Suture Self : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

by Mary Daheim

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

  SUTURE SELF

  9

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

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

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

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

  You look sort of sickly.”

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

  nothing—except Mudder. Mother. It bothers me when

  she’s so mean to you.”

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

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

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

  me, so what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  out a bit.”

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

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

  you and I finally got married after your divorce and

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

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

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

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

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

  Renie around like she’s on a string.”

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

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

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

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

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

  the Britannia.”

  Joe grinned and the gold flecks danced in his green

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

  improvement. She wanted you, back home, under her

  wing.”

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

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

  rental dump out on Thurlow Street. The rats were so

  big they were setting traps for us.”

  It was only a slight exaggeration. After losing one

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

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

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

  Queer Street.” Dan had stopped working altogether by

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

  The Thurlow rental was a wreck, the neighborhood

  disreputable. After Dan died, Judith and her only son

  moved back into the family home on Heraldsgate Hill.

  Her mother had protested at first when Judith came up

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

  Eventually, Gertrude had given in, if only because she

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

  married Joe, Gertrude announced, she wouldn’t live

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

  been converted into a small apartment, and Gertrude

  took her belongings and her umbrage out to the backyard.

  She complained constantly, but refused to budge.

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  11

  Judith pictured her mother in the old brown mohair

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

  Joe Flynn. Gertrude would never change her mind

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

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

  life a little easier at Hillside Manor.

  Shortly after seven, Judith called Renie back to get

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

  knew exactly what time their operations would be

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

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

  considerable amount of pain and, due to the recent

  news reports, it was accompanied by an unexpected

  apprehension. Still, Judith could do little more than

  wait.

  The tedium was broken Friday morning when Mike

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

  close-in mountain pass.

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

  “What?” Judith asked.

  “Guess.”

  The first thing that came to mind was that Mike had

  been promoted. Which, she thought with plunging

  spirits, might mean a transfer to anywhere in the fifty

  states.

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

  invalid, remember?”

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

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

  and running by the time your next grandchild gets here

  around the Fourth of July.”

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

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

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

  hardy honey.”

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

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

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

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

  transmission, build a cabinet, bake a Viennese torte,

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

  Indeed, Judith sometimes found her daughter-in-law

  intimidating.

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

  tell Joe. And Granny.”

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

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

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

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

  zoologists.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  called his mother once a month. But somehow the

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

  Gertrude not speaking directly to Joe; maybe Judith

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

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

  the unhappy memories of Dan with her.

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  13

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

  Phoenix. In the nineteen years that Judith and Dan had

  been married, Effie had visited only three times—once

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

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

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

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

  Sunshine didn’t seem to improve her pessimistic

  attitude.

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

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

  children will be close enough in age to be playmates

  and companions.”

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

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

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

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

  Judith and Renie had both been only children, and

  while they occasionally quarreled in their youth, they

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

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

  since Mac was born.”

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

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

  the way, they’ll probably wait.”

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

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

  he looks like these days.”

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

  whole family at Christmastime.”

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

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

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

  wonder.”

  As well you might, Judith thought, and was ashamed

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

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

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

  queried.

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

  ashamed of herself for not having paid Effie a visit

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

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

  “For what?” Effie sounded very cross.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  squeeze in so many procedures or squeeze so much

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

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

  out alive.”

  Judith glanced at the morning paper on the kitchen

  table. It contained a brief item about an autopsy being

  performed on Joan Fremont. In the sports section,

  there was a story about possible trades to replace the

  SUTURE SELF

  15

  Seafarers’ ace pitcher, Joaquin Somosa. At last Effie

  McMonigle had said something that Judith didn’t feel

  like contradicting.

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

  the hospital alive.

  All Judith could hope was that she and Renie

  wouldn’t be among the unlucky ones.

  TWO

  JUDITH’S SURGERY WAS scheduled for eight-thirty on

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

  Bill delivered their wives to admitting at the same

  time. The cousins had worn out the phone lines over

  the weekend encouraging each other and trying to

  make light of any potential dangers.

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

  “we could have hurried this up by driving together

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

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

  straight face.

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

  “Not funny,” Judith muttered.

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

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

  o’clock.

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

  of the last century, the large, dark redbrick edifice

  with its looming dome and wrought-iron fences

  looked more like a medieval castle than a haven for

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

  17

  bridge to come down before driving over a moat into

  the patient drop-off area.

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

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

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

  place looks like a morgue.”

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

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

  dark morning with the rain coming down in straight,

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

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

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

  the double doors that automatically opened upon their

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

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

  as he helped Renie through the entrance. “That should

  be some consolation.”

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

  operate on my shoulder.”

  Bill wore his familiar beleaguered expression when

  dealing with his sometimes unreasonable wife, but

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

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

  put all their money into equipment and staff. As long

  as the building was structurally sound and hygienically

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

  exposed, door frames were the original solid stained

  wood, and though the walls had been repainted many

  times, the color remained the same institutional shade

  of bilious green that long-dead patients and sta
ff had

  endured almost a hundred years before.

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  Mary Daheim

  There was no one around to meet the Flynns and the

  Joneses. A wooden sign with flaking gold lettering and

  an arrow pointed to admitting, on their right. They

  turned the corner and almost collided with a robot that

  was sending off loud beeping signals.

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

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

  Renie’s big black handbag.

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

  heap,” Renie threatened.

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

  creature kept moving, giving and asking no quarter.

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

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

  said as they approached the admitting desk.

  A nurse in traditional uniform and white cap sat next

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

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

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

  they wore habits, the nurses who worked for them

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

  inquired with a strained smile.

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

  wives in.” He gestured at Judith and Renie.

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

  He pointed to the carefully lettered yellow Post-it note

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

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

  peanuts, and morphine, inclined to complain.”

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

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

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

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  19

  Renie nudged Judith. “I guess we checked our

  voices at the door.”

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

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

  Ming and Alfonso.”

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

  we’re the right people.”

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

  them do their jobs.”

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

  the—”

  Bill poked her again, and Renie shut up.