Suture Self : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

by Mary Daheim

  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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  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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  “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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  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

&nbs
p; 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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  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