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

Jennifer.
    â€œGarden in the city,” he mumbled.
    Fenimore had the disconcerting habit of uttering Latinisms at odd times. Jennifer had never regretted not taking Latin until she had met Fenimore. When she had been a teenager, it had been the only time she had rebelled against her father’s wishes. “What am I going to do with a dead language?” she had demanded, and signed up for French instead. Now she wished she had taken both. Above the noise of the traffic, they heard the resonant tones of the City Hall clock striking noon.
    He was heading toward the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, but their progress was slow. “Everybody seems to be headed for the shore,” he said. “I forgot about the weekend crowd.” He glanced at his watch. “ Veni, vidi, sedi. ”
    â€œExcuse me?” She tried to hide her annoyance.
    â€œI came, I saw, I sat,” he translated.
    She laughed, grudgingly. “It should open up once we cross the bridge. Have you been to this place before?”
    â€œYes. But it’s easy to get lost. Here.” He handed her a rumpled map.
    As they drove, he filled Jennifer in on Lydia Ashley’s problem and the real purpose of their visit.
    â€œGood grief!” She stared at him. “What do you want me to do?”
    â€œJust be yourself. But keep your eyes and ears open and report anything unusual.”
    Before she could answer, there was a bend in the road and a
house suddenly appeared on their right. He stopped short. “Sorry,” he said, but his eyes were riveted on the house. Built primarily of red brick, the side facing the road had a “patterned brick end” worked into the wall with blue bricks. The design included two initials, J & W, and the date, 1725. This was framed by an ornate zigzag border of blue bricks. How had he missed this on his first trip down? “That’s called a diaper pattern,” he said. “Very unusual.”
    â€œHmm.”
    â€œThe main body of the wall is Flemish bond,” he explained. “But the pattern is worked in blue brick. The technique goes back to the Middle Ages in France. The French taught it to the English. If you really want to trace it back, you can find ornate brickwork in Babylonia in the fourth century B.C.” He stopped, afraid he was boring her.
    â€œThose first settlers must have really cared about their homes,” she said. “I guess they didn’t have to worry about being transferred.”
    â€œNo,” he laughed, “they were farmers.” With a shock, he realized how important it was to him that she like this place.
    â€œWhy don’t we picnic there.” Jennifer pointed to an ancient sycamore on the other side of the road.
    Hoping no trigger-happy farmer would pop up with a shotgun, Fenimore cautiously parked his car under the tree.
    â€œI don’t think any farmer will mind if we borrow his shade for a half-hour.” She had read his mind.
    He glanced over his shoulder.
    â€œAnd stop worrying about bulls!” (She had known him for over three years.)
    He gave her a weak smile. As she began to break out the contents of the picnic basket, he asked, “How is the book business?”
    â€œNot bad. But we’re running out of space. We have to reduce our stock. I have to control my impulse to buy books or Dad and I will be out in the street—or living in a motel. It’s an addiction, I’m afraid.”

    â€œNot a bad one,” said Fenimore. “I like books as well as bricks. Actually they have a lot in common—one builds buildings, the other—”
    â€œâ€”civilizations.” Jennifer laughed. “That’s too philosophical on an empty stomach.” She munched meditatively on a carrot. “Maybe I should start a B.A … .”
    He looked up from his deviled egg.
    â€œBiblioholics Anonymous. If I get a craving for a book in the middle of the night, I’ll call