it under the kindling until it flared.

“You'll find more blankets in the closet,” he said, dusting off his hands, “and if you need anything else, I'm just up the path.”

Fenimore wondered how he would be able to find his way “up the path” without a flashlight. But before he could ask for one, the door had closed. He and Jennifer were alone with the glow of the
fire. Fenimore took Jennifer in his arms and held her close. After a minute, to his dismay, she said, “I'm falling asleep on my feet.”

“Shall I make some coffee?” he asked hopefully, forgetting about the lack of water.

With a drowsy smile, she said, “I'd need a whole pot to keep me awake tonight. It must be that mountain air.”

Fenimore felt unusually tired himself. A few minutes later they were both sleeping soundly under the patchwork quilt.

F
enimore wasn't sure what woke him. The fire had died. The cabin was pitch black—and cold. He sat up. There was something else. His eyes smarted and he began to cough.
Smoke?
He reached out for Jennifer.

“What's up?” Waking at his touch, she too began to cough.

“I think there's a fire somewhere.”

Jennifer sniffed. “My God!”

Fenimore slipped out of bed and felt his way to the door. “It's locked,” he said.

“Well, unlock it.”

“I can't see.”

Jennifer stumbled over her own shoes as she made for the fireplace. “Do you know where he put the matches?”

“No.” Fenimore broke into a spasm of coughing. When he recovered, he said, “I think you're supposed to keep low. Smoke rises.”

Ignoring this advice, Jennifer felt for the matches on the rough mantel. No luck. She searched the hearth. “I can't believe I'm looking for matches in the middle of a fire!” What began as a laugh ended in a paroxysm of coughing.

“Come over to the door,” Fenimore ordered.

Giving up on the matches, she crawled toward him.

“Lie down and put your face against the base. There's a crack. I can feel the draft.”