Suture Self : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

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Suture Self : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery Page 9

by Mary Daheim

“Cute,” Judith agreed, though her voice had gone

  flat. “So you want me to put together a family tree.”

  She caught Renie’s gaze; Renie choked on her pear.

  “If you could,” Mike said. “Nothing fancy; I gather

  the teachers do the artwork and arranging. No real

  rush, either, though they’d like to have all this stuff by

  the end of the month.”

  “The end of the month?” Judith frowned into the

  phone. “Why so soon? Mac won’t start school until

  fall.”

  “The teachers have to make the trees for about sixty

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  kids,” Mike said reasonably. “Of course, they have to

  decide if they’ll accept Mac in the first place. But the

  earlier we get all this stuff done, the more likely he’ll

  get into Little Einsteins.”

  “That’s the name of the school?” Judith gulped.

  “Right. They don’t take just any kid,” Mike said,

  pride still evident in his voice. “Of course, it’s not

  cheap, but we can swing it. Education’s so important

  these days. I mean, it’s not like when I was a kid, and

  you sent me to Ethel Bump’s place. All we did was

  string beads and finger-paint her furniture and roll

  around on our rugs.”

  “That was day care, Mike,” Judith said over Renie’s

  loud coughing fit . You were there so I could work two

  jobs while Dan laid on the couch, starting his day with

  an entire bottle of blackberry brandy and working his

  way up to his first vodka at eleven in the morning.

  “You did more than just play at Ethel’s,” Judith continued. “You learned your numbers.”

  “Not all of them,” Mike responded. “I always left

  out nine.”

  “True.” Judith hung her head. “Okay, I’ll see what I

  can do.”

  “Great, Mom. Got to go. There’s a message coming

  in on my fax. Love you.” He hung up.

  “Family tree, huh?” Renie said, having conquered

  her choking.

  Judith grimaced. “I’ve dreaded this for years.”

  Renie offered her cousin a sympathetic smile.

  “Don’t you think Mike knows that Dan wasn’t his real

  father?”

  “Define ‘real,’ ” Judith said with a frown.

  “I meant natural father,” Renie responded, eating a

  piece of Havarti cheese. “Yes, I certainly know that

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  Dan raised Mike, that in spite of being a lousy husband, he was a pretty good dad. I also know that Mike

  has always felt that Dan really was his dad. But a year

  or so ago, I got the impression that Mike had figured it

  out. Do you remember? We were all having our pictures taken with little Mac, and Mike suddenly looked

  from the baby’s red hair to Joe’s, and since Mike himself has red hair and Dan was very dark, I got the impression that Mike finally realized the truth.”

  “He’s never said a word,” Judith asserted. “Not to

  me, not to Joe. But you’re right, I think he must know,

  deep down. How much denial could he possibly have?

  I wanted to broach the subject with him then, but I kept

  putting it off. We’d already had one big conversation a

  couple of years ago, and it became clear to me that the

  truth would have altered his memory of Dan.”

  “He was younger then,” Renie pointed out. “That

  was before he got married, wasn’t it?”

  “I can’t remember,” Judith admitted. “I know, I tend

  to bury things, hoping they’ll go away. But they don’t.”

  The phone rang again, this time on Renie’s line. She

  responded in monosyllables, then hung up. “Security.

  His name is Torchy Magee. He’ll be up in a few minutes, along with a cop.”

  “If Joe had never been a cop,” Judith sighed, “and

  never gotten drunk that night in the bar with Herself, I

  wouldn’t be in this quandary now.”

  “Nonsense,” Renie retorted, cutting another slice of

  cheese and popping it in her mouth.

  Judith didn’t say anything for a few moments. She

  was reliving that terrible time when Joe had suddenly

  disappeared just weeks before their wedding. She’d only

  heard secondhand that he’d been shanghaied to Vegas

  by Vivian, and that, while he was still in a drunken stu-80

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  por, the pair had gotten married in a casino wedding

  chapel. It wasn’t until many years later that Judith had

  found out he’d tried to call her later that same day.

  Gertrude had intercepted the call and never told Judith

  about it. Not hearing back, and feeling compelled to

  honor his commitment to Vivian, Joe had stayed married

  to Vivian for over twenty years. He’d felt sorry for Herself, he explained to Judith after they were finally reunited. She’d had two unhappy marriages already, and

  was trying to raise two small boys on her own. Then Vivian had given birth to their own daughter, Caitlin. Joe

  felt stuck, and he knew that Judith had married Dan McMonigle on the rebound. It was only after the children

  were raised and Herself had grown more passionate

  about Jim Beam than Joe Flynn that he had finally decided to make a break. There had been no need for an

  annulment. In the eyes of the Catholic Church, Joe’s

  marriage to Herself had never been valid. Taking vows

  while not in his sane and sober mind was only part of it;

  the Church didn’t recognize the union because Vivian

  was still the wife of another man.

  Meanwhile, Judith had lived a lie, at least as far as

  Mike was concerned. Joe didn’t know that she was

  pregnant when he ran off with Herself. Judith had

  never told him, not until almost a quarter of a century

  later. Dan had raised Mike as his own, and perhaps his

  often antagonistic attitude toward Judith was a form of

  punishment for bearing another man’s child. Whatever

  the cause, Judith had suffered a great deal during the

  nineteen years that she was married to Dan.

  “But he was a good father.” She repeated the phrase

  so often that it was like a mantra. She could never

  make Dan happy, but she could honor his memory, especially in Mike’s eyes.

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  “Yes, yes,” Renie said testily. “But Mike’s a grown

  man now, he can handle the truth. It’s not fair to Joe. It

  never has been, and I’ll bet my last five bucks he resents it, deep down.”

  Judith heaved a big sigh. “Yes, I know he does. I

  guess I’ll have to bite the bullet.”

  “It’s about time,” Renie said, still testy. “Your problem, coz, is that you hate making decisions, you can’t

  stand rocking the boat, you’re absolutely terrified of

  change. Go ahead, make out that family tree, and fill in

  all of Joe’s family. His brothers, his parents, the whole

  damned clan.”

  “I never knew his mother,” Judith said, as if her

  early death might give some excuse for abandoning

  the project.

  “Do it,” Renie barked. “I’ll help.”

  Before Judith could respond, a burly, uniformed

  man in his late fifties poked his head in the doo
r. “Mrs.

  Jones?” he said in a gravelly voice.

  “Here,” said Renie, raising her left hand. “You’re

  Torchy Magee?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the security guard responded as another, much younger man in a patrolman’s uniform followed him into the room. “This is Johnny Boxx, that’s

  with two xx’s, right, Johnny?”

  “Right,” replied the young officer with a tight little

  smile.

  “He’s fairly new to the force,” Magee said, swaggering a bit as he nodded at Judith and approached

  Renie’s bed. “Me, I was a cop for over twenty-five

  years before I retired a while back. Arson, vice, larceny, assault—I did it all, and have the scars to show

  for it.” He chuckled and gave Johnny Boxx a hearty

  slap on the back. “Yessir, see this?” He pointed to a

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  long, thin scar on his right cheek. “Attacked by a knife

  there.” Magee rolled up his left sleeve to reveal another

  scar. “Shotgun, just below the elbow. Hurt like hell. I

  was wounded three times, here, in the shoulder, and

  just above my ear. Got a plate in my head to prove it.”

  “My,” Renie said, keeping a straight face, though Judith could tell it was an effort, “you’ve had some bad

  luck.”

  “Just doing my job,” Magee responded. “That’s not

  all, either. I got my nickname, Torchy, when I was in

  arson. Look, no eyebrows.”

  Sure enough, Magee’s forehead stretched from his

  eyes to the bald spot on top of his head. “What happened?” Judith asked.

  “Let’s put it this way,” Torchy Magee responded

  with a chuckle and a wink, “when you’re investigating

  an arson case, you should make sure the fire is out

  first.” He chuckled some more, a grating sound, then

  turned to Renie. “Okay, little lady, let’s hear all about

  what you saw from this third-story window.”

  “ ‘Little lady’?” Renie curled her lip.

  “Well . . .” Torchy shrugged. “In a manner of speaking.” He rested one foot on Renie’s bed frame. “So

  what’d you see?”

  “I was standing by the window,” Renie began, eyeing Torchy’s foot with annoyance, “when I saw Mr.

  Kirby leave through the front entrance.”

  Officer Boxx held up a hand. “How did you know it

  was Mr. Kirby?”

  “I’d just met him,” Renie replied. “He was wearing

  a trench coat, he had a beard, it wasn’t that hard to

  identify him three floors up.”

  “Sounds right to me,” Torchy said. “Go on, Mrs. J.”

  “Mrs. Jones,” Renie said with emphasis. “Anyway,

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  he’d just started toward the parking lot when a beige

  car, a mid-sized sedan, came from out of nowhere and

  struck Mr. Kirby down.”

  “Heh, heh.” Torchy chuckled. “Now, Mrs. . . . Jones,

  a car can’t come out of nowhere. Which direction?”

  Renie looked exasperated. “I was watching Mr.

  Kirby. You know damned well a car can come from

  three directions out there—the parking lot, the main

  drive into the hospital, and the ambulance and staff

  area off to the right of the main entrance. That is, my

  right, from my point of view, through my window.”

  Torchy’s expression had grown serious. “Through

  this window.”

  “Yes.” Renie’s patience appeared to be wearing thin.

  “Tell us about the car,” Officer Boxx inquired. “It

  was a beige medium-sized sedan. Any idea how old or

  what make?”

  “Very clean,” Renie answered, “so I thought it was

  fairly new. It was shaped like so many cars these days,

  especially the Japanese imports. Bill and I have a Toyota,

  about the same color as the car I saw. In fact, our car

  looks like every other car these days. Sometimes I get

  mixed up in a parking lot and try to get into the wrong

  one. My husband and I call our Toyota Cammy. Except

  Bill says Cammy is a boy. I don’t agree. Cammy’s a girl.”

  “Can’t you tell by looking underneath?” Torchy

  laughed aloud at his joke.

  “I never thought of that,” Renie said with a straight

  face and a flashing eye.

  “License plate,” Boxx put in. “Did you get any kind

  of look?”

  “Ah . . .” Renie bit her lip. “I didn’t notice.”

  The young policeman frowned. “Do you remember

  if it had in-state plates?”

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  Her eyes half closed, Renie seemed to be concentrating. “Yes, I think so. I can see it from the rear as it

  headed toward the parking lot. I’m a very visual person.”

  “Huh?” said Torchy.

  “I’m a designer, an artist by trade,” Renie explained.

  “I see more than most people do, but sometimes I don’t

  realize it until later.”

  “But you didn’t see any letters or numbers,” the policeman prompted.

  “No.” Renie looked chagrined.

  “So this car went where after hitting Mr. Kirby?”

  Torchy inquired.

  “Toward the parking lot,” Renie replied. “You can’t

  see much of the lot because of those evergreen trees

  and shrubs. Anyway, I was riveted on Mr. Kirby.”

  “How is he?” Judith broke in.

  “Kirby?” Torchy turned around. “Broken leg,

  bruises and so forth. Kid stuff.” The security guard

  touched his head, presumably where he’d been shot.

  “He’ll live.”

  “That’s more than his wife did,” Renie declared.

  “She never got out of this place alive.”

  “Now, now,” Torchy said in a soothing tone. “That

  was a different matter.”

  “How different?” Judith asked.

  “Well,” Torchy began, then paused and scratched his

  bald spot, “she had an operation. And then . . . well,

  maybe she was taking some stuff on the side. You

  know.” He winked again.

  “Actually,” Renie said, “we don’t know. Mr. Kirby

  doesn’t think his wife was taking ‘stuff on the side.’

  Have you talked to him, Security Officer Magee?”

  Torchy gave a little jump. “Me? Why, sure. That’s

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  my job. But what do husbands know about what wives

  do when they’re not with the old man?” He winked a

  third time. “Or the other way around, for that matter.

  Besides, she was an actress. You know what those theater people are like.”

  Renie held up a hand. “If you wink again, I’ll

  have to kill you. Yes, I know something about theater people. But the real question is, what do you

  know about the untimely deaths of three well-known

  local residents in this very hospital? Isn’t that your

  business?”

  Johnny Boxx had strolled to the door, maybe, Judith

  thought, in an effort to disassociate himself from

  Torchy Magee. “If you think of anything else,” Boxx

  said to Renie in a courteous voice, “let us know.” It was

  clear he meant the police, not security.

  “I will,” Renie promised.

  Torchy lingered after Officer Boxx w
ent out into the

  hall. “Let me know first,” he said to Renie, his jocular

  manner evaporating.

  “Sure,” Renie said, her brown eyes wide with innocence.

  Judith pushed herself up on the pillows. “Drugs,

  huh?” she said in a conspiratorial tone. “Fremont and

  Somosa both, I heard. And Bob Randall committed

  suicide. How horrible.”

  Torchy’s close-set gray eyes narrowed. “Where’d

  you hear all that?”

  Judith shrugged. “Hospital scuttlebutt. You know

  how people like to gossip.”

  The security man, who had been midway to the

  door, stopped at the foot of Judith’s bed. “Don’t pay attention to what you hear. Of course,” he went on,

  lightly caressing the iron bedstead rail, “sometimes

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  truth has a way of getting out.” Once again, Torchy

  winked.

  “That’s so,” Judith said, smirking a bit and ignoring

  Renie, who was making threatening gestures at Torchy

  with her cheese knife. “It’s hard to imagine why Bob

  Randall would kill himself. It’s even harder to imagine

  how he did it.” She gave a little shudder, which wasn’t

  entirely feigned.

  Torchy frowned. “I’m not sure I know yet. That is, I

  couldn’t say if I did, of course. That’d be telling tales

  out of school.” Torchy gave the bedstead a quick slap.

  “Gotta go. No rest for the wicked.”

  The security man left. The cousins stared at each

  other.

  “What do you think?” Renie inquired.

  “I think,” Judith said slowly as her eyelids began to

  droop, “that no matter how Bob Randall died, it wasn’t

  suicide. I’m willing to bet that it was . . .”

  She fell asleep before she could finish the sentence.

  SIX

  JOE AND BILL arrived shortly after three o’clock.

  Both had already heard about Bob Randall’s sudden

  death. Joe was wild; Bill was thoughtful.

  “I don’t get it,” Joe raged, pacing up and down the

  small room. “There’s nowhere you can go in this entire world and not run into a dead body. If I shot myself right now with my trusty thirty-eight, and you

  entered a cloistered nunnery tomorrow, the first

  thing you’d find is the Mother Superior’s corpse,

  carved up like a damned chicken!”

  “Joe,” Judith pleaded, “you know I was apprehensive even before . . .”

  “Post-op anxiety, depression, fear—it could play

  out that way,” Bill was saying quietly to Renie, “but

 

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