Suture Self : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

passed away,” Judith said. “Noon, maybe? I really

don’t remember.”

Jim’s expression grew troubled. “Were they here before Bob was taken?”

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“Taken where?” Renie broke in. “We heard he killed

himself.”

“Oh!” Jim recoiled in horror at Renie’s blunt speech.

“That’s not true! He wouldn’t! He couldn’t! Oh!”

“Hospital gossip,” Judith said soothingly. “Please,

Mr. Randall, don’t get upset.”

“How can I not be upset?” Jim Randall was close to

tears. “Bob was my twin. We were just like brothers. I

mean, we were brothers, but even closer . . . Gosh, he

saved my life when we were kids. I fell into a lake, I

couldn’t swim, but Bob was an excellent swimmer, and

he rescued me. . . . If he didn’t kill himself, what happened? I mean, I’d understand if he did. I’ve felt suicidal sometimes, too. There’ve been days when I wished

Bob had never saved me from drowning. But Bob

wasn’t the type to take his own life. He had everything

to live for, that is.” Jim fought for composure.

“Nancy . . . Bob Jr. . . . Did they . . . ?”

“Did they what?” Judith prodded.

“Never mind.” Jim gave himself a good shake, shedding some of the moisture from his baggy raincoat. “I

should have been here, with Bob. I should have kept

watch over him. I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Where were you?” Renie asked, popping a piece of

cantaloupe into her mouth.

Jim raised his right arm and used his sleeve to wipe

off some melted snow from his forehead. “That’s the

irony. I was here, in this very hospital, having an MRI.”

“Goodness,” Judith remarked, “that’s a shame. I

mean, that both you and your brother had medical

problems at the same time.”

Flexing his left leg, Jim gave the cousins a selfdeprecating smile. “It was to be expected. You see, Bob and

I are—were—mirror twins. It’s a fairly rare phenomenon.

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We faced each other in the womb, so everything about us

is opposite. Bob was right-handed, I’m left-handed; he

was good at numbers, I’m not. And he’s been lucky with

his health over the years, except for the kinds of injuries

athletes suffer in their playing days. Nothing serious,

though. But unlike Bob, my constitution’s not strong.

I’ve had my share of medical problems. An MRI, a CAT

scan, an ultrasound—you name it, I’ve had them all.”

“That’s a shame,” Judith commiserated. “Nothing

serious, I hope?”

“Not so far,” Jim said, adjusting his glasses. “But

then Bob’s right knee went out, so my left one goes.

That’s part of the mirror-twin effect, you see. I planned

to have my surgery after Bob got back on his feet. But

now . . .” Jim’s voice trailed away.

“You still need to think of yourself,” Judith said gently. “Although I suppose Margie and perhaps her children will need your support for a while.”

Jim hung his head. “I can’t replace Bob,” he said on

a note of defeat.

“But you can lend them moral support,” Judith said,

her voice still gentle.

Clumsily, Jim Randall lowered himself into Judith’s

visitor’s chair. He still held the bouquet, though his

slack grip allowed the flowers to brush the floor. “I

don’t know about Nancy and Bob Jr. Young people,

you know how they are. All caught up in their own little worlds. Margie, maybe, will need my help. She’s

kind of . . . high-strung. Well, not exactly. She’s more

low-strung—if you know what I mean.”

“Depression?” Renie asked.

Jim nodded. “She’s tried every kind of medication,

several different therapists. The last one just about

drove her over the edge.”

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“Hold it!” Renie yipped.

Judith threw her cousin a fierce warning glance.

“Maybe Margie didn’t give him enough time.”

“No,” Jim began, “that wasn’t it. He was very hard

on her, saying that maybe she didn’t want to get well.

I don’t blame her for—”

“Maybe she doesn’t,” Renie interrupted, ignoring

Judith’s glare. “Maybe she likes the attention. Maybe

sitting around on the sidelines for almost twenty years

while Bob grabbed the headlines ticked her off. Maybe

she’s a spoiled brat.”

“Wow.” Jim spoke softly as he peered at Renie.

“That’s harsh.”

“Maybe Bob killed himself because Margie was a

big fat pain in the butt,” Renie went on, despite the

sliver of cantaloupe that dangled from her lower lip.

“That’s clinical talk, of course.”

Jim looked dumbfounded. “It is? But it’s not fair.

Margie is a wonderful person.”

“Then you’d better take her those flowers before you

step on them,” Renie said. Her tongue darted out like a

lizard’s as she retrieved the bit of cantaloupe.

“Oh!” Jim snatched up the flowers, which he’d managed to let fall to the floor. “Gosh, that was careless.

You’re right, I’d better try to find her.”

“I understand your niece and nephew are dealing with

some serious problems of their own,” Judith said, still at

her kindliest. “That must be very hard on Margie.”

Briefly, Jim’s pliant features turned hard. “She mustn’t

feel guilty about Nancy and Bob Jr. If there’s blame for

what’s happened to them, you can look elsewhere.”

“Oh?” Judith’s gaze was fixed on Jim’s face.

Jim dropped his head and shuffled his feet. “Sorry. I

spoke out of turn. I’d better get going.”

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“Say,” Judith said, not quite ready to relinquish their

visitor, “you were outside this afternoon when Addison

Kirby got hit by that car. Did you happen to see who

was driving it?”

“That was Addison Kirby?” Jim had risen to his feet.

“Gee, I didn’t realize it was him. His wife died recently, didn’t she?”

Judith nodded. “Yes, here in this same hospital.”

“Gosh.” Jim shook his head several times, then

frowned. “What was he doing here?”

“He’d been talking to your weird niece and nephew,”

Renie put in. “I suspect he was trying to figure out if

they felt their father had been murdered.”

“Oh!” Jim dropped the flowers again. “No! That’s

worse than suicide!”

“Same result,” Renie noted.

Judith was trying to shut her cousin up, but the

glares and the gestures weren’t working. “Now, Mr.

Randall, I’m sure that Mrs. Jones doesn’t mean . . .”

Tears were coursing down Jim Randall’s gaunt

cheeks. He snuffled several times, removed his glasses,

and swiped at his eyes. “My brother didn’t have an

enemy in the world. He was one of the most beloved

sports figures in America. And here, in this city, he was

a god.”

“Mr. Fumbles,” Renie muttered. “I remember one

headline after a big loss that read, ‘Can Randall Get a

Handle on the Ball?’ Between interceptions and fumbles, he turned the ball over six times that day, leading

to a total of twenty-four points for the other guys. His

so-called eagle eye couldn’t seem to tell who was

wearing which uniform.”

“He’d eaten bad beef!” Jim cried. “He was very ill,

he was playing on courage alone.”

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“He should have played on the field,” Renie retorted.

“He should have sat down and let his backup take over.

I don’t know what the coach was thinking of, except

that Randall was a big star and the second-stringer was

a third-year man who was out of football by the next

season.”

“I can’t stand it!” Jim bent down to pick up the bouquet and stormed out of the room.

“Coz . . .” Judith was exasperated.

“I’m sorry,” Renie said, exhibiting absolutely no

sense of remorse. “Bill and I were at that game, and it

made me mad. Granted, it was probably the worst performance of Bob Randall’s career, but we paid out over

a hundred bucks for tickets and we saw a really rotten

game. Furthermore, I don’t like Margie Randall blaming Bill for her Sad Sack state. I’ll bet I’m right, she

enjoys being miserable.”

“That’s not the point,” Judith said. “You were rude,

even mean. The poor guy just lost his brother, he’s got

his own health problems, and now he’s saddled with

two very unfortunate young people and a sister-in-law

who’s an emotional wreck.” Judith pointed to the

statue of Mary and the baby Jesus. “You’re in a Christian hospital. How about a little charity?”

Renie let out a big sigh. “Okay, okay. So I was kind

of blunt with Jim. I suppose I’m feeling sorry for myself, for you, too, and wondering how many more of

these procedures and surgeries and operations we’ll

have to have before they carry us out like Bob Randall.

If, like Margie Randall, I were inclined to depression,

I’d be in about a forty-foot hole by now.”

Judith was quiet for a few moments, considering

Renie’s words. “You’re right, this isn’t one of our

brightest moments. But we can still act like decent

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human beings, especially to people who are in a worse

mess than we are.”

“Yeah, right.” Renie flipped open the top of a can of

Pepsi. “I told you, even though I know Bob Randall

was the best quarterback ever to play for the Sea Auks,

I simply never saw him give one of his better performances. I guess I had that one lousy game all bottled up

inside for the past twenty-odd years. And,” she went

on, gathering steam and wagging a finger, “I still don’t

know why the coach didn’t pull Randall and put in his

backup. Maybe Bob was sick, but if that had been the

case, he should have come out of the game. No wonder the second-stringer quit football and went to medical school.”

“He did?” Judith eyed Renie curiously. “Who was he?”

Renie shook her head. “I forget. It was a name like

that quarterback from the Rams a million years ago.”

She took a big sip of Pepsi and choked.

“Coz,” Judith said in alarm, “are you okay?”

Renie sputtered, coughed, and waved her arms.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Give me a minute.” Getting herself under control, she stared at Judith. “I do remember

the guy’s name. It was Jan Van Boeck. I guess,” Renie

said slowly, “I remembered Norm Van Brocklin, but I

got him mixed up with Bill Van Bredakoff, who played

basketball, not football. Anyway, Van Boeck’s name

suddenly came to me after all these years. I never made

the connection before. He played so seldom for the

Auks.”

“I suppose I’m dreaming,” Judith said, fingering her

chin. “But what if Dr. Van Boeck has been jealous of

Bob Randall all these years? What if he blamed him

for ruining his chances at becoming a superstar?”

“Van Boeck would be delusional,” Renie said. “If

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he’d had any real talent, he could have gone to another

team. I don’t recall an era when any franchise had a

plethora of outstanding quarterbacks.”

“Maybe not,” Judith admitted. “Still . . .”

“Besides,” Renie noted, “Van Boeck is a superstar in

the medical world.”

“It’s not the same,” Judith pointed out. “Doctors

don’t do TV ads for Nike scrubs. Furthermore,” she

continued, sitting up as straight as she could manage,

“all your harangues kept us from finding out if Jim

Randall saw who was driving the car that hit Addison

Kirby.”

“Darn. Sorry.” At last Renie looked genuinely contrite.

Judith smiled faintly. “That’s okay. I don’t think Jim

Randall can see much of anything with those Cokebottle glasses. Besides, it all happened so fast.”

Dinner arrived, brought by the silent orderly. Judith

was disappointed; she’d hoped that the garrulous Maya

would be on duty. After the orderly had left the trays,

the cousins dared to take a peek.

“Some kind of meat,” Renie said.

“Some kind of greens,” Judith said.

“Perhaps a potato on the side?” Renie suggested.

“I don’t think so,” Judith replied. “It might be a very

pale squash.”

“Turnip—or maybe parsnip?” Renie ventured as she

picked up the phone and punched in a single digit. “Operator, can you connect me with Delphi Pizza?” She

waited, meanwhile grinning at Judith. “We don’t need

this crap. We can get real food. Hello? This is Mrs. Jones

at Good Cheer Hospital. I’d like to place an order for delivery. One extra-large pizza with . . . what? The snow?

No, I haven’t looked out lately. Really? Damn. But

thanks anyway,” she added hastily.

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“What’s wrong?” Judith asked.

Renie was getting out of bed and going to the window. “Good grief, it’s really coming down. The driveway into the parking lot is covered. Oh—here comes

a car now. Slowly. It looks like the driver’s having

trouble. I guess the children to whom I gave life have

another excuse for not visiting their ailing mother.”

“You were expecting them?” Judith asked.

“Sort of,” Renie replied, still watching the snow. “So

if we can’t get a Delphi pizza delivered, will anybody

else brave the storm?”

Judith poked at her meal with her fork. “I’m not

really that hungry. And you have your Falstaff ’s stash

to fall back on.”

“But I wanted something hot,” Renie said, her tone

faintly querulous. “I need serious protein. Now that I

think about it, a steak sounds good.”

“Try one of your other sources, some place closer to

the hospital,” Judith suggested.

“I don’t know this neighborhood,” Renie complained. “What’s close?”

“Bubba’s Fried Chicken,” Judith said. “Their flagship restaurant isn’t too far from here.”

Bubba’s was legendary. Renie turned away from the

window and licked her lips. “Um-um, good idea.”

She’d just picked up the phone when Judith heard

voices in the hall. The speechless orderly had left the

door halfway open.

“Hold on,” Judith said, cocking an ear. “Listen.”

A hefty, mild-voiced man in a cashmere overcoat

was speaking to a woman Judith couldn’t see. But after

a few words the woman’s voice was recognizable as

belonging to Sister Jacqueline.

“. . . just as long as you don’t upset Mr. Kirby,” the

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115

nun said. “He hasn’t been out of the recovery room for

very long.”

“We had an appointment,” the man said, still

sounding mild, almost indolent. “Addison said it was

urgent, though I can’t think why. I mean, he’s not a

sports reporter.”

“Tubby Turnbull,” Renie said in a whisper.

“Ah.” Judith tried to lean farther away from her pillow.

“Ten minutes,” Sister Jacqueline said. “While you’re

with him, please keep reminding him to drink plenty of

fluids. He hasn’t been taking in as much liquid as he

should, and he’ll become dehydrated.”

“Will do,” Tubby replied, and disappeared from Judith’s range of vision.

Judith looked at Renie. “Addison is going to blow

this story all over the Times,” Judith said. “He’s certain

that his wife, Somosa, and Randall were murdered. I

don’t think that his catastrophe out in front of the hospital was an accident.”

Renie had picked up the phone again. “I don’t either.

Obviously, Addison wanted to meet with Tubby Turnbull to see how he and the rest of the Seafarers’ front

office felt about Joaquin Somosa’s death.”

“Comparing notes,” Judith said as Renie asked the

operator to put her through to Bubba’s Fried Chicken.

“Do you suppose the person who ran Addison down is

the killer?”

Renie, however, gave a quick shake of her head, then

spoke into the phone. “Are you delivering? . . . Within

a one-mile radius? I think we qualify. Now here’s what

I’d like . . .”

After placing the large order, Renie beamed at Judith. “Bubba’s has chained up their delivery vans.

They’ll be here in forty minutes. Oh, happy day!”

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“For you, maybe,” Judith said with a grim expression. “Not for some other people.”

“Right.” Renie didn’t look particularly moved.

“Say,” Judith said, “how are you going to get the fried

chicken past the front desk this time? You didn’t give

any special instructions.”

Renie slapped at her forehead. “Shoot! I forgot.” She

thought for a moment. “I’ll go meet them at the door.”

“You can’t walk that far,” Judith pointed out. “Even

if you could, you can’t carry that great big order with

only one hand.”

Resting her chin on her left fist, Renie thought hard.

“I know,” she said, brightening, “I’ll ask Tubby Turnbull to meet the delivery guy and bring it up to us.”

Judith cocked her head at Renie. “You’re going to

ask the general manager of a major league baseball

team to deliver a box of fried chicken? Are you nuts?”

“No,” Renie replied. “Wouldn’t you like to talk to

Tubby? Not that he’ll say much. He’s Mr. Ambiguous.”

“Well . . . I suppose I can’t miss the opportunity,” Judith said. “I’ll time his visit with Addison. Sister

Jacqueline told Tubby to keep it to ten minutes.”

“That’ll be twenty,” Renie put in. “Tubby talks and

moves in low gear. That’s why he never makes a trade

deadline.”

“Okay,” Judith agreed. “I figure a little over five

minutes have gone by.”

Renie’s phone rang. She picked up the receiver and

smiled. “Hi, Bill. You’re using the phone. What a nice

surprise . . . Yes, I realize you can’t come up tonight.

It’s snowing hard here, too . . . What?” Renie’s face

froze. “You’re kidding! Did they call the cops? . . . Joe

reported it? . . . Good . . . Yes, sure . . . Now don’t get

too riled . . . Okay, will . . . Love you.”

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Renie hung up and stared at Judith. “Joe took Bill to

pick up Cammy at the Toyota dealership,” Renie said,

her face pale. “Cammy wasn’t there. She’d been

stolen.”

EIGHT

“HOW,” JUDITH DEMANDED, “does a car that’s in for

service at a dealership get stolen?”

“That’s what Bill and I would like to know,”

Renie said angrily. “We’re a one-car family. We’re

stuck.”

“Your kids each have a car,” Judith pointed out,

hoping to assuage her cousin’s distress.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean they’ll lend one to

us,” Renie said, still fuming.

“Nobody’s going out in this snow anyway,” Judith said, eyeing the young orderly, who had advanced into their room to mop the floor for the

second time that day.

“That’s not the point,” Renie snapped. “Poor

Cammy’s out there in this blizzard, shivering and

sobbing. Her little engine is probably freezing up.”

“Don’t you and Bill have antifreeze in the radiator?” Judith inquired.

“What?” Renie scowled. “Of course. It comes

with the car these days. I meant metaphorically

speaking.”

“So Joe reported the car as stolen?” Judith asked,

putting the dinner tray aside and smiling at the orderly as he made his exit.

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119

Looking glum, Renie nodded. “Stolen cars won’t be

a high priority for a while. I’m sure there are too many

accidents out there right now.”

“Cheer up, coz,” Judith said, still not surrendering in

her efforts to make Renie feel better. “Nobody’s taking

your car anywhere in this storm. I guess I’ll bite the

bullet and call Mother.”

“Go for it,” Renie muttered, sinking back onto the

pillows.

Predictably, Gertrude answered on the eleventh ring.

“Well,” she said in a deceptively affable voice, “so you

pulled through. How come you didn’t let your poor old

mother know before this?”

“Joe told you I was okay,” Judith replied. “I’m sure

that Carl and Arlene mentioned it, too. Besides, you

hate to talk on the phone.”

Gertrude bridled. “I do? Says who?”

“Mother, you’ve always hated to talk on the phone,”

Judith said patiently. “How are you getting along?”

“Good,” Gertrude said. “I just had supper. Liver and

onions. Arlene makes the best. And she gets it to me on

time, straight-up five o’clock. That’s when supper

ought to be served. Who cares about late meals and

being fashionable?”

Judith glanced at her watch. It was a few minutes

after six. Usually, Judith wasn’t able to deliver her

mother’s dinner until almost six-thirty. The timing

had nothing to do with fashion, and everything to do

with Judith’s busy late afternoons, greeting guests

and preparing for the social hour. “Arlene’s very

thoughtful,” Judith allowed. “What are you doing

right now?”

“Making a family tree,” Gertrude said. “Mike called.

He wants to see who all’s hanging on it for Little

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Stinkers Preschool or whatever it’s called. Dumb. Why

can’t kids stay home and play like they used to?”

“I don’t entirely disagree with you,” Judith said.

“Today’s parents seem in such a rush to get them to

grow up. Maybe that’s why when they hit twenty, they

suddenly stop maturing until they’re almost middleaged. They’re making up for all the lost years when

they should have been carefree kids.”

“Well.” Gertrude chortled. “Maybe I haven’t raised

such a nitwit after all. When was the last time you

agreed with me on anything?”

“Come on, Mother,” Judith said. “I agree with you

on many things. Um . . . Who are you putting on the

family tree?”

“Family,” Gertrude retorted. “Our side. The Grovers

and the Hoffmans. You can do Lunkhead’s.”

Judith wasn’t sure which husband Gertrude was referring to. Her mother referred to both Dan and Joe as

Lunkhead. In fact, Judith had never been sure if

Gertrude knew—or recognized—that Mike wasn’t

Dan’s son. Over thirty years ago, a baby conceived out

of wedlock was a shameful thing. At least by

Gertrude’s strict, old-fashioned standards. While Judith believed that her mother knew, deep down, she’d

been in denial for the past three decades.

“That’s good,” Judith said, aware that her mother’s

memory, like those of most elderly people, recalled

more from the distant past than the immediate present.

“I mean, you can remember all those relatives who

were dead before my time.”

“You didn’t miss much with some of ’em,” Gertrude

declared. “Take Uncle Kaspar. He thought he was a pencil. My grandmother was always pretending to sharpen

him. The funny thing was, his head did come to a point.”

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“I never heard you mention him before,” Judith said.

“Maybe I forgot till now,” Gertrude said. “Then there

was my father’s cousin, Lotte. Big woman. Lotta Lotte,

my papa used to say. She sat on his favorite mare once

and the horse fell down, broke a leg.”

“Did they have to shoot her?” Judith asked.

“Yep,” Gertrude replied. “The mare was fine,

though. Fixed her up good as new.”

“Mother,” Judith said severely, “you’re not telling

me they shot Lotte!”

Gertrude was chuckling. “Why not? It was the old

country. They did a lot of queer things over there. Oldfashioned stuff, like wars and bombs and all that other

goofy stuff.”

“Mother,” Judith said stiffly, “I don’t want you making up information. It’s important to Mike and Kristin.

In fact, I’d like to know more about our family tree myself.”

“Wait till I get to your father’s side,” Gertrude said

in a low, insinuating voice. “Bet you never knew about

Uncle Percy.”

“Before my time?” Judith ventured.

“A bit.”

“What about him?”

There was a long pause. “I forget. It’ll come to me.

Hey, toots, got to go. Arlene’s here to let me teach her

how to play gin rummy.”

Gertrude hung up.

Judith looked at Renie, who was guzzling more

Pepsi. “Did you ever hear of Uncle Percy on our fathers’ side of the family?”

“No,” Renie replied. “Did your mother invent him?”

“I think she’s making up most of my side,” Judith

said. “It’s not like she doesn’t remember from way

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back. It’s five minutes ago that eludes her. Have you

made up your mind how to get dinner from the front

door to our room?”

“I told you,” Renie replied with a scowl, “I’m asking Tubby Turnbull. He should be about ready to leave.

I’ll go look.”

Tubby, in fact, was sauntering out of Addison

Kirby’s room. Renie put out a stocking-covered foot,

which caught him above the ankle. “Oof!” Tubby exclaimed in mild surprise. “Sorry. Did I step on you?”

“Mr. Turnbull,” Renie said, turning on what meager

charm she could manage, “I’m upset. Who are you getting to replace Joaquin Somosa?”

“Well . . . ,” Tubby drawled, rubbing his prominent

chin, “that’s a darned good question. Who do you think

we should get?”

“Me?” Renie pointed to herself. “I’m just a fan, a

mere woman at that. How should I know?”

“Well . . .” Tubby scratched at the elaborate combover that covered his bald spot. “Sometimes player

trade ideas come from the darnedest places. I got the

inspiration for our closer, Ho Boy Pak, from a fortune

cookie.”

“Really,” Renie breathed. “I’m not surprised. He

sort of pitches like chop suey.”

“Yes,” Tubby agreed, “he can be kind of erratic.

Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”

Renie put out her good left hand. “Oh, please, Mr.

Turnbull, could you step in for a minute and meet my

cousin? She’s a huge Seafarers fan.”

Renie made the introductions. “What a pleasure,” Judith enthused, studying Tubby more closely. He was definitely tubby, soft, and pliable. For a moment, Tubby

seemed to be deciding whether to sit or stand. He eyed the

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visitors’ chairs, the beds, even the commode. At last, he

stayed put. Judith knew of his reputation for indecisiveness, and noticed that the socks under his galoshes and

shoes didn’t match. Judith wondered if he’d simply not

been able to make up his mind when he got up that morning. “I’ve been rooting for the Seafarers ever since the

franchise got here,” she said as Tubby slowly released her

hand. “I’m a big sports nut. Wasn’t that terrible about Bob

Randall?”

Tubby nodded. “Really terrible. Just like Juan. And

that actress, Addison Kirby’s wife. It makes you stop

and think.” Tubby stopped, apparently to think.

“It was nice of you to call on Mr. Kirby,” Judith said.

“My cousin here actually saw him get hit by that car.”

“Really?” Tubby turned to gaze at Renie. “That’s

terrible, too. I guess you can’t blame Addison for being

kind of upset.”

“That’s true,” Judith responded. “You know, we

spoke to him before the accident. He told us he was on

his way to meet you. I’ll bet you wondered what happened to him when he didn’t show up.”

Tubby rubbed at the back of his head. “Did I? Yes,

sure I did. I wondered a lot. Then the hospital called

and told me what happened and that I’d better mosey

on over to see him. So here I am.”

“How thoughtful,” Judith said. “We gathered that

Addison had something very important on his mind. I

hope he was feeling strong enough to tell you about it.

It’s so hard to be laid up and not able to get things off

your chest.”

“That’s terrible,” Tubby agreed, “being laid up like

that and not able to . . . Yes, he got it off his chest. But

I don’t see how I can help him. I know very little.”

Behind Tubby, Renie nodded emphatically.

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“You know very little about . . . what?” Judith

prompted.

“About . . .” Tubby scratched his triple chins. “About

how Joaquin and Mrs. Kirby and Ramblin’ Randall

died so all of a sudden. But I told him—Addison—that

it seems like a real coincidence to me.”

“It does?” Judith said, trying not to sound incredulous.

“Well . . . sure,” Tubby replied, holding out his

chunky hands in a helpless gesture. “What else? I

mean, I know it wasn’t drugs with Joaquin. He never

did drugs. He believed his body was like a . . . temple.

Or something. And I suppose I have to believe what

Addison said about his wife not taking drugs, either.

He ought to know. But I can’t say about Bob Randall.

I hardly knew him, except to see him at sports banquets and such. I figure this drug talk is a smoke

screen. The doctors just plain screwed up. It happens.”

“Occasionally,” Judith allowed, wondering if it was

worthwhile to continue the conversation with Tubby

Turnbull.

Renie apparently thought not. She put a hand on

Tubby’s elbow and steered him toward the door. “Thanks

for coming by, Mr. Turnbull. You’ve given us a real . . .

thrill. Good luck when spring training rolls around.”

“What?” Tubby looked startled. “Oh—spring training. Yes, it’s coming. At the end of winter, right? Bye

now.” He trundled off into the hallway, where he

stopped, apparently undecided about which way to go.

“You didn’t ask him to meet the dinner wagon,” Judith remarked. “How come?”

“Because Tubby couldn’t handle it,” Renie said.

“It’ll take him half an hour to find the exit, and then

he’ll have to figure out if he’s going in or going out.

SUTURE SELF

125

I’ve got a better idea. Hey,” Renie called from the

doorway, “Maya?”

Judith heard a far-off voice tell Renie that Maya

wasn’t on duty. Renie leaned back into the room. “No

Maya tonight. But I’m not without resources. Are you

in there, Mr. Mummy?”

With great effort, Judith scooted farther down in the

bed. She was just able to make out Mr. Mummy, who

apparently had come out of his room and crossed the

hall to Renie.

“How,” Renie murmured, “do you feel about fried

chicken, Mr. Mummy?”

Mr. Mummy’s feelings about fried chicken, especially Bubba’s, were extremely positive. He was in a

walking cast, and could get down to the main entrance

with no trouble.

“Can I fit the Bubba’s box into my plastic carryall?”

he inquired, his cheeks pink with excitement.

“Yes, you can,” Renie said, handing over the check

she’d already written. “Just be sure no one sees you

make the transfer.”

Mr. Mummy beamed at Renie. “It’s like a spy story,

isn’t it? You know, where one man sits on the park

bench and the other one comes along with a folded

newspaper and he leaves it on the seat and the first

man—”

“My, yes,” Renie interrupted. “You’d better go, Mr.

Mummy. The delivery may be arriving any minute.”

Judith saw Mr. Mummy scoot off down the hall, the

leg in the walking cast at an angle, and his sacklike

hospital gown waving behind him like a rag tied to a

large load on a pickup truck.

“He’s sweet,” Judith said as Renie headed back to

bed. “I’ll bet he has a crush on you.”

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Mary Daheim

“Probably,” Renie said, a trifle glum. “Why couldn’t

Sean Connery have fallen off a ladder instead of Mr.

Mummy?”

Heather Chinn appeared, taking more vital signs.

“When will Maya be back?” Judith asked.

Heather concentrated on Judith’s pulse. “Maya’s not

with us anymore.”

Judith lurched forward, disrupting Heather’s pulse

count. “Literally? Figuratively?”

“Both, I suppose,” Heather replied, slightly irritated.

“Yesterday was her last day working for Good Cheer.”

“Oh.” The thermometer cut off further comment

from Judith.

“Seeking new opportunities, huh?” Renie remarked.

“Yes,” Heather said, still intent upon her tasks.

“What was in the autopsy report on Bob Randall?”

Renie inquired.

“I don’t know,” Heather replied.

“Surely not suicide,” Renie said.

“I don’t know,” Heather repeated, her pretty face set

in stone.

“Yes, you do,” Renie asserted. “Bob Randall was

one of your patients. You would be informed if he’d

taken his own life. Don’t you think it would be prudent

for you to tell other patients on this floor what really

happened? Cover-ups never work, and then you’re left

with serious egg on your face.”

Heather removed the thermometer from Judith’s

mouth and glared at Renie. “We’ve been told not to

discuss Mr. Randall’s death. The orders have come

down from on high.”

“Dr. Van Boeck or Queen Blanche?” Renie retorted.

“Dr. Van Boeck, of course,” Heather said stiffly.

“He’s in charge here.”

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127

“That’s not the impression I got this afternoon,”

Renie said. “Now let me think—Good Cheer is kind

of conservative, old-fashioned. Which is good. I’m

still here, and in any other hospital in the city, I’d have

been sent home this morning, right? Keeping me

longer may not suit the bottom line. So maybe the Van

Boecks aren’t merely fighting to keep Good Cheer’s

reputation spotless, but for the hospital’s very survival. How am I doing, Nurse Chinn?”

Heather yanked the blood pressure cuff off Judith’s

arm with more force than was necessary. “All hospitals

are fighting to stay alive,” the nurse said grimly. “Over

the years, the Sisters of Good Cheer have wisely managed this institution. They’ve refused to remodel for

the sake of appearances, the plant budget is always

used for necessities and equipment, and we rely on a

heavy corps of volunteers.”

Robbie the Robot could be heard beeping along the

hallway. “Hi, I’m Robbie . . .” He moved on.

“Nonpaid personnel like him?” Renie said, pointing

toward the door.

“In a way, yes,” Heather replied. “He delivers

things. He’s programmed to take charts and other paperwork to various departments. Robbie can even use

the elevators.”

“Good,” said Renie. “I’d hate to see him clank down

a flight of stairs. You’d probably have to put his parts

in a dustpan.”

Somewhat warily, Heather moved over to Renie’s

bed, holding the thermometer as if it were a weapon.

“So what are the problems Good Cheer is facing?” Judith asked.

“The same as every hospital,” Heather replied,

showing some enthusiasm for shoving the thermome-128

Mary Daheim

ter in Renie’s mouth. “The merger of medical specialties helped everyone. Hospitals spent far too much

money on duplicating equipment. It wasn’t necessary

or feasible, especially in a city like this, where so many

of the hospitals are within a five-mile radius.”

“The decline in religious orders must have hurt,” Judith noted. “It certainly made a difference in the

schools when they had to hire lay teachers instead of

nuns.”

“That’s true,” Heather said, then paused to take

Renie’s pulse. “We only have five nuns on staff at

Good Cheer. There used to be dozens.”

“So salaries have gone up dramatically,” Judith

mused. “Malpractice insurance, too, I suppose.”

Heather nodded. “It’s terrible for the doctors. But

you can’t practice medicine without it. Look at what’s

happened . . .” She stopped abruptly and bit her lower

lip.

“Yes,” Judith said kindly. “Have the suits been filed

yet in the instances of the Somosa and Fremont

deaths?”

“I can’t say,” Heather replied doggedly as she read

the thermometer.

“Yes, you can,” Renie retorted. “It’s a matter of public record.”

But Heather refused to cooperate. “Whatever comes

next, it’s not Good Cheer’s fault,” she insisted.

“Meaning?” Judith coaxed.

“We did nothing wrong,” Heather said, her manner

heated. “Not the nurses, not the doctors, not anybody

employed by Good Cheer.”

“You sound very certain,” Judith remarked.

“Hey,” Renie yipped, “aren’t you putting that blood

pressure cuff on awfully tight?”

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129

Judith grew silent, staring up at the cracks in the

aging plaster, as if the wiggly lines provided some sort

of map to The Truth. Except for a desultory word of

farewell to Heather, she remained quiet for several moments after the nurse continued on her rounds.

“Maya got fired,” Judith finally announced.

“I agree,” said Renie. “She talked too much, at least

to us. I hope we didn’t get her into trouble.”

“So do I,” Judith said. “But Maya is the kind who can’t

stop talking. And what did Heather mean by that solemn

statement about nobody at the hospital being at fault?”

“It would suggest,” Renie said slowly, “that she

knows more than she’s telling. That is, she’s aware that

there were no medical mistakes.”

“In other words,” Judith said, hauling herself up on

the pillows, “all three victims were murdered, possibly

by outsiders.”

Renie was skeptical. “Three outsiders?”

“It’s unlikely,” Judith said, “but you can’t completely discount the notion. Of course the modus

operandi is similar, as far as we can tell. Unless they’re

copy-cat killings.”

“And just what is the MO?” Renie asked.

“It has to be something—the drugs that the victims

supposedly ingested on their own—that was put into

their IVs.”

“We still haven’t heard what Bob Randall’s drug of

choice was,” Renie pointed out.

“No,” Judith agreed. “But I’ll bet it’s something like

the other two. A street drug, I’d guess.”

“Not self-ingested?” said Renie.

“No.” Judith grimaced as she tried to make herself

more comfortable. “I don’t know why I haven’t asked

Joe if the police are investigating. I think I’ll call him.”

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Before she could pick up the phone, Mr. Mummy

appeared in the doorway with a carton marked “Sutures.” “Cluck, cluck,” he said with a merry smile.

“May I?”

“Of course,” Judith said, and introduced herself.

“Why don’t you join us, Mr. Mummy? There’s plenty

for three.”

“How kind,” Mr. Mummy said as he helped Renie

unload the carton. “The delivery wouldn’t fit in my

carryall so I found this box, which makes quite clever

camouflage, don’t you think?” He paused as Renie rewarded him with a big smile. “Maybe just a small

piece,” he said, sniffing the air that was now redolent

with fried chicken. “I’m not terribly hungry. I did manage to eat my hospital tray.”

“Was it better than the food?” Renie asked.

“What?” Mr. Mummy looked puzzled, then comprehension dawned. “Oh-ho! Very funny, Mrs. Jones. Yes,

I must say, the meals here aren’t very delectable. Still,

I’m not a fussy eater.”

Renie was filling the carton’s lid with chicken,

mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, coleslaw, and baking powder biscuits. “Here, Mr. Mummy, pass this to

my cousin.”

“Delighted,” Mr. Mummy replied. “I thought it wise

to put the chicken delivery box inside something that

looked as if it belonged to the hospital. It worked out

just fine.”

“You’re a genius,” Renie said, offering a white box

filled with chicken to Mr. Mummy. “Take some.”

“Indeed, I will.” Mr. Mummy beamed at Renie.

“Sometimes I can hear you two from across the hall. It

sounds quite lively in here. You’ve had a lot of guests.”

“Not really,” Judith said, munching on corn. “I

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131

mean, only our husbands have been to see us. The others have sort of dropped in.”

“I see,” Mr. Mummy said. “Yes, even Mrs. Van

Boeck was in here briefly, am I not right?”

“Briefly,” Judith said with a nod.

“Such a spirited woman,” Mr. Mummy remarked,

biting into a juicy thigh. “Did you find her conversation invigorating?”

Judith hesitated. “Well . . . I suppose. She didn’t stay

long.”

“I hear she may run for mayor,” Mr. Mummy said.

“Our current mayor has had his problems lately.”

“Yes,” Judith said. “The step up from the city council would be a natural for Blanche Van Boeck.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t do a little campaigning

while she was in here,” Mr. Mummy said with a sly

look.

“Not really,” Judith said, remembering Blanche’s menacing attitude.

“It sounded to me,” Mr. Mummy said with a twinkle, “as if Mrs. Van Boeck and Dr. Garnett had quite an

argument. I don’t suppose she mentioned it to you.”

“She told him to buzz off,” Renie said, glancing down

at the particles of crisp chicken skin that had fallen onto

her sling and hospital gown. “Or words to that effect. I

gathered there was bad blood between them. You have to

wonder how Dr. Garnett and Dr. Van Boeck get along.”

“Well,” said Mr. Mummy, giving Renie a “May I?”

glance before taking a biscuit out of a box, “there

must be a rather intense rivalry there. That is, all doctors have big egos, and I assume Dr. Garnett may

sometimes resent Dr. Van Boeck’s decision-making.”

“So Dr. Garnett is ambitious?” Judith asked. “I

mean, he’d like to run Good Cheer?”

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Mr. Mummy stretched out his leg with its walking

cast. “I have no idea. But he could be. I suspect he

doesn’t like what’s been going on around here lately.”

“You mean,” Renie said, “the epidemic of death?”

“Yes.” Mr. Mummy nodded slowly. “It’s very unfortunate.”

“So you’ve heard all about the previous deaths?” Judith remarked.

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Mummy said. “We may live in a rural

area, but we take the city newspapers. Not to mention

TV. I find health issues very interesting, since they affect almost everyone in this country.”

“What’s surprised me,” Renie said, buttering her

second piece of corn, “is how little coverage there has

been in the media. Considering that Somosa and Joan

Fremont were very well-known popular figures—and

now Bob Randall—you’d think the local reporters

would be all over the stories.”

Judith clapped a hand to her head. “Oh! We forgot to

turn on the evening news.”

Mr. Mummy waved a pink, pudgy hand. “You didn’t

miss much. I saw the news, and they merely said that

Mr. Randall had died unexpectedly. They did advise that

further details would be on the eleven o’clock news.”

“Ah.” Judith looked relieved.

“You two seem very aware of what goes on around

you,” Mr. Mummy said with admiring glances for both

cousins. “You must pick up on a lot of scuttlebutt.”

Judith’s expression was modest. “We’re interested in

people. Besides, it helps pass the time when you’re laid

up.”

“I think it’s wonderful,” Mr. Mummy said approvingly. “These days, so many people are completely

wrapped up in themselves.”

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133

“Not us,” Renie said through a mouthful of coleslaw.

“Fwee lok to kwee abwes.”

Judith smiled at Mr. Mummy’s understandable perplexity. “My cousin said we like to keep abreast. I’m

used to her speaking when she’s eating. I can translate.”

“Amazing,” Mr. Mummy murmured as he stood up

in an awkward manner. “I should be getting back to my

room. Thank you for this delicious treat. If you hear

anything interesting, do let me in on it. I’m a bit bored,

since my wife and family live so far out in the country

that it’s hard for them to get into the city.”

“Any time,” Renie said. “And thanks for playing deliveryman.”

Judith didn’t speak until Mr. Mummy was out of

earshot. “He seems quite caught up in what’s happening at Good Cheer, don’t you think?”

“That’s not so very odd,” Renie said, attacking yet

another piece of chicken. “Mr. Mummy’s right, you

get bored lying around in the hospital.”

“He never did say exactly where he lived, did he?”

“Mmm . . .” Renie swallowed the big bite of chicken

and licked her lips. “No. But then I didn’t ask.”

Judith grew quiet for a few minutes. The only

sounds in the room were Renie’s chewing, the hum of

the equipment, and the usual distant voices and footsteps in the hall. Judith leaned far enough forward to

gaze out the window. It was still snowing, the flakes

now smaller, and thus more likely to stick.

“I’m calling Joe,” Judith announced at last. “I’ve got

a question for him.”

Renie brushed at the collection of crumbs on her

front. “About our car?”

“No,” Judith replied, dialing the number at Hillside

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Manor. “There’s nothing he can do about that. Nobody

else can either until the snow stops.” She paused, then

a smile crossed her face. “Hi, Joe. How’s everything

going?”

“Oh, hi.” Joe sounded disconcerted. “How’re you

doing?”

“Fine. What’s wrong?”

“Um . . . Nothing. It’s snowing.”

“I know. Anything going on that I should know

about?”

“No, not a thing,” Joe said rather hastily. “Except

that before it started to snow so hard, FedEx delivered

a crate containing a hundred whoopee cushions.

Where do you want me to store them?”

“Whoopee cushions?” Judith was perplexed. “I

didn’t order any. Why would I? It must be a mistake.

Call them and have them returned when FedEx can get

back up the hill, okay?”

“Sure,” Joe said. “I wondered what they were for. I

thought maybe a guest had ordered them to be sent

here.”

“How are the guests? Did they get in all right?”

“Yes. All the rooms are occupied.”

“They are?” Judith was surprised. “We only had four

reservations as of Monday morning.”

“The airport’s closed,” Joe said. “Some people got

stranded. Which, if the planes don’t start flying tomorrow, means we’ll be overbooked for Wednesday.”

“Oh. That is a problem.” Judith thought for a

minute. “Arlene has the B&B association number.

She can call them to help out.”

“Okay.”

“Nothing else to report?”

Joe hesitated. “Not really.”

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135

“You’re a bad liar, Joe.”

He sighed. “One of the couples who got stuck at the

airport have a pet snake.”

Judith gasped. “No! Pets aren’t allowed. You know

that; Arlene knows that.”

“Nobody told Arlene about the snake,” Joe replied,

on the defensive. “I didn’t know anything about it until

they got here.”

“What kind of snake?” Judith asked, still upset.

“A boa constrictor.” Joe paused again. “I think.”

“You think? ” Judith threw a glance at Renie, whose

ears had pricked up.

“I haven’t seen it,” Joe said. “Nobody has. I mean,

not since the Pettigrews arrived.”

“You mean the snake is loose? ” Judith asked in horror.

“I’m afraid so. His name is Ernest,” Joe added.

“Oh, good grief!” Judith twisted around so far in the

bed that she felt a sharp pain course through her left

side. “How are the other guests taking it?” she asked,

trying to calm down.

“Not real well,” Joe replied. “Of course they can’t

go anywhere else because of the snow. You know

how impassable the hill is in this kind of weather.

Anyway, the Pettigrews insist he isn’t dangerous.”

“They better be right,” Judith said through gritted

teeth. “Why couldn’t the Pettigrews leave Ernest at the

airport?”

“They say he has a very nervous disposition,” Joe

explained. “Ernest suffers from anxiety attacks.

When he has one, they have to put a paper bag over

his head. A small paper bag, of course.”

“Of course.” It was Judith’s turn to heave a big sigh.

“Okay, I guess I can’t worry about it. But I will. I

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wanted to ask if you could find out from Woody what

the police are doing about this situation with the three

hospital deaths. Could you check in with him

tomorrow?”

“I already did,” Joe replied. “They’re not doing anything.”

“What?” Judith shot Renie an incredulous look.

“Woody said there’s no official investigation,” Joe

said. “The county isn’t doing much either, according to

him.”

“That’s unbelievable,” Judith declared.

“I agree,” said Joe.

“It’s also highly suspicious,” Judith added.

“Yes.” Joe suddenly became very serious. “I

wouldn’t get mixed up in this if I were you. I mean it.”

Judith drew in a sharp breath. “Yes.”

“Yes what?” Joe said.

“Get mixed up. In this.” Judith winced.

“Something’s not right,” Joe said, “but it’s not up to

you to find out.”

“No,” said Judith.

“Okay?”

“Yes.”

After Judith hung up the phone, she gazed at Renie.

“We are in danger.”

“Yes,” said Renie, and took a big bite out of another

biscuit. “Ith thapend befwo.”

Judith nodded. She knew it had happened before,

but the thought didn’t make her feel any better.

NINE

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

here like a big lump?” Judith demanded. “At least I

can speculate.”

“Which, being in a helpless condition, you figure

is a harmless pastime,” Renie replied, finally finishing her meal and starting to clean up the mess.

“Meanwhile, I get to drag my battered body around

doing all the grunt work.”

Judith glared at Renie. “I thought you were encouraging me. What would you expect me to do

with people dropping like flies and the police not investigating? Don’t you find this whole situation

highly suspicious?”

“I do,” Renie admitted, shoving boxes and napkins and garbage into her now-overflowing wastebasket. As ever, Judith envied her cousin’s

metabolism, though sometimes she wondered—

perhaps with a touch of malice—if Renie didn’t

have a tapeworm. “You know,” Renie said with a

scowl, “we’re not in very good shape to defend

ourselves.”

“If somebody wanted us out of the way,” Judith

persisted, “we’d have been dead by now. We’re past

the deadline for early dismissal from Good Cheer.

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Besides, what have we done except show a normal

amount of curiosity?”

Renie gave a shake of her head. “Curiosity killed the

you-know-what, and I don’t mean Sweetums, who appears to be an indestructible force of nature.”

“Do we look dangerous?” Judith shot back. “Here

we are, a couple of middle-aged matrons swathed in

bandages and looking like the you-know-what dragged

us in the you-know-whose small door.”

Renie climbed into bed. “There’s no dissuading you,

right?” She gave Judith a look of surrender.

“Let’s think this through,” Judith said, reaching for

her purse and taking out a small notebook and pen.

“Joaquin Somosa, Joan Fremont, Bob Randall. Except

for being well-known, the only connection is that they

all died in this hospital after routine surgery.” She

paused to finish writing down the trio of names. “All

three died in less than a month.”

“Maybe there is another connection,” Renie put in,

her umbrage evaporated. “What if they were all involved in some charitable cause or some other activity

not directly tied to their professional careers?”

Judith tipped her head to one side, considering. “It’s

possible. But who goes around bumping off people involved in good works or other civic activities?”

Renie shrugged. “Just a thought.”

“That’s fine,” Judith said. “Think all you want. It

helps. Anyway, we’ve got two causes of death allegedly nailed down—Somosa and Fremont, both from

illegal drugs. Randall may be the same, though I’m

guessing it was something different from the other

two, who were different from each other.”

“A different source for drugs?” Renie suggested.

Judith nodded. “We weren’t here so we don’t know

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139

the circumstances of the first two deaths. But Ecstasy

and that—whatever the date-rape drug is called—provide different kinds of reactions. Street drugs are available to anybody who knows where to get them. It’s a

little trickier to put them in an IV.”

Renie had placed the leftovers—such as they

were—into one of the smaller boxes and slipped it into

the drawer of her nightstand. “How do we know it was

an IV?”

“We don’t.” Judith made another note, then glanced

at her water carafe. “Everybody who has surgery is instructed to drink plenty of fluids. Not everybody likes

water or even juice. Look at your Pepsi stash. What if

Bill had slipped a little something into it?”

“He couldn’t,” Renie replied. “The cans are foolproof.”

“I mean, more accessible beverages. Besides,” Judith

went on with a sly smile, “Bill could doctor your Pepsi

after you’d opened it.”

“He wouldn’t dare!” Renie cried. “He knows better

than to screw with my Pepsi.”

“You know what I mean.” Judith twirled the pen in

her fingers. “The problem is, we don’t know what the

three victims were drinking at the time of their deaths.

I wonder if the staff took the possibility of tampered

beverages into account.”

“Judging from the state of denial they’re in,” Renie

said, waving her current can of Pepsi at Judith, “I

doubt it. The party line seems to be that each victim

was some kind of addict.”

“Which brings us to motive,” Judith said. “Hospital

politics. Who benefits from ruining Good Cheer’s reputation?”

“Dr. Garnett comes to mind,” Renie said. “He wants

to take over from Dr. Van Boeck.”

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Judith sighed. “Would a doctor really go to such extremes?”

“He’d know how to do it,” Renie said.

“True. Still . . . I like Blanche as a suspect. She’s

such a self-serving pain.”

“Why would she sabotage her own husband’s hospital?” asked Renie.

“Maybe she doesn’t like her husband,” Judith suggested.

“Maybe Sister Jacqueline doesn’t like either of

them,” Renie said.

“Are you considering a nun as a suspect?” Judith

asked, aghast.

“Well . . . nuns are human. Maybe it’s for the greater

good. You know, all those moral theology questions. Is

it a sin for a father to steal medicine to save his child’s

life? Et cetera.”

“Don’t go Jesuitical on me,” Judith cautioned.

“Okay, I’ll admit you have a point. We can’t rule anyone out.”

“What about the victims’ nearest and dearest?”

Renie inquired. “Since when have you not considered

them as prime suspects?”

Judith ran a hand through her short salt-and-pepper

hair. “Since nonpersonal motives seem more obvious.

Hospitals are big-bucks institutions. Not to mention

the power involved in running them. Let’s face it,

we’ve got at least four high-profile people involved—

Dr. Garnett, Dr. Van Boeck, Mrs. Van Boeck, and Sister Jacqueline.”

“Agreed,” said Renie. “But you can’t rule out the

lesser players.” She rolled over as far as she could on

her right side. “Look at it from this point of view—

maybe only one of the three victims needed to die. But

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141

in order to throw suspicion off, all three get killed so it

looks like a serial kind of thing. What if a rival player

on the Seafarers team wanted to get rid of Joaquin Somosa? Better yet, a rival actress at Le Repertoire who

felt Joan Fremont was standing in her way? Or something even more basic, such as Margie Randall being

sick and tired of Ramblin’ Robert?”

Judith reflected for a few moments. “All of them

could have some kind of enemies, I suppose. That is,

in a personal and professional sense. The trouble is, we

don’t know much about their private lives.”

“Exactly,” Renie said, lying back on the pillows.

“I’d rule out Addison Kirby, though,” Judith mused.

“I can’t help but think that the killer was the one who

ran him down this afternoon.”

“It could have been an accident,” Renie pointed out.

“Do you really think so?” Judith asked with a frown.

“No. That is, I can’t be sure. People drive like such

nuts these days.” Renie plucked at her blankets. “Not

to mention taking cars that don’t belong to them.”

“I figure that Addison’s on to something,” Judith

said, remembering to drink her water and taking a big

swallow. “Maybe not who the killer is, but related to

the motive.”

“Why Cammy?” Renie said. “Our Toyota is exactly

like thousands of cars out there in the city. It’s one of

the most popular brands in America. Why not steal a

Mercedes or a Cadillac or a Beamer?”

“Addison has been covering city hall,” Judith went

on, “which means he’s probably got the inside dope on

Blanche Van Boeck. But if it’s something ruinous, why

not kill him instead of his wife? Why kill Somosa and

Randall? Or, given Blanche’s clout, why not get Addison fired?”

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“What,” Renie demanded, “were those morons at

the Toyota place thinking of? They’re usually so reliable. Why wasn’t somebody watching Cammy? Why

did they leave the keys in the car?” She stopped and

made one of her typical futile attempts to snap her fingers. “Because they’d finished their work and sometimes they tuck the keys under the floor mat on the

driver’s side.” She hung her head. “Oh, my God, until

my shoulder heals, I won’t be able to drive Cammy for

months! Maybe we won’t ever ride in her again! What

if she’s been driven over a cliff?”

Judith sat up straight and glared at Renie. “Will you

shut up? ”

“Huh?” Renie swerved around to face Judith.

“What’s wrong?”

“I thought,” Judith said in an irritated voice, “we

were trying to sleuth.”

Renie stifled a yawn. “We were. We were trying to

figure out what happened to Cammy.”

“No, we weren’t,” Judith argued. “We were speculating about methods and motives.”

“You were,” Renie shot back. “You can afford to do

that, you have two cars, your Subaru and Joe’s MG.

Bill and I are now demoted to taking the bus.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Judith sniffed. “You have insurance, you can rent a car until Cammy turns up.

And if she—I mean, it—doesn’t, you can buy another

one.”

“Easy for you to say,” Renie snapped. “Go ahead,

feel all smug. See if I care.” She reached out with her

good arm and pulled the curtain between them.

Again, the room was silent. Someone was paging a

doctor over the intercom. A glimpse of hospital equipment could be seen rolling down the hall. Somewhere,

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143

female voices laughed. Judith sat up in bed, her arms

folded across her chest, her lower lip thrust out.

It was she who broke the silence. “Coz. We never

fight. What’s wrong with us?”

Judith heard Renie sigh. “We’re tired, we hurt,

we’ve been through major surgery, and we got a room

next to a corpse. My car’s been stolen, you’re stuck

with a major life decision about telling Mike who’s

who on his family tree. What else could be wrong?”

“You’re right,” Judith said. “We’re a mess.”

“Justifiably so,” said Renie, pulling the curtain back.

“It’s going on nine o’clock and we need a nap. I’m

shutting off the light.”

“Go for it,” murmured Judith, clicking off her own

bedside lamp. “Frankly, I’m exhausted.”

“We should be,” Renie said. “G’night.”

“Mmm,” said Judith.

Five minutes later, the night nurse, whose name was

Trudy and who wasn’t given to idle chatter, came in to

take the cousins’ vital signs and replenish their supply

of pain medication. Ten minutes later, a workman in

overalls arrived to check the thermostat.

“Kinda cold tonight, huh?” he said, fiddling with the

dial.

Judith and Renie didn’t respond.

“Still snowing,” he said, pounding on the radiator

with his fist. “Must be close to six inches out there.”

The cousins remained silent.

“Lots of accidents out there,” the workman said.

“Damned fools don’t know how to drive in this

weather. All those folks who move up here from California.”

Judith buried her head in the pillow; Renie chewed

on her blanket and swore under her breath.

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“Warm enough now?” the workman asked after yet

another bang on the radiator, which wheezed like a

dying asthmatic.

“Fine,” Judith bit off.

“Okey-dokey,” he said. “I’ll come back to check on

it later.”

“Don’t,” Renie said, “or I’ll have to kill you.”

“Har, har,” said the workman, who finally left.

Seven minutes later, Trudy returned. Judith knew it

was exactly seven minutes because she was now wide

awake and had been staring at her watch with its glowin-the-dark dial.

“You need to use the bedpan, Mrs. Flynn,” Trudy announced. “You haven’t voided for almost two hours.

Are you sure you’re drinking enough fluids?”

“Yes. No. I’m trying to sleep,” Judith said, sounding

cross.

“Plenty of time for that,” Trudy said. “It’s only a little after nine. Come, come, try to lift those hips.”

“Good Lord,” muttered Renie in a mutinous voice.

After the usual painful effort to move on and off the

bedpan, Judith mumbled her thanks to Trudy and

closed her eyes.

The radiator clanged and clanked, whistled and

hissed. After two minutes of what sounded like a oneman band, Renie pressed her buzzer.

“We can’t sleep with that damned thing making such

a racket,” she complained. “It was fine until Stoopnagle came in to supposedly fix it.”

Almost ten minutes passed before a male nurse

peeked in. Judith explained the problem. The nurse

said he’d see what he could do about it. The radiator

continued its atonal cacophony.

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145

“I’m wide awake,” Renie declared, sitting up and

turning her light back on. “Damn.”

“I am, too,” Judith grumbled. “It’s no joke about not

being able to get any rest in a hospital.”

“I’m hungry again,” Renie said. “I wonder if there’s

a microwave around here. Don’t the nurses usually

have one? I think I smelled popcorn earlier in the

evening.”

“Why do you need a microwave?” Judith asked.

“To heat the leftover chicken,” Renie responded. “I

don’t care much for cold chicken, unless it’s in a sandwich or a salad.”

“Go ask,” Judith said.

“They won’t tell me,” Renie replied, getting out of

bed. “I’ll take the chicken with me and see what I can

find. There’s a biscuit left over, too, and one piece of

corn. I might as well bring them along.”

“Good luck,” said Judith in a tired voice.

Renie was gone so long that Judith had almost fallen

asleep when her cousin returned.

“Pssst!” Renie called from the doorway.

“Huh?” Judith raised her head from the pillow and

tried to focus on Renie. “What?”

Renie gestured with her bag of food. “Mr. Mummy.

Sister Jacqueline just went in there and closed the

door.”

Struggling to sit up, Judith gave herself a shake.

“So?”

“Isn’t this a little late for a visit from the hospital administrator?” Renie asked, half in and half out of the

room.

“Maybe,” Judith allowed. “But is it suspicious?”

Renie stepped all the way inside, keeping her eye on

the closed door across the hall. “I think so. It’s pretty

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quiet out here right now. I was sneaking out of the staff

room, where I found a microwave, and I turned the

corner just in time to see Sister Jacqueline outside Mr.

Mummy’s room, looking very furtive. I ducked back

where she couldn’t see me, and when I peeked around

the corner again, she slipped inside.”

“Hunh. That is odd,” Judith conceded, finally wide

awake.

Renie sat down on the end of Judith’s bed, where

she could keep an eye on the hall. “I think there’s

something peculiar about Mr. Mummy.”

“I agree,” Judith said. “He’s very vague about his

family and where he lives. I can’t think of any reason

why, with a broken leg, his doctor would send him all

the way into the city to recuperate. It seems downright

fishy.”

After offering the leftovers to Judith, who insisted

she was still full, Renie was gnawing on a chicken

wing when the workman returned.

“So Clarabelle’s acting up tonight, is she?” The

workman chuckled. “Temperamental, that’s our Clarabelle. But then so’s Jo-Jo and Winnie and Dino.”

“Those would be radiators?” Renie asked. “You

name them?”

“Yep.” The workman, who Judith had noticed bore

the name of Curly embroidered on his overalls, chuckled some more. “After almost twenty years, you get to

know these things pretty well. Every radiator has its

own personality. Come on, Clarabelle, settle down.”

Curly whacked the radiator with a wrench. “Take RinTin-Tin next door. Last night, Rinty acted up something terrible. That football player, Bob Randall,

thought it was funny. He said it sounded like his old

Sea Auks coach on a bad Sunday. Too bad he passed

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147

on this morning.” Using the wrench, Curly turned

something on Clarabelle that let out a big stream of

vapor.

“Mr. Randall seemed all right last night, I take it,”

Judith said.

“What? Oh—yep, he seemed real chipper.” Curly

gave the radiator another whack. “That oughtta do it.”

He grinned at the cousins. “ ’Course, I’d be chipper,

too, if I had a pint of Wild Turkey under the covers.”

“He had booze stashed away?” Renie said in mild

surprise.

“Sure,” Curly replied, adjusting the radiator one last

time. “You’d be surprised what people smuggle in

here.” Renie’s overflowing wastebasket with its telltale

Bubba’s chicken boxes caught his eye. “Then again,

maybe you wouldn’t.”

“Do the patients bring these illicit items in,” Judith

inquired, “or do other people sneak them past the front

door?”

“Both,” Curly answered, moving toward the door.

“A couple of months ago, one guy brought in his barbecue grill. Damned near set the place on fire. Smoke

everywhere, all the alarms went off, everybody in a

panic. A shame, really, he burned up some mighty finelooking T-bones.”

“Terrible,” Judith remarked. “I don’t suppose Mr.

Randall mentioned who brought him the liquor.”

“That was the funny part,” Curly said, swinging his

wrench like a baton. “He swore he didn’t know where it

came from. A Good Samaritan, he insisted. I should

know such good guys. Wild Turkey’s the best. I feel real

bad about him dying. He was a swell guy, and not just

as a ballplayer. He even offered me a swig out of his

bottle.”

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Judith’s eyes narrowed. “Did you accept?”

Curly shook his head, which, in fact, was adorned

with a crown of gray curls. “Nope. I was on duty. The

good sisters here, they got rules.”

“I can see why you want to abide by them,” Judith

said with a smile. “Your job must be a challenge.

Everything in this hospital is so old, and I understand

that they’d rather fix it than replace it. Besides, you get

to meet some fascinating patients. Did you happen to

get acquainted with Joan Fremont or Joaquin Somosa

before they . . . ah . . . departed?”

Curly scratched his neck. “That actress? No, can’t say

that I did. No problems with her room. But Somosa’s TV

got unplugged somehow, so I went in there to get it going

for him. Nice guy, great arm. But his English wasn’t all

that hot. He seemed kind of agitated and kept saying

something about a bear. I guess he’d seen it on TV before

the set got unplugged. Anyway, I tried the nature channels, but no bears. Poor fella—I heard he died not more

than twenty minutes after I fixed the set and left.”

“Goodness,” Judith murmured. “That’s terrible.”

Curly shrugged. “It happens in hospitals. You get

kinda used to it. But it’s a damned—excuse my language—shame when people go before their time. The

Seafarers will miss him in the rotation this season.”

“The team will have to trade for a new ace,” Renie

said. “Not that I have much faith in Tubby Turnbull.

He’ll end up giving two hot minor league prospects

away for a first aid kit and a case of wienies.”

“Har, har,” laughed Curly. “Ain’t that the truth? You

gotta wonder why the Seafarers don’t fire his ass—excuse my language. But maybe he’s got pictures. If you

know what I mean.” Curly winked, waved the wrench,

and left the room.

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149

“A bear?” said Judith.

“The drugs,” Renie responded. “They were probably taking effect. Poor Joaquin must have been hallucinating.”

“It’s really awful,” Judith said, taking another sip of

water. “Here these three people were, helpless and

trusting.”

“Like us,” Renie noted. “Helpless, anyway,” she

amended.

Judith looked askance. “Yes. It’s something to ponder.”

“Let’s not,” Renie said. “Let’s go to sleep.”

Judith agreed that that was a good idea.

But she fretted for some time, wondering if, in fact,

they hadn’t put themselves in danger by asking too

many questions. The killer was faceless, unidentifiable. Anyone they talked to—Curly, Heather, Torchy,

the doctors, the rest of the nurses, even the orderlies—

could be hiding behind a deadly mask.

Judith slept, but not deeply or securely. Indeed, she

had never felt quite so helpless. Her dreams were not

filled with homicidal maniacs, however, but with family. Dan. Mike. Joe. Gertrude. Effie. Kristin. Little

Mac. The faces floated through her unconscious, but

only one spoke: It was Mike, and he kept saying, “Who

am I?”

Judith tried to answer, but the words wouldn’t come

out. She felt as if she had no breath, and awoke to find

that she’d been crying.

TEN

ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, breakfast was again

palatable. Dr. Ming and Dr. Alfonso made early

rounds, assuring both patients that they were making progress. Judith would take a few steps later in

the day, said Dr. Alfonso. Renie could try flexing

her right wrist a few times, according to Dr. Ming.

“You need to keep from getting too weak,” Dr. Alfonso said to Judith.

“You don’t want to tighten up,” Dr. Ming said to

Renie.

After their surgeons had left and Corinne Appleby had taken their vitals and added more pain

medication to the IVs, the cousins looked at each

other.

“Are we atrophying?” Renie asked.

“Probably,” Judith responded, glancing at the

morning paper, which had been delivered along

with breakfast. “Guess what, we didn’t stay up late

enough last night to see the news.”

“You’re right,” Renie said, making an attempt to

brush her short chestnut hair, which went off in several uncharted directions. “Do you see anything in

the paper about Addison’s accident or Blanche’s impromptu press conference?”

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151

Judith studied the front page, which was full of national and international news, all of it bad. “No, I don’t

even see a story about Bob Randall’s death. I’ll check

the local news.”

“Toss me the sports and the business sections,”

Renie requested, reaching out with her good arm.

Judith complied. “Here,” she said, “on page one of

the second section—‘Former Star Quarterback Dies

Following Knee Surgery.’ There’s not more than two

inches of copy, along with a small picture of Bob that

was taken in his playing days.”

“What?” Renie gaped at Judith. “That’s it?”

“The article only says that the surgery was pronounced successful, his death was unexpected, and he

had been in good health otherwise. There’s a brief

recap of his career, lifetime stats, and how he once

saved two children from a house fire and received an

official commendation from the governor.”

“What about Blanche?” Renie asked.

“I’m looking. I . . .” Judith’s head swiveled away

from the paper as Margie Randall, wearing her blue

volunteer’s jacket, tapped tentatively on the door

frame.

“Hello. May I come in?” Margie inquired in an uncertain voice. Her pale blonde pageboy was limp, and

her delicate features seemed to have sharpened with

grief.

“Of course,” Judith responded. “Mrs. Randall?

We’re very sorry for your loss.”

Margie slid her hands up her sleeves and hugged

herself. “Oh, so am I! How will I manage without darling Bob?”

“I was widowed when I was about your age,” Judith

said kindly. My grief was only for the waste that had

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been Dan’s life, not for me. “Somehow I managed.”

Much better, after he was gone. “I had to learn to stand

on my own two feet.” Instead of letting Dan’s four

hundred plus pounds lean on me until I was about to

collapse from worry and exhaustion.

“Easy to say.” Margie sighed, taking small, unsteady

steps into the room. “I feel as if my whole world has

fallen apart.”

“You’re working today?” Renie asked, her tone

slightly incredulous.

Slowly, Margie turned to look at Renie, who hadn’t

quite managed to tame her wayward hair. Several

strands were standing up, out, and every which way.

She looked like a doll that had been in a cedar chest too

long.

“Yes,” Margie replied softly. “We couldn’t make the

funeral arrangements until this afternoon because of

the autopsy, so I felt obligated to come in today. I can’t

let my patients and their families down. So many need

cheering. How are you feeling? I wasn’t able to visit

with you yesterday because of . . .” She burst into tears

and struggled to find a Kleenex in her jacket pockets.

“We’re okay,” Renie said in a chipper voice.

“Is there anything we can do for you?” Judith inquired with concern.

Margie shook her head. “N-n-no. I’ll be fine.” She

dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. “Please tell me

if you’re comfortable, if there’s anything you need.”

She gazed at Judith with red-rimmed eyes. “Hip replacement surgery, I believe? Oh, dear, that can be so

dangerous! I can’t tell you how many patients dislocate

within a short time of being sent home. It’s terribly

painful, worse than childbirth.”

“Really?” Judith’s dark eyes were wide.

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Margie turned back to Renie. “Shoulder?” She nodded several times. “You never really recover from rotator cuff surgery. Oh, they tell you, ninety, even

ninety-five percent, but it’s nowhere near that high, especially if you’re past a Certain Age. You’ll be fortunate if you can ever raise your arm past your waist.”

“Gee, thanks,” said Renie in a bleak voice. “I feel so

much better since you came to see us.”

“Good,” Margie said, dabbing again at her eyes.

“Anything I can do to cheer you, just let me—” She

stopped and turned as two young people stood at the

door. “Oh! My children! How sad!”

Mother, daughter, and son embraced in a three-way

wallowing of hugs. Margie’s tears ran afresh. “Let me

introduce you,” she blubbered to the cousins. “This is

Nancy, and this is Bob Jr., my poor semiorphans!”

Nancy Randall was a pale, gaunt younger version of

her mother except that her hair hung below her shoulders. Bob Jr. was thin, with rimless glasses, scanty

blond hair, and sunken cheeks. They both waved listlessly at Judith and Renie, who waved back. Neither of

the Randall offspring spoke.

“They’re numb with grief,” Margie lamented, a hand

on each of her children’s arms. “Come, darlings, let me

get you some nice Moonbeam’s coffee from the staff

room. Then we can talk about the funeral. We’ll make

some wonderful plans.” With a surprisingly energetic

wave, Margie Randall left the cousins in peace.

“Jeez,” Renie shuddered, “she’s a real crepe pants,

as my mother would say.”

“Those poor kids,” Judith said. “They look awful. It

can’t be just grief—they look like they’ve been drawn

through a knothole—as my mother would say.”

Renie nodded. “Bill was right. Something’s wrong

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with them. I mean, really wrong.” She got out of bed

and gazed through the window. “It’s stopped snowing. I’ll bet we got at least a foot. It’s beautiful out

there.”

“Maybe I can walk far enough to look outside later

today,” Judith said, digging into her purse. “Maybe I

won’t pass out if I try.”

“What’re you doing?” Renie asked as Judith began

dumping items onto the bed.

“I’m looking for something bigger than my little

notebook to start putting together the family tree. I

don’t suppose—you being an artist and all—you’d

have any drawing paper with you?”

“I do, actually,” Renie replied, going to the coat

closet. “I’ve got a pad tucked away in the side of my

suitcase. Hang on.”

A moment later, Renie produced the drawing pad,

but wore a puzzled expression. “That’s odd. I could

have sworn I closed this suitcase. I mean, I know I did,

or the lid would have opened and everything would’ve

fallen out.”

“Has somebody been snooping?” Judith asked in apprehension.

Renie was going through the small suitcase. “I guess

so. My makeup bag’s unzipped. I always close it when

I’m finished.” She turned around to stare at Judith.

“Who? When? Why?”

Judith gave a faint shake of her head. “While we

were asleep, I suppose. That’s when. But who and why

are blanks I can’t fill in.”

“Nothing’s been taken,” Renie said, going through

the few belongings she’d brought along. “Of course

there’s always the problem of thievery in a hospital.

None of them are sacred.”

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155

Judith agreed. “Some people, especially borderline

poverty types, can’t resist temptation.”

“How about just plain crooks?” Renie said, now

angry. She slammed the lid shut and closed the clasps

with a sharp snap. “I suppose that’s who it was. It’s a

damned good thing I didn’t have anything valuable in

there except for a twenty-five-dollar lipstick that the

would-be thief probably figured was from Woolworth’s. Let me check your train case.”

“I locked it,” Judith said. “It’s just a habit. I used to

hide any extra money I earned from tips at the Meat &

Mingle in there. If I hadn’t, Dan would have spent it on

Twinkies and booze.”

Renie checked the train case to make sure. “It looks

okay.” She stood up and handed over the drawing pad.

Judith offered her cousin a grateful smile and then

sighed. “I feel as if I’m about to sign my life away.”

“Put it down on paper and see how it looks,” Renie

suggested, glancing up from the newspaper. “That’s

what I do with my work. If it seems okay, then it’s

right, then it’s Truth.”

“Uh-huh,” Judith responded without enthusiasm.

She started with Mac and a question mark for the baby

to come, then put in Mike and Kristin. Next, she wrote

in her own name, Judith Anne Grover McMonigle

Flynn. Then she stopped. “Here I go,” she said, and incisively lettered in Joseph Patrick Flynn above Mike’s

name. “It’s official. Joe is down here in black and

white as Mike’s real father.”

“I’ll be damned,” Renie said in amazement.

“Did you think I was a complete coward?” Judith retorted with a faintly hostile glance.

“What?” Renie turned away from the newspaper.

“I’m not talking about you. I’m referring to this brief

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and almost-buried article in the business section. Listen: ‘Restoration Heartware of North America yesterday reiterated its intention to expand its medical

facilities beyond cardiac care. The Cleveland-based

firm has shown interest in a half-dozen orthopedic facilities in the United States, including Good Cheer

Hospital, which is currently owned and operated by the

Sisters of Good Cheer. A spokesperson for Good

Cheer stated that the religious order is not interested in

any kind of merger or buyout at this time.’ Is that

spokesperson Blanche Van Boeck?”

Intrigued, Judith leaned on one elbow to face her

cousin. “Who’s asking the question?”

“Me,” Renie replied. “The article doesn’t identify

the spokesperson. Maybe that’s because Blanche

isn’t official. Why didn’t Dr. Van Boeck or Sister

Jacqueline meet with the press? How come Blanche

barged in instead? The morning paper must have gotten this from the TV news story, since KLIP seemed

to be the only one asking questions out here in the

hall yesterday.”

Judith was also puzzled. “You know a lot more

about the business world than I do, coz. What do you

make of all this?”

With her disheveled hair standing on end, the big

bandage on her shoulder, the blue sling on her arm, and

the baggy hospital gown sagging around her figure,

Renie’s boardroom face looked more like it belonged

in the bathroom. Still, she approached the question

with her customary professionalism.

“There’s a conspiracy of silence about Good Cheer,”

she said. “It’s not necessarily malevolent or mysterious. Any institution or business enterprise deplores

speculative publicity and rumors. If a company is ripe

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for a takeover or a merger, they feel vulnerable, like a

wounded animal. It’s a sign of weakness, particularly

when stockholders are involved. The top brass go to

ground to wait for the worst to blow over.”

“Are you saying,” Judith inquired, “that Good Cheer

is in financial trouble?”

“Many hospitals are in financial trouble,” Renie answered. “In the past few years, I’ve done brochures and

letterheads and other design projects for at least three

hospitals, including our own HMO. All of them were

very bottom-line conscious, and all of them expressed

serious concerns about keeping afloat.”

Judith nodded. “I understand that modern medicine

is a mess, but it seems impossible in a country as rich

and supposedly smart as the United States that we

could have gotten into such a fix. No wonder Mother

keeps ranting about how Harry Truman tried to get universal medical coverage legislation through Congress

over fifty years ago, and how if he couldn’t do it, nobody could. And nobody has.”

“Very sad, very shortsighted,” Renie agreed. “But in

the case of Good Cheer, I get the impression that

they’re simply trying to survive. Certainly the nuns

would hate to give up the hospital. There may be a

shortage of vocations, but certainly nursing—and administrative skills—are worthwhile in a religious community. Not to mention that they’re drawing cards for

women who are contemplating a vocation. If the Sisters of Good Cheer don’t have a hospital to run and patients to care for, what will they do? Medicine is their

tradition of service.”

“It’s sad,” Judith sighed. “If it’s true.” She gazed up

at the statue of Mary with the infant Jesus. The plaster

was a bit cracked and the paint a trifle chipped, but the

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Virgin’s expression was easy to read: She looked worried, and Judith couldn’t blame her.

“It’s the whole bigger-is-better mentality,” Renie

said in disgust. “By the time our kids are our age,

about four people will own everything in the world.

It’ll be stifling, stupid, and I’ll be damned glad to be either dead or gaga.”

“Don’t say that, coz,” Judith said in mild reproach.

“And don’t get off on a tangent. You still haven’t explained why you think there’s a cover-up.”

“Do I need to?” Renie snapped. “There are tons of

reasons for a cover-up. Good Cheer may be losing

money hand over fist. They’re certainly losing patients

in a most terrible way. The hospital and the religious

order have their reputations on the line. So do individuals, like Dr. Van Boeck, Dr. Garnett, Sister Jacqueline. With Blanche in their corner—or at least in the

hospital’s corner—there’s enough clout to muzzle the

media. Except, of course, for a rogue reporter like Addison Kirby, who’s not only something of a star in his

own right, but who has a personal stake in all this because of what happened to his wife.”

Judith paused as the mop brigade arrived. Two

middle-aged women, one Pakistani and the other

Southeast Asian, silently and efficiently began cleaning Judith’s half of the room. When they reached the

other side where Renie had trashed her sector, they

looked at each other in dismay. In her native tongue,

the Pakistani rattled off a string of what, in any language, sounded like complaints. The Southeast Asian

looked mystified, but responded with her own invective, jabbing a finger at Renie and scowling.

“Hey, what did I do? I’m crippled,” Renie said,

holding up her good hand. “I can’t help myself.”

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159

Both women directed their unintelligible, if vitriolic,

comments to Renie. The Pakistani shook her finger;

the Southeast Asian stamped her foot. Renie looked

dazed.

“Hey, girlfriends,” she finally said, raising her voice

to be heard, “knock it off. You’re giving me a relapse.”

The women didn’t stop. In fact, the Southeast Asian

pointed to the wastebasket and glared at Renie in a warning manner. The Pakistani waved her arms at all the clutter on the nightstand, narrowing her eyes at Archie the

doll, who grinned back in his eternally cheerful manner.

“Touch Archie and prepare to be the next patient in

the OR with a broken arm,” Renie warned.

The cleaning women looked at Renie, again at

Archie, and then at each other. They shook their heads.

Then they shook their fingers at Renie.

“That’s it,” Renie said. “I’m dead.” She closed her

eyes and disappeared under the covers.

The cleaning women simply stared at the mound in

the bed and shook their heads. Then they resumed their

work and began chattering to each other, though it was

clear to Judith that neither of them understood what the

other was saying. A few minutes later, they left, and

Renie came up for air.

“Finally,” she gasped. “I feel like I’ve been smothered.”

“You can’t really blame the cleaning women,” Judith chided. “You do make a terrible mess.”

“Nonsense,” Renie scoffed, tearing open a pack of

gum and tossing the wrapper on the floor. “You know

I’m a decent housekeeper.”

“In your own house,” Judith noted, then gave her

cousin a coy smile. “I wonder if Addison Kirby would

like a visitor this morning.”

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“Meaning me,” Renie grumbled. “I’ll be glad when

I can dump you in a wheelchair and send you off on

your own.”

“So will I,” Judith retorted. “Do you think I like

lying around like a bump on a log?”

Renie was getting out of bed. “I’m going to go wash

my hair and take a shower,” she said, unhooking the IV

bag and carrying it in her good hand. “I’ll visit Mr.

Kirby on the way back when I’m clean and beautiful.”

After watching her cousin traipse off to the shower

area, Judith returned to the family tree with an air of

resignation. Joe’s mother was already dead by the time

Judith had met the family. His father, known as Jack,

but named John, had been a bombastic man with a barrel chest and a booming voice. He drank too much, he

worked only when he felt like it, and after his wife

died, he’d let their four sons fend for themselves. That

all of them had achieved a certain measure of success

in life was due, Judith felt, to their own ambition and

determination, along with a debt they felt they owed

their mother, who had put up with a great deal before

dying of cancer two days before her fortieth birthday.

Mary Margaret Flynn had been a redhead, like Joe.

Like Effie McMonigle, too. Judith considered Effie. If

she found out that Dan wasn’t Mike’s father, that she

wasn’t his grandmother or Little Mac’s greatgrandmother—the pen dropped from Judith’s hand. It

was too cruel. Effie was a selfish woman, but not without reason. Her husband, Dan’s father, had left her for

another woman. She had become bitter and very protective of herself and her only child. Judith had always

felt sorry for her mother-in-law. Maybe Effie would

never find out the truth. Judith looked up at the statue

of the Madonna and child again, and said a little prayer

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for her mother-in-law. Then she looked at the statue of

the Sacred Heart and said a prayer for herself. Having

created a monstrous deception, there seemed to be no

way out of it without the risk of hurting someone. Judith wished she weren’t such a convincing liar.

A pale blonde head edged around the doorway.

“Ma’am?” said a pitiful voice.

Judith turned away from the statues. “Yes?” she responded, then saw Nancy Randall hesitate before moving into the room.

“Excuse me,” Nancy said. “Did my mother leave her

worry beads in here?”

“Her worry beads?” Judith responded, then added

without thinking: “Does she really need them?”

“I beg your pardon?” Nancy’s china blue eyes were

wide. “Yes, they’re a great comfort to her. She used to

say the rosary, but she got too depressed when she recited the five Sorrowful Mysteries.”

“She should have concentrated on the Joyous and

Glorious Mysteries,” Judith said before guilt tripped

up her tongue. “I’m sorry, that was flippant. Do come

in and look around. If your mother dropped her beads,

I didn’t see them. But lying here in bed, I’m at a disadvantage.”

“Yes,” Nancy said slowly, bending down to search

the floor. “I don’t see them, either. Mother is at a disadvantage, too. She can’t plan my father’s funeral

without those worry beads.”

“Surely you and your brother can help her,” Judith

said in a kindly voice. “What about your uncle Jim? Is

he here, too?”

“Not today,” Nancy replied, kneeling by Renie’s

bed. “He’s very upset. And he’s not well, either.”

“What’s wrong?” Judith inquired.

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Nancy, looking frustrated, stood up. “They aren’t

sure. He’s had all sorts of tests. A CAT scan, an MRI,

ultrasounds. Uncle Jim has never been in good health.

He’s just the opposite of my father. They were mirror

twins, you see.”

“Yes,” Judith said. “Your uncle mentioned that. I’d

never heard of it before.”

“It’s fairly unusual,” Nancy said, her eyes drifting

around the room. “Bobby—my brother—and I are

twins, too, but not identical.”

“Yes,” Judith replied, “I can see that.”

“Thank you,” Nancy said, and wandered out of the

room.

“Vague,” Judith thought, “very vague.”

She returned to the family tree, reluctantly omitting

Effie McMonigle. The phone rang as she was trying to

remember Kristin’s mother’s first name.

“Jude-girl,” said Joe, sounding chipper. “We found

Ernest.”

“Ernest?” Judith frowned into the receiver. “Oh! The

snake. Good. Dare I ask where he was?”

“Well . . . Ha-ha!” Joe’s laugh was unnatural. “How

about around your mother’s neck?”

“That’s not funny, Joe,” Judith said in a warning

voice. “Where was this horrible boa constrictor who

should never have been permitted inside the B&B in

the first place?”

Joe’s tone grew serious, if not remorseful. “He was

in the garbage can under the kitchen sink.”

“Oh, dear. Who found him?”

“Arlene,” Joe replied. “This morning, while she was

making French toast for the guests.”

“What . . . did . . . Arlene . . . do?” Judith asked with

trepidation.

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“She grabbed the snake and turned the clothes basket upside down on him,” Joe explained. “Then she

went back to fixing French toast.”

Judith had a feeling that the story wasn’t over.

“What about Ernest’s owners, the Pettigrews?”

“Well . . . They were worried, of course.” Joe

paused. “But they were waiting for breakfast and I

guess Arlene sort of forgot to tell them about Ernest.

Phyliss Rackley showed up about then, and the first

thing she did was—Hold it.” Joe went away from the

phone, and Judith heard voices in the background. She

could barely make out her husband’s words but she

caught fragments that sounded like “. . . can’t make

it . . . let the medics walk . . . only five blocks . . .

chains? Oh, good.”

“Joe?” Judith called into the phone. “Joe!”

“What?”

“What’s going on, Joe?” Judith demanded. “Did

something happen to Phyliss? I can’t afford to lose my

cleaning woman when I’m laid up like this.”

“Well . . . It seems that Phyliss grabbed the laundry

basket to take upstairs so she could strip the beds, and

as you might imagine, the snake got loose, and—” Joe

stopped speaking as Judith heard the cleaning woman

shriek in the background:

“Lucifer! Satan! Beelzebub! He’s on the loose,

tempting sinners! Look out, Lord, he may be coming

after me! Keep him away, Lord! I don’t want to wear

scanty underwear and dance to suggestive music!”

“You hear that?” Joe asked. “Phyliss passed out cold

when she saw the snake, but she’s come to now.”

“Oh, good grief!” Judith cried, raking her fingers

over her scalp. “Is she okay?”

“Not exactly,” Joe replied calmly as voices contin-164

Mary Daheim

ued to sound in the background. “She came to, but she

swears she’s having a heart attack. Arlene says it’s just

gas, but you know Phyliss, she’s kind of a hypochondriac.”

Phyliss Rackley was indeed a hypochondriac as well

as a religious zealot. But she was also a terrific cleaning woman. Judith hung her head. “What’s happening

now? Did you say ‘medics’?”

“Yes, yes, I did,” Joe replied, still keeping his voice

calm. “Phyliss insisted we call an ambulance. But the

medics were having trouble getting up the hill with all

this snow. Even with chains, they had trouble, but they

think they can make it if they give it another try.”

“Where is Phyliss?” Judith asked, aware that a

global-sized headache was setting in.

“On the sofa in the living room,” Joe said. “Really,

she seems okay. I wish Arlene wasn’t trying to get her

to take all that Gas-X, though. That can produce some

pretty revolting results with somebody like Phyliss.”

“What about the damned snake?”

“The snake?” Joe hesitated. “A good question. I’m

not sure.”

“Joe . . .”

“I’ll check. Right away. Hey, I really called to see

how you were feeling this morning.”

“How do you think I feel?” Judith retorted. “I feel

absolutely awful. I’m hanging up now so you can

straighten out this horrible mess. I’m not even going to

ask how the rest of the guests are managing. Goodbye.” Judith slammed down the phone with a big bang.

Bob Randall Jr. stood in the doorway. “Excuse me,”

he said in a diffident voice, “have you seen my sister,

Nancy?”

“Yes,” Judith said in a testy voice. “She was here

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and then she left. She couldn’t find your mother’s

worry beads.”

“Oh.” Bob Jr. looked forlorn. “Darn.”

Judith regretted her sharp tone. It wasn’t Bob Jr.’s

fault that she was in a bad mood. “I imagine Nancy

went off to search wherever else your mother had been

after she’d called on us.”

But Bob Jr. shook his head. “Mom wasn’t anywhere

else after we met her in this room. We went straight

down to the staff lounge.”

“What about before your mother came in here?” Judith asked, making an effort to be helpful.

Bob Jr. had moved closer to the bed, and appeared

as if he’d like to sit down. “Do you mind?” he asked,

pointing to the chair and panting a bit.

“Not at all,” Judith replied. “Do you feel ill?”

“Sometimes.” Bob Jr. sat down with a heavy sigh. “I

think Mom called on Mr. Kirby before she came to see

you and that other lady. I’ll check in there as soon as I

catch my breath. He’s close by, right?”

Judith nodded. “Next door.”

Bob Jr. also nodded, but didn’t speak.

“Have you been hurrying?” Judith asked, still feeling a need to make up for her previous curt manner.

Bob Jr. shook his head. “No. It’s my condition.”

“Oh?” Judith put on her most sympathetic expression. “Would it be rude to ask what that might be?”

“Yes.” The young man took a deep breath, then got

to his feet.

“I’m sorry,” Judith apologized. “I won’t pry anymore.” She paused, hoping that Bob Jr. might give her

a hint. But he just stood there, looking desolate. “How

is your mother doing with the funeral plans? It must be

very hard for her.”

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“It is,” Bob Jr. said, very solemn. “Sometimes she

feels like she’s responsible for all these deaths.”

“Why is that?” Judith inquired.

“Because,” Bob Jr. said, “she thinks she was the vessel.” Anxiously, he looked over his shoulder, toward

the hallway. “I’ll check with Mr. Kirby now. I should

have done that first before coming in here. I know how

anxious my mother was to see him.”

Bob Randall Jr. made his exit, leaving Judith puzzled. And very curious.

ELEVEN

BOB JR. HAD scarcely been gone more than a few

seconds when Renie returned. “In the nick of time,”

she said. “I just met Bob Jr. going into Addison

Kirby’s room as I was leaving.” Renie stopped at the

end of Judith’s bed and peered at her cousin.

“What’s wrong? You look miffed.”

“I am miffed,” Judith declared. “My replacements

are running amok.”

Renie tipped her head and gazed at Judith’s left

hip. “I thought you only had one.”

“I don’t mean that,” Judith said with a wave of

her arm. “I mean, my replacements at the B&B. It’s

that damned snake they let in.”

“Enough with the snakes!” Renie cried, yanking

the blanket from Judith’s bed and putting it over her

head. “You know I hate snakes. I don’t want to hear

another word about that creepy thing.”

Judith, however, prevailed, her attitude conveying

just how sorry she felt for herself and how little

sympathy she had for Renie. As for Hillside

Manor’s reputation, Judith was certain that it was

hopelessly tarnished.

When Judith had finished her tale of woe, Renie

peeked out from under the blanket. “Phyliss,” she

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declared, “is not having a heart attack or whatever she

claims. She’s merely trying to get attention.”

“That’s the least of my worries. Marooned guests,

reptiles on the loose, whoopee cushions, emergency

vehicles in the cul-de-sac—why can’t I be allowed an

unencumbered recovery?” Judith reached for her water

glass, took a big swallow, and choked.

Renie replaced the blanket, doing her best to tuck in

the corners. “Are you okay?”

Between splutters, Judith nodded. “Yes,” she

gasped. “I’m just frustrated. For about a hundred reasons. Tell me about Addison Kirby and I’ll tell you

about the younger Randall twins.”

“Twins?” Renie looked intrigued.

“Yes, but not identical,” Judith deadpanned.

“No, I guess not.” Renie shifted around on the bed,

trying to make herself more comfortable while not disturbing Judith’s leg and hip. “Addison’s in pretty good

shape this morning. Or, as he put it, he’s still alive,

which I gather sort of surprised him.”

“I can imagine,” Judith said. “He may have thought

he’d end up like his wife, Joan.”

“Right. Anyway, he was reluctant to talk at first, not

that I blame him. He doesn’t know me, I could be a

maniacal killer.” Renie stopped as her phone rang.

“Drat. Let’s hope it’s not my mother.” She managed to

grab the receiver on the fourth ring. “Hi!” she said with

a big smile, propping the phone between her chin and

shoulder. “Yes, I’m feeling better . . . Don’t feel bad

about not being able to come see me, Tom . . . No, I realize you can’t go to work. Oh? . . . Then ask your

dad . . . He’s what? ” Renie’s jaw had dropped and she

was staring at Judith.

“To what purpose?” Renie said into the phone as

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her good hand clawed at her hair. “Why? Where?

Don’t you dare let them near Clarence! . . . What?

How much smaller? What are they, rats or dogs? Oh,

good night!”

There was a long pause as her son apparently offered some sort of explanation. At last Renie spoke

again. “If you find out, let me know. Or call for the

men with the white coats and the butterfly net. Meanwhile, I don’t know why you need money—you can’t

go anywhere . . . Oh, good grief! If you can ski down

Heraldsgate Hill, you could get to work. Really, you’re

thirty-one years old and it’s about time you got a serious job instead of making tacos at Miguel’s

Muncheria. Good-bye, my son. I’m having a relapse.”

With a weary expression, Renie replaced the receiver.

“Bill found two Chihuahuas, lost in the snow up at the

park by our house. He’s taken them in and has dressed

one in a tuxedo and the other in University of Wisconsin sweats.”

It was Judith’s turn to stare. “What?”

“I don’t know why,” Renie responded, holding her

head. “My husband’s a psychologist. Therefore, he

can’t possibly be crazy. Can he?”

“Dare I ask where he got a tuxedo that would fit a

Chihuahua?”

Renie glanced at Archie the doll. “It’s Archie’s formal wear. The dogs are very small, not as big as

Clarence,” she added, referring to the Joneses’ lopeared rabbit. “In fact, the sweats belong to Clarence,

but he never wears them. The last time we dressed him

in them, he ate the Badger logo off the front.” She

paused, holding her head. “I should never leave Bill

alone for too long, especially now that he’s retired.”

Judith didn’t feel up to making sense out of her

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cousin’s report. Renie and Bill had a strange

menagerie of creatures, both living and stuffed. Sometimes it was best not to ask too many questions. “Could

we go back to Addison Kirby?” Judith pleaded. “You’d

begun to get something useful out of him.”

“I had?” Renie pulled the covers up to her neck.

“Brrr . . . it’s cold in here. I don’t think Clarabelle is

working full-time, either.” She glanced at the radiator,

which was emitting asthmatic hissing sounds. “Yes,

Addison definitely thinks that his wife, Somosa, and

Randall were murdered. However, he has absolutely no

idea who did it.”

Judith frowned. “Was he going to write up his suspicions for the paper?”

“He can’t,” Renie said. “He has to have facts, evidence, just like a cop. That’s what he was trying to

gather when he got hit by the car. He’d talked to the

Randall kids, but they weren’t much help. He’d interviewed Somosa’s widow in the Dominican Republic

via long distance a couple of days ago, before Bob

Randall died. Addison said she wasn’t much help. Her

English is almost nonexistent and she seemed inclined

to blame her husband’s death on God’s will. Addison

doesn’t agree, and neither do I. It’d be more likely that

the teams in the rest of our division did Somosa in. But

that’s not realistic, either.”

“What about Tubby Turnbull?” Judith asked. “Did

Addison find him helpful?”

Renie gave Judith a sardonic look. “Has Tubby ever

been helpful to anyone? After hemming and hawing

and trying to figure out if he’d put his pants on backwards, Tubby insisted he couldn’t think of anyone connected to the team who’d want Joaquin out of the way.

He was popular with the other players, the press liked

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him, management considered him a huge part of the

franchise, and even his agent is a good guy—as sports

agents go. Anyway, the agent works out of New York.

He hasn’t been out this way since the end of last season.”

Judith gave a faint nod. “Nothing there, as far as we

can tell.” She pondered the matter of Joaquin Somosa

for a few moments. “The bear,” she said suddenly.

“What did he mean by saying ‘a bear’ and pointing to

the TV?”

Renie frowned at Judith. “I told you, he must have

been hallucinating. Why else would he keep saying ‘a

bear, a bear, a bear’?” Renie’s scowl faded as she

clapped her hand to her head. “A bear—in Spanish,

that would be aver, to see. Maybe he couldn’t see—the

TV or anything else. The drugs might have been taking

effect. Doesn’t Ecstasy blind you?”

“I’m not sure,” Judith said, “but it would fit. All I

really know is that it does terrible things, including

making you crazy. Joaquin must have ingested it just

before the repairman, Curly, got to his room. I wonder

who’d been there ahead of him?”

“We don’t know,” Renie responded with a helpless

look.

“That’s the trouble,” Judith said. “We weren’t

around when these other deaths occurred and it’s almost impossible to get any concrete information out of

the staff. I sure wish Maya was still here.” She sighed

and rearranged herself on the pillows. “What about

Joan Fremont? Did she and Addison sound like a

happy couple?”

“Yes,” Renie responded, delving into her goodies

stash and hauling out some cheese and crackers. “Want

some?”

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“No, thanks.”

“Addison didn’t make a big deal of it,” Renie continued, “which indicated to me that the marriage must

have been solid. You know, if he’d gone on and on

about how devoted they were and all that junk, I’d have

figured him for a phony.”

“What about their kids?” inquired Judith.

Renie shrugged and chewed on her crackers. “They

haven’t been in town since Thanksgiving, which, alas,

was the last time they saw their mother alive. I mean,

they came for the funeral. But I got the impression they

were a close family, emotionally, if not geographically.”

“What about Joan’s colleagues at Le Repertoire?”

Renie shrugged again. “By and large, she got along

with most of them. Addison indicated that she wasn’t

happy with the direction the theater was going—too

much emphasis on social issues, rather than good

drama. But he didn’t know of any big rift. As for socalled rivals, he said that there were always some of

those. The theater is full of big egos. But Joan knew

how to handle them. She was a veteran, a real pro.”

“Gosh,” Judith said in a bleak voice, “it sounds as if

the community has lost more than just talent. Both

Joan and Joaquin sound like decent, upstanding human

beings. Did Addison say anything about Bob Randall?

We know he was brave both on and off the field. Bob

saved some lives, as well as games.”

“Addison hadn’t had time to do more than speak

with Nancy and Bob Jr.,” Renie responded after she’d

devoured two crackers and another chunk of cheese.

“As you might guess from the looks of them, they

weren’t a lot of help. Like their mother, they seem ineffectual and unable to cope with the rest of the world.

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I sure wish Bill would open the vault on his blasted patient confidentiality and let us know what’s going on.”

“Tell me,” Judith said, making yet another attempt

to get comfortable in the bed, “does Addison know

why there isn’t a full-fledged homicide investigation

going on around here?”

Renie shook her head. “That’s where he sort of

clammed up. I suspect he knows more about that than

he’s saying.”

“But does he agree that the police aren’t involved?”

Judith persisted.

“He told me he’d gotten nowhere going to his usual

sources at city hall, including the police department.”

Renie shot Judith a cryptic glance. “Think about it—

Addison Kirby has been covering city hall for ten, fifteen years. He must have cultivated all sorts of people

who can help him. But not this time. Why? Could it be

Blanche Van Boeck on the city council? She who

would be mayor?”

“Drat,” said Judith. “That woman has clout.”

Judith had opened her mouth to tell Renie about the

Randall twins’ visits when Corinne Appleby entered

the room, looking determined and pushing a wheelchair. “You’re getting up today, Mrs. Flynn. We’re

going to put you in this swift little number.”

“That’s good—I think,” Judith responded.

But she was not without trepidation, especially

when Corinne didn’t request any help with the lifting

process.

“Just take your time,” Corinne said, exuding more

confidence than Judith felt. “I’m used to doing this.

My mother is very crippled with arthritis and can’t

stand without assistance.”

“My mother also has arthritis,” Judith said, sitting

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up and struggling to swing her legs over the side of the

bed. “Unfortunately, it’s often just part of old age.”

“My mother’s not quite sixty,” Corinne said, her

freckled face clouding over. “She developed arthritis in

her early twenties. It was terrible. She’d planned to become a concert pianist.”

“Oh, that is awful!” Renie exclaimed. “We had a

dear family friend, we called her Auntie May, who

played beautifully, but she had arthritis, too, and all her

professional dreams were dashed at a very young age.

Can your mother play at all?”

Corinne shook her head as she put her arms under

Judith’s. “No. She hasn’t played in almost thirty years.

We sold the piano when I was still a child. Mummy

couldn’t bear to have it in the house.”

“That’s very sad,” Judith said, gritting her teeth.

“Oooh . . . I don’t know if I . . .”

“You’re doing fine,” Corinne said. “Just keep coming up. Be thankful that eventually you’ll be mobile

again. Not everyone is so lucky. There. You’re on your

feet. Don’t move for a few seconds. Steady . . .”

Judith wasn’t steady. In fact, she was swaying. But

after focusing her eyes on the bathroom doorknob, she

began to get her bearings.

“Good,” Corinne said, slowly letting go of Judith.

“Now try to take a step toward me. Don’t worry—if

you fall, I’ll catch you.”

Judith inched her way forward on her good leg,

though most of her weight was against the bed. Then,

closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she tried to

move her left leg. It hurt, but not as much as she’d

feared. Corinne gave her a nod of encouragement. Judith gently tested putting weight on the hip replacement. She felt unsure of herself and gritted her teeth.

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“Go ahead,” urged Corinne. “It’ll hold you up.”

To Judith’s amazement, it did.

“Hooray for modern medicine!” Renie cried, grinning at her cousin. “Go, girl, go.”

Judith didn’t go very far, but she did manage another

step before she felt on the verge of collapsing.

“Hold it right there,” Corinne said, angling the

wheelchair so that Judith could sit down. “That was

very good. Now you can visit the rest of the world.”

Uttering a feeble laugh, Judith gratefully eased

herself into the chair. The nurse pushed her to the

doorway. Judith, who had thought that Corinne’s remark about the “rest of the world” was merely an attempt at hospital humor, realized that for two days

she hadn’t seen anything outside the four walls of

her room. The hallway, with its ebb and flow of

staff, the nurses’ station, the doors leading to other

patient rooms, the flowers on desks, and even Robbie the Robot, who was heading her way, were indeed a brave new world. Until now, Judith had relied

on Renie’s eyes to see beyond the small space outside their ward. Finally Judith was on her own and

felt a strange surge of independence. Jauntily, she

waved at Robbie as he swerved and beeped past her.

“Wow,” Judith said under her breath. “People.

Places. Things.”

“We’ll go down to the end of the hall,” Corinne

said. “There’s a big window there where you can see

out. It’s not snowing, but it’s very cold, down around

twenty, I heard. Almost all of the staff has been staying in the nurses’ former residence halls. Unless you

have chains and know how to drive in this stuff, it’s

much safer to stay put.”

Judith glanced into Mr. Mummy’s room across the

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hall, but he wasn’t there. Then she looked into Addison

Kirby’s room. He was there, but was on the phone,

looking frustrated. She passed three more patient

rooms, each of which contained four beds. On her left,

she saw the small area set into an alcove where

Blanche Van Boeck had held her press conference with

KLIP-TV. Then there were supply rooms and six more

patient wards, and finally the staff lounge and what

might have been a small kitchen, judging from the aromas that wafted out into the hall.

The snowscape made Judith catch her breath. “It’s

gorgeous,” she said to Corinne. “I haven’t even been

able to look out the window in our room.”

Judith wasn’t exaggerating. The trees, the shrubs,

the sweeping lawn were covered in a pristine blanket

of snow. The driveway to the entrance had been

shoveled, but there were only a few tire tracks and

footprints in the main parking lot off to the right. Beyond, the rooftops of the surrounding residential

neighborhoods looked like a Christmas card, with

smoke spiraling out of chimneys and soft lights behind windows warding off the winter gloom.

“This is lovely,” Judith said. “It’s the first real snow

of the season. Last year we didn’t get more than a couple of dustings.”

“It cuts down on our visitors,” said Renie, who had

followed Judith and Corinne down the hall. “Which is

good. I don’t like playing hostess when I’m recovering

from surgery.”

The door to the staff lounge opened and a red-faced

Dr. Van Boeck came storming out. When he spotted

the cousins and Corinne Appleby, he stopped in his

tracks, adjusted his white coat, and forced a smile.

“Enjoying the weather?” he remarked in his deep

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voice. “Very nice, as long as you’re inside.” Van Boeck

nodded and continued on his way.

“Is he upset?” Judith asked of Corinne.

“I couldn’t say,” Corinne answered, her freckled

face masking any emotion. “Doctors are always under

such stress, especially these days.”

Judith didn’t comment, but resumed looking out the

window. As far as she could tell, there were at least a

dozen or more cars in the parking lot, almost all of

them buried under several inches of snow, except for

an SUV that probably had four-wheel drive.

“We should head back,” Corinne said. “You don’t

want to sit up for too long the first time out. I’m going

off duty now, but Heather will get you up again this afternoon.”

“Okay,” Judith said, feeling proud of herself for

making progress. “By the way—have you had a problem with theft at Good Cheer?”

“Theft?” Corinne looked mystified. “No. The sisters are very, very careful about the people they hire.

Plus, they pay better wages to the nonprofessional

staff than most hospitals do. Why do you ask?”

“Oh—just curious,” Judith replied. “You hear stories

about hospitals and nursing homes having problems

with stealing. Plus, we were told not to bring any valuables to Good Cheer.”

“That’s for insurance purposes,” Corinne responded

as she turned the wheelchair around. “The only thing

that goes missing around here are lunches from the staff

refrigerators, occasional boxes of Band-Aids, and,

lately, some of the surgical instruments. They started

disappearing before Christmas, and Dr. Van Boeck said

that maybe somebody wanted to use them to carve the

Christmas goose.”

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At that moment, Dr. Garnett came out of the staff

lounge. He looked tense, Judith thought, and wondered

if he and Van Boeck had had a row.

“Good morning, Doctor,” Judith said with a big

smile. “How are you?”

Peter Garnett straightened his shoulders and regained his usual urbane expression. “Very well, thank

you. It appears as if Dr. Alfonso has done his usual outstanding job. I see you’re out and about today.”

“Yes,” Judith responded, “I’m very grateful to him.

In fact, I appreciate everyone on the staff here at Good

Cheer. When I get home, I’m going to write a thankyou letter to the board.”

Dr. Garnett’s trim mustache twitched slightly.

“You are? That’s very kind. Now if you’ll excuse me,

I must return to my office.”

“My,” Judith said as Corinne rolled her down the

hall, “Dr. Garnett seemed sort of surprised that I’d

write a letter of appreciation. Don’t patients do that

once in a while?”

“I believe they do,” Corinne replied in her noncommittal way.

“Maybe I shouldn’t send it to the board,” Judith

mused. “Maybe I should send it to Dr. Alfonso directly.

Would it be passed on to the rest of you?”

“It might,” Corinne said, steering Judith past the

luncheon carts, which had just arrived on the floor.

Renie paused to examine the carts, but the sliding

doors were locked.

“I’ll have to think about the addressee,” Judith said.

“What would you do, Nurse Appleby?”

“About what?” Corinne asked as they reached Judith

and Renie’s ward.

“The letter,” Judith said. “Who would you send it to?”

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179

“That depends,” Corinne said. “Here, let’s get you

lined up with the bed.”

Judith figured it was useless to press the nurse with

further questions. Corinne was a clam. Or, Judith considered charitably, very discreet.

Feeling more confident, if not actually stronger, she

was able to get back into bed without much difficulty.

Judith was surprised, however, to discover that her excursion down the hall had tired her out.

“I can’t believe how weak I am,” she sighed as

Corinne adjusted the IV drip.

“That’s natural,” Corinne said. “That’s why you

have to go at it slowly but steadily.”

Ten minutes later, after Corinne had taken the

cousins’ vitals and gone on her way, Judith and Renie

went back to their speculations.

“I thought Bob Jr.’s remark about his mother being

‘the vessel’ was very interesting,” Judith said. “What

do you think he meant?”

“Whatever his goofy mother meant when she told

him that,” Renie replied. “I kind of think Margie Randall might enjoy being an Angel of Death.”

“I think she meant something else,” Judith countered. “I mean, what if Margie was the one who . . .”

She stopped, her forehead furrowed in thought. “What

if she was the one who had unwittingly delivered the

drugs that killed Somosa and Fremont and maybe her

own husband?”

Renie frowned at Judith. “You mean in Randall’s

Wild Turkey or something that one of the other two

had brought in from outside?”

Judith nodded. “Somebody—maybe it was

Heather—mentioned that other patients besides us had

had food or beverages smuggled into the hospital.

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Whoever got them for the patients may have conned

Margie into delivering the stuff. Maybe that’s where

the drugs were administered, rather than in the IVs.”

“Creepy,” Renie remarked as their luncheon trays

arrived. “Creepy,” she repeated, lifting lids and taking

sniffs. “What now, plastics?”

Judith, however, usually enjoyed what looked like

chicken-fried steak. She liked green noodles, too, and

lima beans. “I can eat it,” she said, taking a bite of the

chicken. “It’s not bad.”

Renie’s response was to heave her lunch, tray and

all, into the wastebasket. “Berfle,” she said in disgust.

“Where’s Mr. Mummy?”

“Coz,” Judith said with a scowl, “you’re not going to

order out again, are you?”

“Why not?” Renie said, picking up the phone. “Lots

of places are probably delivering today. They’ve

chained up.”

But Renie’s attempts proved futile. Even Bubba’s

Fried Chicken had decided to close for the duration.

“This town is full of scaredy-cats,” Renie declared.

“They’re too cowardly to go out in a little bit of snow.”

“You won’t drive in it,” Judith noted. “You never do.

Why should other people risk it?”

“Because they have hamburgers and french fries and

malted milks to deliver, that’s why,” Renie declared.

“Forget it,” Judith said, scooping up lima beans.

“You’re getting on my nerves.”

“So what am I going to eat for lunch?” Renie demanded.

“Dig some of it out of the wastebasket,” Judith said

with a shrug. “It’s clean.”

“I can’t eat that swill,” Renie said, pouting.

“Then get something out of your goodies bag,” Ju-SUTURE SELF

181

dith shot back. “Just put something in your mouth so

you’ll stop complaining.”

Renie rang her buzzer. In the five minutes that she

waited for a response, she didn’t say a word. Instead,

she drummed her fingernails on the side of the metal

bed and almost drove Judith nuts.

Heather Chinn showed up before Judith could

threaten to throttle Renie. “What can we do for you?”

she asked in her pert voice.

“ ‘We’?” Renie retorted. “I don’t see anybody but

you. And you can get me a big ham sandwich, preferably with Havarti cheese and maybe a nice sweet

pickle. I don’t care much for dills. They’re too sour,

except for the ones my sister-in-law makes.”

“Excuse me?” said Heather, her almond eyes wide.

“What became of your lunch?”

Renie tapped a finger against her cheek. “What be-

came of my lunch? Let me think. It came, but it didn’t

be a lunch. That is, it was not edible.” She pointed to

the small grinning doll that rested next to the Kleenex

box on the nightstand. “I wouldn’t feed that swill to

Archie.”

“That’s a shame,” Heather said with a tilt of her

head. “I see Mrs. Flynn found it edible. She’s almost

finished. How was the lime Jell-O, Mrs. Flynn?”

“Um . . .” Judith gazed at the small green puddle that

was left on her plate. Lime was not her favorite flavor,

but that wasn’t the hospital’s fault. “It was . . . fine.”

“Jell-O, huh?” said Renie. “I thought it was a dead

frog.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for the evening meal,

Mrs. Jones,” Heather said, at her most pleasant. “I

don’t think you’ll starve. Aren’t you just a teensy bit

squirrel-like?”

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“Are you referring to my teeth? ” Renie asked, looking outraged. “Are you making fun of my overbite because my parents couldn’t afford braces?”

Heather’s eyes grew even wider. “Goodness, no. I’d

never do such a thing. You have very nice teeth.

They’re just . . . sizable. I meant your little stash of

treats in that rather large grocery bag on the other side

of the bed.”

“Oh, that.” Renie attempted to look innocent.

But Judith seized the moment. “Don’t be too hard on

my cousin,” she said. “She’s always had a lot of allergies and is used to providing her own food. I suspect

that many patients do that.”

“Well,” Heather said, “some, of course. But your

cousin—all of our patients—are asked to put down any

allergies when they fill out the admitting forms. That’s

so the dieticians can avoid foods that may cause an allergic reaction. I’m sure you both filled out those sections.” Heather cast a sly glance in Renie’s direction.

Renie was still pouting.

“I understand,” Judith said. “But it’s a funny thing

about illness. You get certain cravings. One time after

I’d had the flu, I couldn’t eat anything for two days except scrambled-egg sandwiches.”

Heather nodded. “That’s because your system is depleted. You’ve lost certain vitamins and minerals.”

“One of my husband’s nieces ate all the paint off her

bed after she had bronchitis,” Renie said, still looking

annoyed.

“That’s a bit unusual,” Heather remarked, her fine

eyebrows lifting.

“I assume,” Judith said before Renie could go on

about Bill’s nieces and nephews, who numbered

more than a dozen, “that you don’t really come down

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183

too hard on patients who insist they have to have a

certain item. I imagine some of them are rather

amusing.”

Heather dimpled. “Oh, yes. We had an elderly man

last year who insisted on eating chocolate-covered

grasshoppers. I gather they’re quite a delicacy in some

cocktail party circles.”

“That’s very different,” Judith agreed with a big

smile. “Most, I suppose, are more ordinary.”

“That’s true,” Heather said. “Milk shakes are very

popular. So is chocolate and steak. Now while protein

is necessary, post-op patients shouldn’t eat steak because it’s difficult to digest. Quite frankly, a hamburger

is more acceptable.”

“It would be to me,” Renie said.

Judith ignored her cousin. “I heard,” she said with a

straight face, “that Joan Fremont had a fondness for

peppermint stick candy.”

Heather frowned. “I don’t recall that. I believe she

preferred Italian sodas. The ones with the vanilla syrup

in the cream and club soda.”

“Was she able to sneak one in?” Judith asked innocently.

“She did,” Heather said. “I wasn’t on duty, but

Corinne told me about it. At least one of them was

brought to the main desk by a funny little man wearing

polka-dot pants and a yellow rain slicker. Sister Julia,

our receptionist, got such a kick out of him. Ms. Fremont—Mrs. Kirby—actually had two of them brought

in, and first thing in the morning. It was very naughty

of her.”

“Really,” Judith said. “Was Mr. Kirby with her

then?”

“No,” Heather responded. “Mr. Kirby had a deadline

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Mary Daheim

to meet, so he didn’t come in that morning until . . .”

The nurse paused, her face falling. “He didn’t come in

until after his wife had expired.”

“Poor man!” Judith said with feeling. “Had he been

told that Joan died before he reached the hospital?”

“I don’t think so,” Heather said. “He’d come directly

from the newspaper.”

“What a shock,” Judith murmured. “Mr. Kirby must

have been overcome.”

“The truth is,” Heather said, “Mrs. Kirby wasn’t

one of my patients. I heard all this secondhand from

Dr. Garnett.”

“Oh,” Judith said, remembering what Heather had

told her earlier. “But you were on duty when Mr. Somosa died, right?”

“Yes.” Heather nodded solemnly. “I was the one

who found him. That is, I saw his monitor flat-line, and

immediately started the emergency procedures.”

Judith wore her most wistful expression. “I hope he

got to have his favorite thing, like Joan Fremont—Mrs.

Kirby—had with her Italian sodas.”

A spot of color showed on each of Heather’s flawless

cheeks. “He did, actually, even though I tried to dissuade

him. Somebody had brought him a special juice drink, the

kind he always drank before he pitched. I saw Mrs. Randall bring it in to him, and she said it smelled delicious.”

“So someone brought it to the front desk?” Judith

asked.

“I suppose,” Heather said, then frowned at Judith.

“You’re interrogating me, aren’t you? Why?”

Judith’s smile was, she hoped, guileless. “Curiosity.

What else is there to do but lie here and try to work out

a puzzle? Surely you see that the three deaths—I’m including Bob Randall’s—were peculiar?”

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185

“It happens,” Heather said, looking away. “It’s

part of nursing, to have patients, seemingly healthy,

who don’t recover from even a minor surgery. I must

say, I’ve never gotten used to it, but it’s part of the

job.”

“I suppose,” Judith said, without conviction. “Still,

I’d think you or the other nurses wouldn’t have allowed Mr. Randall to drink Wild Turkey so soon after

his operation.”

Heather appeared flustered. “Wild Turkey? Isn’t that

some kind of whiskey?”

“Very strong whiskey,” Judith said. “Did you know

he had a bottle in bed with him?”

“No,” Heather replied in a worried voice. “I wasn’t

on duty Tuesday morning. Corinne Appleby had her

usual morning shift. That’s odd—she didn’t mention

finding a whiskey bottle in Mr. Randall’s room. It’s the

kind of thing you usually mention, especially after

a . . . death.”

“Did the night nurse notice, I wonder?” Judith said.

“Not that I heard,” Heather replied, still looking

concerned. “It would have been Emily Dore. You may

not know her. I believe you have Avery Almquist and

Trudy Womack on the night shift.”

“Yes,” Judith said, recalling the young male nurse

who made his rounds silently and efficiently. “I really

haven’t had much chance to talk to him. I’m always

half asleep when he comes in.”

“He’s very professional,” Heather said, moving

toward the door. “Are you certain about that whiskey?”

“Yes,” Judith said. “You can check with your repairman, Curly. He’s the one who told me.”

“I will,” Heather said. “I’ll check with Emily and

Trudy, too, when they come on for the night shift.”

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“Hey,” Renie called out as Heather started into the

hall, “what about me? I’m famished.”

“That’s too bad,” Heather said. She looked apologetic, but kept on moving into the hall and out of sight.

“Great,” Renie said in disgust. “I can’t believe they

don’t have a lousy ham sandwich.”

“You have about ten pounds of food over there,” Judith said. “You won’t starve.”

“I wanted some meat,” Renie said. “I don’t have any

meat.”

“You’ll live,” Judith said, “which is more than I can say

for some of the other patients. At least we found out that

Margie Randall brought that juice to Joaquin Somosa.

The next question is, who brought it to the hospital?”

Renie scowled at Judith. “I thought the next question would be, what was in the juice?”

Judith stared at her cousin. “You’re right. That should

be the next question. Why weren’t those vessels, as

Margie might call them, tested for drugs? Joan Fremont’s Italian sodas, Joaquin Somosa’s juice, Bob Randall’s Wild Turkey—why weren’t the residues checked?”

Renie shrugged. “How do you know they weren’t?”

Judith stared even harder. “You’re right. We don’t.

Maybe they were, maybe that’s how those reports

about illicit drugs came about.” Briefly, she chewed on

her lower lip. “Then again, maybe the residues weren’t

there to test.”

“You’re not making sense,” Renie remarked.

Judith gave her cousin an ironic look. “Nothing

about this case makes sense.”

Renie nodded faintly. “I know. That’s what scares me.”

Judith said nothing. But of course she agreed.

TWELVE

UNFORTUNATELY, BOTH JUDITH and Renie began to

suffer considerable pain as the afternoon wore on.

Renie pressed the buzzer again, summoning Heather,

who explained to the cousins that they were both hurting more because their anesthetic had almost worn

off.

“It stays in your system for twelve to thirty-six

hours,” Heather said. “I’ll get some pain medication

to make you more comfortable.”

“Thanks,” Judith said as she tried to move around

in the bed to find a less bothersome position. “My

back aches more than my hip.”

Heather nodded and left the ward. Judith’s phone

rang a moment later. It was Joe, and he sounded

brusque.

“I’m going to try to get out this afternoon,” he

said, “so maybe I can stop by the hospital later on.”

“You’re going out?” Judith said in surprise. “How

come?”

“Just business,” he said. “I put the chains on your

Subaru. I don’t like to chain up the MG.”

“Where are you going on business?” Judith

asked, concern surfacing.

“Just routine,” Joe replied.

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Judith knew when to quit pushing her husband for

answers. Instead, she switched to a different sort of

question. “How’s Phyliss?”

“Fine.” Joe’s tone lightened a bit. “The medics hung

around for a while to make sure she was all right. I

think she converted one of them.”

“What about Ernest?”

“Ernest? Oh—the snake.”

“Yes?”

“I’m sure Ernest is fine.”

“Where is Ernest?” Judith asked in a stern voice.

“Somewhere,” Joe answered, far too breezily. “Got

to run or I’ll be late for my appointment.”

Judith stared into the receiver as Joe rang off. “He’s

keeping something from me,” she declared.

“Like what?” Renie inquired, her face a mask of

misery. “A cache of opium?”

“I don’t know,” Judith said. “But whatever it is, it’s

important enough to get him to chain up the Subaru

and go out in this snow.”

Wincing, Renie looked out the window, which was

partly frosted over. “It’s not snowing now, hasn’t been

all morning. Joe’s like Bill. They know how to drive in

it.”

“True,” Judith conceded as Heather returned with

their pain medication.

“No ham sandwich?” Renie asked hopefully. “It’d

make a nice chaser for the painkiller.”

But Heather had only Demerol, which provided

some relief. But not much. Half an hour later, Renie

buzzed again for the nurse.

“This stuff ’s not as good as Excedrin,” Renie

complained. “Or are you giving it to us with an eyedropper?”

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189

“Well . . .” Heather studied the charts. “I could boost

it slightly.”

“Boost away,” Renie ordered.

Judith waved a hand. “I could use some more, too.

Really, I’m not a baby. I’ve had plenty of pain these

last few weeks while I was waiting for my surgery.”

Heather complied. As she was leaving, the cousins

heard a loud voice out in the hall.

“. . . and your sports reporters stink, too! They always have and they always will.” Jan Van Boeck strode

past the door, still red in the face.

“What was that all about?” Judith asked of Renie.

“Van Boeck must have been talking to Addison

Kirby,” she replied. “The good doctor seems to be in a

really foul mood today.”

At that moment, Mr. Mummy showed up at the

door. “Knock-knock,” he said in his cheerful voice,

“may I come in?”

“Sure,” Renie replied. “Where’ve you been? We

haven’t seen you all day.”

“Physical therapy,” Mr. Mummy said, moving awkwardly with his walking cast. “I had to wait there for

some time and then it was quite a long session. How

are my favorite lady patients doing today?”

“Stinko,” Renie said. “They’re certainly cheap about

giving pain medication. It must be priced like caviar,

so much per ounce. In fact, it probably is—those pharmaceutical companies are greedy.”

“Medical professionals don’t want patients to get

addicted,” Mr. Mummy said, angling himself into Judith’s visitor’s chair. “You know what kind of problems that can cause.”

“Of course,” Renie responded, eyeing the IV bag

with displeasure. “But isn’t pain medication supposed

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Mary Daheim

to relieve pain? And so these medical morons really

believe that middle-aged women such as my cousin

and me are going to succumb to a sudden addiction?

That’s ridiculous. And it’s not good medicine.”

“Dear me,” said Mr. Mummy, pushing his glasses

farther up on his nose. “You’re quite upset, Mrs. Jones.

Have you expressed your feelings to your doctor?”

“I haven’t seen Dr. Ming since he came by this

morning, before I started to hurt this much,” Renie

said, becoming crabbier by the minute. “I think I’ll

start screaming soon if this pain doesn’t ease up. How

about you, coz?”

“Not so hot,” Judith replied, lifting her head to look

at their visitor. “How do you feel, Mr. Mummy? Is pain

a problem for you?”

“Ah . . . Not too much,” he said, looking down at his

cast. “It wasn’t a terribly bad break.”

“I thought it was fractured in several places,” Renie

said.

“Well . . . yes, it was,” Mr. Mummy agreed, giving

the cousins a diffident smile. “But they weren’t severe

fractures. Tell me, did you speak with Mr. Randall’s

children this morning?”

Judith noted the swift change of subject, but let it

go. “Yes, Nancy and Bob Jr. stopped by. Have you met

them?”

“Not exactly,” Mr. Mummy answered. “I’d like to, to

convey my condolences. Their mother seems a trifle . . . ineffective. I hope the young people are more

able to cope.”

“Dubious,” said Renie.

Mr. Mummy nodded slowly. “Yes. I suppose they’re

like the children of many successful parents—spoiled,

lacking incentive or ambition of their own.”

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191

“Something like that,” said Renie. “Okay, I’m going

to scream now.”

She did, loud, piercing shrieks that alarmed Mr.

Mummy and annoyed Judith. At the same time, Renie

banged the buzzer against the bed to make the light

outside in the hall flash on and off.

“Dear me,” said Mr. Mummy, leaning closer to Judith so he could be heard, “is she really in that much

pain?”

“Maybe,” Judith allowed. “I know I feel pretty rotten. It’s impossible to get comfortable.”

Heather arrived looking disconcerted. Jan Van

Boeck was right behind her, frowning deeply.

“What’s this?” he demanded, his bass voice bouncing off the walls.

Renie stopped screaming. “It’s suffering. Recognize

it?”

Dr. Van Boeck’s face reddened with anger. “You’re

exaggerating. No one in real pain could make such a

noise.”

“Wrong.” Renie glared at the chief of staff. “I can.

I’ll do it again, to prove the point.” She let out a mighty

yelp.

“Close that door!” Dr. Van Boeck commanded

Heather. “See here, Mrs. . . .” He faltered, and Renie

stopped yelling.

“Jones, Serena Jones,” Renie retorted. “And don’t

you forget it, buster.”

Judith thought Dr. Van Boeck looked as if he might

explode. It was all she could do to not cower under the

blankets and pretend she’d never seen Renie before in

her life. Instead, she summoned up her courage, and,

as usual, attempted to act as peacemaker.

“Dr. Van Boeck,” she said in a not-quite-steady

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Mary Daheim

voice, “please excuse my cousin. She really does feel

awful, and I don’t feel much better myself. The staff

here seems very chary with the pain medicine.”

Dr. Van Boeck scowled at Judith. “Are you questioning our medical expertise?” he asked in a gruff

tone.

“She’s questioning your common sense,” Renie

broke in, “of which you people seem to have very little. What the hell is the point of allowing patients to

feel miserable? How can we sleep? How can we assume the proper attitude toward recovery? If you want

to keep up your little charade about your concern for

patients, why don’t you just shoot us after we come out

of surgery and be done with it? Or,” Renie went on, her

eyes narrowing, “is that more or less what happened

with Somosa, Fremont, and Randall?”

Dr. Van Boeck’s face had turned purple. Apparently,

the commotion had attracted the attention of other staff

members. The silent orderly, a nurse Judith didn’t recognize, and Peter Garnett crowded in the doorway.

“You miserable creature!” Dr. Van Boeck shouted at

Renie, and then choked. He grabbed his throat and

staggered, bumping into Mr. Mummy in the visitor’s

chair.

“What is this?” Dr. Garnett demanded, rushing into

the room. “Jan, what’s wrong?”

Dr. Van Boeck turned to look at Garnett, tried to

speak, clutched his right arm, and crashed to the floor.

“Good lord!” Garnett cried, and kneeled beside his

colleague. “Quick, get help! I think he’s had a stroke!”

Heather and the other nurse ran off. Mr. Mummy,

looking pale, put a hand to his chest. The silent orderly

stood like a statue, watching the little scene on the

floor.

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193

“Oh, dear,” said Renie in dismay.

“Are you okay?” Judith whispered to Mr. Mummy.

He nodded. “Yes. Yes, but this is . . . terrible.” Clumsily, he got out of the chair. “I’d better leave.” He bustled out of the room.

Despite all the confusion, Judith noticed that Mr.

Mummy wasn’t limping.

Five minutes later, Jan Van Boeck had been removed

from the room. Judith hadn’t been able to tell exactly

what kind of emergency measures the frantic staff

members had applied, but another doctor, Father McConnaught, and Sister Jacqueline had also shown up.

Few words were exchanged, except for terse directions

from Dr. Garnett. Then everyone was gone and the

cousins were left staring at each other.

“I feel awful,” Renie said, shrinking back into the

pillows.

“Well . . .” Judith was at a loss for words. “I guess

you should. Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Renie brightened a bit.

“I really doubt if your little horror show caused Dr.

Van Boeck’s collapse,” Judith said carefully. “A perfectly ordinary man wouldn’t have gotten that upset.

He’d have just blown you off or walked out. But he

must have been on the edge in the first place. You can’t

be the first patient who ever had a tantrum at Good

Cheer. Just think of all the genuinely crazy people who

must have been in and out of this hospital over the

years.”

Renie looked perturbed. “Are you saying I’m not

genuine?”

Judith grinned at her cousin. “You know what I

mean. But you definitely hit a nerve with Van Boeck.

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Remember, he was yelling at somebody out in the hall,

probably Addison Kirby, and he certainly didn’t look

very happy when he came out of the staff lounge a

while ago. I still think he had a row with Dr. Garnett.”

“They don’t seem to get along,” Renie noted. “It’s a

wonder Garnett tried to save Van Boeck.”

“He has to,” Judith said, wishing the effort to converse didn’t exacerbate the pain. “The Hippocratic

Oath.”

“Uh-huh,” Renie said in a thoughtful voice. “So

maybe I just sort of gave him a little nudge. I still feel

terrible about it. Besides, we never got our pain medication. I don’t hurt any less just because Van Boeck

had a fit.”

“True enough,” Judith sighed. “Neither do I. In fact,

I feel worse. By the way, did you notice that Mr.

Mummy wasn’t limping when he left?”

“I couldn’t see him with all those people blocking

my view.” Renie gave Judith a curious look. “No limp,

huh? Interesting. I wonder what he’s doing here.”

“So do I,” Judith said as Heather came into the

room.

“I’ve brought your pain medication,” she said in a

voice that was chilly with disapproval. “Maybe it will

settle you down.” She gave Renie a hard look.

“Thanks,” Renie said meekly. “How’s Dr. Van

Boeck?”

“I don’t know,” Heather replied, her mouth in a

straight line. “He’s in the OR.”

“Goodness.” Renie lay very still.

“His wife has been sent for,” Heather added. Her

tone seemed to indicate that Renie should feel even

guiltier for alarming the illustrious Blanche Van

Boeck.

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195

Renie, however, remained silent. Heather moved on

to Judith’s IV. “You’re certain you need more Demerol?” the nurse asked.

“I am,” Judith said. “If anything, I hurt worse right

now than I did an hour ago.”

Heather gave a little sniff, but added another dose.

“That ought to do it for both of you,” she said, sounding stern.

“I’ll bet,” Renie said after the nurse had left, “that

the little twit has never had more than a headache. I

don’t get it. Medical practitioners don’t seem to give a

hoot for the patient’s comfort. Do they really prefer to

listen to us gripe?”

“I suspect a lot of people don’t gripe,” Judith said.

“They suffer in silence, they’re too shy to ask, they’re

intimidated by the staff, especially the doctors.”

“Phooey,” said Renie, digging into her grocery bag.

“Snack?”

“No, thanks.” Judith looked askance at her cousin,

who apparently didn’t feel sufficient guilt to have lost

her appetite.

For a few minutes, Judith lay back against the pillows, hoping the Demerol would start to work. Little by

little, the worst of the pain seemed to ebb. At last she

picked up the family tree and sighed.

“I think I’ll call Mother,” she said.

“You’re procrastinating,” Renie accused, smearing

Brie on a water wafer.

“No, I’m not. I mean, I can’t do much about

Kristin’s family because I don’t know all their names.”

Judith shot Renie a self-righteous look and dialed

Gertrude’s number.

For once, the old lady answered on the third ring.

“Who is this?” she growled. “You selling something?”

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Mary Daheim

“It’s me, Mother,” Judith said wearily. “How are

you?”

“ ‘Mother’? I don’t have any kids,” Gertrude

snapped. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Please,” Judith begged, “don’t tease me. I’m not

feeling real good right now.”

“So who is? You want a list of my ailments? Is that

what you’re peddling? Home remedies? I’ll take a

half-dozen. You want me to pay for it with my credit

card?”

“You don’t have a credit card, Mother,” Judith said.

“You don’t believe in them.”

“I have one now,” Gertrude declared. “I’ve bought a

bunch of stuff the last couple of days, right off the TV.

They sell all kinds of doodads and whatnots. ‘Act now,’

they said, so I did.”

Judith was puzzled. Until she suddenly became worried. “Where did you get that credit card?”

“I don’t remember,” Gertrude said, her voice an octave higher than usual. “Maybe I found it.”

“Have you got it there on your card table?” Judith

asked, sounding stern.

“Maybe. Maybe not. I’m old. I forget.”

“That’s my credit card,” Judith asserted. “I left it

on the kitchen counter Sunday night because I remembered to pay the cable bill by phone before I

went into the hospital. I was distracted, I didn’t put it

away. Mother, promise you won’t use the card

again?”

“ ‘Act now,’ ” said Gertrude. “That’s what they say

on TV.”

“Mother . . .”

“What did you say you were selling? Elixirs? Snake

oil?”

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197

“I didn’t say . . .”

“Speaking of which, I’m seeing snakes. One just ate

my sandwich. Where did he go? He’s kind of cute.

Oof!” It sounded as if Gertrude had dropped the

phone.

“Are you there, Mother?” Judith asked, growing

anxious.

There was a rustling noise before Gertrude spoke

again. “I’m here. Not all there, maybe, but I’m here.

Now where’d that snake go? He’d better not eat my

custard pudding. I’m hanging up now.”

Gertrude did just that.

“Honestly,” Judith groaned, “I don’t know when

Mother is putting me on and when she really doesn’t

know what’s going on. You wouldn’t figure she’d fool

around when I’m laid up in the hospital, would you?”

“Sure I would,” Renie said. “She’s jealous. You’re

too young to be in the hospital, that’s how she thinks.

Or she’s into denial. If anything happens to you, your

mother is sunk.”

“If I stick around here long enough, I’m going to end

up as depressed as Margie Randall,” Judith asserted.

“How many more days? Three, four, even more?”

“For you, maybe,” Renie responded, using a

Kleenex to wipe off her hands. “I’m out of here day

after tomorrow.”

“Don’t remind me,” Judith said. “When you leave,

I’ll be in despair.”

“Despair?” Father McConnaught was standing in

the door, his old face evincing disbelief. “Not that, my

child. ’Tis a sin. Our dear Lord came to give us hope,

even in death.”

Judith forced a smile. “It was a turn of phrase, Father. I’m usually an optimistic person.”

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Clasping his hands behind his back, the old priest

shuffled into the room. “Despair—they often call it depression, these modern folk, and hand out pretty pink

tablets—is the spiritual cancer of our age. Not all the

electric lights and neon signs can dispel the gloom.

Such a waste.” He shook his head, but his eyes twinkled. It occurred to Judith that the old priest didn’t seem

quite so vague this afternoon. “Such a pity,” he added,

the wisps of hair standing straight up on his head.

“All I want is a ham sandwich,” Renie said.

Judith winced at her cousin’s remark, but Father McConnaught smiled. “A simple pleasure. But the getting

of things—even a ham sandwich—isn’t as grand as the

giving. Giving up, letting go, surrendering. There’s the

beauty of it.” His gaze wandered around the room with

its plaster cracks, its peeling paint, its scarred wood.

His eyes lingered briefly over the holy statues, but finally they came to rest on Archie the doll. “See that little fellow? He’s happy. He has nothing but that big

smile.”

“He has a suitcase,” Renie said, pointing to the small

brown box on the nightstand.

Father McConnaught’s face evinced curiosity. “And

what might be in that little case?”

Renie smiled at the priest. “It’s empty.”

“Ah. Of course.” Father McConnaught turned

around, his gnarled fingers twisting behind his back.

“They won’t listen, these sad, empty souls. That’s why

Dr. Van Boeck made himself ill.”

“Oh?” Judith sat up straighter. The Demerol seemed

to be working. Or maybe it was Father McConnaught’s

presence.

The priest nodded. “He can’t let go. None of them

can. Not even Sister Jacqueline.”

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199

“Let go?” Judith echoed. “Of what?”

Father McConnaught spread his hands. “Of this. The

hospital. Their life’s work. A hundred years of the

order’s dedication. The sisters think it’s wasted. But

it’s not, and even so, nothing is forever in this life. We

own nothing, we belong nowhere. Except to God.”

“Then Good Cheer is . . . doomed?” Judith wrinkled

her nose at the melodramatic word.

“Not precisely,” Father McConnaught replied. “That

is, it won’t be torn down or turned into a hotel.” He

smiled again at the cousins, but his blue eyes had lost

their twinkle. “I don’t understand it, I don’t wish to,

don’t you see. But it’s all very upsetting for those who

work here, and it should not be so. It’s all transitory,

isn’t it?”

As if to prove his point, Father McConnaught shuffled off into the hall.

“Goodness,” Judith said. “That sounds bad. If the

old guy knows what he’s talking about.”

“I think he does,” Renie said slowly. “Most of the

time. Restoration Heartware, remember?”

“A takeover?” Judith sighed. “That’s really a shame.

For all of Father’s spiritual advice—not that he’s

wrong—it’s still hard for the people involved. Even a

stuffed shirt like Jan Van Boeck. I wonder if he’s going

to be okay?”

The question was answered in a surprising way. Five

minutes later, Blanche Van Boeck stormed into the

cousins’ room. “You!” she shouted, pointing at Renie.

“You almost killed my husband!”

“Oh, boy,” Renie muttered. “Almost? As in, he’s not

really dead?”

Blanche, who was swathed in fox and wearing a silver turban, advanced on Renie. “Listen, you little pest,

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Mary Daheim

I can have you thrown out of this hospital, right into a

snowbank. What do you think of that?”

“I think you wouldn’t dare,” Renie shot back, looking pugnacious. “There’s a reporter in the next room

who’d plaster that all over page one of the next edition.”

“He wouldn’t dare!” Blanche shouted, waving a kidglove-encased fist. “He’s incommunicado.”

“What do you mean?” Renie demanded. “I saw him

on the phone this morning.”

A nasty smile played at Blanche’s crimson lips. “He

was trying to talk on the phone,” she said, “but his

line’s been shut off. Do you think we’d allow a viper in

our midst?”

“I thought Mr. Kirby was a patient,” Judith remarked

in an unassuming voice.

Standing next to Renie’s bed, Blanche ignored Judith.

“I should sue you for almost killing my husband. He’s

not out of the woods yet.”

“The woods?” Renie was round-eyed. “Is that where

they take patients around here? No wonder so many of

them croak.”

Trying to signal Renie to keep her mouth shut, Judith was fighting a losing battle. Blanche’s large form

and even larger fur coat blocked Renie’s view of her

cousin.

“You haven’t heard the last of this,” Blanche

warned, her arm pumping up and down. “I’m personally seeing to it that you’re discharged as soon as possible. Then expect to hear from my attorneys.” She

turned on her high-heeled boots and started to leave the

room.

“Wait,” Judith said plaintively. “Please.”

“What?” Blanche snapped.

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201

“What did happen with Dr. Van Boeck? Was it a

stroke?” Judith asked, hoping she exhibited sympathy.

“Not precisely,” Blanche replied, finally lowering her

voice. “He was . . . overcome. They took him to the OR

merely as a precaution. My husband suffers from high

blood pressure. His medication needs adjusting. But,”

she went on, whirling around to look at Renie again, “it

was a very near thing. That doesn’t let you off the hook.”

Blanche Van Boeck stalked out.

“Dammit,” Renie cried, “that woman will sue me.

She’s just that ornery.”

“She won’t win,” Judith said. “She admitted that Dr.

Van Boeck has a preexisting condition.”

“Bill and I don’t need the aggravation,” Renie declared, then frowned. “I can’t stop thinking about Bill

and those Chihuahuas. What do you think he’s doing?”

“Call him, ask,” Judith suggested.

Renie shook her head. “You know how Bill hates to

talk on the phone. He doesn’t answer it most of the

time. I’ll wait until he calls me.”

“He’s probably just amusing himself,” Judith said.

“He’s housebound, you’re not around, the kids may be

getting on his nerves.”

“Maybe.” Renie, however, was still frowning.

“When I went to see Addison Kirby this morning, he

didn’t mention that he couldn’t use his phone.”

“He may have just thought the system was fouled

up,” Judith said. “You know, the weather and all.”

“Yes,” Renie said absently as Mr. Mummy again

poked his head in the door.

“I thought I’d see if you two were all right,” he said,

looking worried. “You’ve had a lot of commotion in

the last hour. I saw Mrs. Van Boeck. Did she say how

her husband was doing?”

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“Tolerably,” Renie replied as Mr. Mummy limped

into the room on his cast. “As near as I can tell, he blew

a gasket.”

Mr. Mummy seemed mystified, but smiled. “Mrs.

Van Boeck appeared quite disturbed. Was she upset

about her husband?”

“She was upset with me,” Renie said. “She’s going

to sue me for causing her husband to have a fit. But it

really wasn’t my fault.”

“Of course not,” Mr. Mummy soothed, approaching

the foot of Renie’s bed. “I’m sure Dr. Van Boeck is

under a great deal of stress. Why, just running such a

large institution would take its toll on anyone.”

“Or being married to Blanche Van Boeck,” Renie

muttered. “I wonder how he stands her.”

“An interesting question,” Mr. Mummy said, tipping his head to one side. “Yes, she must sometimes

be a trial. Now which would you think would be

worse? A rather overbearing woman such as Blanche

Van Boeck or a helpless, dispirited creature like

Margie Randall?”

“Goodness,” Judith said, “that is a conundrum.”

“Mere observation,” Mr. Mummy responded. “I’ve

seen them both, and I wonder which is more difficult

for the husband. Of course, in Mr. Randall’s situation,

he’s beyond all that. Then again, perhaps Mrs. Van

Boeck spoke kindly of her spouse when she was here

a few minutes ago?”

“Kindly?” Renie made a face. “She was mostly mad

at me, for—allegedly—making him foam at the mouth

or whatever.”

“At you, eh?” Mr. Mummy beamed at Renie. “Dear

Mrs. Jones, I don’t see how you could ever annoy anyone.” Apparently, Mr. Mummy didn’t notice Judith

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203

choking on her water, for he continued. “Are you certain she didn’t blame . . . someone else?”

“Quite certain,” Renie replied firmly. “I’m the villain.”

“Oh.” Mr. Mummy looked vaguely disappointed,

perhaps in Mrs. Van Boeck’s judgment. He made a little bow. “I should be going on my way. You’ve had a tiring afternoon. Perhaps I’ll call on Mr. Kirby. The days

here are so long when you can’t be particularly active.”

Their visitor began his laborious exit, but before he

could get out the door, Judith had a question:

“What do you do for a living when you’re not laid

up, Mr. Mummy?”

He turned slightly, though his gaze didn’t quite meet

Judith’s. “I’m a beekeeper,” he said, then chuckled.

“Buzz, buzz.”

“A beekeeper, huh?” Renie said after Mr. Mummy

had disappeared. “Do you believe that?”

“It’s so unusual that maybe I do,” Judith said. “He

would definitely have to live out in the country to raise

bees.”

Renie’s phone rang, and this time it was her mother.

Judith was trying to tune out the conversation when a

hulking physical therapist named Henry arrived and

announced that he was going to teach her to walk.

“I thought Heather was going to let me sit in the

wheelchair again,” Judith protested. “I really don’t

think—”

On the phone, Renie was trying to get a word in

edgewise. “There really isn’t a draft through the windows, Mom. I couldn’t put a coat on over my sling if I

had . . .”

Henry snapped his fingers. “You don’t need to think.

It’s better that you don’t.”

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Mary Daheim

“Truly, none of the doctors have gotten fresh,” Renie

was insisting. “No, I haven’t seen any white

slavers . . .”

“But,” Judith began, involuntarily shrinking back

among the pillows, “it’s only been two days since—”

“That’s the point, ma’am,” Henry said, beckoning to

Judith. “Come on, sit up, let’s get you moving.”

“Who did you say impersonated a doctor?” Renie

sounded incredulous. “Well, sometimes a veterinarian

knows more about medicine than . . . Yes, I know there’s

a difference between a man and a squirrel. Usually.”

“No, there isn’t any difference,” Henry said with a

solemn expression. “They both have nuts. Come on,

Mrs. Flynn, be brave.”

Renie shot Henry a withering glance. Judith shut

her eyes tight, then attempted to sit up and swing her

legs over the side of the bed. Henry held on to her

forearms. It occurred to Judith that she didn’t feel

dizzy this time, only weak. She took a step. Two.

Three. Henry slowly released her. Judith took a final

step on her own.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I did it!”

“Two more,” Henry urged. “Then you can go for a

nice ride.” He pulled the wheelchair just out of her

reach.

Judith expected to wilt, but she didn’t. Hesitantly,

cautiously, she took the extra steps, then sank into the

chair. “I’ll be darned,” she breathed.

“You know how to run this thing?” Henry inquired.

Judith nodded. “I was confined to a wheelchair for

some time before I had the surgery.”

“Good.” He released the brake. “Hit the road, Mrs.

Flynn. You’re on your own. Come back before it gets

dark.”

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205

Judith eyed the hallway as if it were the open road.

Freedom, she thought. Sort of.

But she didn’t go far. Mr. Mummy blocked her way

as he came racing out of Addison Kirby’s room.

“If I ever see you again,” Addison was shouting, “I’ll

kill you! So help me God!”

Trying to avoid Mr. Mummy, Judith steered the

wheelchair to the left, but Robbie the Robot was heading straight toward her. She reversed, bumped into a

laundry cart, and spun out of control.

“Help!” Judith cried.

But the only response was from Robbie the Robot.

“Beep, beep,” he uttered, and kept on going.

THIRTEEN

THE WHEELCHAIR SAILED into Addison Kirby’s room

and bumped up against his visitor’s chair. The journalist, whose broken leg was in traction, looked

apoplectic.

“What the hell . . . ?” Addison shouted. “Get out,

get out!”

“I can’t,” Judith shouted. “I’ve lost control.” Having come to a stop, she braced herself, trying to determine if the mishap had done any damage to the

hip replacement. To her relief, there was no new

pain. She offered Addison a piteous look. “I’m so

sorry. This wheelchair must be broken.”

Addison’s features softened a bit. “I didn’t recognize you right away. You’re Judith Flynn from next

door, right?”

Collecting herself, Judith nodded. “Yes.” She

paused to take some deep breaths. “It was my

cousin, Mrs. Jones, who saw the car that hit you. Do

you have any idea who was driving it?”

Addison grimaced. “Unfortunately, no. I barely

saw the car. It was one of those mid-sized models,

kind of beige or tan. It all happened so fast. Has

your cousin given a formal statement yet?” Addison

inquired.

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207

“Not in writing,” Judith said, finally managing to get

the wheelchair into a more convenient position.

Addison snorted. “I’m not surprised.”

Judith looked at the journalist with shrewd eyes.

“Part of the cover-up?”

“Is that what you call it?” Addison looked at her, a

quirky expression on his face.

“I’m beginning to think so,” Judith replied. “You

think so, too. Does it have something to do with

Restoration Heartware’s attempt at a takeover?”

Addison uttered a sharp little laugh. “You’re no

slouch when it comes to figuring things out, are you,

Mrs. Flynn?”

“Call me Judith. Figuring things out is about all I

can do while I’m lying around in bed,” she asserted.

Addison’s dark eyes narrowed slightly. “Do you

own a B&B on Heraldsgate Hill?”

“Ohmigod.” Judith, who knew what was coming

next, felt the color rise in her cheeks.

“You got some publicity on TV a while ago,” Addison said. “There was a murder at an old apartment

house not far from where you live. But if I remember

correctly, it wasn’t the first time you’d been involved in

crime-solving.”

“That’s true,” Judith said, “but it was an accident.

They were all accidents. I mean,” she went on, getting

flustered, “I don’t seek out homicide cases. I just sort

of stumble into them. I guess it has something to do

with my work. I meet so many people, and some of

them aren’t very nice.”

The understatement didn’t seem to convince Addison.

“The buzz around city hall was that you had an uncanny

knack for fingering killers. I’ve read about detectives,

both real and fictitious, who could pick out a murderer

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Mary Daheim

just from the way they looked. How do you do it? Shape

of the head? Look in the eyes? Manner of speaking?”

“Nothing like that,” Judith said modestly. “I’m interested in people. They talk to me. I listen. And often,

they make some tiny slip that gives them away.” She

shrugged. “It’s not a talent. It’s just . . . paying attention.”

Again, Addison seemed to regard Judith with skepticism. “Your husband’s a cop, isn’t he? Joe Flynn,

very sharp. I remember him from my beat at city hall.

Hasn’t he retired?”

“Yes,” Judith answered. “He’s a private investigator

now.”

Addison merely smiled. Judith decided to change

the subject. “Why were you so angry with Mr.

Mummy just now? He seems like a harmless little

guy.”

“Does he?” Addison shifted his shoulders, apparently trying to get more comfortable. “You don’t find

him . . . suspicious?”

“Ah . . .” Judith wondered how candid she could be

with Addison Kirby. “I have to admit, I’ve wondered

why he was transferred into Good Cheer. His fractures

don’t seem very severe.”

“Exactly.” Addison suddenly seemed to grow distant. Perhaps he had doubts of his own about confiding

in Judith. “He’s a real snoop.”

“Curiosity,” Judith said. “He’s bored, too. Did he tell

you he’s a beekeeper by trade?”

“No.” Addison stroked his beard. “Interesting.”

“Different,” Judith allowed.

“Yes,” Addison said quickly, “that’s what I meant.”

Judith gave Addison a questioning look, but he

didn’t amplify his comment. “You’ve had a rather rig-SUTURE SELF

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orous day so far,” she finally said. “I happened to hear

Dr. Van Boeck shouting by your door. I hope he didn’t

upset you.”

“He didn’t.” Addison looked pleased with himself.

“He’s one of those professional types who hates the

media. Most doctors don’t like criticism—the godlike

ego and all that tripe. Doctors and lawyers are the

worst. CEOs are up there, too, except most of them are

too dumb to understand the news stories. That’s why

they hire PR types—to translate for them.”

“Does Dr. Van Boeck have a specific gripe?” Judith

inquired.

Addison chuckled. “Dozens of them, going back to

his football playing days. He actually played pro ball,

for the Sea Auks.”

“I know,” Judith said. “He backed up Bob Randall

for a season or two before he washed out of football.”

Addison cast Judith an admiring glance. “So you

know about that? Well, Van Boeck has never forgiven

the sportswriters for criticizing his ineptitude. He

might have good hands for a surgeon, but he sure as

hell didn’t have them for handling the ball. The irony,

of course, is that Mrs. Van Boeck uses the media to

great effect.”

“And tries to manipulate it as well?” Judith put in.

“That, too,” Addison said, looking grim.

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of

Jim Randall, who walked straight into the coat closet’s

sliding doors.

“Ooof!” he cried, staggering. “Sorry. Am I interrupting?” He peered first at Addison, then at Judith.

“You have a guest. I can’t quite see who . . .”

Judith hastily identified herself. “From next door,

remember?”

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Mary Daheim

“Oh.” Jim nodded as he carefully moved closer.

“Yes, we spoke. I just came to let Mr. Kirby know

when the funeral for my brother will be held. He’s

going to put it in the newspaper for me.”

“Since I can’t call from here, I’ll have a nurse phone

it into the obit and sports desks,” Addison said. “Have

you written it out?”

Jim fumbled at an inside pocket in his overcoat. “It

was a group effort. Margie, Nancy, Bob Jr., and me.

Here.” He handed several sheets of paper to Addison.

The handwriting was difficult to decipher. Addison

was forced to read the verbiage aloud to make sure that

everything was accurate. “You’ve hit the highlights of

Bob’s football career,” he said to Jim, “except for the

stats. One of the football reporters can fill those in for

the sports page.”

“Very illustrious,” Judith remarked. “I’d forgotten

how good Bob Randall really was.”

Addison began reading the official obituary.

“

‘Robert Alfred Randall Sr., born Topeka,

Kansas . . .’ ” He hurried through the factual information, then slowed down as he read the more personal

copy written by the family members: “ ‘Bob, nicknamed Ramblin’ Randall, and not just for his rushing

feats on the football field . . .’ ” Addison frowned at

Jim. “I don’t get that part.”

Through thick lenses that made his eyes look like

oversized coat buttons, Jim peered at Addison. “What

do you mean?”

“Okay,” Addison said sharply, “this sounds like

you’re talking about your brother’s off-the-field exploits. In particular, his love life.”

Jim nodded once. “That’s right.”

Addison stared at Jim. “You can’t do that. Nobody

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ever criticizes the deceased in an obit. Upon occasion,

they’ll make excuses, especially if it’s a suicide. But

criticism—never.”

Jim took umbrage. “I thought you dealt in facts.

Isn’t that what you told me the other day when we

spoke? That’s a fact—my brother was a philanderer.

Margie had to put up with a lot. Read the rest of it.”

“No.” Addison’s bearded jaw set stubbornly.

Judith leaned forward in the wheelchair, and before

the journalist could realize what she was doing, she

plucked the sheets of paper out of his hand.

“If it means so much to you, Jim,” she said, looking

sympathetic, “I’ll go over it with you. During the

years, I’ve helped write several obituaries for relatives.”

“Hey!” Addison cried, attempting to retrieve the

pages. “Don’t do that!”

But Judith had managed to move herself just beyond

Addison’s reach. “Please, we must see what can be salvaged here, or the family will have to do it all over

again.”

Jim was hovering over Judith’s shoulder. “Do you

see the part where we said he drove Margie to depression? And ruined his children’s lives?”

Judith did, and despite Addison’s professional reservations, she read the sentences aloud:

“ ‘Bob Sr. was so selfish and self-absorbed that he

could offer his wife of twenty-five years no sympathy

or understanding, even when her emotional problems

threatened to undermine her physical as well as her

mental health. His legacy to his children is not that of

a loving, caring father, but a cold, conceited athlete

who demanded excellence from Nancy and Bob Jr. but

who never gave them the slightest word of encourage-212

Mary Daheim

ment, much less any sign of real love. He will be

missed by some of his cronies from the sports world,

but not by his family.’ ” Judith was appalled, and could

hardly blame Addison for looking outraged. But she’d

had to know what was in the scurrilous obituary.

“Here,” she said, handing the sheets of paper back to

Addison. “I agree. That’s not printable.”

“Then don’t give that crap to me,” Addison cried,

batting at Judith’s hand. “It belongs to Jim—or in the

trash.”

“But it’s all true,” Jim declared, sounding offended.

“How could we lie about my brother? He was a

wretched man.”

“I thought,” Judith said, frowning, “that you mentioned how Margie and the kids couldn’t get along

without him.”

“They can’t,” Jim replied with a helpless shrug as he

took the obituary from Judith. “Bob made good money

as a football consultant. Now all they’ll have is what he

left in the bank.”

“Which,” Addison sneered, “is considerable, I’d

bet.”

Jim shrugged again. “It’s fairly substantial. But

Bob didn’t play in the era of million-dollar contracts.

And he tended to spend much of what he made. On

himself, of course. He had it all, in more ways than

one. As if,” Jim added, tearing the obituary into

small pieces that fluttered to the floor, “he didn’t

have enough to begin with. All that talent and a fine

physique and good looks besides.” Defiantly, he

flung the final pieces of paper onto the floor.

“Frankly,” Judith asserted, “he sounds like a pitiful

sort of person. I can’t imagine he was truly happy.”

“Oh, he was very happy,” Jim said bitterly. “I never

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knew a man who was as happy as he was. As long as

he got his way, which he usually did.”

“Look,” Addison said, his aggravation spent, “I’m

sorry I can’t send on that obit. Why don’t you write another draft with just the facts? Plenty of people don’t

tack on personal notes. Remember, on the obituary

page you’re paying for it by the word.”

“I am? I mean, we are?” Jim fingered his chin. “I’ll

tell Margie. I don’t think she knows that.” He started