Read Online The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call by Robin Hathaway - Free Book Online

bureau through the doorway and carried it out to the sidewalk.
    When Fenimore caught sight of his sidewalk, he was aghast. There was barely room for the skinniest pedestrian to slip between the accumulation of furniture, kitchenware, books, clothing, and knickknacks. Anxiously, he went out to examine his lost wares.
    â€œDon’t go takin’ anything in again,” Horatio warned dangerously.
    Plunging his hands conscientiously in his pockets, Fenimore surveyed the motley collection—the doorstop in the shape of an owl, the Life magazine displaying Elizabeth Taylor as a teenage bride, the pewter soap dish with the hinged top. He was reaching for the soap dish when Mrs. Doyle slapped a red sticker on it—75, it read.
    â€œSeventy-five cents? That belonged to my grandmother!”
    â€œThat’s all it’ll bring,” said his nurse, matter-of-factly.
    â€œBut the memories … ?”
    â€œOf your grandmother washing her hands?”
    â€œWell … er … yes.”
    â€œOh, very well,” she relented, peeling off the sticker. “Now mind, you put that on your bathroom sink and use it every day. If I find it back in the cellar, out it goes.”

    â€œYes, ma’am,” he said meekly, snatching up the soap dish and stuffing it into his pocket.
    While he perused the rest of the cluttered sidewalk, a woman passerby joined him. They browsed in tandem. “Did you ever see such a collection of junk?” she said, irritably. “People have some nerve trying to palm off stuff that belongs in one place, and one place only—”
    Fenimore looked at her.
    â€œThe city dump!” she said, and hurried down the street.
    Turning toward the house, he caught sight of Mrs. Doyle and Horatio conferring on the front steps. He had never seen such camaraderie between his two employees. Usually at odds, today they seemed in perfect accord. For some reason this unnerved him. After casting a surreptitious glance his way, Mrs. Doyle disappeared inside. Horatio, whistling a tuneless air, rearranged some broken-down chairs that didn’t require rearranging. A few minutes later Mrs. Doyle reemerged with a telephone message for Fenimore. Rafferty, his policeman friend, wanted a call. Happy to leave the litter of his past behind, Fenimore went to the phone.
    â€œI’ve got two tickets to the Eagles game this afternoon. How ’bout it?”
    What luck. He could escape this whole depressing business. “Great!”
    â€œSee you at Gate D, at one o’clock.”
    Â 
    It wasn’t until the second half that it occurred to Fenimore to ask Rafferty, “Where did you get these tickets?”

    â€œYour nurse called. Told me to pick them up at the box office. Damned nice of her to include me.”
    Fenimore fidgeted and squirmed through the rest of the game.
    When he turned into Spruce Street, he began to trot. When he saw the empty sidewalk in front of his house, his panic grew. The interior of the house was ominously silent. Even Sal wasn’t there to greet him. With foreboding, he glanced in the waiting room. All the furniture seemed to be intact. After a quick survey of the inner office, he sighed with relief. Nothing missing there. His heart palpitated as he opened the cellar door and flicked on the light. Seven hundred square feet of immaculate concrete stretched before him. He could walk from one end of the cellar to the other unimpeded. But it wasn’t until he ran his hand over the top of the hot water heater that he was really impressed. No dust.
    As he made his way up the cellar stairs, Sal was waiting for him at the top. At least they hadn’t sold her! He scooped her up and carried her over to his favorite armchair. Taped to its leather back was an envelope with his name on it. Letting Sal slide to the cushioned seat, he tore open the envelope. Two crisp, new, twenty-dollar bills fell into his hand, followed by a quarter, a nickel, and two