by Mary Daheim
Suture Self : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery
Mary Daheim
MARY DAHEIM
Suture
SELF
Contents
ONE
JUDITH GROVER MCMONIGLE Flynn took
one look at the newspaper…
1
TWO
JUDITH’S SURGERY WAS scheduled for
eight-thirty on Monday. Renie’s was…
16
THREE
IT WAS ALMOST a quarter of an hour
before
the…
33
FOUR
NO ONE HAD died by morning. Judith awoke
after
a…
49
FIVE
JUDITH WASN’T SURPRISED by Addison
Kirby’s declaration. It only confirmed…
68
SIX
JOE AND BILL arrived shortly after
three o’clock. Both had…
87
SEVEN
TEN MINUTES LATER, Dr. Garnett surprised
the cousins with a professional…
99
EIGHT
“HOW,” JUDITH DEMANDED, “does a car
that’s in for service…
118
NINE
“WHAT ELSE AM I supposed to do while I’m
lying…
137
TEN
ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, breakfast
was again palatable.Dr. Ming and
Dr.
Alfonso…
150
ELEVEN
BOB JR. HAD scarcely been gone more than
a few seconds…
167
TWELVE
UNFORTUNATELY, BOTH JUDITH and
Renie began to suffer considerable pain…
187
THIRTEEN
THE WHEELCHAIR SAILED into Addison
Kirby’s room and bumped up…
206
FOURTEEN
HEATHER CHINN CAME running. It wasn’t
Renie’s insistent buzzer or…
222
FIFTEEN
“SO,” RENIE SAID after Judith had finished
speaking to Woody…
238
SIXTEEN
JUDITH WILLED HERSELF not to faint
twice in one day,…
251
SEVENTEEN
“I FOUND MR. FLYNN,” Margie Randall
announced with a triumphant expression.
267
EIGHTEEN
“MOM! WHAT’S WRONG?”
282
NINETEEN
RENIE WAS AMAZED by Judith’s theory.
She was even more…
294
TWENTY
JUDITH LET OUT a terrible cry of anguish.
Joe
tried…
308
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PRAISE
OTHER BOOKS BY MARY DAHEIM
COVER
COPYRIGHT
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
ONE
JUDITH GROVER MCMONIGLE Flynn took one look at
the newspaper headline, released the brake on her
wheelchair, and rolled into the kitchen.
“I’m not sure it’s safe to go into the hospital,” she
said to her husband, Joe Flynn. “Look at this.”
Joe, who had just come in through the back door,
hung his all-weather jacket on a peg in the hallway
and stared at the big, bold front-page headline.
ACTRESS DIES FOLLOWING ROUTINE SURGERY
John Fremont Succumbs After Minor Foot Operation
“Who’s John Fremont?” Joe asked after kissing
his wife on the cheek. “The explorer? No wonder he
wrecked his feet, going over all those mountains.
Huh. I thought he was already dead.”
“He’s been dead for over a hundred years,” Judith
replied. “It’s a—”
“A shame the local newspaper doesn’t jump on
those stories faster,” Joe interrupted. “What’s
Queen Victoria up to this week?”
Judith made a face at Joe. “It’s a typo,” she said
in a testy voice. “It’s supposed to be Joan Fremont.
See, there it is in the lead. You know who she is—
2
Mary Daheim
we’ve seen her in several local stage productions. She
is—was—a wonderful actress.”
Joe frowned as he read deeper into the story. “Jeez,
don’t these people proofread anymore?”
“That’s not my point,” Judith asserted. “That’s the
second well-known person in three weeks to peg out at
Good Cheer Hospital. I’m getting scared to go in next
Monday for my hip replacement.”
Joe opened the cupboard and got out a bottle of
Scotch. “You mean Somosa, the pitcher? That’s no
mystery. He was probably full of amphetamines.” With
an air of apology, Joe gestured with the bottle. “Sorry,
I hate to drink in front of you, but I spent ten hours sitting on my butt for that damned insurance stakeout.”
“Never mind.” Judith sighed with a martyred air that
would have made her Aunt Deb proud. “I’m used to
sacrifice and self-denial. After a month in this stupid
wheelchair and taking all those pain pills, I suppose I
should be looking forward to surgery and getting back
to a normal life. How’d the stakeout go?”
“It didn’t,” Joe replied, dumping ice cubes into a
glass. “The guy didn’t budge from his sofa except to go
to the can. Then he used a walker. Maybe he’s legit.
The insurance company expected him to play a set of
tennis or jump over high hurdles or do the rumba. I
hate these alleged insurance-fraud assignments.”
“They pay well,” Judith pointed out, giving the
amber liquid in Joe’s glass a longing look.
“Oh, yeah,” Joe agreed, sitting down at the kitchen
table. “We can use the money with the B&B shut down
for five weeks. I’m expensive to keep, and you’re not
delivering.”
Teasing or not, the comment nettled Judith. Just
after Christmas, her right hip had deteriorated to the
SUTURE SELF
3
point that she’d been confined to a wheelchair. With
the help of Joe and their neighbors, Carl and Arlene
Rankers, Judith had managed to keep Hillside Manor
running smoothly through the holidays. But Carl and
Arlene had left the day after New Year’s for a vacation
in Palm Desert. And even though Joe was retired from
the police force, his part-time private investigations
had become almost a full-time job. It had been a difficult decision for Judith, but she had been forced to cancel all reservations for the first ten days of January,
until the Rankerses’ return. Her only consolation was
that the days in question were the slowest time of the
year for the Bed-and-Breakfast industry.
“We’ve lost at least four grand,” Judith said in a morose tone.
Joe gave a slight shake of his head. “Dubious. The
weather around here this winter isn’t exactly enticing
/> to visitors.”
Judith glanced up at the window over the kitchen
sink. It was raining. It seemed to have been raining for
months. Fifty degrees and raining. No sun breaks, no
snow, just relentless rain and gloomy, glowering skies.
Day after day of gray, gray, and grayer. Even a Pacific
Northwest native like Judith had an occasional hankering for a patch of blue sky.
“People still visit people,” Judith said, unwilling to
let herself be cheered.
Joe gave a solemn shake of his head. “Not in January. Everybody’s broke.”
“Including us,” Judith said. “Because of me. Renie
and Bill are broke, too,” she added, referring to her
cousin and her cousin’s husband. “Renie can’t work
with her bad shoulder. This is the busiest time of year
for her, with all the annual reports. She usually designs
4
Mary Daheim
at least a half-dozen, which means big bucks. She’s out
of commission until March.”
“When’s her surgery?” Joe inquired.
“A week after mine,” Judith replied. “We’ll be like
ships passing in the night. Or should I say sinking?”
Judith emitted another heavy sigh as she rolled over to
the sink and took a Percocet. Then she took another
Percocet. It couldn’t hurt. Besides, she ached twice as
much as she had the day before.
As a distraction, Judith read the rest of the story
about Joan Fremont. The actress had been admitted to
Good Cheer Hospital the previous day. Her surgery,
pronounced successful, had been performed that afternoon. But at ten-thirty this morning, Joan had died
suddenly and without warning. She left behind two
grown children and her husband, Addison Kirby, the
city hall reporter for the evening newspaper.
“No wonder her name got misspelled,” Judith remarked. “Joan’s husband works for the paper. The staff
must be shaken by her death.”
“Oh?” Joe raised rust-colored eyebrows above the
sports section. “Kirby, huh? I’ve run into him a few
times at city hall. Nice guy, but strictly business.”
Judith put the newspaper’s front section down on the
table. “They’ll investigate, I assume?”
“Oh, sure,” Joe responded, his gaze back on the
sports page. “They did with Joaquin Somosa, they will
with Joan Fremont. It’s automatic when someone relatively young and in otherwise good health dies in a hospital. The county medical examiner has jurisdiction.”
“That makes sense,” Judith said as she rolled to the
stove. “I made beef-noodle bake. It’s almost done. I’ve
fixed a salad and there are some rolls I’ll heat up. Then
you can take Mother’s portion out to the toolshed.”
SUTURE SELF
5
Joe grimaced. “Can’t I phone it in to her?”
“Joe . . .” Judith stopped. Serving Gertrude’s meals
was a bone of contention since Judith had become
wheelchair-bound. Joe Flynn and Gertrude Grover
didn’t get along. An understatement, Judith thought.
How else to put it? If duels were still legal, they would
have skewered each other by the birdbath a long time
ago.
The phone rang just as Judith slipped the foilwrapped rolls into the oven. Fumbling a bit, she pulled
the cordless receiver out of the gingham pocket on her
wheelchair.
“Coz?” said Renie, who sounded excited. “Guess
what.”
“What? Make it quick, I’ve got my head in the
oven.”
“Coz!” Renie cried. “Nothing’s that bad! Hang in
there, you’re only a few days away from surgery.
You’ll be fine.”
“I mean I’m trying to put dinner together,” Judith
said, sounding cross. Her usual easygoing manner had
begun to fray in recent weeks.
“Oh.” Renie paused. “Good. I mean . . . Never mind.
I called to tell you that Dr. Ming’s office just phoned to
say that they’d had a surgery cancellation on Monday
and I can go in a whole week early. Isn’t that great?
We’ll be in the hospital together.”
Judith brightened. “Really? That’s wonderful.” She
paused. “I think.”
“You think?” Now Renie sounded annoyed. “We
could share a room. We could encourage each other’s
recovery. We could make fun of the hospital staff and
the other patients. We could have some laughs.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Judith said as she closed the
6
Mary Daheim
oven door. “It’s just that . . . Have you seen tonight’s
paper?”
“Ours hasn’t come yet,” Renie replied. “You know
we always have a later delivery on this side of Heraldsgate Hill.”
“Well,” Judith began, then caught Joe’s warning
glance. “It’s nothing, really. You can see for yourself
when the paper comes.”
“Coz.” Renie sounded stern. “Tell me now or I’ll
have to hit you with my good arm. You can’t run away
from me, remember?”
Judith sighed. “There’s been another unexpected
death at Good Cheer Hospital. Joan Fremont, the actress.”
“Joan Fremont!” Renie shrieked. “Oh, no! Wait till I
tell Bill. I think he’s always had a crush on her. What
happened?”
Ignoring Joe’s baleful look, Judith picked up the
front section of the paper and read the story to Renie.
“That’s terrible,” Renie responded in a shocked
voice. “She was so talented. And young. Well—
younger than we are. A little bit, anyway. She’d probably had work done, being an actress.”
“That’s two deaths in three weeks,” Judith noted.
“Joaquin Somosa,” Renie murmured. “Younger still.
Elbow surgery. Supposed to be healed by the All-Star
break.”
“Won’t,” Judith said, suddenly feeling light-headed.
“Dead instead.”
“This is scary,” Renie declared. “Do you suppose we
should ask Dr. Ming and Dr. Alfonso to operate on us
in the privacy of our own automobiles?”
Judith started to respond, but just then the back door
banged open. Gertrude Grover stood in the hallway,
SUTURE SELF
7
leaning on her walker and wearing a very old and
slightly shabby wool coat over her head. Worse yet, Judith saw two of her. Maybe she should have taken only
one Percocet.
“Where’s my supper?” Gertrude demanded, thumping the walker on the floor for emphasis.
Judith spoke into the phone. “Gotta go. Mother’s
here.” She rang off. “I’m heating the rolls,” Judith said
with a feeble smile, trying not to slur her words.
“Mother, you shouldn’t come out in the rain. You’ll
catch cold.”
“And die?” Gertrude’s small eyes darted in the direction of Joe’s back. “Wouldn’t that suit Dumbo
here?”
“Mother,” Judith said with a frown, accidentally ramming the wheelchair into the stove. “Oops! ’Course not.
You know better.” She tried to ignore the puzzled expression on her hu
sband’s face. “Hasn’t Joe taken good
care of you while I’ve been laid out? I mean, laid up.”
“It’s part of his plan,” Gertrude said, scowling at
Joe, who was still turned away from his mother-in-law.
“He’s waiting until you go into the hospital. Then,
when I’m supposed to be lulled into . . . something-orother, he’ll strike!” Gertrude slammed the walker
again. “He knows the ropes, he used to be a cop.
They’ll never catch him, and he’ll make off with all my
candy.”
“Mother . . .” Judith wished she didn’t feel so muddled. She wished she could walk. She wished her
mother wouldn’t insist on wearing a coat that was at
least twenty years old. She wished Gertrude would
shut up. She wished she didn’t have two mothers,
standing side by side.
Joe had finally risen from the chair. “I don’t eat
8
Mary Daheim
candy,” he said in his most casual manner. “You got
any jewels stashed out there in the toolshed, Mrs. G.?”
“Ha!” Gertrude exclaimed. “Wouldn’t you like to
know?” It was one of those rare occasions when
Gertrude addressed Joe directly. As a rule, she spoke of
him in the third person.
Clumsily, Judith opened the oven. “Here, your dinner’s ready. Joe can help dish it up for you, Mother.”
“I’m watching his every move,” Gertrude said, narrowing her eyes. “He might slip something into my
food. I should have Sweetums eat it first, but that
ornery cat’s too danged finicky.”
Joe got the salad out of the refrigerator and removed
the beef-noodle bake from the oven. He filled
Gertrude’s plate with a flourish, added a roll, and
started for the back door. “At your service,” he called
over his shoulder. “Let me help you out.”
“Out?” Gertrude snapped. “Out where? Out of this
world?”
She was still hurling invective as the two of them
went outside. It was a conflict of long standing, a personal Thirty Years War between Joe Flynn and
Gertrude Grover. When Joe had first courted Judith,
Gertrude had announced that she didn’t like him. He
was a cop. They made rotten husbands. He was Irish.
They always drank too much. He had no respect for his
elders. He wouldn’t kowtow to Gertrude.
Judith and Joe had gotten engaged anyway. And
then disaster struck. Joe had gotten drunk, not because he was Irish but because he was a cop, and had
come upon two teenagers who had overdosed on
drugs. Putting a couple of fifteen-year-olds in body
bags had sent him off to a bar—and into the arms of