MARY DAHEIM

Suture

SELF

Contents

ONE

JUDITH GROVER MCMONIGLE Flynn took

one look at the newspaper…

1

TWO

JUDITH’S SURGERY WAS scheduled for

eight-thirty on Monday. Renie’s was…

16

THREE

IT WAS ALMOST a quarter of an hour

before

the…

33

FOUR

NO ONE HAD died by morning. Judith awoke

after

a…

49

FIVE

JUDITH WASN’T SURPRISED by Addison

Kirby’s declaration. It only confirmed…

68

SIX

JOE AND BILL arrived shortly after

three o’clock. Both had…

87

SEVEN

TEN MINUTES LATER, Dr. Garnett surprised

the cousins with a professional…

99

EIGHT

“HOW,” JUDITH DEMANDED, “does a car

that’s in for service…

118

NINE

“WHAT ELSE AM I supposed to do while I’m

lying…

137

TEN

ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, breakfast

was again palatable.Dr. Ming and

Dr.

Alfonso…

150

ELEVEN

BOB JR. HAD scarcely been gone more than

a few seconds…

167

TWELVE

UNFORTUNATELY, BOTH JUDITH and

Renie began to suffer considerable pain…

187

THIRTEEN

THE WHEELCHAIR SAILED into Addison

Kirby’s room and bumped up…

206

FOURTEEN

HEATHER CHINN CAME running. It wasn’t

Renie’s insistent buzzer or…

222

FIFTEEN

“SO,” RENIE SAID after Judith had finished

speaking to Woody…

238

SIXTEEN

JUDITH WILLED HERSELF not to faint

twice in one day,…

251

SEVENTEEN

“I FOUND MR. FLYNN,” Margie Randall

announced with a triumphant expression.

267

EIGHTEEN

“MOM! WHAT’S WRONG?”

282

NINETEEN

RENIE WAS AMAZED by Judith’s theory.

She was even more…

294

TWENTY

JUDITH LET OUT a terrible cry of anguish.

Joe

tried…

308

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PRAISE

OTHER BOOKS BY MARY DAHEIM

COVER

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ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

ONE

JUDITH GROVER MCMONIGLE Flynn took one look at

the newspaper headline, released the brake on her

wheelchair, and rolled into the kitchen.

“I’m not sure it’s safe to go into the hospital,” she

said to her husband, Joe Flynn. “Look at this.”

Joe, who had just come in through the back door,

hung his all-weather jacket on a peg in the hallway

and stared at the big, bold front-page headline.

ACTRESS DIES FOLLOWING ROUTINE SURGERY

John Fremont Succumbs After Minor Foot Operation

“Who’s John Fremont?” Joe asked after kissing

his wife on the cheek. “The explorer? No wonder he

wrecked his feet, going over all those mountains.

Huh. I thought he was already dead.”

“He’s been dead for over a hundred years,” Judith

replied. “It’s a—”

“A shame the local newspaper doesn’t jump on

those stories faster,” Joe interrupted. “What’s

Queen Victoria up to this week?”

Judith made a face at Joe. “It’s a typo,” she said

in a testy voice. “It’s supposed to be Joan Fremont.

See, there it is in the lead. You know who she is—

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we’ve seen her in several local stage productions. She

is—was—a wonderful actress.”

Joe frowned as he read deeper into the story. “Jeez,

don’t these people proofread anymore?”

“That’s not my point,” Judith asserted. “That’s the

second well-known person in three weeks to peg out at

Good Cheer Hospital. I’m getting scared to go in next

Monday for my hip replacement.”

Joe opened the cupboard and got out a bottle of

Scotch. “You mean Somosa, the pitcher? That’s no

mystery. He was probably full of amphetamines.” With

an air of apology, Joe gestured with the bottle. “Sorry,

I hate to drink in front of you, but I spent ten hours sitting on my butt for that damned insurance stakeout.”

“Never mind.” Judith sighed with a martyred air that

would have made her Aunt Deb proud. “I’m used to

sacrifice and self-denial. After a month in this stupid

wheelchair and taking all those pain pills, I suppose I

should be looking forward to surgery and getting back

to a normal life. How’d the stakeout go?”

“It didn’t,” Joe replied, dumping ice cubes into a

glass. “The guy didn’t budge from his sofa except to go

to the can. Then he used a walker. Maybe he’s legit.

The insurance company expected him to play a set of

tennis or jump over high hurdles or do the rumba. I

hate these alleged insurance-fraud assignments.”

“They pay well,” Judith pointed out, giving the

amber liquid in Joe’s glass a longing look.

“Oh, yeah,” Joe agreed, sitting down at the kitchen

table. “We can use the money with the B&B shut down

for five weeks. I’m expensive to keep, and you’re not

delivering.”

Teasing or not, the comment nettled Judith. Just

after Christmas, her right hip had deteriorated to the

SUTURE SELF

3

point that she’d been confined to a wheelchair. With

the help of Joe and their neighbors, Carl and Arlene

Rankers, Judith had managed to keep Hillside Manor

running smoothly through the holidays. But Carl and

Arlene had left the day after New Year’s for a vacation

in Palm Desert. And even though Joe was retired from

the police force, his part-time private investigations

had become almost a full-time job. It had been a difficult decision for Judith, but she had been forced to cancel all reservations for the first ten days of January,

until the Rankerses’ return. Her only consolation was

that the days in question were the slowest time of the

year for the Bed-and-Breakfast industry.

“We’ve lost at least four grand,” Judith said in a morose tone.

Joe gave a slight shake of his head. “Dubious. The

weather around here this winter isn’t exactly enticing

to visitors.”

Judith glanced up at the window over the kitchen

sink. It was raining. It seemed to have been raining for

months. Fifty degrees and raining. No sun breaks, no

snow, just relentless rain and gloomy, glowering skies.

Day after day of gray, gray, and grayer. Even a Pacific

Northwest native like Judith had an occasional hankering for a patch of blue sky.

“People still visit people,” Judith said, unwilling to

let herself be cheered.

Joe gave a solemn shake of his head. “Not in January. Everybody’s broke.”

“Including us,” Judith said. “Because of me. Renie

and Bill are broke, too,” she added, referring to her

cousin and her cousin’s husband. “Renie can’t work

with her bad shoulder. This is the busiest time of year

for her, with all the annual reports. She usually designs

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Mary Daheim

at least a half-dozen, which means big bucks. She’s out

of commission until March.”

“When’s her surgery?” Joe inquired.

“A week after mine,” Judith replied. “We’ll be like

ships passing in the night. Or should I say sinking?”

Judith emitted another heavy sigh as she rolled over to

the sink and took a Percocet. Then she took another

Percocet. It couldn’t hurt. Besides, she ached twice as

much as she had the day before.

As a distraction, Judith read the rest of the story

about Joan Fremont. The actress had been admitted to

Good Cheer Hospital the previous day. Her surgery,

pronounced successful, had been performed that afternoon. But at ten-thirty this morning, Joan had died

suddenly and without warning. She left behind two

grown children and her husband, Addison Kirby, the

city hall reporter for the evening newspaper.

“No wonder her name got misspelled,” Judith remarked. “Joan’s husband works for the paper. The staff

must be shaken by her death.”

“Oh?” Joe raised rust-colored eyebrows above the

sports section. “Kirby, huh? I’ve run into him a few

times at city hall. Nice guy, but strictly business.”

Judith put the newspaper’s front section down on the

table. “They’ll investigate, I assume?”

“Oh, sure,” Joe responded, his gaze back on the

sports page. “They did with Joaquin Somosa, they will

with Joan Fremont. It’s automatic when someone relatively young and in otherwise good health dies in a hospital. The county medical examiner has jurisdiction.”

“That makes sense,” Judith said as she rolled to the

stove. “I made beef-noodle bake. It’s almost done. I’ve

fixed a salad and there are some rolls I’ll heat up. Then

you can take Mother’s portion out to the toolshed.”

SUTURE SELF

5

Joe grimaced. “Can’t I phone it in to her?”

“Joe . . .” Judith stopped. Serving Gertrude’s meals

was a bone of contention since Judith had become

wheelchair-bound. Joe Flynn and Gertrude Grover

didn’t get along. An understatement, Judith thought.

How else to put it? If duels were still legal, they would

have skewered each other by the birdbath a long time

ago.

The phone rang just as Judith slipped the foilwrapped rolls into the oven. Fumbling a bit, she pulled

the cordless receiver out of the gingham pocket on her

wheelchair.

“Coz?” said Renie, who sounded excited. “Guess

what.”

“What? Make it quick, I’ve got my head in the

oven.”

“Coz!” Renie cried. “Nothing’s that bad! Hang in

there, you’re only a few days away from surgery.

You’ll be fine.”

“I mean I’m trying to put dinner together,” Judith

said, sounding cross. Her usual easygoing manner had

begun to fray in recent weeks.

“Oh.” Renie paused. “Good. I mean . . . Never mind.

I called to tell you that Dr. Ming’s office just phoned to

say that they’d had a surgery cancellation on Monday

and I can go in a whole week early. Isn’t that great?

We’ll be in the hospital together.”

Judith brightened. “Really? That’s wonderful.” She

paused. “I think.”

“You think?” Now Renie sounded annoyed. “We

could share a room. We could encourage each other’s

recovery. We could make fun of the hospital staff and

the other patients. We could have some laughs.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Judith said as she closed the

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Mary Daheim

oven door. “It’s just that . . . Have you seen tonight’s

paper?”

“Ours hasn’t come yet,” Renie replied. “You know

we always have a later delivery on this side of Heraldsgate Hill.”

“Well,” Judith began, then caught Joe’s warning

glance. “It’s nothing, really. You can see for yourself

when the paper comes.”

“Coz.” Renie sounded stern. “Tell me now or I’ll

have to hit you with my good arm. You can’t run away

from me, remember?”

Judith sighed. “There’s been another unexpected

death at Good Cheer Hospital. Joan Fremont, the actress.”

“Joan Fremont!” Renie shrieked. “Oh, no! Wait till I

tell Bill. I think he’s always had a crush on her. What

happened?”

Ignoring Joe’s baleful look, Judith picked up the

front section of the paper and read the story to Renie.

“That’s terrible,” Renie responded in a shocked

voice. “She was so talented. And young. Well—

younger than we are. A little bit, anyway. She’d probably had work done, being an actress.”

“That’s two deaths in three weeks,” Judith noted.

“Joaquin Somosa,” Renie murmured. “Younger still.

Elbow surgery. Supposed to be healed by the All-Star

break.”

“Won’t,” Judith said, suddenly feeling light-headed.

“Dead instead.”

“This is scary,” Renie declared. “Do you suppose we

should ask Dr. Ming and Dr. Alfonso to operate on us

in the privacy of our own automobiles?”

Judith started to respond, but just then the back door

banged open. Gertrude Grover stood in the hallway,

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7

leaning on her walker and wearing a very old and

slightly shabby wool coat over her head. Worse yet, Judith saw two of her. Maybe she should have taken only

one Percocet.

“Where’s my supper?” Gertrude demanded, thumping the walker on the floor for emphasis.

Judith spoke into the phone. “Gotta go. Mother’s

here.” She rang off. “I’m heating the rolls,” Judith said

with a feeble smile, trying not to slur her words.

“Mother, you shouldn’t come out in the rain. You’ll

catch cold.”

“And die?” Gertrude’s small eyes darted in the direction of Joe’s back. “Wouldn’t that suit Dumbo

here?”

“Mother,” Judith said with a frown, accidentally ramming the wheelchair into the stove. “Oops! ’Course not.

You know better.” She tried to ignore the puzzled expression on her husband’s face. “Hasn’t Joe taken good

care of you while I’ve been laid out? I mean, laid up.”

“It’s part of his plan,” Gertrude said, scowling at

Joe, who was still turned away from his mother-in-law.

“He’s waiting until you go into the hospital. Then,

when I’m supposed to be lulled into . . . something-orother, he’ll strike!” Gertrude slammed the walker

again. “He knows the ropes, he used to be a cop.

They’ll never catch him, and he’ll make off with all my

candy.”

“Mother . . .” Judith wished she didn’t feel so muddled. She wished she could walk. She wished her

mother wouldn’t insist on wearing a coat that was at

least twenty years old. She wished Gertrude would

shut up. She wished she didn’t have two mothers,

standing side by side.

Joe had finally risen from the chair. “I don’t eat

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Mary Daheim

candy,” he said in his most casual manner. “You got

any jewels stashed out there in the toolshed, Mrs. G.?”

“Ha!” Gertrude exclaimed. “Wouldn’t you like to

know?” It was one of those rare occasions when

Gertrude addressed Joe directly. As a rule, she spoke of

him in the third person.

Clumsily, Judith opened the oven. “Here, your dinner’s ready. Joe can help dish it up for you, Mother.”

“I’m watching his every move,” Gertrude said, narrowing her eyes. “He might slip something into my

food. I should have Sweetums eat it first, but that

ornery cat’s too danged finicky.”

Joe got the salad out of the refrigerator and removed

the beef-noodle bake from the oven. He filled

Gertrude’s plate with a flourish, added a roll, and

started for the back door. “At your service,” he called

over his shoulder. “Let me help you out.”

“Out?” Gertrude snapped. “Out where? Out of this

world?”

She was still hurling invective as the two of them

went outside. It was a conflict of long standing, a personal Thirty Years War between Joe Flynn and

Gertrude Grover. When Joe had first courted Judith,

Gertrude had announced that she didn’t like him. He

was a cop. They made rotten husbands. He was Irish.

They always drank too much. He had no respect for his

elders. He wouldn’t kowtow to Gertrude.

Judith and Joe had gotten engaged anyway. And

then disaster struck. Joe had gotten drunk, not because he was Irish but because he was a cop, and had

come upon two teenagers who had overdosed on

drugs. Putting a couple of fifteen-year-olds in body

bags had sent him off to a bar—and into the arms of

the sultry singer at the piano. Vivian, or Herself, as

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9

Judith usually called her, had shanghaied the oblivious Joe to Las Vegas and a justice of the peace. The

engagement was broken, and so was Judith’s heart.

Judith was still dwelling on the past when Joe returned to the kitchen. “She’s still alive,” he announced,

then looked more closely at his wife. “What’s wrong?

You look sort of sickly.”

“Nozzing,” Judith replied, trying to smile. “I mean,

nothing—except Mudder. Mother. It bothers me when

she’s so mean to you.”

Joe shrugged. “I’m used to it. In fact, I get kind of a

kick out of it. Face it, Jude-girl, at her age she doesn’t

have much pleasure in life. If it amuses her to needle

me, so what?”

Judith rested her head against Joe’s hip. “You’re

such a decent person, Joe. I love you.”

“The feeling is eternally mutual,” he said, hugging

her shoulders. “How many pain pills did you take?”

“Umm . . .” Judith considered fibbing. She was very

good at it. When she could think straight. “Two.”

Joe sighed. “Let’s eat. Food might straighten you

out a bit.”

“Wouldn’t you think,” Judith said halfway through the

meal when she had begun to feel more lucid, “that when

you and I finally got married after your divorce and

Dan’s death, Mother would have been happy for us?”

Joe shook his head. “Never. You’re an only child,

and your father died fairly young. You’re all your

mother has, and she’ll never completely let go. The

same’s true with Renie. Look how your Aunt Deb pulls

Renie around like she’s on a string.”

“True,” Judith allowed. “What I meant was that even

if Mother resented you at first, after I married Dan on

the rebound, and he turned out to be such a . . . flop,

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Mary Daheim

you’d figure that Mother would be glad to see me married to somebody with a real job and a sense of responsibility and a girth considerably less than

fifty-four inches. Dan’s pants looked like the sails on

the Britannia.”

Joe grinned and the gold flecks danced in his green

eyes. “Your mother didn’t want a replacement or an

improvement. She wanted you, back home, under her

wing.”

“She got it,” Judith said with a rueful laugh. “After

Dan died, Mike and I couldn’t go on living in that

rental dump out on Thurlow Street. The rats were so

big they were setting traps for us.”

It was only a slight exaggeration. After losing one

house to the IRS for back taxes, defaulting on another,

and getting evicted twice, Judith, Dan, and Mike had

ended up, as Grandpa Grover would have put it, “in

Queer Street.” Dan had stopped working altogether by

then, and Judith’s two jobs barely paid for the basics.

The Thurlow rental was a wreck, the neighborhood

disreputable. After Dan died, Judith and her only son

moved back into the family home on Heraldsgate Hill.

Her mother had protested at first when Judith came up

with her scheme to turn the big house into a B&B.

Eventually, Gertrude had given in, if only because she

and Judith and Mike had to eat. But when Joe reappeared in Judith’s life during the homicide investigation of a guest, the old lady had balked. If Judith

married Joe, Gertrude announced, she wouldn’t live

under the same roof with him. Thus, the toolshed had

been converted into a small apartment, and Gertrude

took her belongings and her umbrage out to the backyard.

She complained constantly, but refused to budge.

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11

Judith pictured her mother in the old brown mohair

chair, eating her “supper,” watching TV, and cursing

Joe Flynn. Gertrude would never change her mind

about her son-in-law, not even now in her dotage. But

at least some sort of truce was in effect, which made

life a little easier at Hillside Manor.

Shortly after seven, Judith called Renie back to get

the details on her cousin’s surgery. Neither of them

knew exactly what time their operations would be

scheduled and wouldn’t find out until Friday afternoon. Judith hunkered down and tried to be patient. It

wasn’t easy: Even in the wheelchair, she experienced a

considerable amount of pain and, due to the recent

news reports, it was accompanied by an unexpected

apprehension. Still, Judith could do little more than

wait.

The tedium was broken Friday morning when Mike

called from his current posting as a forest ranger up on the

close-in mountain pass.

“Guess what,” he said in his most cheerful voice.

“What?” Judith asked.

“Guess.”

The first thing that came to mind was that Mike had

been promoted. Which, she thought with plunging

spirits, might mean a transfer to anywhere in the fifty

states.

“Don’t keep me in suspense,” Judith said. “I’m an

invalid, remember?”

“Mom . . .” Mike chuckled. “It’s only temporary.

Which is good, because you’re going to have to be up

and running by the time your next grandchild gets here

around the Fourth of July.”

“Oh!” Judith’s smile was huge and satisfying.

“That’s terrific! How is Kristin feeling?”

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Mary Daheim

“Great,” Mike replied. “You know my girl, she’s a

hardy honey.”

“Hardy” wasn’t quite the word Judith would have

chosen. “Robust,” perhaps, or even “brawny.” Kristin

McMonigle was a Viking, or maybe a Valkyrie. Mike’s

wife was big, blonde, and beautiful. She was also constrained, conscientious, and capable. Almost too capable, it seemed to Judith. Kristin could repair a

transmission, build a cabinet, bake a Viennese torte,

shingle a roof, and balance a checkbook to the penny.

Indeed, Judith sometimes found her daughter-in-law

intimidating.

“I’m so thrilled,” Judith enthused. “I can’t wait to

tell Joe. And Granny.”

“That reminds me,” Mike said, “could you call

Grandma Effie, too? I don’t like making out-of-state

calls on the phone in the office. I’d call her from the

cabin tonight, but I’m putting on a slide show for some

zoologists.”

“Of course,” Judith said with only a slight hesitation. “I’ll call right now.”

“Thanks, Mom. Got to run. By the way, good luck

Monday if I don’t talk to you before you go to the hospital.”

Judith clicked the phone off and reached for her address book on the kitchen counter. She ought to know

Effie McMonigle’s number by heart, but she didn’t.

Ever since Dan’s death eleven years earlier, Judith had

called his mother once a month. But somehow the

number wouldn’t stick in her brain. Maybe it was like

Gertrude not speaking directly to Joe; maybe Judith

hoped that if she kept forgetting Effie’s number, her

former mother-in-law would go away, too, and take all

the unhappy memories of Dan with her.

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13

Effie was home. She usually was. A nurse by profession, she resided in a retirement community outside

Phoenix. In the nineteen years that Judith and Dan had

been married, Effie had visited only three times—once

for the wedding, once when Mike was born, and once

for Dan’s funeral. Effie was a sun-worshiper. She

couldn’t stand the Pacific Northwest’s gray skies and

rainy days. She claimed to become depressed. But Judith felt Effie was always depressed—and depressing.

Sunshine didn’t seem to improve her pessimistic

attitude.

“Another baby?” Effie exclaimed when Judith relayed the news. “So soon? Oh, what bad planning!”

“But Mac will be two in June,” Judith put in. “The

children will be close enough in age to be playmates

and companions.”

“They’ll fight,” Effie declared in her mournful

voice. “Especially if it’s another boy.”

“Siblings always fight,” Judith countered. “I guess.”

She had to admit to herself that she really didn’t know.

Judith and Renie had both been only children, and

while they occasionally quarreled in their youth, they

had grown to be as close, if not closer, than sisters.

“When are they coming to see me?” Effie demanded. “Mike and Kristy have only been here twice

since Mac was born.”

“It’s Kristin,” Judith said wearily. “I’m not sure

when they’ll be able to travel. With the new baby on

the way, they’ll probably wait.”

“Oh, sure.” Effie emitted a sour snort. “I haven’t had

a new picture of Mac in ages. I’m not even sure what

he looks like these days.”

“I thought Mike and Kristin sent you a picture of the

whole family at Christmastime.”

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Mary Daheim

“They did?” Effie paused. “Oh, that picture. It

wasn’t very good of any of them. I can’t see the slightest resemblance to my darling Dan in either Mike or

Mac. If they both didn’t have my red hair, I’d have to

wonder.”

As well you might, Judith thought, and was ashamed

of the spite she felt inside. “Mac doesn’t look like me,

either,” she said in an attempt to make amends.

“When are you coming down to see me?” Effie

queried.

“Not for a while,” Judith admitted. Indeed, she was

ashamed of herself for not having paid Effie a visit

since the year after Dan died. “It’s so hard for me to get

away with the B&B, and now I’m facing surgery Monday.”

“For what?” Effie sounded very cross.

“A hip replacement,” Judith said, gritting her teeth.

“I told you about it on the phone a couple of weeks

ago. I wrote it in my Christmas letter. I think I mentioned it in my Thanksgiving card.”

“Oh, that hip replacement,” Effie sniffed. “I thought

you’d already had it. What’s taking you so long?”

“It’s the surgery scheduling,” Judith responded patiently. “They have to book so far ahead. You know

how it is. You used to work in a hospital.”

“Hunh. It was different then. Doctors didn’t try to

squeeze in so many procedures or squeeze so much

money out of their patients,” Effie asserted. “Medical

practice today is a scandal. You’ll be lucky if you get

out alive.”

Judith glanced at the morning paper on the kitchen

table. It contained a brief item about an autopsy being

performed on Joan Fremont. In the sports section,

there was a story about possible trades to replace the

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15

Seafarers’ ace pitcher, Joaquin Somosa. At last Effie

McMonigle had said something that Judith didn’t feel

like contradicting.

Some people weren’t lucky. They didn’t get out of

the hospital alive.

All Judith could hope was that she and Renie

wouldn’t be among the unlucky ones.

TWO

JUDITH’S SURGERY WAS scheduled for eight-thirty on

Monday. Renie’s was set for nine-fifteen. Joe and

Bill delivered their wives to admitting at the same

time. The cousins had worn out the phone lines over

the weekend encouraging each other and trying to

make light of any potential dangers.

Their husbands chimed in. “Hey, Bill,” Joe said,

“we could have hurried this up by driving together

and dumping the old, crippled broads from a speeding car.”

“You already called the girls?” Bill said with a

straight face.

“You bet,” Joe replied. “Chesty and Miss Bottoms. They’re rarin’ to go.”

“Not funny,” Judith muttered.

“Nothing’s funny this early in the morning,”

snarled Renie, who usually didn’t get up until ten

o’clock.

Nor did Good Cheer Hospital’s forbidding exterior live up to its name. Built shortly after the turn

of the last century, the large, dark redbrick edifice

with its looming dome and wrought-iron fences

looked more like a medieval castle than a haven for

healing. Judith half expected to wait for a draw-SUTURE SELF

17

bridge to come down before driving over a moat into

the patient drop-off area.

Renie, who was bundled up in a purple hooded coat,

shuddered as she got out of the Joneses’ Toyota Camry.

“Why couldn’t we go to our HMO’s hospital? This

place looks like a morgue.”

“Don’t say that,” Judith retorted as Joe helped her into

the wheelchair. To make matters worse, it was a damp,

dark morning with the rain coming down in straight,

steady sheets. “You know why we’re here. Our HMO

doesn’t do orthopedic surgeries anymore. All the hospitals are consolidating their services to save money.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Renie said with an ominous glance at

the double doors that automatically opened upon their

approach. “It just looks so gloomy. And bleak.”

“It’s still a Catholic hospital,” Bill Jones pointed out

as he helped Renie through the entrance. “That should

be some consolation.”

“Why?” Renie shot back. “The pope’s not going to

operate on my shoulder.”

Bill wore his familiar beleaguered expression when

dealing with his sometimes unreasonable wife, but

said nothing as they waited for Joe to wheel Judith inside. The hospital’s interior looked almost as old as its

exterior. Over the years, the Sisters of Good Cheer had

put all their money into equipment and staff. As long

as the building was structurally sound and hygienically

safe, the nuns saw no reason to waste funds on cosmetic improvements. Thus, great lengths of pipes were

exposed, door frames were the original solid stained

wood, and though the walls had been repainted many

times, the color remained the same institutional shade

of bilious green that long-dead patients and staff had

endured almost a hundred years before.

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Mary Daheim

There was no one around to meet the Flynns and the

Joneses. A wooden sign with flaking gold lettering and

an arrow pointed to admitting, on their right. They

turned the corner and almost collided with a robot that

was sending off loud beeping signals.

“That’s new,” Judith remarked. “I wonder what it does.”

“My name is Robbie,” the robot said in a mechanical voice. One metal arm reached out as if to snatch

Renie’s big black handbag.

“Watch it, Robbie, or I’ll FedEx you to the scrap

heap,” Renie threatened.

“My name is Robbie,” the robot repeated. The steel

creature kept moving, giving and asking no quarter.

“I hope he’s not one of the surgeons,” Judith said.

“We should ask if he’s covered for malpractice,” Joe

said as they approached the admitting desk.

A nurse in traditional uniform and white cap sat next

to a nun in a modified habit that consisted of a navy

blue suit, white blouse, and navy and white veil and

coif. The Sisters of Good Cheer were relatively conservative in their attitude toward apparel. As long as

they wore habits, the nurses who worked for them

would wear uniforms. “May we help you?” the nurse

inquired with a strained smile.

“Let’s hope so,” Joe replied. “We’re checking our

wives in.” He gestured at Judith and Renie.

“Jones,” said Bill. “Serena. Rotator cuff surgery.”

He pointed to the carefully lettered yellow Post-it note

on Renie’s sweater. Overcautious as ever, Bill had

written, “Serena Jones, right shoulder, allergic to nuts,

peanuts, and morphine, inclined to complain.”

“Flynn,” said Joe. “Judith. Right-hip replacement.”

He cast a worried look at Judith’s side. Maybe, she

thought, he was wishing he’d stuck a note on her, too.

SUTURE SELF

19

Renie nudged Judith. “I guess we checked our

voices at the door.”

The nun looked at a computer screen. “They’re

right,” she said to the nurse. “Jones and Flynn, Drs.

Ming and Alfonso.”

“Whew,” Renie said facetiously. “I’m sure glad

we’re the right people.”

Bill poked her in the ribs. “Don’t say anything. Let

them do their jobs.”

Renie scowled at Bill. “I was only trying to lighten

the—”

Bill poked her again, and Renie shut up.

The nurse handed several forms to Joe and Bill.

“Have your wives fill these out over in the reception

area. We’ll call their names when the doctors are

ready.”

“What are these?” Renie asked, despite the glower

from Bill.

“Medical information,” the nurse responded. “Consent forms. Releases.”

“Release from what?” Renie inquired, resisting

Bill’s efforts to propel her away from the desk.

“Consent to the procedure,” the nurse said, looking

impatient. “Releasing the hospital from responsibility

in case you expire.”

“Expire?” Renie blanched. “As in . . . croak?”

“Let’s go,” Bill muttered, his jaw set.

Joe had already wheeled Judith into the waiting

area. “Did Renie say ‘croak’?” she asked her husband.

“It sounded like ‘croak,’ ” Joe answered in his

breeziest manner. “Of course, it might have been ‘joke’

or ‘Coke’ or ‘cloak.’ ”

Judith looked down at the forms that Joe had put in

her lap. “She said ‘croak.’ If I croak, it’s not their fault.

20

Mary Daheim

I wonder how Joaquin Somosa and Joan Fremont feel

about that? I mean, I wonder how their families feel?”

“Glum,” Joe replied. “Just fill the damned things out

and let’s get on with it.”

“Aren’t you and Bill being a bit callous?” Judith demanded.

“No,” Joe asserted. “Those were flukes. Didn’t the

newspaper hint that Joan Fremont had been doing

some drugs? She was an actress, Somosa was an athlete. I once worked in Vice. I know how that goes. It’s

all show biz, and a lot of those people get involved in

drugs, both legal and otherwise.”

Judith wasn’t reassured, but she stopped arguing.

Renie had also gone silent, laboriously trying to sign the

forms with her crippled right arm. The cousins had just

finished when they were joined by a tall, handsome,

middle-aged man and a wispy blonde woman about the

same age. The man looked vaguely familiar to Judith.

Bill, who had an excellent memory for faces, caught

her curious glance. “Bob Randall,” he said in a low

voice. “Former Sea Auk quarterback.”

“Ramblin’ Randall,” Joe murmured, with an admiring glance for the three-time all-pro. “I’ll be damned.

Maybe I’ll shake his—”

“Judith Flynn?” a plump young nurse called out.

“Here,” Judith responded. “I think.”

“We’re ready for you.” The nurse smiled, then nodded at Joe. “Is this Mr. Flynn? He can come along, if

he likes.”

“He does,” Judith said firmly.

Joe lingered. “Can I catch up with you in a minute?

I’d like to introduce myself to—”

“Joe!” Judith cried as the nurse began wheeling her

away. “I really need you!”

SUTURE SELF

21

Reluctantly, Joe trudged after his wife. Judith arrived at a large room with several curtained partitions.

It looked like a busy day at Good Cheer. At least four

other patients were already being prepared for surgery.

Directly across the way from Judith’s cubicle, an elderly woman was making her confession to an equally

elderly priest. Judith’s spirits plunged.

“I should have had Father Hoyle anoint me or something,” she murmured. “Is it too late?”

“You mean before that old duffer keels over?” Joe

responded with a nod in the priest’s direction. “I don’t

know. He could go at any minute.”

Judith scowled at Joe. “I’m serious. Go ask him to

come here when he’s done with that woman’s confession.”

The nurse began to take Judith’s vital signs. Another

nurse arrived to draw her blood. A third nurse showed

up with a hospital gown, a paper hat, and a pair of

socks with treads on the bottom. The first nurse asked

Judith if she had voided.

“Voided?” Judith echoed in alarm. “Voided what?”

“Have you gone to the bathroom recently?” the

nurse inquired with a gentle smile.

“Oh. Yes, just before I left home.”

Judith tried to relax, but it wasn’t easy with all the

poking and probing. She had just put on the gown, the

hat, and the socks when the anesthesiologist arrived.

“I’m Dr. Bunn,” said the young man, who looked

too young to be on his own without his mother.

“Here’s what we’re going to do . . .”

The curtains had been opened again after Judith

changed. She could see Joe strolling casually up and

down the floor, still waiting for the elderly woman to

finish her confession. Judith wondered if the old girl

22

Mary Daheim

was recounting every sin since childhood. Finally the

priest appeared to be giving absolution. Judith sighed

with relief.

At that moment, Bob Randall entered, supporting

the wispy woman with his famous right arm. His wife,

Judith thought vaguely. The poor woman looked as if

she were about to meet the Grim Reaper. Maybe she

was. Judith said a quick prayer for Mrs. Randall.

Dr. Bunn had finished his explanation, which Judith

had only half heard. The priest was standing up. Well,

Judith noted, at least he was trying to stand up. The

poor man looked very unsteady.

Judith turned to see if Joe had noticed. He was

nowhere in sight. Then, on the other side of the curtain,

she heard her husband’s voice.

“Bob,” said Joe, sounding unusually hearty, “excuse

me, but I want to thank you for all the years of pleasure and excitement you gave us when you quarterbacked the . . .”

The priest was tottering away. Judith heard Bob

Randall’s booming voice in reply: “Flynn, eh? Great

to meet you. After fifteen years out of the league, you

sometimes think nobody remembers . . .”

Dr. Bunn had stepped aside as one of the nurses

began an IV in Judith’s left hand. “Doctor,” Judith said

in a plaintive voice, “could you get my husband from

the next cubicle?”

“Hold on there,” Dr. Bunn said in a soothing voice.

“He’ll be right along. At the moment, he’d be in the

way.”

“But I wanted to . . .” Judith began, then heard Joe

bidding Bob Randall good-bye.

“Good luck with the knee,” Joe said, and suddenly

appeared from the other side of the curtain. “Hey,

SUTURE SELF

23

Jude-girl, Bob Randall’s having knee surgery this

morning. You know how it is with quarterbacks. The

knees always seem to give out. He’s a really great guy.”

Judith felt for Joe’s hand. “I thought his wife was the

one who . . .” Judith felt drowsy. “Joe, can you find

that . . .”

Judith felt nothing.

She awoke nearly seven hours later in the recovery

room, staring at Renie. “Coz,” Judith said thickly.

“Hi.”

“Unh,” Renie replied and blinked twice.

“We’re . . . alive,” Judith said, her voice sounding

very strange.

“So far,” Renie replied, also unlike herself.

Judith’s eyes came into focus. Her gaze traveled to

the end of the bed. Joe was standing there, along with

a nurse Judith didn’t recognize.

“Hi,” Joe said. He sounded different, too, almost

shy. Judith concentrated harder on his face. He looked

pale. She looked in Renie’s direction. Bill was by her

bed, also looking pale. Both Joe and Bill had ruddy

complexions. Could they actually have been worried

about their wives?

“How do you feel, Mrs. Flynn?” the gray-haired

nurse inquired.

“Okay,” Judith replied, despite the fact that she was

too woozy to know. “Hi, Joe.”

With a quick glance at the nurse, Joe came around to

the side of the bed, almost bumping into Bill. “You’re

going to be fine,” he said, taking her hand. “I’ve already seen Dr. Alfonso.”

“Good,” Judith sighed, wishing she could feel relieved, but not feeling much of anything.

24

Mary Daheim

Across the aisle, Dr. Ming was hovering over Renie.

Judith tried to hear what he was saying, but couldn’t. A

moment later, Renie was being rolled out of the recovery

room, with Bill trailing an orderly, a nurse, and Dr. Ming.

“Where’s she gone?” Judith asked in alarm.

“To her room,” Joe replied. “Renie’s surgery was

only three and a half hours. Yours was almost six, plus

it was after nine before they actually started.”

“Ohmigod!” Judith shut her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Does it matter?” Joe smiled. “It’s going on four

o’clock. Here.” He proffered a plastic cup. “Drink some

water.”

Judith had trouble getting her lips around the straw.

“It’s hard,” she moaned.

Dr. Alfonso, looking as exhausted as Judith, approached the bed. Or was it a gurney? Judith couldn’t

tell; didn’t care.

“You’ll be up and dancing soon,” he said with the

hint of a twinkle in his dark eyes.

“Hunh,” said Judith.

“I’ve talked to your husband and given him all the

details,” Dr. Alfonso went on, pushing a swatch of silver hair under the shower-cap-like hat he still wore.

His blue scrubs were spattered with blood; Judith involuntarily shuddered when she realized the stains

probably came from her. “I’m taking a lunch break

now,” the doctor said, “but I’ll be in to see you before

I go off duty.” Dr. Alfonso jabbed at the plastic cup.

“Keep drinking as much as you can. You need plenty

of fluids to keep from becoming dehydrated.”

Dr. Alfonso had no sooner padded away than Judith

began to feel pain. She tried to crane her head to look

at the IV source, but her head wouldn’t move, her neck

wouldn’t swivel.

SUTURE SELF

25

“Joe, get a nurse,” Judith said, wincing slightly. “I

think I’m running out of pain medication.”

“The anesthesia’s probably wearing off,” Joe said.

“Hang on, I’ll find the nurse who was here a few minutes ago.”

The next half hour was taken up with the nurse’s attempts to make Judith more comfortable, with Joe

pressing fluids upon her, and with Judith thinking that

maybe she would be better off dead. At last the pain

began to ease a bit as a result of the increased morphine dosage. Judith felt more aware, but less content.

“We’re going to move you to your room now,” the

nurse said smiling. “Once we get you in bed, you’ll

feel better.”

“No, I won’t,” Judith muttered. “I feel like bird

poop.”

“You can sleep,” the nurse said. “It’ll be quieter

there.”

Judith had been vaguely aware of the comings and

goings in the recovery area. The surgeons must have

been busy that day, since at least a half-dozen patients

had been wheeled in or out while she emerged from

her anesthetic cocoon. The noise hadn’t really bothered her, but she’d be glad for some peace and privacy.

“I saw Bob Randall after his knee surgery,” Joe said

as Judith was being trundled down the hall. “He

seemed in pretty good spirits. But then he always was

a warrior.”

“I . . . didn’t . . . know . . . you . . . were . . . such . . .

a . . . fan,” Judith gasped as every buckle and bump in

the hallway floor seemed to set her teeth on edge.

“Randall played fourteen years for the Auks,” Joe

said, hurrying to keep up. “Those were the years I was

married to Herself. Watching Randall pass for a first

26

Mary Daheim

down on third and eight was a lot more fun than watching Vivian pass out over an empty fifth.”

“Yes.” It was all Judith could manage to say as they

turned a corner on what felt like two wheels. The lingering odor of food and antiseptic seemed to chase

her down the hall like a stale wind.

A sort of shrieking reached Judith’s ears as the gurney slowed. Judith frowned but couldn’t quite manage

to lift her head. “What’s that?” she asked as the noise

grew louder.

The nurse and the orderly didn’t reply but kept moving closer to the source.

“Joe?” Judith asked as a series of obscenities assailed her ears.

The gurney was steered through a doorway. The obscenities grew in volume and ferocity. “Joe?” Judith

repeated.

They had arrived in a two-bed room on the third

floor. The curses emanated from the other side of a

pale blue curtain. Joe didn’t respond. He didn’t have

to. Judith recognized the voice.

“Hi, Renie,” he finally said as Judith was flipped and

flopped onto an ancient hospital bed with a black iron

bedstead. “How’re you doing?”

Renie’s answer was unprintable.

Judith and Renie had requested sharing a room, but

the staff had made no promises. Good Cheer wasn’t a

hotel or a summer camp—it was a hospital.

“May I?” Joe asked in an unusually meek voice as

he gave the blue curtain a twitch.

“Why not?” Renie snapped. “You can set fire to the

whole damned place as far as I’m concerned.”

Judith moved just enough to see Renie, propped up

SUTURE SELF

27

on pillows with her right arm in a blue sling and her

shoulder sporting a bloody dressing.

“Hi, coz,” Renie said in a more normal tone. “How

are you?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but let out a

bloodcurdling scream.

“What’s wrong?” Judith asked in alarm.

“It’s the only way to get attention around here,”

Renie said, then screamed again.

“Stop that!” Judith exclaimed. “It makes my head

throb!”

“I throb everywhere,” Renie shot back. “They

dumped me in here almost an hour ago, and I haven’t

seen anybody since.” She slapped with her left hand at

what appeared to be a buzzer button extending from a

thick rubber cord. “I’ve poked this stupid thing so

often I think I burned the light out over the damned

door. Now I’m getting hoarse from yelling.”

“Where’s Bill?” Joe inquired.

“He left,” Renie replied after taking a deep sip of

water. “He had to run some errands and then have dinner. He’ll be back this evening.”

Judith looked at Joe. “You ought to go, too. It’s been

a long day.”

Joe seemed torn. “Shouldn’t I wait until Dr. Alfonso

comes in?”

Judith gave a faint shake of her head. “You’ve already talked to him. You have to tell Mother I’m okay

and let Mike know I survived. Frankly, you look beat.

I’ll be fine, as long as Screaming Mimi over there shuts

up. I might be able to sleep a bit.”

“Well . . .” Joe’s green-eyed gaze roamed around the

room. “I suppose I should head home.”

“Of course you should,” Judith said, also taking in

her surroundings. The walls were painted a dreary

28

Mary Daheim

beige that hadn’t been freshened in years. A crucifix

hung over each of the beds and the only other furnishings were a pair of visitors’ chairs, a commode, and the

nightstands. A TV was mounted high on the far wall,

flanked by a small statue of Jesus revealing the Sacred

Heart and, on the other side, Mary holding the infant

Jesus. Two old-fashioned sash windows on Renie’s

side of the room looked out over one of the city’s residential areas. The roofs were gray, the houses were

gray, the skies were gray. Even the trees looked gray

on this late-January afternoon.

With a reluctant sigh, Joe leaned down to kiss Judith’s forehead. “Okay, I’ll check in at the B&B to

make sure that Carl and Arlene are getting along all

right. I’ll see you this evening.”

Despite her brave words, Judith kept her dark eyes

on Joe until he was out of the room. Indeed, he was

practically run over by a disheveled young man carrying a balloon bouquet in one hand and an almost lifesized cutout of a football player in the other.

“For Bob Randall,” Judith remarked, daring to gaze

at Renie.

“The ex-quarterback?” Renie snorted. “I swear, the

only time I ever watched him play, he always threw an

interception or got sacked.” She paused, then made a

futile attempt to snap the fingers of her left hand.

“That’s it! Ramblin’ Randall is getting all the attention

while we suffer and starve. I timed myself. I screamed

for eleven minutes nonstop. Nobody came. I think I’ll

set fire to the bed.”

“Coz—” Judith began to plead, but was interrupted

by a tall, handsome nun in an exceptionally well-tailored

modified habit.

“Mrs. Jones? Mrs. Flynn?” the nun said, standing on

SUTURE SELF

29

the threshold. “Which of you has been requesting

help?”

If not embarrassed, Renie at least had the grace to

look slightly abashed. “Yes . . . that would be me.” She

offered the nun a toothy smile. “I’m having quite a bit

of pain.”

You’re being quite a pain, Judith thought, but kept

silent.

The nun glanced at the IV. “I’ll see what I can do,”

she said in her crisp, no-nonsense voice. “By the way,

I’m Sister Jacqueline, the hospital administrator. I

should point out that our staff is extremely busy this

week. The surgery floor is full, and as usual, we’re a

bit shorthanded. The economics of medicine aren’t

what they used to be.” She gave the cousins a tight little smile.

“I understand,” Judith said. “It’s a terrible problem

that nobody seems able to solve.”

“It’s those damned insurance companies,” Renie asserted, lifting her head a few inches from the pillow.

“Let’s not even talk about the greedy jackasses who

run the pharmaceutical industry. What about the patient? I’m lying here in misery and half starved while

a bunch of bumbling morons in Washington, D.C., try

to figure out whether their pants get pulled up over

their fat butts or go down over their empty heads. Or

maybe they aren’t wearing any pants at all. Furthermore, if anybody had an ounce of—”

Sister Jacqueline cleared her throat rather loudly.

“Mrs. Jones. Ranting will do you no good. I suggest

that you exercise the virtue of patience instead.”

“I am the freaking patient!” Renie cried. “And I’m

not a patient patient.”

“I gather not,” Sister Jacqueline said mildly, then

30

Mary Daheim

turned to Judith and spoke almost in a whisper. “If

someone is discharged tomorrow, we might be able to

move you to a different room.”

Judith tried to smile. “It’s fine, Sister. Honestly. I’m

used to her. She’s my cousin.”

The nun drew back as if Judith had poked her.

“Really!” She glanced from Judith to Renie and back

again. “Then patience must be one of your outstanding

virtues.”

Judith looked sheepish. “Well . . . Many things in

life have taught me patience. In fact, my cousin really

doesn’t—”

A tall, thin middle-aged man who looked vaguely

familiar tapped diffidently on the open door. “Sister?”

he said in an uncertain voice.

The nun stepped away from Judith’s bed. “Yes?”

“I’m worried,” the man said, removing his thick

glasses and putting them back on in a nervous manner.

“My brother isn’t getting any rest. There are way too

many visitors and deliveries and I don’t know what all.

I thought since Margie volunteers at the hospital, she’d

keep things under control.”

“I haven’t seen Mrs. Randall since Mr. Randall was

in the recovery room,” Sister Jacqueline replied. “Even

though the post-op news was very good, she seemed

downcast. Perhaps she went home to rest.”

“I hope not.” The man who appeared to be Bob Randall’s brother gave a shake of his head. “There’s supposed to be a big snowstorm moving in. She might get

stuck at the house.” He uttered a heavy sigh. “Poor

Margie. She’s always downcast. I guess it’s just her nature.”

The nun turned back to Judith, but avoided looking

at Renie, who wore a mutinous expression. “Excuse

SUTURE SELF

31

me, I must get things straightened out. Keep drinking

those liquids, both of you. Come along, Mr. Randall.

Jim, is it?” She put a firm hand on Jim Randall’s elbow

and steered him out into the hall. “I agree, too much

excitement isn’t good for . . .”

Her voice faded as they moved down the hall. Renie

picked up a tiny digital clock from her nightstand. “It’s

going on five. I haven’t eaten since last night. When do

they serve around here?”

“I thought you hurt so much,” Judith remarked,

plucking listlessly at the white linen sheet. “Good

Cheer Hospital” had been stitched in blue on the hem,

but the letters had worn away to leave only “Goo . .

h . er Ho . p . . .”

“I do,” Renie said, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t be

hungry.”

Before Judith could respond, Dr. Alfonso reappeared, now dressed in blue jeans, a denim shirt, and a

black leather jacket. “You’re looking a bit brighter,

Mrs. Flynn,” he said, though his own voice was weary.

“Let’s take a peek at that dressing.”

“When do we eat?” Renie asked in a petulant tone.

“After a bit,” the surgeon replied without taking his

eyes off the loose bandage. “We’ll get the nurse to

change that. How’s the pain?”

“Awful,” Renie broke in. “Whatever happened to

Demerol?”

“It’s bearable,” Judith responded bravely. “Though

it hurts quite a bit to make even the slightest move.”

“We’ll take care of that, too,” Dr. Alfonso said with

a tired smile. “Now let’s talk about your rehab—”

“How can a person rehab,” Renie demanded, “when

his or her arm feels like it fell off? In fact, I think it did.

Do you want to check the floor for me?”

32

Mary Daheim

“We’ll have you try to sit up tomorrow,” the doctor

said to Judith. “Maybe later in the day, we’ll see if you

can take a few steps.”

“That sounds next to impossible right now,” Judith

said, though her weak smile tried to convey courage.

“I’ll do my best.”

“I’ll do my worst if somebody doesn’t put something besides corn syrup in this IV,” Renie snarled.

With shoulders slumped, Dr. Alfonso started to turn

away from Judith. “I’ll be by in the morning to—”

His words were cut short by screams and a large

thud from nearby. Judith stiffened in the narrow bed

and Renie’s expression went from grumpy to curious.

Dr. Alfonso picked up his step, but was met by a petite

Asian nurse in a fresh white uniform and cap.

“Come, please, Doctor,” the nurse urged in an anxious voice. “Something’s happened to Mr. Randall.”

“Randall?” Dr. Alfonso echoed, following the nurse

out into the hall. “Dr. Garnett’s patient?”

Judith’s jaw dropped. Surely not another local

celebrity had succumbed at Good Cheer Hospital. She

pricked up her ears, trying to catch the nurse’s fading

reply.

“Not Bob Randall,” she said. “It’s his brother, Jim.

He suddenly collapsed and is unconscious.”

Renie made an airy gesture of dismissal with her left

hand. “Maybe he’s dead. Can anybody around here tell

the difference?”

Judith stared incredulously at her cousin. “That’s

not funny.”

Renie’s face fell as she realized the enormity of

what she had just said. “No,” she agreed, a hand to her

head. “It’s not.”

THREE

IT WAS ALMOST a quarter of an hour before the

cousins learned what had happened to Jim Randall.

A simple faint, it seemed, according to the Asian

nurse, whose name tag identified her as “Chinn,

Heather, R.N.”

“He’s so different from his brother, the football

player,” Heather Chinn said as she adjusted Renie’s

IV. “They look alike, sort of, but they don’t act like

brothers, let alone twins.”

“Twins?” Judith said, comparing the gaunt, pale

Jim Randall with the robust, suntanned Bob. “As in

identical?”

Heather shrugged and smiled. She had matching

dimples in a perfect heart-shaped face. “I don’t

know about that. Their mannerisms are really at opposite ends, too. Mr. Jim is so shy and doesn’t seem

to have much self-esteem. Mr. Bob is full of life and

confidence. He’ll be out of here in no time.”

“What made Mr. Jim pass out?” Judith inquired

as the nurse added more painkiller to her IV.

Heather shrugged again. “Stress, maybe. Worrying about his brother. Though I don’t think Mr. Jim

is very well. He’s had several tests to determine

what’s wrong, but . . .” She finished with the IV and

34

Mary Daheim

grimaced. “I shouldn’t gossip like that. It’s unprofessional, and I’m merely speculating.”

The pain was beginning to ebb. Judith moved in the

bed, her gaze following Heather Chinn as she tried to

make Renie more comfortable.

“You’d have more room,” Heather said in a pleasant,

reasonable voice, “if you’d put some of these . . . items

in the drawers of your nightstand.” Her slim fingers

pointed to the paperback book, two magazines, pack of

gum, roll of breath mints, several spring fashion catalogues, and a small grinning doll with an equally small

suitcase.

“Don’t touch Archie,” Renie warned as Heather

started to move the doll. “He stays with me. My husband got him as a good luck charm. Archie loves hospitals.” Renie grasped Archie’s tiny hand. “Don’t you,

Archie? See how cheerful he is? Archie always looks

cheerful.”

While Judith was accustomed to Renie and Bill’s

proclivity for talking to inanimate objects, including

their car, Heather Chinn wasn’t. The nurse looked

askance.

Judith decided to intervene before Heather recommended committing Renie to the mental health wing.

“I don’t suppose,” Judith said in a manner that only

suggested a question, “you had either Joan Fremont or

Joaquin Somosa as patients.”

“The actress?” Heather responded, looking at Judith

over Renie’s tousled head. “No. But the other one—

was he some kind of ballplayer, too? I was on duty

when he flat-lined.”

Renie jerked around to look at the monitor beside

her bed. “Flat-lined? Is that what you call it? All those

funny squiggly marks are good, then?”

SUTURE SELF

35

“Yes.” Heather smiled, revealing her dimples.

“You’re doing fine, Mrs. Jones. In fact, we’ve noticed

that you’re unusually . . . resilient.”

Loud, Judith figured was what Nurse Heather

meant. And maybe nuts. “Mr. Somosa . . . flat-lined for

no apparent reason?”

“Not at the time,” Heather replied, checking Renie’s

IV. “I believe there was something in the postmortem

that indicated otherwise.”

“Drugs?” Renie put in. “I heard that might have

been the case with Joan Fremont.”

“I really can’t discuss it,” Heather asserted, the dimples now invisible and the brown eyes on the silent TV

set. “Would you like to watch the news? There’s a button on each of your beds.”

“No,” Renie said.

“Yes,” Judith replied. “I never get to see the early

news at home. I’m always working.”

“I almost never watch the news,” Renie said crossly,

“unless it’s sports.” She pulled herself up in the bed

and addressed Heather Chinn. “Are you saying Somosa did drugs? I don’t believe it. For one thing, the

Seafarers have a tough stand on drugs. So does major

league baseball in general. Not only that, but until he

blew out his elbow, Somosa had a 2.4 ERA and averaged ten strikeouts a game. How do you explain that?”

“I can’t,” Heather replied with the ghost of a smile.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t follow sports. I only know about Mr. Randall—Mr.

Bob—because somebody said he’d played professional football.”

“Hunh,” snorted Renie, and fell back against the pillows.

Heather had refilled the cousins’ water carafes, re-36

Mary Daheim

placing them on the old wooden bedside stands that

matched the room’s much-varnished door and window

frames. “Remember to keep drinking fluids. Dinner

will be along shortly,” she added as she exited the

room.

“It better be,” Renie muttered after taking a big sip

of fresh water. “Really, coz, I doubt that Somosa did

drugs. Or Joan Fremont, either. They didn’t call her the

First Lady of the local theater for nothing. She was a

lady, in every way.”

“Good Cheer is undoubtedly dodging a couple of

huge malpractice suits,” Judith said, clicking on the

TV. “Can you imagine? Not only the survivors, but

maybe Le Repertoire Theatre and the Seafarers’ ownership.”

Renie was silent for a moment as KINE-TV’s anchorpersons radiated their own type of good cheer by

rehashing humankind’s latest tragedies. “At least turn

down the sound,” she said crossly. “It’s Mavis LeanBrodie doing the news and she’s never liked me.”

Years ago, Mavis had been involved in a homicide

that had occurred in Judith’s dining room. Since then,

Judith had encountered her a few times, including a recent run-in during a murder investigation at an apartment house on Heraldsgate Hill. Mavis had featured

Judith in a well-intentioned TV interview that had

come off as awkward and inaccurate. Still, Judith held

no grudge.

“Mavis is okay,” Judith allowed, hitting the mute

button as the screen switched to a close-up of the governor in front of the state capitol. “She’s just aggressive. It comes with the job description.”

Dinner was brought in by a solemn young orderly.

Wordlessly, he set up Judith’s tray first. There were

SUTURE SELF

37

two covered dishes, a plastic container, a plastic cup,

packets of salt and pepper, silverware, and a napkin. A

whole-wheat roll wrapped in plastic rested on a plate

with a butter pat.

The orderly moved to Renie’s bed. “What the hell is

this crap?” she yelled, removing the metal cover from

the larger of the two dishes. “It looks like cat spit!”

The orderly, who sported a mustache, a shaved head,

and a gold stud in one ear, didn’t respond. Without

speaking, he left the room.

“I think,” Judith said warily, “it’s mutton.”

Renie’s brown eyes widened in horror. “No Grover

since our grandfather has ever eaten mutton, and he

only did it because he was English. I think I’m going

to be sick.”

“It’s not very good,” Judith allowed. “In fact, it’s

tasteless. I tried salting the gravy, but that doesn’t help

much. There’s a green salad, though.” She searched

around on the tray. “It’s under the other covered dish,

but I don’t see any dressing.”

“Rice,” Renie said, holding her head. “How can you

ruin rice? And why is it sort of beige?”

“Brown rice?” Judith suggested, taking a bite. “No,

maybe not.”

“This isn’t even wholesome,” Renie complained.

“Mutton is fatty. I’m going to call Bill.”

“What for?” Judith asked. “He’s not with the Department of Health.”

“No, but he can swing by Art Huey’s and pick us up

some Chinese. What do you want?”

Judith’s attention, however, had been caught by the

TV screen. Sister Jacqueline was in living color,

speaking in front of Good Cheer Hospital. Judith

turned the sound back on.

38

Mary Daheim

“. . . to clear our reputation,” Sister Jacqueline was

saying. “The general public doesn’t realize that every

time a person goes into surgery under a general anesthetic, they risk death. It’s simply a fact, which is why

hospitals require signed waivers before any procedure.

Sometimes, of course, there are extenuating circumstances.”

Mavis’s male coanchor reappeared, looking solemn.

“Statistically, the number of otherwise healthy patients

who die within a week of a surgical procedure is very

small. Good Cheer Hospital’s most recent deaths have

been local celebrities, thus bringing the long-time institution under scrutiny. It should also be pointed out

that Good Cheer is the only local hospital where orthopedic surgeries are performed. As chief of surgery

Dr. Peter Garnett said earlier, the statistics are bound

to be skewed when each hospital has its own specialties.”

The camera angle expanded to include Mavis.

“Thanks, Paul,” she said with a grim smile. “I guess

I’ll think twice before I get those bone spurs removed.”

Paul dutifully chuckled. Mavis announced they were

cutting to a commercial break.

“Face-lift,” Renie said. “She’s had two already.

Pretty soon her ears are going to be sticking out from

the top of her head.”

“The hospital had to expect some bad publicity,” Judith remarked, ignoring Renie’s comment and muting

the TV again. “I’m surprised there hasn’t been more

about it in the newspapers.”

“So am I,” Renie said, dumping her entire tray in

the wastebasket beside her bed. “I wonder if the

Times has muzzled Addison Kirby. You know, Joan

Fremont’s husband who covers city hall.”

SUTURE SELF

39

“You think so?” Judith remarked, then realized that

Renie had hung up the phone without speaking to Bill.

“Hey, what about your Chinese order?”

Renie let out an exasperated little sigh. “The anesthesia must have affected my brain. I’m told it can, especially your memory. I forgot that Bill never answers

the phone, especially around the dinner hour. Why

don’t you call Joe?”

Judith hesitated. Joe had plenty of responsibilities

on his shoulders now that Judith was completely incapacitated. “I kind of hate to. We don’t live as close to

Art Huey’s as you and Bill do.”

“Okay.” Renie picked up the phone again. “Art Huey’s

Restaurant,” she said. “Yes, you can dial it for me.”

“You’re going to have them deliver our dinner?” Judith asked, taken aback. “Is that allowed?”

“Who knows? Who cares? I’m paying for it. Yes,

this is Mrs. Jones, and I’d like to order the prawn chow

yuk, the wonton soup, the . . .” Renie listed another

half-dozen items, then gave some special instructions:

“Tell the people at the front desk you’re visiting Mrs.

Jones. Put the stuff in a plain cardboard box and throw

one of those plastic geraniums on top. There’s a big tip

in it for you if the food arrives hot.”

If the food arrives at all,” Judith remarked as Renie

hung up. “Do you think whoever brings it can get past

the desk?”

“Yes,” Renie declared, clicking on the old-fashioned

gooseneck lamp next to the bed. “Now dump that crap

off your tray and settle back. I should have ordered a

couple of drinks while I was at it.”

“We can’t drink,” Judith said, taking yet another sip

from her plastic water glass, “except for stuff like this.

We’re on pain medication.”

40

Mary Daheim

“We are?” Renie harrumphed. “You couldn’t prove

it by me.”

The food did indeed arrive, along with Joe, Bill, and

the delivery boy. Renie had already managed to get out

her checkbook, though it was a struggle to write with

her left hand.

“Let me,” Bill sighed, tearing up the check. “This

looks as if you’d written it with your lips.”

“I should try that,” Renie murmured, struggling to

open the cartons. “Here, pass some of this to my roommate.”

Joe and Bill had come to the hospital together. The

guests were settled in, Carl and Arlene had things well

in hand, and Gertrude was spending the evening inside

Hillside Manor playing three-handed pinochle with Judith’s stand-ins.

“They’re so good to her,” Judith said, referring to the

Rankerses. “I try to ignore Arlene’s threats to move. I

couldn’t bear it if they weren’t next door.”

Taking a bite of Judith’s marinated steak, Joe

agreed. “By the way, I’ve accepted a new case.”

“You have?” Judith was surprised. “But you’re already overloaded.”

“I’m okay, I got most of the loose ends tied up before your surgery,” Joe said, sampling a sweet-andsour prawn. “But this is one I don’t feel I can refuse.

There was a call from FOPP waiting for me when I got

home from the hospital this afternoon.”

Judith’s forehead wrinkled. “FOPP? What’s that?”

“Friends of Powerless People, advocates for the

homeless,” Joe replied, eyeing another of Judith’s

prawns. “It seems that a couple of street residents have

been killed in the last month. Not that it’s unusual in itself, but these weren’t the typical murders. You know,

SUTURE SELF

41

a couple of the poor devils get into it, one brains the

other with an empty bottle of Old Horsecollar. Or

smart-ass kids hassle the homeless until it gets out of

hand. According to Steve Moeller at FOPP, the two

most recent killings appeared to be deliberate and were

committed out of sight. Both stabbings, maybe by the

same knife. I’ll get more details tomorrow.”

“What about the police?” Judith inquired. “Aren’t

they trying to find the killers?”

Joe gave a slight shrug. “Sure, but you know how it

is. Even when I was still on the job, if Woody and I got

a case that was more high-profile, then our homeless

homicide got put at the bottom of the pile. That’s why

FOPP has decided to hire a private investigator.”

Judith frowned. She’d always had a sense of security

during the years that Woodrow Wilson Price had been

Joe’s partner. A solid man of African-American descent with a walrus mustache and deceptively soulful

eyes that could wring a confession out of the most

hardened criminals, Woody had never let Joe down.

And vice versa. But that was then and this was now. “It

sounds dangerous. Furthermore, you don’t have

Woody for a partner anymore.”

Joe shook his head and grinned. “I’ll manage. The

worst of it is trying to make sense of what the witnesses will say. If I can find any witnesses.”

“Take someone with you,” Judith urged. “Bill, for

instance. He can tell who’s crazy and who isn’t.”

Joe made a face at Judith. “Bill has plenty to do, too.

He still sees some of his private patients and consults

at the university. Besides, on these investigations, I like

to work solo.”

Judith started to argue, but she was too worn out and

knew she’d lose. At the other bedside, the Joneses were

42

Mary Daheim

arguing, something about the assignments of their

three children while Renie was in the hospital.

“Why,” Renie was demanding, “should Tom wash

the windows in January? He needs time to work on his

Ph.D. thesis.”

“That doesn’t mean the windows aren’t dirty,” Bill

pointed out. “Besides, he’s been in graduate school for

eight years. I don’t see that he’s in any rush.”

“He has deadlines,” Renie countered. “You know

that, you’ve been through it.”

“Not in Babylonian history,” Bill pointed out, his

voice growing more heated. “What’s he going to do

with that degree when he gets it? How many recruiters

are out there looking for an expert on the Mushkenu

social class?”

“He can teach,” Renie retorted.

“He doesn’t want to teach,” Bill asserted. “He wants

to stay in graduate school, live in our house, eat our

food, and wait until we’re carried out feetfirst, just like

his brother and his sister are doing.”

Joe, who had been fidgeting, stood up. “Hey, Bill,

maybe we should head on out. It may snow tonight.”

Bill all but flew out of his visitor’s chair. “Good

idea. Heraldsgate Hill has some pretty mean streets in

bad weather.”

Joe and Bill kissed their wives and fled.

“Do you really think they have girls lined up?” Judith asked.

“No,” Renie answered. “They have basketball

games, though. Pro and college. Besides, we’re boring.”

“Joe ate half my dinner,” Judith said in dismay.

“Bill didn’t try to touch any of mine,” Renie said. “He

knows better.”

SUTURE SELF

43

Judith checked her watch, which was lying on the

bedside stand. “It’s almost eight. I could use some

more painkillers.”

“Me, too,” said Renie. “You buzz. They hate me.”

Judith pushed the button. “I have to admit, they

aren’t exactly killing us with kindness. Excuse the

phrase.”

But Heather Chinn appeared almost immediately.

“Sorry,” she apologized. “It’s been so busy on this

floor tonight. I’m behind in taking vitals.”

“How about victuals?” Renie said, indicating the

empty white boxes on her tray. “Could you get rid of

these for us?”

Heather hadn’t noticed the small cartons. “Oh, dear!

Did you two . . . ? Really, that’s not allowed. Lately,

our patients seem to think they can consume just about

anything they like. That’s not so. You have to keep to a

hospital diet while you’re with us. If we hadn’t been so

caught up with other patients, we’d never have permitted this.”

“Those aren’t ours,” Renie said, feigning shock.

“Our husbands brought their own dinner. We’ll both

speak severely to them about doing it again.”

Frowning, Heather removed the boxes, then began

taking Judith’s pulse and temperature. “What happened with Jim Randall?” Judith inquired after the

paper thermometer had been removed.

“Oh,” Heather said, wrapping the blood pressure

cuff around Judith’s arm, “he went home. I guess he

was upset about his brother.”

“Mr. Bob’s recovering nicely?” Judith asked.

Heather didn’t answer right away. She was listening

to the stethoscope and looking at the gauge attached to

the cuff. “Yes,” she finally said as she made entries on

44

Mary Daheim

Judith’s chart, “he’s doing fine, though I don’t think

he’ll like being on a walker and then a cane for some

time. He strikes me as a very active person.” Heather

moved to Renie’s bed. “Here, Mrs. Jones, let’s see how

you’re getting along.”

“I could have eaten more fried wontons,” Renie said.

“I think they shorted us on the sweet-and-sour

prawns.”

Heather shook her head in a disapproving manner,

then became involved in taking Renie’s vital signs. Judith watched until a wispy figure appeared in the doorway. It was Mrs. Randall, looking morose.

“Nurse Chinn?” she called in a soft, tentative voice.

“I’m leaving now, but I’ll be on duty at nine tomorrow.”

Heather Chinn finished taking Renie’s pulse, then

turned to the newcomer. “That’s fine, Mrs. Randall.

You must be very pleased with your husband’s successful surgery.”

Margie Randall hung her head. “Dr. Van Boeck says

I should be, but you never know. All sorts of things can

happen—pneumonia, a blood clot, an aneurysm. I’ve

seen it before, here in this very hospital, and recently,

too. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

“You need your rest,” Heather said, now working

with the blood pressure cuff on Renie. “You put in

such long days volunteering for us.”

“It’s such a source of comfort for me,” Margie

sighed, though she looked quite desolate. “It’s such a

blessing to be able to offer consolation to patients and

their families. Why, this very morning, while Bob was

in surgery, I counseled a family who had just lost an

elderly father. They’d been practically immobilized

with grief until I began telling them how soon any one

of them could be called to join him. A brief, deadly ill-SUTURE SELF

45

ness. An auto accident. Getting caught in the gunfire of

a drive-by shooting. They suddenly became energized

and all but ran out of the hospital.”

“Lovely,” Heather said absently. “Good night, Mrs.

Randall.”

Margie Randall drifted away. Judith leaned slightly

toward the nurse. “I was wondering, who operated on

Joaquin Somosa and Joan Fremont? Do you recall?”

Heather removed the blood pressure cuff from

Renie’s arm and looked at Judith. “It was Dr. Garnett,

the same surgeon who performed Mr. Randall’s surgery. I remember, because it’s sort of unusual. Surgeons specialize, like Dr. Alfonso for hips and Dr.

Ming for shoulders. But Dr. Garnett is the second in

command at Good Cheer, under Dr. Van Boeck, and he

likes to stay diversified.”

“I see,” said Judith, who wasn’t exactly sure what

Heather meant in terms of medical skill, hospital privilege, or professional hierarchy.

“The good stuff,” Renie put in, using her left elbow

to point to the IV. “Make me feel good. Or at least tolerable.”

Heather finished dispensing medication, a short,

stout woman with a blonde Dutch-boy bob drew their

blood, and, finally, the priest Judith had seen that

morning came by to visit.

“I’m Father McConnaught,” he said in a voice that indicated he wasn’t quite sure. “God bless you, Mrs. Flynn.

An Irish lass, perhaps?”

“No, actually I’m—”

He nodded at Renie. “And Mrs. Jones. Welsh, you’d

be, eh?”

“No, I’m pretty much the same as my—”

“Well, now.” Father McConnaught’s faded blue eyes

46

Mary Daheim

crinkled at the corners. He was almost bald, except for

a few strands of white hair that stood up on his head

like little wisps of smoke. “Let’s say a prayer of

thanksgiving that you both came through, eh?”

Judith and Renie dutifully said the Our Father and

the Hail Mary along with the priest, which was a good

thing because he seemed to forget some of the words

along the way.

“Now,” the priest said, smiling even wider, “how

many will this be, Mrs. Flynn?”

“How many what?” Judith asked, puzzled.

“And you, Mrs. Jones?” he inquired of Renie.

“Since I’ve only got one other arm—” Renie began.

Father McConnaught put up an arthritic hand.

“Never mind now, the Good Lord always provides

extra hands. Will we be seeing you both again next

year with another wee one?”

“I doubt it,” Judith said, finally enlightened and

smiling gently. “Ten’s quite a few, Father.”

The priest looked skeptical. “Twelve, and the archbishop himself will baptize the babe.”

“Will he raise the kid, too?” Renie asked.

Father McConnaught put his hand behind his ear.

“Eh?”

“Never mind,” Judith said kindly. “Thank you for

coming, Father. We’ll keep you in our prayers.”

“And so shall I with you and all the wee ones.” He

made a small, painful bow and departed.

“Deaf and blind,” Renie remarked after Father McConnaught had gone. “When are we going to get some

younger priests around here?”

“We should pray more for vocations,” Judith said.

“Nuns as well as priests. I’ll bet very few members of

the nursing staff are from the Sisters of Good Cheer.”

SUTURE SELF

47

“It’s like the teaching orders,” Renie said, then

stared at Judith. “Say—when you were talking to

Nurse Heather about who operated on Joan Fremont

and Joaquin Somosa, were you sleuthing?”

“What?” Judith feigned disbelief.

“You heard me,” Renie said. “Are you suspicious

about the cause of their deaths?”

“Well . . . you have to wonder.”

You do,” Renie retorted, turning off the light by her

bed. “I don’t. In fact, I’m going to try to get some

sleep.”

“That’s a good idea,” Judith agreed. “Frankly, I’m

exhausted.” She, too, clicked off her light. “I guess I

was just curious.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, it’s got to be a coincidence, right?”

“Right.”

“If they hadn’t been well known, we’d probably

never have heard about their deaths.”

“Shut up.”

Judith obeyed, but couldn’t get comfortable. “I still

hurt like hell. This bed’s too narrow. I’ll never be able

to sleep.”

“Count sheep. Count Chinese food cartons. Count

all those imaginary kids you told Father McConnaught

you had.”

“I’ll try.”

Judith slept, but her dreams were disquieting in the

extreme. Joaquin Somosa appeared on the pitcher’s

mound, where an army of fried wontons marched onto

the field and savagely attacked him with chopsticks.

Joan Fremont, as Lady Macbeth, was wringing her

hands when Birnam Wood, in the form of towering bok

choy leaves, invaded the castle and crushed her to the

48

Mary Daheim

ground. Finally, Judith saw a third form, more shadowy than the others, wearing what looked like a cape

and pacing anxiously as a band of deep-fried prawns

lay in wait with a cauldron of boiling sweet-and-sour

sauce.

Judith woke up with a muffled gasp, but saw only

Renie, clutching Archie the cheerful doll, and snoring

softly.

FOUR

NO ONE HAD died by morning. Judith awoke after a

fitful night, not only of pain and discomfort and

nightmares caused by an overdose of Chinese food,

but of constant disturbances by nurses taking more

vital signs. Not only didn’t Judith feel rested, but

she was very stiff and sore. The weakness she had

suffered as a result of the surgery was still there,

leaving her limp and lifeless.

Breakfast turned out to be more palatable than the

previous meal. The cousins ate oatmeal, toast,

scrambled eggs, and bacon. There was apple juice

and coffee. Even Renie didn’t complain. Much.

“You get to go home in a couple of days,” Judith

said, pushing her tray aside. She’d eaten only half

the food; her appetite seemed to have shrunk. “Dr.

Alfonso said I’d be in here for almost a week.”

Renie was standing up, scratching various parts

of her anatomy with her left hand and trying to adjust the sling on her right arm so that it didn’t tug at

her neck.

“I have the feeling that if we were in any other

hospital,” Renie declared, finally managing to

loosen the sling an inch or so, “I’d be headed home

this morning. Good Cheer has held fairly firm in al-50

Mary Daheim

lowing longer patient stays. Maybe it’s got something

to do with the hospital being run by a religious order.”

“In other words, by people who have good sense?”

Judith said.

“Exactly.” Somewhat unsteadily, Renie went into

the bathroom and closed the door.

Judith felt envious. Her cousin was mobile; it would

be weeks before Judith would be able to get around

with ease. She’d be stuck using a bedpan or the commode. Doctors and nurses bragged of success stories

about eighty-year-olds who danced the fandango six

weeks after surgery. But Judith knew those tales were

the exception to the rule. Besides, she’d never known

how to dance the fandango with two good hips.

Renie emerged from the bathroom, a big grin on her

face. “That must be the original toilet,” she said, moving cautiously toward her bed. “It’s the old-fashioned

chain type. It’s so high off the floor that my feet didn’t

touch. By the way, we’re sharing.”

“We are?” Judith said. “With whom? Robbie the

Robot?”

Renie shook her head. “No, Robbie the Pro Quarterback. There’s a door on the other side. I could hear him

talking on the phone. He was thanking somebody

named Taylor for something or other. No doubt some

special treatment he’s getting that we are not.”

“Bob Randall’s famous,” Judith said. “He’s used to

five-star treatment. We are not famous, thus we are not

entitled to special treatment.”

“Doesn’t infamous count?” Renie retorted. “I’m

working on that one.”

Judith sighed. “So you are. And with great success,

I might add.”

Dr. Alfonso arrived on his rounds shortly before ten

SUTURE SELF

51

o’clock. He was full of encouragement for Judith,

though she remained skeptical. With the help of a willowy redheaded nurse named Appleby, he managed to

get Judith into a sitting position. She confessed she felt

dizzy, almost nauseous, and had to put her head down.

The faded linoleum floor swam before her eyes.

“Perfectly normal,” Dr. Alfonso assured her. “By tomorrow, you’ll hardly feel dizzy at all.”

After the surgeon had gone, Corinne Appleby informed Judith that they’d have her on her feet by late

afternoon. “You’ll be surprised,” the nurse said, a tired

smile on her long, freckled face. Like Heather Chinn,

Nurse Appleby wore a crisply starched white uniform,

spotless white rubber-soled shoes, and a perky cap

with a single black band. “You may feel weak now,”

Corinne went on, “but little by little, you’ll get your

strength back.”

“I hope so,” Judith said, trying to block out Renie’s

latest complaints to an orderly who was attempting to

straighten her bed and apparently had attempted to molest Archie the doll. Maybe it was a good thing that her

cousin would go home first. When Renie was in a

drawn-out bad mood, she could be nerve-racking.

“Did you bring a book?” Judith asked after the orderly had managed to flee.

“Yes, but it sucks scissors,” Renie declared. “I

started it last night, somewhere between the vital signs

and the nurses’ argument over who ate the last package

of M&M’s.”

“Oh.” Judith glanced at the paperback on her bedside stand. “I couldn’t even try to read last night, but

maybe I will now. Unless you want to watch TV.”

“During the day?” Renie was aghast. “There’s nothing on except the Weather Channel.”

52

Mary Daheim

“There’s CNN,” Judith said meekly.

“That’s just news, and it won’t be good,” Renie asserted. “I’d rather read. Maybe if I started this book

from the end and read it backwards, it’d be more interesting.”

“I brought a deck of cards,” Judith said, brightening.

“If you could sit by my bed, we could play cribbage.”

“I haven’t played cribbage in years,” Renie said. “I

don’t know how anymore.”

“I could teach you,” Judith said. “I play with Mother

all the time. She usually beats me.”

Raised voices and a sudden scurrying in the hallway

diverted the cousins’ attention.

“What’s that?” Renie asked, sitting up in bed.

Judith leaned forward as far as she could, which was

only a few inches. “I can’t tell. A couple of people—I

think Nurse Appleby was one of them—just ran by.”

“Code blue!” someone shouted.

“What was that?” Renie asked, clumsily getting out

of bed and trailing her IV stand behind her.

“It sounded like ‘code blue.’ I don’t think that’s a

positive phrase in a hospital.”

Renie padded across the floor in her baggy hospital

gown and brown-treaded bed socks. “I thought they

said ‘cordon bleu.’ I thought it sounded like something

good.”

“I think maybe it means . . . dead,” Judith said, gulping.

“Oh.” Renie sounded dismayed, but kept moving

until she was in the doorway. After a few seconds, she

turned back to Judith. “Whatever it is seems to be happening in Bob Randall’s room next door.”

“No!” Judith’s hands flew to her cheeks. “It can’t

be! Maybe I’m wrong about what the code means.”

SUTURE SELF

53

A large bald-headed man in a white coat came striding down the hall. He saw Renie halfway out of the

door and barked at her to get back. Startled, she took a

single step but remained on watch.

“Dr. Van Boeck,” Renie said over her shoulder to Judith. “I heard somebody say his name.”

“Who else do you see?” Judith asked, wishing she

could join Renie at the door. But just thinking about it

made her feel vaguely light-headed.

“I see the patient from across the hall looking at

me,” Renie said. “He’s a man.” She waved. “Hi, I’m

Serena Jones.”

“Hello,” Judith heard the man reply in a chipper

voice. “I’m Mumford Needles. Call me Mr. Mummy.

Everybody else does.”

“Sure, Mr. Mummy,” Renie said. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Mummy said. “I don’t think it’s

anything good, though.”

Judith had to strain to hear the last part of Mr.

Mummy’s sentence. “Do you see anybody else?” she

asked Renie.

“Umm . . . Here comes Margie Randall. Can you

hear her?”

Judith could, as Margie uttered a series of keening

noises that sounded like mourners at an Irish wake.

“That’s awful,” Judith said, putting her hands over her

ears.

“There must be a bunch of people in the room,”

Renie said, cautiously taking a couple of steps farther

into the hallway.

But suddenly, except for Margie Randall’s shrieks,

the commotion seemed to subside. Renie informed Judith that there were a handful of staffers milling about,

with anxious, curious expressions on their faces.

54

Mary Daheim

“Here comes Sister Jacqueline,” Renie said. “She’s

with some guy who looks like Ronald Colman on a

bad day. What was that movie he made where he was

drunk all the time?”

“Never mind,” Judith responded. “What does the

guy look like? A doctor? Security? A wizard?”

“A doctor, he’s wearing a white coat,” Renie answered as the man quickly passed by. “He looks very

grim. So does Sister Jacqueline.”

For several minutes, nothing seemed to happen, at

least nothing that Renie could tell. Then, quietly and

somberly, several of the people who had been in Bob

Randall’s room came back into the hallway. They

spoke in hushed tones, shaking their heads and placing

hands on each other’s arms, as if to give comfort.

Margie Randall had finally stopped shrieking, though

she was nowhere in sight.

Mr. Mummy gave a sad shake of his head. “I don’t

like the looks of this, do you, Mrs. Jones? Or may I call

you Serena?”

“Mrs. Jones is fine. What did you do to your leg?”

“I broke it in several places,” Mr. Mummy said. “A

nasty fall off a ladder while I was taking down Christmas lights. I had surgery in the community hospital out

where I live, then they transferred me in here today. It’s

a very small town and a very small hospital, with only

one surgeon. Excuse me, I must lie down. Perhaps I’ll

see you again?”

“Probably,” Renie said in mild surprise. Mr.

Mummy returned to his room.

“Is Mr. Mummy going to ask you out?” Judith inquired with a quirky little smile.

“I hope not. He’s almost as old as I am, bald except

for two tufts of hair sticking straight up, glasses, and

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55

about a fifty-inch waist. Cute in a way, but not my

type.” Renie spotted Corinne Appleby. “Nurse?” she

asked, trying to sound humble but not succeeding.

“What’s wrong?”

Corinne’s face was very pale under her freckles.

“There’s been a . . . problem. An emergency. Don’t

worry, everything’s under control.”

“It doesn’t seem like it to me,” Renie shot back.

“Come on, we have a right to know. Whatever it is, it

happened right next door.”

With trembling fingers, Corinne tucked a red curl

under her cap. “Sadly, Mr. Randall expired. Excuse

me, I must get back to the desk.”

If pain and posture had permitted, Judith would have

fallen out of the bed. Instead, she stared at Renie, who

had turned back into the room. “Bob Randall’s dead?”

Renie gave a helpless shrug. “As a dodo, I gather.”

Awkwardly, Judith fell against the pillows. “I should

have known.”

And then she wondered why she’d already guessed.

Renie’s job as sentry wasn’t easy, but she remained

propped up at the door, clutching the pole that held her

IV, and keeping Judith apprised of what was going on

in the next room.

“I can hear Margie sobbing,” Renie reported, “but at

least she’s not yelling her head off.”

“Can you ask somebody what happened to Bob

Randall?” Judith urged, feeling supremely frustrated. The room seemed to be closing in on her; the

windows were shrinking and the walls were shriveling. Judith felt as if she were in a cage instead of a

bed.

Renie glared at Judith. “If I draw any more attention

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to myself, they’ll probably make me go back inside

and close the door.”

Her cousin had a point. Judith tried to relax. She

could hear the distorted sounds of the hospital loudspeaker, summoning certain parties to specific places.

“Okay,” Judith inquired, “who do you think is in Randall’s room besides Margie and Dr. Van Boeck and the

other guy?”

“A couple of nurses, maybe,” Renie said. “What’s

her name? Appleby? Oh, and Sister Jacqueline, but she

just came out and is headed”—Renie paused—“right

past me. She’s going to the nurses’ station.”

The doctor who had reminded Renie of Ronald Colman came back into the hallway. He caught Renie’s

eye and scowled.

“Would you mind stepping back into your own

room, please?” he said in a cold, cultured voice.

“I kind of would,” Renie replied. “What about the

patient’s right to know?”

“Know?” snapped the physician, his fine silvery

mustache quivering with outrage. “What do you need

to know? Please go back inside and close your door.”

“Okay,” Renie said, but didn’t budge. Apparently the

doctor wasn’t used to being disobeyed, since he didn’t

look back, but resumed his quick pace down the corridor.

“Back to the play-by-play,” said Renie. “Coming in

out of the bullpen and onto the mound, otherwise known

as Bob Randall’s room, is Peter Garnett, chief of surgery.” She relayed the information she’d gotten off the

man’s name tag. “His ERA, otherwise known as Good

Cheer’s mortality rate, is way up. No wonder he looks

so bad.”

A moment later, two orderlies bodily carried Margie

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57

Randall out of her husband’s room. She looked as if

she’d fainted. The little group moved off in the opposite direction. Then, before Renie could recount what

had happened, two more orderlies appeared, on the

run.

“More action on the field,” Renie said. “Margie

struck out—as in out cold—and another pair of orderlies have been called in from the dugout.” She’d barely

finished speaking when the orderlies reappeared, pushing what looked like Bob Randall on a gurney. His face

was covered with a sheet, and Renie let out a little

squawk as the entourage all but flew down the hall,

then disappeared into an elevator that must have been

waiting for them.

“Oh, dear.” Renie gulped and crossed herself. “I

think Bob’s just been taken out of the game.”

“What’s the rush?” Judith asked. “Maybe he’s not

really dead.”

But Renie sounded dubious. “He looked pretty dead

to me.” She lingered in the doorway, but events seemed

to have come to a standstill. Several staff members

were still talking in groups of twos and threes, but the

high-pitched excitement of the past few minutes had

dwindled into muffled voices and slumped shoulders.

Robbie the Robot scooted down the hall, blinking and

beeping to announce his passage.

“Call for the nurse, any nurse,” Renie said, finally

returning to her bed. “They’ll come for you. Whoa.”

She collapsed, still clinging to her IV stand. “I’m not

ready for prime time. I feel all wobbly.”

Judith pressed the button. “I could use a dose of

painkiller,” she said. “It’s been a while.”

But it was almost half an hour before Corinne Appleby appeared, her face flushed and her manner still

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Mary Daheim

agitated. “I’m supposed to be off duty at eleven,” she

said with a quick glance at her watch, “but as you

probably know, we have had an emergency. I have to

stay a bit longer. I’ll take your vitals now and then get

some more pain medication.”

The nurse’s fingers fumbled with the thermometer;

she gave herself a good shake. “Sorry. It’s been an upsetting morning.”

“What caused Mr. Randall to die so suddenly?” Judith asked.

Corinne didn’t look at Judith. “I don’t know. He

seemed to be doing quite well.”

“Why did they rush his body down the hall after he

died?” Judith queried. “I mean, he was already beyond

help, wasn’t he?”

Corinne gave a curt nod. “Yes. He must have been

an organ donor. The same procedure was followed

with Mr. Somosa and Ms. Fremont.”

Judith pressed on before Corinne could put the thermometer in her mouth. “Will they perform an autopsy

on Mr. Randall?”

“Yes, it’s required in such cases.” The nurse still

avoided Judith’s gaze as she began the pulse routine.

Renie had managed to get herself back under the

covers. “But how can they do an autopsy if he’s donating his organs? That doesn’t make sense.”

“They can take the corneas,” Corinne replied. “Eyes

aren’t part of a routine autopsy.”

“So they did autopsies on Fremont and Somosa?”

Renie asked, filling in for her cousin, who now had the

thermometer in her mouth.

“Yes.” Corinne kept focused on her watch. “As I said,

they have to when a patient dies unexpectedly. The

county automatically assumes jurisdiction in such cases.”

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59

“What did they find out with the first two?” Renie

inquired.

“I couldn’t say,” Corinne replied, removing the thermometer from Judith’s lips. “There, now let’s take

your blood pressure.”

“Couldn’t?” Judith smiled. “Or can’t?”

“Won’t.” Corinne wound the cuff around Judith’s

arm. “The hospital has made its public statement.”

“ ‘Extenuating circumstances’?” Renie quoted from

what she’d read in the newspaper. “As in, not the hospital’s fault?”

Corinne shrugged, but said nothing. Judith couldn’t

resist goading the nurse. “I saw the news last night on

TV. Good Cheer is being sued, I gathered.” It was only

an assumption, given the brief news bit the cousins had

seen, but it seemed a logical conclusion.

Corinne made no response of any kind, but removed

the cuff, made some entries on a chart, and started

working with Renie.

“Nope,” Renie said, rolling over away from the

nurse as far as she could. “I’m bored with vital signs.

You aren’t any fun, Appleby. Why don’t they let Robbie the Robot do this stuff?”

“Please, Mrs. Jones,” Corinne said severely, “don’t

act childish.”

“But I am childish,” Renie replied. “Often immature

and a downright brat. Come on, lawsuits are a matter

of public record.”

Corinne took a deep breath. “I really don’t know.

There have been some rumors.”

Renie didn’t budge. “There were other rumors, too,

about Fremont and Somosa being drug abusers. Is that

the hospital’s defense?”

Corinne Appleby made an angry gesture, her face so

60

Mary Daheim

flushed that the freckles disappeared. “None of that’s

any of your business. If you won’t let me take your vitals, that’s fine. But I intend to enter your lack of cooperation on the chart.”

“Be my guest,” Renie shot back as the nurse headed

for the door. “I’ll file a complaint. I’ll call you a big drip.”

Corinne was almost out of the room when a deep,

angry voice could be heard from the hallway.

“Don’t tell me who I can talk to and who I can’t!”

the man shouted. “I’m sick of this runaround! Where

the hell is Dr. Garnett?”

Startled, Corinne scooted away and closed the door

behind her.

“Drat!” Judith exclaimed. “She can’t do that! Coz,

could you . . . ?”

“Aargh,” groaned Renie. “I guess.” She struggled to

get out of bed again. “Who do you suppose that is?”

“I don’t know,” Judith replied. “I could only hear,

not see, him.”

Renie opened the door just in time to see the man,

who had a dark beard, accost two young people.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, “but I want to help. Let’s go

somewhere else so we can talk in private.”

Trying to get a better look at the newcomers, Renie

stepped farther out into the hall. From the bed, Judith

could see only Renie’s backside and the IV stand. She

gave a little jump when her cousin stumbled into the

room, propelled by the firm hands of Sister Jacqueline.

“We simply cannot have patients interfering or getting involved with hospital routine this morning, Mrs.

Jones,” the nun said in an emphatic tone. “Please remain in your room, and we’d prefer you to keep your

door shut. Remember, it’s for your own sakes as well.

You need to rest in order to make a quick recovery.”

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61

Perhaps it was all those years in parochial school,

but even Renie could comply with the wishes of a nun.

“I know that bearded man,” she said, back-pedaling in

a clumsy manner. “That’s Addison Kirby, the newspaper reporter. He was married to Joan Fremont.”

Sister Jacqueline merely gave a slight nod. “Please

get back in bed, Mrs. Jones.”

“Who are those two young people?” Renie persisted. “Are they the Kirby kids?”

The nun started to turn away, then paused. “No.

They’re Mr. Randall’s son and daughter. They came to

the hospital to be with their mother.”

“How is Margie Randall doing?” Judith asked with

genuine sympathy.

Sister Jacqueline had reached the doorway. “Not

well, I’m afraid. She’s a very emotional woman. Excuse me, I must go.”

Judith gazed at Renie. “It cannot be a coincidence

for three well-known people to die unexpectedly after

routine surgery in Good Cheer Hospital.”

Renie looked pained. “I never like encouraging you

to track down murderers, but I have to admit, this is

pretty weird.”

“More than weird,” Judith responded, remembering

to take another sip of water. “But what’s the connection? One actress. Two sports stars. One active, one retired. From different sports, too. Who could possibly

want all three of them out of the way?”

Staring out through the windows with their faded

muslin curtains, Judith grew thoughtful. It was another

gray day, with heavy, dark clouds hovering over the

city. Maybe it would snow. But the weather was the

least of Judith’s worries.

“There’s got to be a police investigation that hasn’t

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Mary Daheim

been made public,” Judith said after a long pause.

“Maybe Joe can find out from Woody.”

Lunch arrived, brought by a small Filipino woman

with silver streaks in her short, dark hair. Making each

of the cousins a little bow, she introduced herself as

Maya. Sitting up in bed, Renie bowed back.

“Such a morning!” Maya exclaimed in little more

than a whisper. “Did you hear about Mr. Randall?

What next, I wonder?”

Judith had an impulsive urge to hug the little

woman. At last, there was somebody on the floor who

wasn’t tongue-tied. “It’s terrible,” Judith said, putting

on her most sympathetic face. “It must be so hard for

the people like you who work here, Maya.”

Maya set Judith’s tray in place, then put a hand on

her breast. “It’s terrible,” she said, rolling her dark eyes

and then crossing herself. “All these deaths. Fine people, too, each one very nice.”

“You were on duty when all three of them died?” Judith queried, trying to contain her own excitement.

“Yes.” Maya uttered the word like a victory chant. It

was obvious to Judith that she reveled in high drama.

“Can you imagine? Every time, the same thing, the

same way. They do fine, getting better, then . . .” She

held up her small hands. “Poof! They go to heaven.”

“It must be very sad for you,” Judith said, “to see

these people and their families and then to have them

die so unexpectedly. I suppose all their loved ones

were extremely shocked. Did anybody say what might

have happened?”

Maya waved a hand in a vexed gesture. “They say

too little and too much. The doctors, they don’t understand what happens. Not their fault, they say. Can’t explain. Maybe patient have unknown sickness or take

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63

bad medicine. The families, they cry, they make

threats, they blame doctors, nurses, everybody in hospital. Why, right now, Mr. Kirby, the husband of the actress, he’s here again, making the big fuss.” Maya

shook her head. “What is fame, what is riches, if you

die too soon? So sad, so very sad.”

“Mr. Somosa left a wife, but no children, I believe,”

put in Renie as Maya delivered her tray. “The Kirby

children are grown, and I guess the Randall kids are,

too.”

Maya nodded several times. “Yes. Mrs. Somosa, so

pretty, so young, she had to be put in the hospital herself, she was so filled with grief. Now she has gone

back to her homeland, the Dominican Republic, I believe. Mr. Somosa was buried there, with his ancestors.

The Kirby children I never saw, they live far away, but

they must have come for the funeral, yes? And now

Mr. Randall . . . Oh, my! Mrs. Randall, she will be in

the hospital, too, if she doesn’t stop crying so.”

“Maybe the children can help,” Judith said. “I understand they’re at the hospital now.”

Maya’s dark eyes flashed. “That’s so.” She put a finger to her lips. “Know what? They are with Mr. Kirby.

Why do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Judith said.

“I do,” Maya said with an emphatic nod. “They talk

of a cabal.”

Judith stared. “A cabal? What sort of cabal?”

“A plot to kill these poor souls,” Maya declared with

a swift glance over her shoulder to make sure the door

was firmly shut. “What else?”

Judith made an extra effort to look impressed. “Who

would do such a thing?”

Maya waved her hand again. “The riffraff. The rab-64

Mary Daheim

ble. The kind of people who hate the rich and famous.

Communists, no doubt. It’s what you call a vendetta.”

She clenched a fist and made stabbing motions, as if

she held a dagger.

The door opened suddenly and Heather Chinn appeared, looking suspicious. “Your lunch cart is outside,

Maya,” said the nurse. “Is everything all right in here?”

“Yes, yes,” Maya said, smiling, her compact little figure all but bouncing toward the doorway. “These fine

ladies, they need what you call the pep talk. You know

Maya, she can give the good pep talk.”

Heather stepped aside as Maya made her exit. “I

hope she wasn’t pestering you,” Heather said to the

cousins, a faintly wary expression lingering on her

face. “Maya’s quite a talker.”

“She’s interesting,” Judith said.

“Yes,” Heather agreed, turning to leave, “but don’t

pay much attention to her. She likes to hear herself talk.”

The nurse departed, closing the door behind her.

“Well?” Judith said. “How much of Maya’s spiel do

you believe?”

“None of it,” Renie replied, lifting lids and looking

dismayed. “It seems we have bath sponge for lunch.”

Judith also examined the meal. Everything was a

pale yellow, including the lettuce leaves in the salad.

“It might be some kind of creamed chicken on . . .

something. Toast?” Judith prodded the gelatinous mass

with her fork. “Hunh. Whatever. We also have pears,

more apple juice, and a big, fat, unattractive cookie

with jaundice-yellow frosting. No wonder I don’t have

much appetite.”

“That makes two of us.” Renie sighed. “I was

starved last night, but Art Huey’s food is always terrific. Today, I feel sort of . . . blah.”

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65

“That’s not like you,” Judith remarked. Renie’s appetite was usually boundless. “I suppose it’s natural.

We’ve been through a lot.”

“True,” Renie said as someone knocked on the door

but entered before either cousin could respond.

“Mrs. Flynn and Mrs. Jones?” The man who spoke

was Addison Kirby, who closed the door behind him

and immediately introduced himself. He was hatless,

and wearing a classic trench coat over dark slacks, a

tweed jacket, and a light-brown flannel shirt. “May I?”

“You want to see us?” Judith asked in surprise.

The newspaper reporter gave a curt nod. “It’ll only

take a minute.”

“Okay,” Judith said, puzzled. “Have a seat.”

Addison started to sit down in Judith’s visitor’s

chair, then hesitated. “Are you sure?” he asked, his

penetrating hazel eyes darting from cousin to cousin.

“Positive,” Renie said, draining her apple juice. “I

recognized you out in the hall. Let me say right off,

I’m terribly sorry about your loss. Your wife was a

wonderful actress, and I’ve heard she was a fine person

as well. She always seemed active in helping raise

money for charity.”

Briefly, Addison hung his head. He was going bald,

but there were only a few strands of gray in his wellkept beard. “She was terrific in every way,” he said,

looking up. “On top of it, we managed to raise three

children who are now off and on their own. We have

two grandchildren, charming little twins. Joan was so

fond of them. We’d visit when Le Repertoire

wasn’t . . .” He stopped abruptly and bit his full lower

lip. “Sorry. I’m not here to talk about that.”

“That’s okay,” Judith said with sympathy. “Go

ahead, tell us whatever you want to.”

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Mary Daheim

“No, no,” Addison replied, now very businesslike. “I

have just a couple of questions.” Again, he paused, this

time to clear his throat. “This morning, before Bob

Randall died, did either of you see or hear anything unusual?”

Judith and Renie exchanged quick glances. “No,”

Judith finally said. “I don’t recall anything.”

“You’re sure?” Addison Kirby looked disappointed.

Renie’s expression was uncharacteristically diffident. “I did hear Randall talking on the phone this

morning while I was in there.” She gestured at the

darkly stained wooden door to the bathroom. “He was

talking about somebody named Taylor, or to somebody

named Taylor. I couldn’t catch much of it, though.”

Addison looked puzzled. “The only Taylor I know

was Joan’s eye doctor. But it’s a common name. That’s

all you heard?”

“I’m afraid so,” Judith responded with an apologetic

expression. “Why do you ask?”

Kirby shook his head. “I’m paranoid,” he said. “Obsessed. Nuts.”

“Who isn’t?” Renie offered.

Standing up, Kirby replaced the visitor’s chair and

jammed his hands into the pockets of his trench coat.

“I had an appointment this morning to meet with Dr.

Garnett, the chief of surgery. I’ve got a lot of unanswered questions about Joan’s death. Garnett had been

stalling me, figuring, I suppose, that anything he said

would be on page one of the Times’s next edition. But

he finally gave in, and we’d just gotten started when he

was summoned to this floor. I could tell it was urgent,

so I followed him, and learned that Bob Randall had

died. I didn’t really know Bob, but I’ve seen him

around town over the years. Anyway, it seemed

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67

damned peculiar, with Joan dying so suddenly and

Joaquin Somosa, the same way.”

“It’s incredible,” Judith declared.

“You bet it is,” Addison asserted, the hazel eyes

sparking. “I was already suspicious, that’s why I

wanted to see Garnett. If nothing else, I wanted to clear

Joan’s reputation.”

“In what way?” Judith asked.

Addison had turned to the door, but now he faced the

cousins again. “Because,” he said angrily, “the results

of the autopsy indicated she’d ingested a large quantity

of Rohypnol—one of those date-rape drugs—which

caused her death. That’s bull, Joan never did drugs in

her life. Even if she had, why in the world would she

take that one?” His voice dropped and his eyes sent off

more sparks. “It doesn’t make sense, which is why I

think my wife was murdered.”

FIVE

JUDITH WASN’T SURPRISED by Addison Kirby’s declaration. It only confirmed her suspicions about the

three deaths.

“So you think there may be something fishy

about Somosa and Randall as well?” she asked.

Addison shrugged. “Maybe. I can’t speak for Somosa, because I didn’t know him. But I heard

through my county sources that the autopsy indicated

he’d overdosed on some kind of street drug. Ecstasy,

I think. As for Randall—we don’t know yet, do we?”

Their visitor paced back and forth in front of

Judith’s iron bedstead. He seemed to be arguing

with himself. “I just spoke with Randall’s son,

Bob Jr., and his daughter, Nancy. They caught

snatches of conversation among the staff that indicated suicide.”

“What?” Judith couldn’t believe her ears.

“That’s right,” Addison said, nodding gravely. “I

can’t get to Mrs. Randall—she’s had some kind of

emotional collapse.”

“What about his brother, Jim?” Judith asked.

“Has he been notified?”

“Jim?” Addison blinked several times. “I didn’t

realize Bob Randall had a brother. Is he around?”

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69

“He was here last night,” Renie put in. “He was fussing because Bob had too many visitors and so much hubbub going on in his room.”

“Interesting,” Addison remarked. “I’ll try to get hold

of him.”

“Say,” Renie said, adjusting her sling and leaning

forward in the bed, “why haven’t you gone public with

any of the stuff about your wife and Somosa? I haven’t

seen a word about it in the Times.”

The journalist gave Renie a twisted little smile.

“You don’t understand the politics of publishing,

Mrs. . . . Jones, right? My superiors don’t want me ruffling feathers. Blanche Van Boeck is a powerful figure

in this community.”

Renie slapped at her head with her good hand. “Of

course! I didn’t make the connection with Dr. Jan Van

Boeck. That’s his wife, right? She’s on the city council and just about everywhere on the map in this town.

Oh, my.”

Addison’s smile became wry. “She certainly is. Rumor

has it she may run for mayor. She has powerful friends in

powerful places. Of course, she has enemies, too.”

Renie was suddenly wearing what Judith called

her “boardroom face,” the no-nonsense sharpening

of her features that she presented to corporate clients

in her graphic design business.

“Blanche has made some big waves in the past few

years,” Renie said. “She’s always struck me as putting

Blanche at the head of her agenda, rather than the social and political programs she espouses.”

Addison nodded. “That’s what many people would

say, which is why I have to dance all around her in

print. Which also means I have to dance around Good

Cheer Hospital, because her husband runs the place.”

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“But Good Cheer was on the news last night,” Judith

pointed out. “We missed the first part of the story.

What was that all about?”

“The Seafarers are calling for an investigation into

Somosa’s death,” Addison replied. “Apparently, they

think something’s wrong, too. I intend to meet with

Tubby Turnbull, the team’s general manager, this afternoon.”

Judith was shaking her head. “So I wasn’t wrong,”

she said faintly.

At the door, Addison frowned at Judith. “Wrong

about what?”

“About these deaths being linked,” Judith said.

“Frankly, the deaths of your wife and Somosa struck

me as more than a coincidence right from the start.

Now, with Randall’s passing, the situation seems

downright ominous.”

Addison’s expression was frankly curious. “Why

does it interest you so much, Mrs. Flynn?”

Judith felt the color rise in her cheeks. “Oh . . . You

might say that my hobby is snooping.” She uttered a

lame little laugh.

Addison now looked puzzled. “Snooping?” he said.

“It’d be more accurate,” Renie said, “to say that her

hobby is murder.”

“And to think,” Renie mused after Addison Kirby

had departed, “I wondered how we’d pass the time during our hospital stay.”

“I don’t think the deaths of those poor people were

intended to keep us occupied,” Judith said, feeling

glum and staring up at the mottled plaster ceiling.

The uncommunicative orderly of the previous day

came in to remove the cousins’ luncheon trays. If he

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71

noticed that neither of them had eaten much, he made

no comment, but stoically left the room without a

word.

“Can he talk?” Renie asked, getting up and heading

for the bathroom. “Or does he consider us unworthy?”

“The latter, I suspect,” Judith responded. “Maybe if

you didn’t trash your bed so much, we’d get more respect.

Where did that Falstaff ’s grocery bag come from?”

“Falstaff ’s,” Renie replied, turning around at the

bathroom door. “It’s my back-up food supply. Fruit,

cheese, crackers, Pepsi, popcorn. We’ll share when I

come back to bed. Now I’m hungry.”

“How did you fit that thing into your purse?” Judith

asked.

“Easy,” Renie replied. “I have a huge purse.” She

went inside the bathroom and shut the door.

The outer door opened almost simultaneously as

Heather Chinn entered. “Time to get you on your feet,”

she said in a cheerful voice. “How do you feel, Mrs.

Flynn?”

“Not like I want to get on my feet,” Judith said. “I

thought we’d do this later in the afternoon.”

“It’s almost two,” Heather said. “The more you lie

there, the weaker you’ll become. Here, let me help you

swing around to the edge of the bed.”

It took Judith a few moments to sit up straight. Then,

slowly and unsteadily, she let Heather help her move

her legs. Pain spread out from her hip to envelop her

entire body. “I feel dizzy already,” Judith asserted.

“You’re doing fine,” Heather soothed. “Now lean on

me and try to stand up.”

Judith could both feel and hear the artificial hip

move. She was frightened. “Is that . . . ?” she gulped,

still dizzy.

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Mary Daheim

“That’s fine, keep coming. You’ve got all your weight

on your good leg,” Heather coached. “Now put just a little on the other leg, okay?”

The worn linoleum was rising up toward Judith in

tired, wrinkled waves. She felt as if she were falling

overboard, into a murky yellow sea. Suddenly her

world went dark, except for shooting stars and trailing

comets.

“Coz!” Renie had just come out of the bathroom.

Moving as quickly as she could, she went to Judith,

who had, fortunately, fallen backwards onto the bed.

Heather was looking more annoyed than frightened as

she took Judith by the hands.

“It’s nothing,” the nurse said to Renie. “Maybe she

isn’t quite ready to stand. Still, if she doesn’t try . . .”

“If she doesn’t try, she won’t pass out,” Renie cut in

tersely. “Let me get somebody to help you put her back

to bed.”

Though Heather was stronger than she looked, she

didn’t turn down the offer. The nurse was a short, slim

size four; Judith was a statuesque size fourteen. Another strong body was needed for the task. Renie found

the silent orderly just outside the door, stacking trays

onto the meal cart.

Judith’s eyelids fluttered open as the nurse and the

orderly got her back into bed. “Oh . . . What happened?” she asked, her mouth dry and her eyes unfocused.

“You had a little setback,” Heather said, tucking the

covers around Judith. “We’ll try that again later.” The

nurse began taking vital signs.

Renie was standing by the windows. “Damn,” she

breathed, “I think it may snow. I wish Bill and Joe

would get here soon, while it’s still daylight.”

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73

“Joe said he’d be by around three,” Judith said.

“Bill’s coming with him, I think.” She took a deep

breath before Heather popped the thermometer in her

mouth.

“Right, there’s no point in taking two cars,” Renie

said, looking down at the hospital entrance’s graceful

landscaping and the adjacent parking lot. “Boy, it

looks really cold out there. I can feel the chill through

the windows.”

Judith couldn’t respond with the thermometer in

her mouth. The dizziness had passed, but she felt

weak as a newborn lamb. The idea of trying to stand

up later in the day sounded impossible.

“I need some water,” she said in a thick voice after

Heather had removed the thermometer. “I’m so dry.”

“You mustn’t get dehydrated,” Heather warned,

proffering the plastic glass. “Remember how we’ve

told you to keep taking in fluids.”

“Hey,” Renie said, “I see Addison Kirby heading for

the parking lot. I wonder if he’s off to see Tubby Turnbull at the . . . Look out!” She shuddered as her good

arm reached out toward the window in a pleading motion. “Ohmigod!”

“What?” Judith sputtered, choking on the water.

Horror-stricken, Renie staggered around to stare at

Judith and Heather. “It’s awful,” she gasped, leaning

against the window embrasure for support. “A car just

came from out of nowhere and ran over Addison

Kirby!”

Heather Chinn ran off to get help. Renie stood

rooted by the window. “The car took off,” she said in a

shaky voice. “Poor Addison’s lying there in a heap.”

Judith had rolled over onto her side, though she

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Mary Daheim

couldn’t get a better view of what was happening beyond the window. “Is he . . . ?” she asked in a fearful

voice.

“No, he’s moving,” Renie said. “Sort of.”

“Damn!” Feebly, Judith swung a fist in frustration.

“I feel so helpless!”

“Here comes a guy in a white coat and another guy in

some kind of uniform.” Renie was trying to open the

window with her good hand, but it wouldn’t budge.

“The white coat may be a doctor. Yes, I think it’s what’shis-name—Garnett, the second in command. The guy in

uniform may be security. Here comes somebody else, in

civvies. He looks sort of familiar.” She gave up trying to

open the window and flexed the muscles of her left arm

before rapping loudly on the wavery old glass. “Hey,

he’s looking up. It’s Jim Randall,” Renie said, breathless. “Here come some more people with a gurney.”

“Double damn,” Judith muttered. “I feel like an

idiot. Why couldn’t I at least be in a wheelchair?”

“You will be,” Renie responded. “Huh. They seem to

be paying special attention to Addison’s left leg.

Maybe it’s broken. Poor guy.”

“Where’s the car that ran him over?” Judith asked.

“I don’t know. It hit Addison and kept going, toward

the parking lot.” Renie paused, staring down below.

“Dr. Garnett and one of the others are hovering over

the gurney. Jim Randall is walking away. The security

guy is wandering around, like he’s looking for someone or something.”

“The car, I suppose,” Judith said. “You’ll have to tell

him you saw it. What color and make was it?”

“It was sort of beige,” Renie said, “fairly new, but

from up here on three, I couldn’t guess what make. All

I could see was the roof.”

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75

“Do you remember if there’s an outlet from the

parking lot?” Judith inquired.

“No, of course not,” Renie answered. “We pulled

into the patient admitting area on the opposite side of

the entrance.”

“Oh.” Judith rolled over onto her back. “I forgot.

That anesthesia has muddled my brain.”

“It does that,” Renie allowed. “They’re all going inside now, including the uniform.” She waited a moment, then went back to her bed. “Shall I phone

security and tell them I saw it?”

“Sure,” Judith said. “They’ll need a witness. Insurance,

and all that.”

Renie picked up the phone, dialed zero, and asked to

be connected to security. She was informed that security was out. “He’s it?” she said after leaving her name

and room number.

“Probably not, at least not at night,” Judith replied.

Renie began hauling food out of the Falstaff ’s bag.

“Let’s eat something before the nurses come around

with all their paraphernalia. I don’t want them confiscating my stash.”

“I might nibble on an apple,” Judith said.

“Red Delicious, Golden Delicious, Granny Smith,

Gala?” Renie offered.

“Red Delicious,” Judith said, gazing at the sack with its

Falstaff logo. “How much stuff have you got in there?”

“Plenty,” Renie replied, using her left hand to toss

Judith a shiny red apple. It was a surprisingly accurate

throw, considering that Renie was normally righthanded. “Hey,” she said with a grin, “maybe I could’ve

been a southpaw pitcher. Cheese? There’s Monterey

jack, Havarti, Brie, and a really nice Gouda.” She produced a small knife and held it up.

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Mary Daheim

“The apple’s fine,” Judith said with a slight shake of

her head. “I don’t see how you got all that stuff in your

purse, big as it is.”

“That’s because I took everything else out and put it

in my overnight bag,” Renie said. “Food first; the rest

is a distant second.”

The phone rang. Judith thought it must be security,

calling Renie back. But Renie gave a brief shake of her

head. It wasn’t her phone. Judith wrestled with the receiver, and finally managed to say hello.

“Hi, Mom,” Mike said, sounding vaguely apprehensive. “How are you getting along? Joe told me the surgery went fine.”

“It did,” Judith replied with a big smile on her face.

“I’m getting along just great.”

“That’s a huge relief,” Mike said, and Judith knew he

meant it. Her son was a worrier. “Kristin and Mac and I’d

like to come into town tonight to see you, but it’s snowing like crazy up here at the pass. I think they’re going to

close the highway pretty soon. It’s a regular blizzard.”

In her mind’s eye, Judith could picture the U.S. Forest Service cabin that Mike and Kristin called home. It

was small but cozy, and with a magnificent view of the

surrounding mountains and forest. At least when they

could see through the snow.

“Don’t even think of coming down until I get home,”

Judith said. “I’m not going to be here forever.”

“I know, but I’d still like to pay a visit before the

weekend,” Mike said. “Didn’t they figure you’d be

home about Saturday?”

“They didn’t make any promises,” Judith said.

“How’s Kristin? What’s little Mac up to?”

“They’re fine,” Mike said. “Kristin still has the

queasies sometimes, but basically, she feels strong.”

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77

Like a fifty-foot Douglas fir, Judith thought, picturing her daughter-in-law.

“Mac wants to go back outside to play in the snow,”

Mike went on, “but it’s blowing too hard. Kristin took

him out there a while ago, and the wind knocked him

over. He made a perfect snow angel when he fell,

though. Thanks again for the snowsuit you gave him

for Christmas.” He paused, and Judith could hear Mac

jabbering in the background. “Tomorrow, little fella,

okay? Say,” Mike said into the phone again, “I wasn’t

going to mention this until I saw you, but now that I

think about it, you’re probably pretty bored, huh?”

“Well . . .” Judith glanced at Renie, who was gobbling cheese and pear slices. “Not exactly, but I may be

later.”

“We’re going to put Mac in preschool this fall,”

Mike said, sounding like a typical proud papa.

“There’s a really good one about twenty miles down

the highway. Kristin’s been filling out the forms, and

one thing they’d like to have is a family tree. Then,

when the kid enters on the first day, there’s his picture

on this cutout of a tree, with information about all of

his ancestors. Cute, huh?”

“Cute,” Judith agreed, though her voice had gone

flat. “So you want me to put together a family tree.”

She caught Renie’s gaze; Renie choked on her pear.

“If you could,” Mike said. “Nothing fancy; I gather

the teachers do the artwork and arranging. No real

rush, either, though they’d like to have all this stuff by

the end of the month.”

“The end of the month?” Judith frowned into the

phone. “Why so soon? Mac won’t start school until

fall.”

“The teachers have to make the trees for about sixty

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Mary Daheim

kids,” Mike said reasonably. “Of course, they have to

decide if they’ll accept Mac in the first place. But the

earlier we get all this stuff done, the more likely he’ll

get into Little Einsteins.”

“That’s the name of the school?” Judith gulped.

“Right. They don’t take just any kid,” Mike said,

pride still evident in his voice. “Of course, it’s not

cheap, but we can swing it. Education’s so important

these days. I mean, it’s not like when I was a kid, and

you sent me to Ethel Bump’s place. All we did was

string beads and finger-paint her furniture and roll

around on our rugs.”

“That was day care, Mike,” Judith said over Renie’s

loud coughing fit . You were there so I could work two

jobs while Dan laid on the couch, starting his day with

an entire bottle of blackberry brandy and working his

way up to his first vodka at eleven in the morning.

“You did more than just play at Ethel’s,” Judith continued. “You learned your numbers.”

“Not all of them,” Mike responded. “I always left

out nine.”

“True.” Judith hung her head. “Okay, I’ll see what I

can do.”

“Great, Mom. Got to go. There’s a message coming

in on my fax. Love you.” He hung up.

“Family tree, huh?” Renie said, having conquered

her choking.

Judith grimaced. “I’ve dreaded this for years.”

Renie offered her cousin a sympathetic smile.

“Don’t you think Mike knows that Dan wasn’t his real

father?”

“Define ‘real,’ ” Judith said with a frown.

“I meant natural father,” Renie responded, eating a

piece of Havarti cheese. “Yes, I certainly know that

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79

Dan raised Mike, that in spite of being a lousy husband, he was a pretty good dad. I also know that Mike

has always felt that Dan really was his dad. But a year

or so ago, I got the impression that Mike had figured it

out. Do you remember? We were all having our pictures taken with little Mac, and Mike suddenly looked

from the baby’s red hair to Joe’s, and since Mike himself has red hair and Dan was very dark, I got the impression that Mike finally realized the truth.”

“He’s never said a word,” Judith asserted. “Not to

me, not to Joe. But you’re right, I think he must know,

deep down. How much denial could he possibly have?

I wanted to broach the subject with him then, but I kept

putting it off. We’d already had one big conversation a

couple of years ago, and it became clear to me that the

truth would have altered his memory of Dan.”

“He was younger then,” Renie pointed out. “That

was before he got married, wasn’t it?”

“I can’t remember,” Judith admitted. “I know, I tend

to bury things, hoping they’ll go away. But they don’t.”

The phone rang again, this time on Renie’s line. She

responded in monosyllables, then hung up. “Security.

His name is Torchy Magee. He’ll be up in a few minutes, along with a cop.”

“If Joe had never been a cop,” Judith sighed, “and

never gotten drunk that night in the bar with Herself, I

wouldn’t be in this quandary now.”

“Nonsense,” Renie retorted, cutting another slice of

cheese and popping it in her mouth.

Judith didn’t say anything for a few moments. She

was reliving that terrible time when Joe had suddenly

disappeared just weeks before their wedding. She’d only

heard secondhand that he’d been shanghaied to Vegas

by Vivian, and that, while he was still in a drunken stu-80

Mary Daheim

por, the pair had gotten married in a casino wedding

chapel. It wasn’t until many years later that Judith had

found out he’d tried to call her later that same day.

Gertrude had intercepted the call and never told Judith

about it. Not hearing back, and feeling compelled to

honor his commitment to Vivian, Joe had stayed married

to Vivian for over twenty years. He’d felt sorry for Herself, he explained to Judith after they were finally reunited. She’d had two unhappy marriages already, and

was trying to raise two small boys on her own. Then Vivian had given birth to their own daughter, Caitlin. Joe

felt stuck, and he knew that Judith had married Dan McMonigle on the rebound. It was only after the children

were raised and Herself had grown more passionate

about Jim Beam than Joe Flynn that he had finally decided to make a break. There had been no need for an

annulment. In the eyes of the Catholic Church, Joe’s

marriage to Herself had never been valid. Taking vows

while not in his sane and sober mind was only part of it;

the Church didn’t recognize the union because Vivian

was still the wife of another man.

Meanwhile, Judith had lived a lie, at least as far as

Mike was concerned. Joe didn’t know that she was

pregnant when he ran off with Herself. Judith had

never told him, not until almost a quarter of a century

later. Dan had raised Mike as his own, and perhaps his

often antagonistic attitude toward Judith was a form of

punishment for bearing another man’s child. Whatever

the cause, Judith had suffered a great deal during the

nineteen years that she was married to Dan.

“But he was a good father.” She repeated the phrase

so often that it was like a mantra. She could never

make Dan happy, but she could honor his memory, especially in Mike’s eyes.

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81

“Yes, yes,” Renie said testily. “But Mike’s a grown

man now, he can handle the truth. It’s not fair to Joe. It

never has been, and I’ll bet my last five bucks he resents it, deep down.”

Judith heaved a big sigh. “Yes, I know he does. I

guess I’ll have to bite the bullet.”

“It’s about time,” Renie said, still testy. “Your problem, coz, is that you hate making decisions, you can’t

stand rocking the boat, you’re absolutely terrified of

change. Go ahead, make out that family tree, and fill in

all of Joe’s family. His brothers, his parents, the whole

damned clan.”

“I never knew his mother,” Judith said, as if her

early death might give some excuse for abandoning

the project.

“Do it,” Renie barked. “I’ll help.”

Before Judith could respond, a burly, uniformed

man in his late fifties poked his head in the door. “Mrs.

Jones?” he said in a gravelly voice.

“Here,” said Renie, raising her left hand. “You’re

Torchy Magee?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the security guard responded as another, much younger man in a patrolman’s uniform followed him into the room. “This is Johnny Boxx, that’s

with two xx’s, right, Johnny?”

“Right,” replied the young officer with a tight little

smile.

“He’s fairly new to the force,” Magee said, swaggering a bit as he nodded at Judith and approached

Renie’s bed. “Me, I was a cop for over twenty-five

years before I retired a while back. Arson, vice, larceny, assault—I did it all, and have the scars to show

for it.” He chuckled and gave Johnny Boxx a hearty

slap on the back. “Yessir, see this?” He pointed to a

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Mary Daheim

long, thin scar on his right cheek. “Attacked by a knife

there.” Magee rolled up his left sleeve to reveal another

scar. “Shotgun, just below the elbow. Hurt like hell. I

was wounded three times, here, in the shoulder, and

just above my ear. Got a plate in my head to prove it.”

“My,” Renie said, keeping a straight face, though Judith could tell it was an effort, “you’ve had some bad

luck.”

“Just doing my job,” Magee responded. “That’s not

all, either. I got my nickname, Torchy, when I was in

arson. Look, no eyebrows.”

Sure enough, Magee’s forehead stretched from his

eyes to the bald spot on top of his head. “What happened?” Judith asked.

“Let’s put it this way,” Torchy Magee responded

with a chuckle and a wink, “when you’re investigating

an arson case, you should make sure the fire is out

first.” He chuckled some more, a grating sound, then

turned to Renie. “Okay, little lady, let’s hear all about

what you saw from this third-story window.”

“ ‘Little lady’?” Renie curled her lip.

“Well . . .” Torchy shrugged. “In a manner of speaking.” He rested one foot on Renie’s bed frame. “So

what’d you see?”

“I was standing by the window,” Renie began, eyeing Torchy’s foot with annoyance, “when I saw Mr.

Kirby leave through the front entrance.”

Officer Boxx held up a hand. “How did you know it

was Mr. Kirby?”

“I’d just met him,” Renie replied. “He was wearing

a trench coat, he had a beard, it wasn’t that hard to

identify him three floors up.”

“Sounds right to me,” Torchy said. “Go on, Mrs. J.”

“Mrs. Jones,” Renie said with emphasis. “Anyway,

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83

he’d just started toward the parking lot when a beige

car, a mid-sized sedan, came from out of nowhere and

struck Mr. Kirby down.”

“Heh, heh.” Torchy chuckled. “Now, Mrs. . . . Jones,

a car can’t come out of nowhere. Which direction?”

Renie looked exasperated. “I was watching Mr.

Kirby. You know damned well a car can come from

three directions out there—the parking lot, the main

drive into the hospital, and the ambulance and staff

area off to the right of the main entrance. That is, my

right, from my point of view, through my window.”

Torchy’s expression had grown serious. “Through

this window.”

“Yes.” Renie’s patience appeared to be wearing thin.

“Tell us about the car,” Officer Boxx inquired. “It

was a beige medium-sized sedan. Any idea how old or

what make?”

“Very clean,” Renie answered, “so I thought it was

fairly new. It was shaped like so many cars these days,

especially the Japanese imports. Bill and I have a Toyota,

about the same color as the car I saw. In fact, our car

looks like every other car these days. Sometimes I get

mixed up in a parking lot and try to get into the wrong

one. My husband and I call our Toyota Cammy. Except

Bill says Cammy is a boy. I don’t agree. Cammy’s a girl.”

“Can’t you tell by looking underneath?” Torchy

laughed aloud at his joke.

“I never thought of that,” Renie said with a straight

face and a flashing eye.

“License plate,” Boxx put in. “Did you get any kind

of look?”

“Ah . . .” Renie bit her lip. “I didn’t notice.”

The young policeman frowned. “Do you remember

if it had in-state plates?”

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Her eyes half closed, Renie seemed to be concentrating. “Yes, I think so. I can see it from the rear as it

headed toward the parking lot. I’m a very visual person.”

“Huh?” said Torchy.

“I’m a designer, an artist by trade,” Renie explained.

“I see more than most people do, but sometimes I don’t

realize it until later.”

“But you didn’t see any letters or numbers,” the policeman prompted.

“No.” Renie looked chagrined.

“So this car went where after hitting Mr. Kirby?”

Torchy inquired.

“Toward the parking lot,” Renie replied. “You can’t

see much of the lot because of those evergreen trees

and shrubs. Anyway, I was riveted on Mr. Kirby.”

“How is he?” Judith broke in.

“Kirby?” Torchy turned around. “Broken leg,

bruises and so forth. Kid stuff.” The security guard

touched his head, presumably where he’d been shot.

“He’ll live.”

“That’s more than his wife did,” Renie declared.

“She never got out of this place alive.”

“Now, now,” Torchy said in a soothing tone. “That

was a different matter.”

“How different?” Judith asked.

“Well,” Torchy began, then paused and scratched his

bald spot, “she had an operation. And then . . . well,

maybe she was taking some stuff on the side. You

know.” He winked again.

“Actually,” Renie said, “we don’t know. Mr. Kirby

doesn’t think his wife was taking ‘stuff on the side.’

Have you talked to him, Security Officer Magee?”

Torchy gave a little jump. “Me? Why, sure. That’s

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85

my job. But what do husbands know about what wives

do when they’re not with the old man?” He winked a

third time. “Or the other way around, for that matter.

Besides, she was an actress. You know what those theater people are like.”

Renie held up a hand. “If you wink again, I’ll

have to kill you. Yes, I know something about theater people. But the real question is, what do you

know about the untimely deaths of three well-known

local residents in this very hospital? Isn’t that your

business?”

Johnny Boxx had strolled to the door, maybe, Judith

thought, in an effort to disassociate himself from

Torchy Magee. “If you think of anything else,” Boxx

said to Renie in a courteous voice, “let us know.” It was

clear he meant the police, not security.

“I will,” Renie promised.

Torchy lingered after Officer Boxx went out into the

hall. “Let me know first,” he said to Renie, his jocular

manner evaporating.

“Sure,” Renie said, her brown eyes wide with innocence.

Judith pushed herself up on the pillows. “Drugs,

huh?” she said in a conspiratorial tone. “Fremont and

Somosa both, I heard. And Bob Randall committed

suicide. How horrible.”

Torchy’s close-set gray eyes narrowed. “Where’d

you hear all that?”

Judith shrugged. “Hospital scuttlebutt. You know

how people like to gossip.”

The security man, who had been midway to the

door, stopped at the foot of Judith’s bed. “Don’t pay attention to what you hear. Of course,” he went on,

lightly caressing the iron bedstead rail, “sometimes

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Mary Daheim

truth has a way of getting out.” Once again, Torchy

winked.

“That’s so,” Judith said, smirking a bit and ignoring

Renie, who was making threatening gestures at Torchy

with her cheese knife. “It’s hard to imagine why Bob

Randall would kill himself. It’s even harder to imagine

how he did it.” She gave a little shudder, which wasn’t

entirely feigned.

Torchy frowned. “I’m not sure I know yet. That is, I

couldn’t say if I did, of course. That’d be telling tales

out of school.” Torchy gave the bedstead a quick slap.

“Gotta go. No rest for the wicked.”

The security man left. The cousins stared at each

other.

“What do you think?” Renie inquired.

“I think,” Judith said slowly as her eyelids began to

droop, “that no matter how Bob Randall died, it wasn’t

suicide. I’m willing to bet that it was . . .”

She fell asleep before she could finish the sentence.

SIX

JOE AND BILL arrived shortly after three o’clock.

Both had already heard about Bob Randall’s sudden

death. Joe was wild; Bill was thoughtful.

“I don’t get it,” Joe raged, pacing up and down the

small room. “There’s nowhere you can go in this entire world and not run into a dead body. If I shot myself right now with my trusty thirty-eight, and you

entered a cloistered nunnery tomorrow, the first

thing you’d find is the Mother Superior’s corpse,

carved up like a damned chicken!”

“Joe,” Judith pleaded, “you know I was apprehensive even before . . .”

“Post-op anxiety, depression, fear—it could play

out that way,” Bill was saying quietly to Renie, “but

I doubt it. On the other hand . . .”

“I’ll have you moved,” Joe said, suddenly stopping between the cousins’ beds. “To some rehab

place; I think there’s one connected to our

HMO . . .”

“. . . Bob Randall may have been overcome with

family difficulties,” Bill continued. “Maybe, when

he signed that release before surgery, he envisioned

his own mortality and . . .”

“No, what am I thinking of?” Joe said, catching

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himself. “There’d still be a damned body somewhere.

It’s hopeless, it’s beyond comprehension, it’s . . .”

“. . . given his other problems, Randall felt his life

was unbearable.” Bill turned his palms up in a helpless

gesture.

Judith turned toward Bill. “What did you say? About

Bob Randall’s family problems?”

Bill gave Judith a vaguely apologetic look. “Sorry. I

shouldn’t have mentioned it. You see, I’ve been treating Margie Randall for some time.”

“What?” Both cousins shrieked at Bill.

“Good God almighty!” Joe exclaimed under his

breath and fell into Judith’s visitor’s chair.

“You never mentioned Bob Randall’s wife as a patient,” Renie said in an accusing tone.

“Of course not,” Bill replied calmly. “I don’t disclose my patients’ identities to you unless it’s someone

you’ve never heard of and the name is meaningless. In

fact, I often make up the names.”

“Patient confidentiality,” Renie scoffed. “How come

you didn’t speak to Margie Randall in the waiting

room yesterday morning?”

“Because it would have frightened and embarrassed

her,” Bill said. “Besides, I don’t think she saw me.

Which is understandable. Part of her problem is that

she’s completely locked into herself.”

“So what awful problems—other than Margie—did

Bob Randall have with his family?” Judith asked, trying to ignore Joe’s angry glare.

Bill sighed. “Honestly, I shouldn’t say. But we may

be involved in a homicide here, and eventually, the

media will get hold of all the details. Besides, Margie

canceled her last two appointments and may not still

consider me her psychologist; I can allow that the two

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89

Randall children are deeply troubled. In fact, they’re a

big, fat mess.”

“That’s clinical enough,” Renie said, her annoyance

fading. “How so?”

As was his wont, Bill took his time to answer.

“Really, I can’t betray a patient’s trust. Nancy, the

daughter, and Bob Jr., the son, both have what you

might consider life-threatening problems. Let’s leave it

at that.”

“You’re no fun,” Renie said. “I want a divorce.”

“You can’t have one,” Bill responded. “But I can assure you that life on the home front wasn’t all highlight

reels. Bob might have had good reasons to do himself

in.”

“No such luck,” Joe said glumly with a dirty look at

his wife. “I’ll bet my old classic MG that he got himself killed. I should be so lucky to have my charming

bride run into a plain old suicide.”

Judith felt too tired to carry the fight any further.

“Knock it off, Joe, please.” She gave him her most

winsome look. “Be reasonable. I had to have this surgery, Good Cheer is the only hospital in town that does

it, I’m incapacitated, and it’s not—and never has

been—my fault that I keep running into dead people.

I’m just an ordinary wife, mother, and innkeeper.”

“You’d run into fewer dead people if you were a

coroner,” Joe muttered. “Okay, okay, your usual logic

has made a slight impression. For now. Here,” he said,

reaching down to the shopping bag he’d placed on the

floor. “I got you some books and magazines.”

Bill, meanwhile, had given Renie another Falstaff ’s

grocery bag. A veteran of his wife’s foraging, he

stepped back as wrappers ripped, paper flew, and liquid spilled from an unknown source. Renie removed

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sandwiches, peeled carrots, sliced cantaloupe, potato

chips, two packages of cookies, a box of graham

crackers, and more Pepsi, the beverage she claimed inspired her graphic designs.

“Great,” Renie enthused, opening one of the sandwiches, which was on a small baguette. “Lunch was

inedible.” She leaned toward Judith. “Ham or

chicken?”

“I’m not that hungry,” Judith admitted.

Joe was concerned, so Judith reluctantly related her

experience in trying to stand up. “I’ve got to do it again

this afternoon. I don’t suppose you could stick around

until they make me try it?”

Joe grimaced. “I can’t, Jude-girl. I’m really sorry. I

have to get back on this homeless homicide investigation. I finished the background this morning. Now I’m

going to check out the sites where the bodies were

found. Both of the murders occurred in the same area,

not far from here, under the freeway.”

Judith knew the area that Joe was talking about.

Many homeless people tucked their whole world beneath the city’s major north-south arteries. It wasn’t as

aesthetic as the local parks, but citizens and police

alike were less apt to hassle them. Still, their ragtag little neighborhoods were occasionally sent packing, a

caravan of bundles, bags, and grocery carts. And people. The thought made Judith sad.

But she wasn’t naïve. “Be careful, Joe. I don’t like

this assignment any more than you like me encountering murder.” She paused, a fond expression on her

face. “Joe, we have to talk.” Judith paused and swallowed hard. “About Mike. He wants a family tree made

up for little Mac’s preschool.”

“Oh?” Joe’s face was blank.

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91

Judith nodded. “He called just a while ago. I told

him I’d do it.”

“Preschool?” The word seemed to strike Joe as an

afterthought. “Good God, the kid’s only a baby. He’s

still wetting his pants.”

“They teach them to stop in preschool,” Judith responded with a glance for Renie and Bill, who suddenly, discreetly, seemed to be absorbed in their own

conversation. “Mac’s not going to enter until the fall.

He’ll be two this summer. Anyway, that’s not the point.

Don’t you want Mike to know the truth? The last time

we discussed this seriously, you seemed crushed because I wasn’t ready to tell him.”

Joe sighed and scratched at his thinning red hair. “It

almost seems like it’s too late.”

“What do you mean, too late?” Judith was taken

aback. “Mike’s over thirty, he’s matured, he ought to

know because you and he have never had that fatherson intimacy. You’ve been buddies, period.”

“That’s what I mean,” Joe said, ducking his head.

“He’s a grown man. He doesn’t need a father.”

“Oh, Joe!” Judith put her hands over her mouth

and stared wide-eyed at her husband. “I was still in

my teens when my dad died, and I miss him every

day. Your father lived much longer, until you were—

what?—almost forty. How can you say such a

thing?”

“Because,” Joe said slowly, “I wasn’t there for Mike

when he needed a real father. When Dan died, Mike

was about the same age as you were when your dad

passed away. I missed out on all those years. And I still

marvel at how well Mike turned out. Maybe I owe Dan

something, too.”

Judith bit her lip. “You can’t do this to me. Not after

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all the agony I’ve been through and the guilt and

the—”

Joe cut Judith off with a wave of his hand. “Stop.

This isn’t the time for a family crisis. You need to concentrate on getting well. Let me think it over.” He

stood up. “I don’t know why the hell a preschooler

needs a family tree. He’d be better off if I built him a

tree house.”

“Do it,” Judith said, forcing a small smile. “That’s

what grandpas do. If you weren’t around for Mike,

you’re here for Mac.”

“Right.” Joe’s shoulders slumped. “Got to go. Hey,

Bill—let’s hit the pavement.”

Bill, who had been plucking food particles from

Renie’s sling and other parts of her person, stood up.

“Okay.” He turned back to Renie. “Joe picked me up at

the Toyota place downtown. I left Cammy there to

have new windshield wipers put on, just in case it

snows.” Bill bent down to kiss his wife on the one spot

on her face that wasn’t covered with mayonnaise, butter, or bread crumbs.

The husbands, who seemed to exit at a rather brisk

pace, hadn’t been gone for more than five minutes

when Judith glimpsed a patient being rolled down the

hall.

“Who’s that?” Renie asked, following her cousin’s

gaze.

Judith didn’t answer right away, listening to see if

she could hear anyone speak. “I couldn’t see, but I

wonder if it’s Addison Kirby. I’m almost sure they

took whoever it was into Bob Randall’s private room.”

“How can they?” Renie demanded. “Isn’t that what

you’d call a crime scene?”

“Not as far as the hospital officials are concerned,”

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93

Judith said with a frown. “I don’t get it. Nurse Appleby

told us that the county has jurisdiction in a sudden hospital death. So why haven’t we seen the sheriff and his

men prowling around? The only real cop who showed

up was Johnny Boxx, who looks as if he hasn’t

sprouted a beard yet.”

“A beat cop at that,” Renie remarked. “Not a detective.”

“Exactly. Coz?” Judith leaned in Renie’s direction

and gestured toward the hallway with her thumb.

“Could you?”

Renie finishing cleaning up from her picnic lunch.

“Yeah, yeah, I can. I have to go to the bathroom anyway. I’ll do that first.”

“Good. See if you can hear anything through the

wall,” Judith urged.

Renie was in the bathroom for almost five minutes.

When she emerged, she looked triumphant. “It’s Addison Kirby, all right. I could hear a doctor talking to

him. A very humble doctor, I might add.”

“Which one?” Judith asked.

“I don’t know. Shall I?” Renie moved toward the

door.

“Please.” Judith tried to sit up a little straighter as

Renie peered out into the hall. “Anything?”

“Hold on.” Renie waited for at least a full minute before turning back to Judith. “It’s a damned parade,

coming from the other direction. TV people, with cameras and sound equipment, in apparent pursuit of a

woman in a sable coat.”

“Sable?” Judith was impressed.

“And a gold turban,” Renie noted. “I’m impressed.”

She turned to look at Judith. “It’s Blanche Van Boeck.

I recognize her from her photographs. They’ve stopped

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down by that alcove with the seats for visitors. It looks

as if there’s going to be a press conference.”

“Is Mavis there from KINE-TV?” Judith asked,

once again undergoing a bout of frustration.

“It isn’t KINE, it’s KLIP,” Renie replied. “I don’t

know any of these people, do you?”

“No. Can you hear them?”

Again, Renie didn’t answer right away. Finally, she

stepped back into the room. “They’re too far down the

hall. I don’t dare go any farther because Dr. Garnett

just came out of Addison’s room and he’s standing

about six feet from where I parked myself. He doesn’t

look very happy, I might add.”

“It was Garnett next door, huh?” Anxiously, Judith

pleated the sheet between her fingers. “Let me get this

straight—Van Boeck is chief of staff, Mrs. Van Boeck

is queen of the world. Peter Garnett, chief of surgery,

is second in command to Van Boeck. Thus, Dr. Garnett

has a stake in all this.”

“You might say that,” Renie conceded, glancing

back into the hall.

“Any sign of Sister Jacqueline?” Judith inquired.

“Not that I can see,” Renie replied. “She’s tall, too.

I should be able to spot her.”

“Yoo-hoo,” called Mr. Mummy from across the hall.

“Don’t we have excitement around here today?”

“Yes, Mr. Mummy,” said Renie. “Have you heard

anything about what happened to Mr. Randall?”

Mr. Mummy lowered his voice, and Judith could

barely hear him. “I heard he took poison. Isn’t that

dreadful?”

“Yes,” Renie agreed with a sad shake of her head

and a rise in her own voice. “Taking poison is a bad

way to kill yourself.”

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95

“It may not be true,” Mr. Mummy said. “What do

you think?”

“I think,” Renie said slowly and clearly, “that too

many healthy people die in this hospital.”

“Exactly.” Again Mr. Mummy’s voice dropped,

forcing Judith to lean far over to the side of the bed. “I

don’t believe a word of it. The poison, I mean. Where

would he get it?”

“Where indeed?” Renie said a bit absently as she

tried to keep track of what was going on down the hall.

“Can you move just a little closer?” Judith asked in a

humble tone.

“Well . . . Dr. Garnett is wandering off toward the

media,” Renie said. “I’ll try to sneak up behind him.”

As her cousin disappeared, Judith propped herself

up on the pillows and considered patience as a virtue.

But there wasn’t time to practice it. A moment later,

Renie back-pedaled into the room with Heather Chinn

right behind her.

Please, Mrs. Jones!” the nurse admonished, shaking a slim finger. “How many times do I have to tell

you to stay out of the way?”

“Sorry.” Renie trudged back to bed. “I was curious,

that’s all. You can’t blame me when the guy next door

kills himself, another guy gets run over outside my

window, and Mrs. Van Boeck holds a press conference

just down the hall.”

Heather grimaced. “Yes, it has been an eventful day.

But you won’t make a good recovery unless you rest

more. Now let me take your vitals.”

“This,” said Renie, holding out her left arm, “is not

a restful place. On TV I’ve seen war zones in Bosnia

that were more peaceful. Speaking of TV, what’s the

interview down the hall all about?”

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“I’m not sure,” Heather answered a bit nervously. “I

gather Mrs. Van Boeck has taken it upon herself to speak

out on the hospital’s behalf.”

“In defense of Good Cheer, huh?” Renie said before

the nurse popped the thermometer in her mouth.

“Something like that,” Heather replied.

“Is Blanche Van Boeck on the hospital’s board of directors?” Judith inquired.

“No,” Heather responded. “Since Dr. Van Boeck is

chief of staff, that would be a conflict of interest.”

“How long has Dr. Van Boeck held that position?”

Judith asked.

Heather cocked her head to one side. “Mmm . . .

Nine years? I trained at this hospital, and he was chief

of staff when I started seven years ago.”

Raised voices could be heard in the hall. Heather

turned toward the door, her forehead furrowed in apprehension.

“. . . no right to speak out on this issue,” an angry

male voice shouted. “I’ll take this before the board.”

A woman’s shrill laugh cut through the air like

jagged glass. “Don’t be silly, Peter. As a member of the

city council, I have a right to speak out.”

Judith’s eyes widened as the backs of the sable coat

and gold turban filled the door. Apparently, the confrontation was taking place just a few feet away.

Heather had removed the thermometer from

Renie’s mouth and started for the door. Grabbing the

nurse’s wrist with her good left hand, Renie shot her a

warning look.

“Don’t even think about closing that door,” Renie

ordered.

“Mrs. Jones, you mustn’t use physical force,”

Heather reprimanded.

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97

“Yes, I must,” Renie declared. “Now shut up.”

The nurse gave Renie a helpless look as the wrangling between Blanche Van Boeck and her unseen

male opponent continued.

“. . . that you’re on TV?” Blanche said in her strident

voice. “Don’t be a fool, Peter. You’re not irreplaceable.”

“Garnett?” Judith mouthed at Heather.

The nurse gave a brief, single nod. The sound of a

struggle followed next, then what sounded like something breaking. Renie let go of Heather and hurried as

fast as she could to the door. She was nearly there

when Blanche Van Boeck stumbled backwards into the

cousins’ room, almost colliding with Renie.

“You’ll regret this, Peter,” she shouted as she caught

herself on Judith’s visitor’s chair and her turban fell off

onto the commode. Blanche whirled on Renie. “You

clumsy idiot, you almost killed me!”

“Gee,” Renie said, eyes wide, “I must be a real failure by Good Cheer standards. Usually, you come to

this place, you end up dead.”

“How dare you!” Blanche slammed the door behind

her, narrowly missing Dr. Garnett, who was standing

on the threshold. “See here, you little twerp, you have

no right to cast aspersions on this fine institution.

Nurse, put this creature back to bed.”

Heather placed a tentative hand on Renie’s left arm.

“Mrs. Jones, would you . . . ?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Renie snapped, shaking off

Heather’s hand. “Listen, Mrs. Big Shot, are you trying

to tell me that I can’t criticize a hospital where perfectly healthy people die within twenty-four hours

after surgery? Or some poor guy gets run down before

my very eyes?”

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You saw that?” Blanche was taken aback. “Well,

he’s still alive, isn’t he?” She snatched the turban from

the commode and jammed it back on her platinum hair.

“Addison Kirby may still be alive,” Renie shot back,

“but his wife, Joan, isn’t.”

“That was tragic,” Blanche allowed, regaining her

composure. “Drugs are a terrible curse.” She spun

around toward the door. “As for Mr. Kirby, it’s too bad

his wife died instead of him. Nobody likes snoopy reporters. Or snoopy patients, either.” With a hand on the

doorknob, she threw one last warning glance at Renie

and Judith. “I suggest you two keep your so-called suspicions to yourselves.”

Blanche stormed out of the room as Renie glanced

at Judith. “Was that a threat?” Renie asked.

Judith winced. “Yes. All things considered, maybe

we should take Blanche seriously.”

“I would,” Heather said quietly.

The statement carried more weight than a loaded

gun.

SEVEN

TEN MINUTES LATER, Dr. Garnett surprised the

cousins with a professional visit. “Dr. Ming and Dr.

Alfonso are in surgery this afternoon. They asked

me to look in on you two.”

Peter Garnett wasn’t a true double for Ronald

Colman, but he did have the film actor’s distinguished air, along with silver hair, a neat mustache,

and a debonair manner.

“I think,” Judith said in her pleasantest voice, “we

could get more rest if it wasn’t so noisy around here.

It’s been a very hectic day.”

Dr. Garnett was checking Judith’s dressing.

“Yes . . . that looks just fine. Can you stand up?”

“Not very well,” Judith said.

“Let’s try,” Dr. Garnett said, smiling with encouragement. “Here, sit up and swing around to the edge

of the bed, then take hold of me.”

Painfully, Judith obeyed. The doctor eased her

slowly into a sitting position. “Now just take some

breaths,” he said, still smiling. “Good. Here we go.

Easy does it.”

Awkwardly, agonizingly, and unsteadily, Judith

found herself rising from the bed. At last, with Dr.

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Garnett’s firm grasp to support her, she managed to get

on her feet. Briefly.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, swaying a bit before sitting

down again. “I did it!”

“Of course.” The doctor patted her arm. “You’re

very weak, you’ve lost a great deal of blood. Tomorrow

we’ll see if you can take a few steps.”

“About that noise,” Renie said as Dr. Garnett moved

to her bedside, “what was that last to-do about with

the KLIP-TV people?”

Dr. Garnett’s smile evaporated. “Didn’t I see you out

in the hall earlier?”

“Probably,” Renie said. “I’m the designated observer. What gives with the TV crew?”

The doctor frowned. “Such nonsense. A hospital

ward is no place for the media. It should have been

handled in the lobby. Unfortunately, Mrs. Van Boeck

decided to act coy, so our patients and staff ended up

in the middle of a disruptive situation.”

“Isn’t it strange,” Judith queried, “for Mrs. Van

Boeck to be speaking on the hospital’s behalf?”

“Perhaps,” Dr. Garnett responded as he studied

Renie’s incision. “However, I must admit that she was

instrumental in getting the local hospitals to merge

their specialty fields. Still, since her husband’s in

charge here at Good Cheer, it would have been better

to let him do the interview.”

“Oink, oink. Blanche Van Boeck is a publicity

hog,” Renie declared.

Dr. Garnett didn’t respond to the comment. Instead,

he reaffixed Renie’s bandage and smiled rather grimly.

“You’re coming along, Mrs. Jones. You lost a lot of

blood, too. You shouldn’t be on your feet so much. I

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101

understand you’ll start physical therapy Friday morning, before you’re discharged.”

“Oh?” Renie looked surprised. “I didn’t know when

they planned to release me.”

Gently, Dr. Garnett flexed the fingers on Renie’s

right hand. “That’s what Dr. Ming told me. This is

Tuesday, you’ve only got two more full days to go.”

“What about me?” Judith asked from her place on

the pillows where she’d finally stopped quivering from

exertion.

“You’re another matter, Mrs. Flynn,” Dr. Garnett

said, his smile more genuine. “Saturday at the earliest,

Monday if we think you need some extra time.”

“Oh, dear.” Judith made a face, then tried to smile.

“Of course our house has a lot of stairs, so maybe it’s

just as well.”

The doctor patted Judith’s feet where they poked up

under the covers. “We don’t want to rush things. Besides, it’s starting to snow.”

Both Judith and Renie looked out the window. Big,

fluffy flakes were sifting past in the gathering twilight.

“You girls behave yourselves,” Dr. Garnett said, moving toward the door. “By the way, what did Mrs. Van

Boeck say when she was in your room a while ago?”

Judith grimaced. “She was rather rude.”

“She was a jerk,” Renie put in. “She threatened us.”

“Really?” Dr. Garnett’s expression was ambiguous.

“That’s terrible. Mrs. Van Boeck has no right to intimidate patients. I must speak to Dr. Van Boeck and Sister Jacqueline about her behavior. You’re certain it was

a threat?”

Judith nodded. “She also said that it was too bad that

Joan Fremont died instead of her husband, Addison

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Kirby. Mrs. Van Boeck remarked that nobody liked

snoopy reporters, especially her, I guess.”

“Yes.” Dr. Garnett seemed to be trying not to look

pleased at the cousins’ revelations. “I believe that Mr.

Kirby has been covering city government for many

years. He has been quite critical of Blanche Van Boeck

in some of his articles.”

“Maybe,” Renie said, “that’s where I got a poor impression of her.”

“Perhaps,” Dr. Garnett said in a noncommittal tone.

“Is she dangerous?” Judith asked, feeling rather

foolish for asking such a melodramatic question.

But Dr. Garnett seemed to take Judith seriously.

“Let’s put it this way—Blanche Van Boeck is a very

determined, ambitious woman. She has little patience

with anyone who stands in her way.”

The doctor’s assessment didn’t bring any comfort to

the cousins.

Renie was on the phone with her mother. Somehow

Aunt Deb, perhaps threatened by her grandchildren to

have the telephone surgically removed from her ear,

hadn’t yet called her only daughter.

“Yes, Mom,” Renie was saying after the first ten

minutes, “I promise not to let the doctors take advantage of me when I’m in this helpless condition . . . No,

I don’t have the window open . . . Yes, I realize it’s

snowing . . . Of course it’s warm in here . . . No, I’m

not going to wear three pairs of bed socks. One’s

enough . . . Really? I’d no idea Mrs. Parker’s brotherin-law got frostbite . . . After he was admitted to Norway General? That is unusual . . .”

Judith tried to turn a deaf ear, but the conversation

painfully reminded her of not having talked to

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103

Gertrude since she was admitted. Not that her

mother would mind; she hated the telephone as

much as her sister-in-law adored it. Still, Judith felt

guilty for not having called. In her heart of hearts,

she missed the old girl, and assumed that the feeling

was mutual.

She was about to dial the number in the toolshed

when the phone rang under her hand. To her surprise,

the caller was Effie McMonigle.

“I don’t much like paying these daytime long distance rates,” Judith’s mother-in-law declared in a

cranky voice, “but I have to go out tonight to the Elks

Club with Myron.”

Myron was Effie’s long-time companion, a weatherbeaten old wrangler with a wooden leg. His tall tales of

life in the saddle smacked of romance to Effie, but Judith had always wondered if the closest he’d ever gotten to a horse was taking his grandkids for a ride on the

merry-go-round at the county fair.

“It’s very sweet of you to call,” Judith said. “How’s

Myron doing?”

“As best he can,” Effie replied. “Which isn’t all that

good. Say, I got to thinking, how come you never had

an autopsy performed on Dan? He was pretty darned

young to pop off like that. I’ve always wondered.”

“You have?” Judith made a face at Renie, but her

cousin was absorbed in trying to explain to Aunt Deb

why it wouldn’t be a good idea for her to visit at the

hospital. “Well, you know,” Judith said in a strained

voice, “Dan was quite a bit overweight and he hadn’t

been well for a long time.”

“He looked fine to me the last I saw of him about six

months before he died,” Effie asserted. “ ’Course he

couldn’t work, he was too delicate.”

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Delicate. Judith held her head. “Actually, Dan

was—”

“So how come?” Effie barked.

“How come what?” Judith responded with a little

jump.

“No autopsy.” There was an ominous pause. “I used

to be a nurse, remember? Autopsies are routine in such

cases.”

The truth was that Judith had been asked if she

would like to have an autopsy performed on Dan. She

had refused. What was the point? Dan was over four

hundred pounds and lived on a diet of Ding-Dongs and

grape juice laced with vodka, so it hadn’t surprised her

in the least when he had expired.

“I wanted to spare him that,” Judith said, though her

thoughts were more complicated: I wanted to spare me

that. I just wanted it all to be over. Nineteen years is a

long time to be miserable.

“Hunh,” Effie snorted. “It’s been on my mind.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Judith said, trying not to sound annoyed. “It’s been a long time. What good would it have

done?”

“I was thinking about Mac and the one on the way,”

Effie said, suddenly subdued. “What if Dan had some

hereditary disease? Shouldn’t Mike and Krissy know

about it?”

“Kristin,” Judith corrected. Effie had a point, except

in Dan’s case, it didn’t apply to Mike or little Mac.

“It’s too late now.”

“Too bad,” Effie said. “These pediatricians today

can nip things in the bud.”

“I don’t think Dan had anything he could pass on,” Judith said, sounding weary. “Really, it’s pointless to fret

over something that happened more than ten years ago.”

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105

“Easy for you to say,” Effie shot back. “All I have to

do is sit here and think.”

“I thought you were going to the Elks Club with

Myron,” Judith said as Renie finally plunked the phone

down in its cradle and rubbed her ear.

“Once a month, big thrill,” Effie said with a sharp

laugh. “I’m not like you, out running around all over

the place and doing as I please.”

“Effie, I’m in the hospital.”

“What?” There was a pause. “Oh—so you are. Well,

you know what I mean. Think about what I said, in

case Dan had something hereditary. It’ll help kill time.

Thinking helps me keep occupied. I’d better hang up.

This phone bill is going to put me in the poorhouse.”

“Lord help me.” Judith sighed, gazing at Renie, who

was lying back on the pillows looking exhausted.

“You, too?”

“At least I love my mother,” Renie said in a wan

voice, “but having seen you break out into a cold sweat

indicated you were talking to Effie McMonigle.”

“That’s right,” Judith said. “She wonders why I

didn’t have an autopsy done on Dan.”

“Before he died? It might have been a smart idea.

Maybe you could have figured out what made him

tick.”

“Sheesh.” Judith rubbed her neck, trying to undo the

kinks that had accumulated. “To think I was putting off

calling Mother.”

The door, which had been left ajar, was slowly

pushed open. Jim Randall, dusted with snow and carrying a slightly incongruous spring bouquet, stepped

into the room and stopped abruptly.

“Oh! Sorry.” He pushed his thick glasses up higher

on his nose. “Wrong room.” He left.

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“What was that all about?” Renie asked.

“I don’t know,” Judith replied, sitting up a bit.

But Jim reappeared a moment later, looking flustered. “There’s someone in there,” he said, gesturing at

the room that had been occupied by his late brother.

“How can that be?”

“It’s Mr. Kirby,” Judith said. “The hospital is very

crowded. I guess they had to use your . . . the empty

room.”

“Oh.” Jim looked in every direction, cradling the

bouquet against his chest. Then, in a jerky motion, he

thrust the flowers in Judith’s direction. “Would you

like these? I don’t know what to do with them. I was

going to put them on Bob’s bed. You know, in remembrance.”

“Ah . . .” Judith stared at the yellow tulips, the red

carnations, the purple freesia, and the baby’s breath.

“They’re very pretty. Wouldn’t Mrs. Randall—

Margie—like them?”

“Margie?” Jim’s eyes looked enormous behind the

thick lenses. “Yes, maybe that’s a good idea. Where is

she?” He peered around the room, as if the cousins

might be hiding his sister-in-law in some darkened corner.

“We heard she’d collapsed,” Judith replied. “They

must have taken her home by now. The children, that

is. They were here earlier.”

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