by Mary Daheim
seemed to be doing quite well.”
“Why did they rush his body down the hall after he
died?” Judith queried. “I mean, he was already beyond
help, wasn’t he?”
Corinne gave a curt nod. “Yes. He must have been
an organ donor. The same procedure was followed
with Mr. Somosa and Ms. Fremont.”
Judith pressed on before Corinne could put the thermometer in her mouth. “Will they perform an autopsy
on Mr. Randall?”
“Yes, it’s required in such cases.” The nurse still
avoided Judith’s gaze as she began the pulse routine.
Renie had managed to get herself back under the
covers. “But how can they do an autopsy if he’s donating his organs? That doesn’t make sense.”
“They can take the corneas,” Corinne replied. “Eyes
aren’t part of a routine autopsy.”
“So they did autopsies on Fremont and Somosa?”
Renie asked, filling in for her cousin, who now had the
thermometer in her mouth.
“Yes.” Corinne kept focused on her watch. “As I said,
they have to when a patient dies unexpectedly. The
county automatically assumes jurisdiction in such cases.”
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59
“What did they find out with the first two?” Renie
inquired.
“I couldn’t say,” Corinne replied, removing the thermometer from Judith’s lips. “There, now let’s take
your blood pressure.”
“Couldn’t?” Judith smiled. “Or can’t?”
“Won’t.” Corinne wound the cuff around Judith’s
arm. “The hospital has made its public statement.”
“ ‘Extenuating circumstances’?” Renie quoted from
what she’d read in the newspaper. “As in, not the hospital’s fault?”
Corinne shrugged, but said nothing. Judith couldn’t
resist goading the nurse. “I saw the news last night on
TV. Good Cheer is being sued, I gathered.” It was only
an assumption, given the brief news bit the cousins had
seen, but it seemed a logical conclusion.
Corinne made no response of any kind, but removed
the cuff, made some entries on a chart, and started
working with Renie.
“Nope,” Renie said, rolling over away from the
nurse as far as she could. “I’m bored with vital signs.
You aren’t any fun, Appleby. Why don’t they let Robbie the Robot do this stuff?”
“Please, Mrs. Jones,” Corinne said severely, “don’t
act childish.”
“But I am childish,” Renie replied. “Often immature
and a downright brat. Come on, lawsuits are a matter
of public record.”
Corinne took a deep breath. “I really don’t know.
There have been some rumors.”
Renie didn’t budge. “There were other rumors, too,
about Fremont and Somosa being drug abusers. Is that
the hospital’s defense?”
Corinne Appleby made an angry gesture, her face so
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Mary Daheim
flushed that the freckles disappeared. “None of that’s
any of your business. If you won’t let me take your vitals, that’s fine. But I intend to enter your lack of cooperation on the chart.”
“Be my guest,” Renie shot back as the nurse headed
for the door. “I’ll file a complaint. I’ll call you a big drip.”
Corinne was almost out of the room when a deep,
angry voice could be heard from the hallway.
“Don’t tell me who I can talk to and who I can’t!”
the man shouted. “I’m sick of this runaround! Where
the hell is Dr. Garnett?”
Startled, Corinne scooted away and closed the door
behind her.
“Drat!” Judith exclaimed. “She can’t do that! Coz,
could you . . . ?”
“Aargh,” groaned Renie. “I guess.” She struggled to
get out of bed again. “Who do you suppose that is?”
“I don’t know,” Judith replied. “I could only hear,
not see, him.”
Renie opened the door just in time to see the man,
who had a dark beard, accost two young people.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, “but I want to help. Let’s go
somewhere else so we can talk in private.”
Trying to get a better look at the newcomers, Renie
stepped farther out into the hall. From the bed, Judith
could see only Renie’s backside and the IV stand. She
gave a little jump when her cousin stumbled into the
room, propelled by the firm hands of Sister Jacqueline.
“We simply cannot have patients interfering or getting involved with hospital routine this morning, Mrs.
Jones,” the nun said in an emphatic tone. “Please remain in your room, and we’d prefer you to keep your
door shut. Remember, it’s for your own sakes as well.
You need to rest in order to make a quick recovery.”
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61
Perhaps it was all those years in parochial school,
but even Renie could comply with the wishes of a nun.
“I know that bearded man,” she said, back-pedaling in
a clumsy manner. “That’s Addison Kirby, the newspaper reporter. He was married to Joan Fremont.”
Sister Jacqueline merely gave a slight nod. “Please
get back in bed, Mrs. Jones.”
“Who are those two young people?” Renie persisted. “Are they the Kirby kids?”
The nun started to turn away, then paused. “No.
They’re Mr. Randall’s son and daughter. They came to
the hospital to be with their mother.”
“How is Margie Randall doing?” Judith asked with
genuine sympathy.
Sister Jacqueline had reached the doorway. “Not
well, I’m afraid. She’s a very emotional woman. Excuse me, I must go.”
Judith gazed at Renie. “It cannot be a coincidence
for three well-known people to die unexpectedly after
routine surgery in Good Cheer Hospital.”
Renie looked pained. “I never like encouraging you
to track down murderers, but I have to admit, this is
pretty weird.”
“More than weird,” Judith responded, remembering
to take another sip of water. “But what’s the connection? One actress. Two sports stars. One active, one retired. From different sports, too. Who could possibly
want all three of them out of the way?”
Staring out through the windows with their faded
muslin curtains, Judith grew thoughtful. It was another
gray day, with heavy, dark clouds hovering over the
city. Maybe it would snow. But the weather was the
least of Judith’s worries.
“There’s got to be a police investigation that hasn’t
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Mary Daheim
been made public,” Judith said after a long pause.
“Maybe Joe can find out from Woody.”
Lunch arrived, brought by a small Filipino woman
with silver streaks in her short, dark hair. Making each
of the cousins a little bow, she introduced herself as
Maya. Sitting up in bed, Renie bowed back.
“Such a morning!” Maya exclaimed in little more
than a whisper. “Did you hear about Mr. Randall?
What next, I wonder?”
Judith had an impulsive urge to hug the little
woman.
At last, there was somebody on the floor who
wasn’t tongue-tied. “It’s terrible,” Judith said, putting
on her most sympathetic face. “It must be so hard for
the people like you who work here, Maya.”
Maya set Judith’s tray in place, then put a hand on
her breast. “It’s terrible,” she said, rolling her dark eyes
and then crossing herself. “All these deaths. Fine people, too, each one very nice.”
“You were on duty when all three of them died?” Judith queried, trying to contain her own excitement.
“Yes.” Maya uttered the word like a victory chant. It
was obvious to Judith that she reveled in high drama.
“Can you imagine? Every time, the same thing, the
same way. They do fine, getting better, then . . .” She
held up her small hands. “Poof! They go to heaven.”
“It must be very sad for you,” Judith said, “to see
these people and their families and then to have them
die so unexpectedly. I suppose all their loved ones
were extremely shocked. Did anybody say what might
have happened?”
Maya waved a hand in a vexed gesture. “They say
too little and too much. The doctors, they don’t understand what happens. Not their fault, they say. Can’t explain. Maybe patient have unknown sickness or take
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63
bad medicine. The families, they cry, they make
threats, they blame doctors, nurses, everybody in hospital. Why, right now, Mr. Kirby, the husband of the actress, he’s here again, making the big fuss.” Maya
shook her head. “What is fame, what is riches, if you
die too soon? So sad, so very sad.”
“Mr. Somosa left a wife, but no children, I believe,”
put in Renie as Maya delivered her tray. “The Kirby
children are grown, and I guess the Randall kids are,
too.”
Maya nodded several times. “Yes. Mrs. Somosa, so
pretty, so young, she had to be put in the hospital herself, she was so filled with grief. Now she has gone
back to her homeland, the Dominican Republic, I believe. Mr. Somosa was buried there, with his ancestors.
The Kirby children I never saw, they live far away, but
they must have come for the funeral, yes? And now
Mr. Randall . . . Oh, my! Mrs. Randall, she will be in
the hospital, too, if she doesn’t stop crying so.”
“Maybe the children can help,” Judith said. “I understand they’re at the hospital now.”
Maya’s dark eyes flashed. “That’s so.” She put a finger to her lips. “Know what? They are with Mr. Kirby.
Why do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Judith said.
“I do,” Maya said with an emphatic nod. “They talk
of a cabal.”
Judith stared. “A cabal? What sort of cabal?”
“A plot to kill these poor souls,” Maya declared with
a swift glance over her shoulder to make sure the door
was firmly shut. “What else?”
Judith made an extra effort to look impressed. “Who
would do such a thing?”
Maya waved her hand again. “The riffraff. The rab-64
Mary Daheim
ble. The kind of people who hate the rich and famous.
Communists, no doubt. It’s what you call a vendetta.”
She clenched a fist and made stabbing motions, as if
she held a dagger.
The door opened suddenly and Heather Chinn appeared, looking suspicious. “Your lunch cart is outside,
Maya,” said the nurse. “Is everything all right in here?”
“Yes, yes,” Maya said, smiling, her compact little figure all but bouncing toward the doorway. “These fine
ladies, they need what you call the pep talk. You know
Maya, she can give the good pep talk.”
Heather stepped aside as Maya made her exit. “I
hope she wasn’t pestering you,” Heather said to the
cousins, a faintly wary expression lingering on her
face. “Maya’s quite a talker.”
“She’s interesting,” Judith said.
“Yes,” Heather agreed, turning to leave, “but don’t
pay much attention to her. She likes to hear herself talk.”
The nurse departed, closing the door behind her.
“Well?” Judith said. “How much of Maya’s spiel do
you believe?”
“None of it,” Renie replied, lifting lids and looking
dismayed. “It seems we have bath sponge for lunch.”
Judith also examined the meal. Everything was a
pale yellow, including the lettuce leaves in the salad.
“It might be some kind of creamed chicken on . . .
something. Toast?” Judith prodded the gelatinous mass
with her fork. “Hunh. Whatever. We also have pears,
more apple juice, and a big, fat, unattractive cookie
with jaundice-yellow frosting. No wonder I don’t have
much appetite.”
“That makes two of us.” Renie sighed. “I was
starved last night, but Art Huey’s food is always terrific. Today, I feel sort of . . . blah.”
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65
“That’s not like you,” Judith remarked. Renie’s appetite was usually boundless. “I suppose it’s natural.
We’ve been through a lot.”
“True,” Renie said as someone knocked on the door
but entered before either cousin could respond.
“Mrs. Flynn and Mrs. Jones?” The man who spoke
was Addison Kirby, who closed the door behind him
and immediately introduced himself. He was hatless,
and wearing a classic trench coat over dark slacks, a
tweed jacket, and a light-brown flannel shirt. “May I?”
“You want to see us?” Judith asked in surprise.
The newspaper reporter gave a curt nod. “It’ll only
take a minute.”
“Okay,” Judith said, puzzled. “Have a seat.”
Addison started to sit down in Judith’s visitor’s
chair, then hesitated. “Are you sure?” he asked, his
penetrating hazel eyes darting from cousin to cousin.
“Positive,” Renie said, draining her apple juice. “I
recognized you out in the hall. Let me say right off,
I’m terribly sorry about your loss. Your wife was a
wonderful actress, and I’ve heard she was a fine person
as well. She always seemed active in helping raise
money for charity.”
Briefly, Addison hung his head. He was going bald,
but there were only a few strands of gray in his wellkept beard. “She was terrific in every way,” he said,
looking up. “On top of it, we managed to raise three
children who are now off and on their own. We have
two grandchildren, charming little twins. Joan was so
fond of them. We’d visit when Le Repertoire
wasn’t . . .” He stopped abruptly and bit his full lower
lip. “Sorry. I’m not here to talk about that.”
“That’s okay,” Judith said with sympathy. “Go
ahead, tell us whatever you want to.”
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Mary Daheim
“No, no,” Addison replied, now very businesslike. “I
have just a couple of questions.” Again, he paused, this
time to clear his throat. “This morning, before Bob
Randall died, did either of you see or hear anything unusual?”
Judith and Renie exchanged quick glances. “No,”
&n
bsp; Judith finally said. “I don’t recall anything.”
“You’re sure?” Addison Kirby looked disappointed.
Renie’s expression was uncharacteristically diffident. “I did hear Randall talking on the phone this
morning while I was in there.” She gestured at the
darkly stained wooden door to the bathroom. “He was
talking about somebody named Taylor, or to somebody
named Taylor. I couldn’t catch much of it, though.”
Addison looked puzzled. “The only Taylor I know
was Joan’s eye doctor. But it’s a common name. That’s
all you heard?”
“I’m afraid so,” Judith responded with an apologetic
expression. “Why do you ask?”
Kirby shook his head. “I’m paranoid,” he said. “Obsessed. Nuts.”
“Who isn’t?” Renie offered.
Standing up, Kirby replaced the visitor’s chair and
jammed his hands into the pockets of his trench coat.
“I had an appointment this morning to meet with Dr.
Garnett, the chief of surgery. I’ve got a lot of unanswered questions about Joan’s death. Garnett had been
stalling me, figuring, I suppose, that anything he said
would be on page one of the Times’s next edition. But
he finally gave in, and we’d just gotten started when he
was summoned to this floor. I could tell it was urgent,
so I followed him, and learned that Bob Randall had
died. I didn’t really know Bob, but I’ve seen him
around town over the years. Anyway, it seemed
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67
damned peculiar, with Joan dying so suddenly and
Joaquin Somosa, the same way.”
“It’s incredible,” Judith declared.
“You bet it is,” Addison asserted, the hazel eyes
sparking. “I was already suspicious, that’s why I
wanted to see Garnett. If nothing else, I wanted to clear
Joan’s reputation.”
“In what way?” Judith asked.
Addison had turned to the door, but now he faced the
cousins again. “Because,” he said angrily, “the results
of the autopsy indicated she’d ingested a large quantity
of Rohypnol—one of those date-rape drugs—which
caused her death. That’s bull, Joan never did drugs in
her life. Even if she had, why in the world would she
take that one?” His voice dropped and his eyes sent off
more sparks. “It doesn’t make sense, which is why I
think my wife was murdered.”
FIVE
JUDITH WASN’T SURPRISED by Addison Kirby’s declaration. It only confirmed her suspicions about the