The Doctor Digs a Grave by Robin Hathaway Page B

fan.”
    Lydia looked crushed.
    â€œAnyway,” Fenimore went on, “Mother hightailed it to the Historical Society and did a little research. And a few weeks later, at breakfast, she presented my father with a neatly typed genealogy that proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was a distant cousin of James Fenimore Cooper.”
    â€œHow fascinating. What did he say?”
    â€œNothing. He wouldn’t speak to her for a week.”
    When Lydia laughed, she showed two rows of perfect pearly teeth.
    â€œWhy such an interest in Cooper? I didn’t think anyone read him anymore. Don’t the schools these days feel that literature begins and ends with Hemingway?”
    â€œNot my school.”
    â€œWhich was?”
    â€œBriggs.”
    Fenimore sighed. Of course. The exclusive day school for young ladies, founded before the Civil War, that had not revised its curriculum since. “So you’ve actually read Cooper?”
    â€œAll of him.”
    It was Fenimore’s turn to raise an eyebrow. Even he hadn’t read all of him. “Are you a teacher?”
    She shook her head.

    â€œWhat do you do? Besides read Cooper, I mean?”
    She smiled mischievously. “Shop, garden, sleep, eat.” She helped herself to a perfectly browned veal cutlet from a serving dish the maid offered her.
    Fenimore felt as if he were in Alice in Wonderland. In her own way, this woman was as daring as the kids in the sixties who had refused to go to Vietnam. He would have been less shocked to find himself seated next to a dinosaur. “Forgive me, but how do you justify your existence?”
    â€œYou mean, why didn’t I become a doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief?”
    He nodded.
    â€œLife is theater, doctor. There are the leads, the supporting roles, the minor parts, and the walk-ons. All are necessary to carry off the play.” This rebuttal sounded stale and rehearsed. She must have used it many times in self-defense.
    â€œYou forgot the director.”
    She wrinkled her nose. “Not for me.”
    â€œOr stage manager?”
    She brightened. “Now there’s a thought. I might fit in backstage.”
    â€œAnd of course there’s the audience.” He remembered the detached way she had observed her mother’s performance during the cocktail hour.
    Before she could answer, Ned Hardwick interrupted, addressing the party. “You all know why Dr. Fenimore is here tonight. We were just beginning to recover from the shock of a death in the family, when another unpleasant discovery was made.” He paused and looked at his son. “Ted has found Sweet Grass’s diary and discovered that she recorded certain feelings she had about all of us. As a result, Ted has jumped to the conclusion that his fiancée committed suicide—and somehow we are to blame. I think this is unlikely, but I’ve invited Dr. Fenimore
here to serve as a neutral party, someone outside the family to give his opinion on this painful matter. If he’s willing.” He turned to Fenimore.
    Throughout this announcement, Ted continued to eat, studiously avoiding his father’s eye.
    â€œI’d be glad to look at the diary,” Fenimore said neutrally, “if Ted agrees, that is.”
    Ted started to rise.
    â€œNo,” Polly said. “Let Andrew finish his dinner. After dinner will be time enough.”
    Ted sat down. Ned, obeying a signal from his wife, changed the subject to a less emotional topic, the stock market.
    â€œDo you have a busy practice?” Bernice asked Fenimore from across the table.
    â€œOh, perking along.”
    â€œI wondered if the new interest in home remedies was having any effect.”
    â€œI haven’t noticed it. Oh, occasionally someone will want to substitute herb tea for a sedative, but I don’t find patients staying away in droves, treating themselves with roots and weeds.”
    â€œI’m attempting an herb garden of