Suture Self : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

by Mary Daheim

on Renie’s eyes to see beyond the small space outside their ward. Finally Judith was on her own and

  felt a strange surge of independence. Jauntily, she

  waved at Robbie as he swerved and beeped past her.

  “Wow,” Judith said under her breath. “People.

  Places. Things.”

  “We’ll go down to the end of the hall,” Corinne

  said. “There’s a big window there where you can see

  out. It’s not snowing, but it’s very cold, down around

  twenty, I heard. Almost all of the staff has been staying in the nurses’ former residence halls. Unless you

  have chains and know how to drive in this stuff, it’s

  much safer to stay put.”

  Judith glanced into Mr. Mummy’s room across the

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  hall, but he wasn’t there. Then she looked into Addison

  Kirby’s room. He was there, but was on the phone,

  looking frustrated. She passed three more patient

  rooms, each of which contained four beds. On her left,

  she saw the small area set into an alcove where

  Blanche Van Boeck had held her press conference with

  KLIP-TV. Then there were supply rooms and six more

  patient wards, and finally the staff lounge and what

  might have been a small kitchen, judging from the aromas that wafted out into the hall.

  The snowscape made Judith catch her breath. “It’s

  gorgeous,” she said to Corinne. “I haven’t even been

  able to look out the window in our room.”

  Judith wasn’t exaggerating. The trees, the shrubs,

  the sweeping lawn were covered in a pristine blanket

  of snow. The driveway to the entrance had been

  shoveled, but there were only a few tire tracks and

  footprints in the main parking lot off to the right. Beyond, the rooftops of the surrounding residential

  neighborhoods looked like a Christmas card, with

  smoke spiraling out of chimneys and soft lights behind windows warding off the winter gloom.

  “This is lovely,” Judith said. “It’s the first real snow

  of the season. Last year we didn’t get more than a couple of dustings.”

  “It cuts down on our visitors,” said Renie, who had

  followed Judith and Corinne down the hall. “Which is

  good. I don’t like playing hostess when I’m recovering

  from surgery.”

  The door to the staff lounge opened and a red-faced

  Dr. Van Boeck came storming out. When he spotted

  the cousins and Corinne Appleby, he stopped in his

  tracks, adjusted his white coat, and forced a smile.

  “Enjoying the weather?” he remarked in his deep

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  voice. “Very nice, as long as you’re inside.” Van Boeck

  nodded and continued on his way.

  “Is he upset?” Judith asked of Corinne.

  “I couldn’t say,” Corinne answered, her freckled

  face masking any emotion. “Doctors are always under

  such stress, especially these days.”

  Judith didn’t comment, but resumed looking out the

  window. As far as she could tell, there were at least a

  dozen or more cars in the parking lot, almost all of

  them buried under several inches of snow, except for

  an SUV that probably had four-wheel drive.

  “We should head back,” Corinne said. “You don’t

  want to sit up for too long the first time out. I’m going

  off duty now, but Heather will get you up again this afternoon.”

  “Okay,” Judith said, feeling proud of herself for

  making progress. “By the way—have you had a problem with theft at Good Cheer?”

  “Theft?” Corinne looked mystified. “No. The sisters are very, very careful about the people they hire.

  Plus, they pay better wages to the nonprofessional

  staff than most hospitals do. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh—just curious,” Judith replied. “You hear stories

  about hospitals and nursing homes having problems

  with stealing. Plus, we were told not to bring any valuables to Good Cheer.”

  “That’s for insurance purposes,” Corinne responded

  as she turned the wheelchair around. “The only thing

  that goes missing around here are lunches from the staff

  refrigerators, occasional boxes of Band-Aids, and,

  lately, some of the surgical instruments. They started

  disappearing before Christmas, and Dr. Van Boeck said

  that maybe somebody wanted to use them to carve the

  Christmas goose.”

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  At that moment, Dr. Garnett came out of the staff

  lounge. He looked tense, Judith thought, and wondered

  if he and Van Boeck had had a row.

  “Good morning, Doctor,” Judith said with a big

  smile. “How are you?”

  Peter Garnett straightened his shoulders and regained his usual urbane expression. “Very well, thank

  you. It appears as if Dr. Alfonso has done his usual outstanding job. I see you’re out and about today.”

  “Yes,” Judith responded, “I’m very grateful to him.

  In fact, I appreciate everyone on the staff here at Good

  Cheer. When I get home, I’m going to write a thankyou letter to the board.”

  Dr. Garnett’s trim mustache twitched slightly.

  “You are? That’s very kind. Now if you’ll excuse me,

  I must return to my office.”

  “My,” Judith said as Corinne rolled her down the

  hall, “Dr. Garnett seemed sort of surprised that I’d

  write a letter of appreciation. Don’t patients do that

  once in a while?”

  “I believe they do,” Corinne replied in her noncommittal way.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t send it to the board,” Judith

  mused. “Maybe I should send it to Dr. Alfonso directly.

  Would it be passed on to the rest of you?”

  “It might,” Corinne said, steering Judith past the

  luncheon carts, which had just arrived on the floor.

  Renie paused to examine the carts, but the sliding

  doors were locked.

  “I’ll have to think about the addressee,” Judith said.

  “What would you do, Nurse Appleby?”

  “About what?” Corinne asked as they reached Judith

  and Renie’s ward.

  “The letter,” Judith said. “Who would you send it to?”

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  “That depends,” Corinne said. “Here, let’s get you

  lined up with the bed.”

  Judith figured it was useless to press the nurse with

  further questions. Corinne was a clam. Or, Judith considered charitably, very discreet.

  Feeling more confident, if not actually stronger, she

  was able to get back into bed without much difficulty.

  Judith was surprised, however, to discover that her excursion down the hall had tired her out.

  “I can’t believe how weak I am,” she sighed as

  Corinne adjusted the IV drip.

  “That’s natural,” Corinne said. “That’s why you

  have to go at it slowly but steadily.”

  Ten minutes later, after Corinne had taken the

  cousins’ vitals and gone on her way, Judith and Renie

  went back to their speculations.

  “I thought Bob Jr.’s remark about his mother being

  ‘the vessel’ was very interesting,” Judith said. “What

  do you think he meant?”<
br />
  “Whatever his goofy mother meant when she told

  him that,” Renie replied. “I kind of think Margie Randall might enjoy being an Angel of Death.”

  “I think she meant something else,” Judith countered. “I mean, what if Margie was the one who . . .”

  She stopped, her forehead furrowed in thought. “What

  if she was the one who had unwittingly delivered the

  drugs that killed Somosa and Fremont and maybe her

  own husband?”

  Renie frowned at Judith. “You mean in Randall’s

  Wild Turkey or something that one of the other two

  had brought in from outside?”

  Judith nodded. “Somebody—maybe it was

  Heather—mentioned that other patients besides us had

  had food or beverages smuggled into the hospital.

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  Whoever got them for the patients may have conned

  Margie into delivering the stuff. Maybe that’s where

  the drugs were administered, rather than in the IVs.”

  “Creepy,” Renie remarked as their luncheon trays

  arrived. “Creepy,” she repeated, lifting lids and taking

  sniffs. “What now, plastics?”

  Judith, however, usually enjoyed what looked like

  chicken-fried steak. She liked green noodles, too, and

  lima beans. “I can eat it,” she said, taking a bite of the

  chicken. “It’s not bad.”

  Renie’s response was to heave her lunch, tray and

  all, into the wastebasket. “Berfle,” she said in disgust.

  “Where’s Mr. Mummy?”

  “Coz,” Judith said with a scowl, “you’re not going to

  order out again, are you?”

  “Why not?” Renie said, picking up the phone. “Lots

  of places are probably delivering today. They’ve

  chained up.”

  But Renie’s attempts proved futile. Even Bubba’s

  Fried Chicken had decided to close for the duration.

  “This town is full of scaredy-cats,” Renie declared.

  “They’re too cowardly to go out in a little bit of snow.”

  “You won’t drive in it,” Judith noted. “You never do.

  Why should other people risk it?”

  “Because they have hamburgers and french fries and

  malted milks to deliver, that’s why,” Renie declared.

  “Forget it,” Judith said, scooping up lima beans.

  “You’re getting on my nerves.”

  “So what am I going to eat for lunch?” Renie demanded.

  “Dig some of it out of the wastebasket,” Judith said

  with a shrug. “It’s clean.”

  “I can’t eat that swill,” Renie said, pouting.

  “Then get something out of your goodies bag,” Ju-SUTURE SELF

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  dith shot back. “Just put something in your mouth so

  you’ll stop complaining.”

  Renie rang her buzzer. In the five minutes that she

  waited for a response, she didn’t say a word. Instead,

  she drummed her fingernails on the side of the metal

  bed and almost drove Judith nuts.

  Heather Chinn showed up before Judith could

  threaten to throttle Renie. “What can we do for you?”

  she asked in her pert voice.

  “ ‘We’?” Renie retorted. “I don’t see anybody but

  you. And you can get me a big ham sandwich, preferably with Havarti cheese and maybe a nice sweet

  pickle. I don’t care much for dills. They’re too sour,

  except for the ones my sister-in-law makes.”

  “Excuse me?” said Heather, her almond eyes wide.

  “What became of your lunch?”

  Renie tapped a finger against her cheek. “What be-

  came of my lunch? Let me think. It came, but it didn’t

  be a lunch. That is, it was not edible.” She pointed to

  the small grinning doll that rested next to the Kleenex

  box on the nightstand. “I wouldn’t feed that swill to

  Archie.”

  “That’s a shame,” Heather said with a tilt of her

  head. “I see Mrs. Flynn found it edible. She’s almost

  finished. How was the lime Jell-O, Mrs. Flynn?”

  “Um . . .” Judith gazed at the small green puddle that

  was left on her plate. Lime was not her favorite flavor,

  but that wasn’t the hospital’s fault. “It was . . . fine.”

  “Jell-O, huh?” said Renie. “I thought it was a dead

  frog.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for the evening meal,

  Mrs. Jones,” Heather said, at her most pleasant. “I

  don’t think you’ll starve. Aren’t you just a teensy bit

  squirrel-like?”

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  “Are you referring to my teeth? ” Renie asked, looking outraged. “Are you making fun of my overbite because my parents couldn’t afford braces?”

  Heather’s eyes grew even wider. “Goodness, no. I’d

  never do such a thing. You have very nice teeth.

  They’re just . . . sizable. I meant your little stash of

  treats in that rather large grocery bag on the other side

  of the bed.”

  “Oh, that.” Renie attempted to look innocent.

  But Judith seized the moment. “Don’t be too hard on

  my cousin,” she said. “She’s always had a lot of allergies and is used to providing her own food. I suspect

  that many patients do that.”

  “Well,” Heather said, “some, of course. But your

  cousin—all of our patients—are asked to put down any

  allergies when they fill out the admitting forms. That’s

  so the dieticians can avoid foods that may cause an allergic reaction. I’m sure you both filled out those sections.” Heather cast a sly glance in Renie’s direction.

  Renie was still pouting.

  “I understand,” Judith said. “But it’s a funny thing

  about illness. You get certain cravings. One time after

  I’d had the flu, I couldn’t eat anything for two days except scrambled-egg sandwiches.”

  Heather nodded. “That’s because your system is depleted. You’ve lost certain vitamins and minerals.”

  “One of my husband’s nieces ate all the paint off her

  bed after she had bronchitis,” Renie said, still looking

  annoyed.

  “That’s a bit unusual,” Heather remarked, her fine

  eyebrows lifting.

  “I assume,” Judith said before Renie could go on

  about Bill’s nieces and nephews, who numbered

  more than a dozen, “that you don’t really come down

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  too hard on patients who insist they have to have a

  certain item. I imagine some of them are rather

  amusing.”

  Heather dimpled. “Oh, yes. We had an elderly man

  last year who insisted on eating chocolate-covered

  grasshoppers. I gather they’re quite a delicacy in some

  cocktail party circles.”

  “That’s very different,” Judith agreed with a big

  smile. “Most, I suppose, are more ordinary.”

  “That’s true,” Heather said. “Milk shakes are very

  popular. So is chocolate and steak. Now while protein

  is necessary, post-op patients shouldn’t eat steak because it’s difficult to digest. Quite frankly, a hamburger

  is more acceptable.”

  “It would be to me,” Renie said.

  Judith ignored her cousin. “I heard,” she said with a

  straight face, �
��that Joan Fremont had a fondness for

  peppermint stick candy.”

  Heather frowned. “I don’t recall that. I believe she

  preferred Italian sodas. The ones with the vanilla syrup

  in the cream and club soda.”

  “Was she able to sneak one in?” Judith asked innocently.

  “She did,” Heather said. “I wasn’t on duty, but

  Corinne told me about it. At least one of them was

  brought to the main desk by a funny little man wearing

  polka-dot pants and a yellow rain slicker. Sister Julia,

  our receptionist, got such a kick out of him. Ms. Fremont—Mrs. Kirby—actually had two of them brought

  in, and first thing in the morning. It was very naughty

  of her.”

  “Really,” Judith said. “Was Mr. Kirby with her

  then?”

  “No,” Heather responded. “Mr. Kirby had a deadline

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  to meet, so he didn’t come in that morning until . . .”

  The nurse paused, her face falling. “He didn’t come in

  until after his wife had expired.”

  “Poor man!” Judith said with feeling. “Had he been

  told that Joan died before he reached the hospital?”

  “I don’t think so,” Heather said. “He’d come directly

  from the newspaper.”

  “What a shock,” Judith murmured. “Mr. Kirby must

  have been overcome.”

  “The truth is,” Heather said, “Mrs. Kirby wasn’t

  one of my patients. I heard all this secondhand from

  Dr. Garnett.”

  “Oh,” Judith said, remembering what Heather had

  told her earlier. “But you were on duty when Mr. Somosa died, right?”

  “Yes.” Heather nodded solemnly. “I was the one

  who found him. That is, I saw his monitor flat-line, and

  immediately started the emergency procedures.”

  Judith wore her most wistful expression. “I hope he

  got to have his favorite thing, like Joan Fremont—Mrs.

  Kirby—had with her Italian sodas.”

  A spot of color showed on each of Heather’s flawless

  cheeks. “He did, actually, even though I tried to dissuade

  him. Somebody had brought him a special juice drink, the

  kind he always drank before he pitched. I saw Mrs. Randall bring it in to him, and she said it smelled delicious.”

  “So someone brought it to the front desk?” Judith

  asked.

  “I suppose,” Heather said, then frowned at Judith.

  “You’re interrogating me, aren’t you? Why?”

  Judith’s smile was, she hoped, guileless. “Curiosity.