Free The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest by Robin Hathaway

pitching material,” Fenimore said.
    â€œNah, they’re all right. Just saving themselves for later in the season.”
    â€œThe Christmas season?” Fenimore couldn’t resist.
    Rafferty bristled, but before he could come up with a retort, Fenimore’s pager began to bleat. Fenimore nearly jumped out of his chair. People at neighboring tables stared. Rafferty laughed. “Thought you weren’t on call tonight, Doc.”
    Fenimore read the number on the pager’s small screen. Mrs. Ashley. “Excuse me.” He went quickly to the pay phone at the back of the restaurant.
    He returned in a few minutes.
    â€œHave to go?” Rafferty looked up from the piece of leaden pie he was eating. Desserts were not the Raven’s specialty.

    â€œNo. It was Mrs. Ashley. The lady I was telling you about. She couldn’t find her nitros. Had to call her pharmacy for a refill.”
    â€œSenile, huh?”
    Fenimore laughed, trying to imagine that powerhouse of administrative ability senile. “No,” he said slowly. “Far from it. She never loses anything.” He was beginning to think Doyle’s warning about the two women’s safety was on target after all.
    â€œWell, there’s always a first time. How important are those pills?”
    â€œVery.”
    â€œYou’d better get a cell phone,” Rafferty said, patting the bulge in his own jacket pocket.
    â€œYou’d better stay out of the rain,” Fenimore retorted. “You’re so wired, if you step in a puddle you’ll be electrocuted.”
    Rafferty grinned.
    Before going to bed, Fenimore checked on the blood sample he had left at the hospital lab. His guess had been right. It was stored blood. It had been taken from a hospital refrigerator where it was being kept to help some patient in an emergency. It had never pulsed through the circulatory system of a cow—aristocratic or otherwise.

The Doctor and the Bookseller’s Daughter Go to the Strawberry Festival
    CHAPTER 13

    I have no doubt many persons have heard a remark made of the durability of the bricks of which our old houses are composed; their enduring quality is owing principally to a law which was passed in 1683, regulating the size of bricks. The brick to be made must be 2 ¾ inches thick, 4 ½ inches broad, and 9 ½ inches long to be well and merchantable burnt. They were to be viewed and appraised by two persons authorized by the court, and if they found the bricks faulty, they were to be broken, and the makers of them fined by the court.
    â€” An Historical Account of the First Settlement of Salem (1839) by Colonel Robert C. Johnson, from Down Jersey by Cornelius Weygandt

    W hoever wrote, “What is so rare as a day in June …” knew what they were talking about. The day of the Strawberry Festival dawned without a cloud in the sky or a drop of humidity in the air. Fenimore awoke with that Saturday anticipation he had had as a boy—when anything was possible.
    By eleven-thirty he had completed his hospital rounds, seen three office patients, and even signed some Medicare forms. He left the office whistling. On the way to the car, he reminded himself that the purpose of today’s excursion was not purely pleasure; he had a serious mission to accomplish. He continued to whistle, serious mission not withstanding.
    To save Fenimore from having to park, Jennifer was waiting outside the bookstore. She had a wicker basket over one arm.
Lunch, he hoped. Signing Medicare forms always gave him a hearty appetite.
    Jennifer slipped quickly into the seat beside him, but not before the driver behind them began to honk. As Fenimore drove off, he savored the fleeting impression of bare arms, lavender print, and a light floral scent. Having Jennifer at his side was like stumbling unexpectedly into a cool garden in the city. “Rus in urbe,” he murmured.
    â€œI beg your pardon” asked