The Doctor Rocks the Boat (23 page)

Fenimore walked up Kelly Drive, deep in thought. Absently he dodged cyclists, joggers, and strollers. “No one's allowed to use
The Zephyr
except the Ashburns.” The boy's words echoed in his ears. He kept walking. The crowd on the path was growing, and he was having trouble avoiding a collision. He paused by the statue of Jack Kelly. The sculptor had captured the famous rower in the first step of the rowing cycle—the catch. The green-bronze figure gleamed in the sun, full of vigor and grace. That's what the sport was all about—grace under pressure. The old Hemingway maxim. But that had nothing to do with putting a novice in an especially light shell with a pair of too-heavy oars. The odds were unfairly stacked. He shouldn't have been in a singles shell the first time out anyway. Charlie should have taken him out in a double until he learned the ropes. Burton didn't have a chance.

Fenimore slowed down.

A jogger swerved around him.

Fenimore had slowed down because he again remembered Burton—after the cardiology lecture—feigning a yawn.
Right after he killed Chuck!

He stood still.

“Watch it!” A cyclist narrowly missed him.

He started walking again, still thinking.
And shortly after the lecture, Burton must have gone down to the river, rented a motorboat, and tried to drown me!
Fenimore shivered.

But how did he know which boat I would choose?
he asked himself.

That wouldn't be hard. Most of the rowers knew he always used
The Folly,
his father's old shell. All Burton would have had to do was ask someone.

So Burton had committed one murder, attempted another, and—for icing on the cake—there was the blackmail scheme. . . .

He stepped off the path and made his way to the river. Finding an empty bench, he sat and watched a mallard mother lead a string of half-grown ducklings downstream. Spring was moving on. He thought about mother-love—and Caroline. In her zeal to
protect her son, she had almost murdered him. Charlie's comment came back to him: “You've never had any kids, have you, Fenimore?”

He remembered a play he had seen a long time ago—
The Winslow Boy.
It was about a boy who was accused of stealing a postal order. The boy's father risks their modest savings and the ruin of the family to clear the boy's name. The play is not about theft, however. It is about honor. A word seldom used today. In the end, the lawyer who clears the boy's name, explains that
right,
not justice—as defined by the letter of the law—has been done. Justice is easy. Right is hard, he explains.

Shall I forget the whole thing?

Rafferty's scowling face rose before him.
Taking the law into your own hands, Fenimore?

A shell glided past, casting its slim shadow on the water. Such a peaceful sight. Fenimore turned away. He would call Rafferty in the morning and tell him his suspicions. Sunday was a day of rest.

W
hen Fenimore came into the office Monday morning, Mrs. Doyle handed him four pink message slips in the order in which they arrived. Mrs. Henderson's was on top:

The next one was from the Department of Human Services:

Next—from Jennifer:

And finally—from Rafferty:

Fenimore lined up the slips on his desk in no particular order. He closed the door to his inner office. He reached for the dusty bottle of scotch (which wasn't as dusty as usual because it had been used recently). Then, although it was barely ten o'clock, he poured himself a stiff shot.