The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest Read Free Page B

the house to welcome her guests.
    Fenimore watched Lydia’s retreating back. Satisfied that she had recovered from her initial shock, he knelt to examine the neck of the carcass. It was still encrusted with flies, but the blood had ceased dripping and lay in a pool in the trough below.
    â€œYuck,” said Horatio, kneeling beside him.
    Because of the flies and the stench, Fenimore worked quickly. He still had the photo that Horatio had torn off. He wanted to see where it had been attached, and how . It was unfortunate that the boy had torn it off. It was evidence. But he had no real regrets.
Horatio’s first thought had been for Mrs. Ashley’s welfare—and breaking her horrified gaze. His instincts were good.
    â€œLook,” Horatio said. He had spotted some neutral-colored thread protruding from the flesh—the kind you might use to truss a turkey. Apparently the “practical joker” had tacked the photo to the flesh by a simple needle and thread.
    Fenimore took a clean white handkerchief from his pocket. Covering his hand, he carefully drew the thread out, wrapped the handkerchief around it, and handed it to Horatio. Next, he examined the photo. The upper two corners were torn where the twine had been inserted, but the rest of the picture was intact. Lydia’s expression was serious, but serene. Her gray hair neatly waved, she wore a string of pearls and looked slightly younger. He guessed it had been taken about five years ago. Probably when she was elected president of the Colonial Society. The Society would have required an up-to-date photo for their newsletter. He flipped it over.
    They both inhaled sharply.
    Scrawled across the back in red was the single word “ Sell! ”, as if written by a finger dipped in blood.
    They were still staring at the ugly scrawl when a shadow fell across it.
    Fenimore looked up.
    Jenks?
    The small man, resembling a dried prune, jerked his thumb at the carcass. “What the hell?”
    Fenimore stood up, the photo turned carefully against his thigh. “Mr. Jenks, I’m Dr. Fenimore. I was hoping you might shed some light on this.”
    Jenks could shed light on nothing. He had gone fishing before breakfast and had seen no one and heard nothing. When those nosey parkers had gone, he would reclaim his territory—the barn and its out-buildings—and finish his chores.
    Fenimore offered to help take down the carcass, but Jenks said, “I’ll take care of it.”

    â€œBefore you take it away, I’d like to go over it,” Fenimore said.
    The handyman looked puzzled, but said nothing.
    Fenimore wanted to check for any identifying marks—a brand from the ranch where the cow had been bred and slaughtered, or a stamp from the wholesale beef house from which it had been bought—or stolen.
    Wholesale beef doesn’t bleed.
    Fenimore waited until Jenks disappeared around the side of the barn before he drew a small plastic bottle of pills from his pocket. Quickly dumping the pills into his pocket, he used the empty bottle to scoop a sample of the cow’s blood from the trough. He held the bottle up to the light. Thin and clear. “No clotting,” he said, and for Horatio’s benefit, explained, “There are only a few kinds of blood that don’t clot. One is ‘stored blood’ and another is the blood of a hemophiliac. Stored blood is human blood which has been tested and treated for transfusion purposes and stored in a refrigerator—usually in a hospital. Hemophiliac blood can only be obtained from someone with hemophilia—a disease in which someone can bleed to death from a small scratch because his—or her—blood won’t clot.”
    â€œCan a cow be a—whatever?” asked Horatio.
    Fenimore pondered that. In Russia, maybe. But only among the most aristocratic breeds. “I’ll have to consult one of my veterinarian friends about that,” he said. But one