Suture Self : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

by Mary Daheim

  straight line. “He’s in the OR.”

  “Goodness.” Renie lay very still.

  “His wife has been sent for,” Heather added. Her

  tone seemed to indicate that Renie should feel even

  guiltier for alarming the illustrious Blanche Van

  Boeck.

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  Renie, however, remained silent. Heather moved on

  to Judith’s IV. “You’re certain you need more Demerol?” the nurse asked.

  “I am,” Judith said. “If anything, I hurt worse right

  now than I did an hour ago.”

  Heather gave a little sniff, but added another dose.

  “That ought to do it for both of you,” she said, sounding stern.

  “I’ll bet,” Renie said after the nurse had left, “that

  the little twit has never had more than a headache. I

  don’t get it. Medical practitioners don’t seem to give a

  hoot for the patient’s comfort. Do they really prefer to

  listen to us gripe?”

  “I suspect a lot of people don’t gripe,” Judith said.

  “They suffer in silence, they’re too shy to ask, they’re

  intimidated by the staff, especially the doctors.”

  “Phooey,” said Renie, digging into her grocery bag.

  “Snack?”

  “No, thanks.” Judith looked askance at her cousin,

  who apparently didn’t feel sufficient guilt to have lost

  her appetite.

  For a few minutes, Judith lay back against the pillows, hoping the Demerol would start to work. Little by

  little, the worst of the pain seemed to ebb. At last she

  picked up the family tree and sighed.

  “I think I’ll call Mother,” she said.

  “You’re procrastinating,” Renie accused, smearing

  Brie on a water wafer.

  “No, I’m not. I mean, I can’t do much about

  Kristin’s family because I don’t know all their names.”

  Judith shot Renie a self-righteous look and dialed

  Gertrude’s number.

  For once, the old lady answered on the third ring.

  “Who is this?” she growled. “You selling something?”

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  “It’s me, Mother,” Judith said wearily. “How are

  you?”

  “ ‘Mother’? I don’t have any kids,” Gertrude

  snapped. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “Please,” Judith begged, “don’t tease me. I’m not

  feeling real good right now.”

  “So who is? You want a list of my ailments? Is that

  what you’re peddling? Home remedies? I’ll take a

  half-dozen. You want me to pay for it with my credit

  card?”

  “You don’t have a credit card, Mother,” Judith said.

  “You don’t believe in them.”

  “I have one now,” Gertrude declared. “I’ve bought a

  bunch of stuff the last couple of days, right off the TV.

  They sell all kinds of doodads and whatnots. ‘Act now,’

  they said, so I did.”

  Judith was puzzled. Until she suddenly became worried. “Where did you get that credit card?”

  “I don’t remember,” Gertrude said, her voice an octave higher than usual. “Maybe I found it.”

  “Have you got it there on your card table?” Judith

  asked, sounding stern.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I’m old. I forget.”

  “That’s my credit card,” Judith asserted. “I left it

  on the kitchen counter Sunday night because I remembered to pay the cable bill by phone before I

  went into the hospital. I was distracted, I didn’t put it

  away. Mother, promise you won’t use the card

  again?”

  “ ‘Act now,’ ” said Gertrude. “That’s what they say

  on TV.”

  “Mother . . .”

  “What did you say you were selling? Elixirs? Snake

  oil?”

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  “I didn’t say . . .”

  “Speaking of which, I’m seeing snakes. One just ate

  my sandwich. Where did he go? He’s kind of cute.

  Oof!” It sounded as if Gertrude had dropped the

  phone.

  “Are you there, Mother?” Judith asked, growing

  anxious.

  There was a rustling noise before Gertrude spoke

  again. “I’m here. Not all there, maybe, but I’m here.

  Now where’d that snake go? He’d better not eat my

  custard pudding. I’m hanging up now.”

  Gertrude did just that.

  “Honestly,” Judith groaned, “I don’t know when

  Mother is putting me on and when she really doesn’t

  know what’s going on. You wouldn’t figure she’d fool

  around when I’m laid up in the hospital, would you?”

  “Sure I would,” Renie said. “She’s jealous. You’re

  too young to be in the hospital, that’s how she thinks.

  Or she’s into denial. If anything happens to you, your

  mother is sunk.”

  “If I stick around here long enough, I’m going to end

  up as depressed as Margie Randall,” Judith asserted.

  “How many more days? Three, four, even more?”

  “For you, maybe,” Renie responded, using a

  Kleenex to wipe off her hands. “I’m out of here day

  after tomorrow.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Judith said. “When you leave,

  I’ll be in despair.”

  “Despair?” Father McConnaught was standing in

  the door, his old face evincing disbelief. “Not that, my

  child. ’Tis a sin. Our dear Lord came to give us hope,

  even in death.”

  Judith forced a smile. “It was a turn of phrase, Father. I’m usually an optimistic person.”

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  Clasping his hands behind his back, the old priest

  shuffled into the room. “Despair—they often call it depression, these modern folk, and hand out pretty pink

  tablets—is the spiritual cancer of our age. Not all the

  electric lights and neon signs can dispel the gloom.

  Such a waste.” He shook his head, but his eyes twinkled. It occurred to Judith that the old priest didn’t seem

  quite so vague this afternoon. “Such a pity,” he added,

  the wisps of hair standing straight up on his head.

  “All I want is a ham sandwich,” Renie said.

  Judith winced at her cousin’s remark, but Father McConnaught smiled. “A simple pleasure. But the getting

  of things—even a ham sandwich—isn’t as grand as the

  giving. Giving up, letting go, surrendering. There’s the

  beauty of it.” His gaze wandered around the room with

  its plaster cracks, its peeling paint, its scarred wood.

  His eyes lingered briefly over the holy statues, but finally they came to rest on Archie the doll. “See that little fellow? He’s happy. He has nothing but that big

  smile.”

  “He has a suitcase,” Renie said, pointing to the small

  brown box on the nightstand.

  Father McConnaught’s face evinced curiosity. “And

  what might be in that little case?”

  Renie smiled at the priest. “It’s empty.”

  “Ah. Of course.” Father McConnaught turned

  around, his gnarled fingers twisting behind his back.

  “They won’t listen, these sad, empty souls. That’s why

  Dr. Van Boeck made himself ill.”

  “Oh?” Judith sat up straighter. The D
emerol seemed

  to be working. Or maybe it was Father McConnaught’s

  presence.

  The priest nodded. “He can’t let go. None of them

  can. Not even Sister Jacqueline.”

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  “Let go?” Judith echoed. “Of what?”

  Father McConnaught spread his hands. “Of this. The

  hospital. Their life’s work. A hundred years of the

  order’s dedication. The sisters think it’s wasted. But

  it’s not, and even so, nothing is forever in this life. We

  own nothing, we belong nowhere. Except to God.”

  “Then Good Cheer is . . . doomed?” Judith wrinkled

  her nose at the melodramatic word.

  “Not precisely,” Father McConnaught replied. “That

  is, it won’t be torn down or turned into a hotel.” He

  smiled again at the cousins, but his blue eyes had lost

  their twinkle. “I don’t understand it, I don’t wish to,

  don’t you see. But it’s all very upsetting for those who

  work here, and it should not be so. It’s all transitory,

  isn’t it?”

  As if to prove his point, Father McConnaught shuffled off into the hall.

  “Goodness,” Judith said. “That sounds bad. If the

  old guy knows what he’s talking about.”

  “I think he does,” Renie said slowly. “Most of the

  time. Restoration Heartware, remember?”

  “A takeover?” Judith sighed. “That’s really a shame.

  For all of Father’s spiritual advice—not that he’s

  wrong—it’s still hard for the people involved. Even a

  stuffed shirt like Jan Van Boeck. I wonder if he’s going

  to be okay?”

  The question was answered in a surprising way. Five

  minutes later, Blanche Van Boeck stormed into the

  cousins’ room. “You!” she shouted, pointing at Renie.

  “You almost killed my husband!”

  “Oh, boy,” Renie muttered. “Almost? As in, he’s not

  really dead?”

  Blanche, who was swathed in fox and wearing a silver turban, advanced on Renie. “Listen, you little pest,

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  I can have you thrown out of this hospital, right into a

  snowbank. What do you think of that?”

  “I think you wouldn’t dare,” Renie shot back, looking pugnacious. “There’s a reporter in the next room

  who’d plaster that all over page one of the next edition.”

  “He wouldn’t dare!” Blanche shouted, waving a kidglove-encased fist. “He’s incommunicado.”

  “What do you mean?” Renie demanded. “I saw him

  on the phone this morning.”

  A nasty smile played at Blanche’s crimson lips. “He

  was trying to talk on the phone,” she said, “but his

  line’s been shut off. Do you think we’d allow a viper in

  our midst?”

  “I thought Mr. Kirby was a patient,” Judith remarked

  in an unassuming voice.

  Standing next to Renie’s bed, Blanche ignored Judith.

  “I should sue you for almost killing my husband. He’s

  not out of the woods yet.”

  “The woods?” Renie was round-eyed. “Is that where

  they take patients around here? No wonder so many of

  them croak.”

  Trying to signal Renie to keep her mouth shut, Judith was fighting a losing battle. Blanche’s large form

  and even larger fur coat blocked Renie’s view of her

  cousin.

  “You haven’t heard the last of this,” Blanche

  warned, her arm pumping up and down. “I’m personally seeing to it that you’re discharged as soon as possible. Then expect to hear from my attorneys.” She

  turned on her high-heeled boots and started to leave the

  room.

  “Wait,” Judith said plaintively. “Please.”

  “What?” Blanche snapped.

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  “What did happen with Dr. Van Boeck? Was it a

  stroke?” Judith asked, hoping she exhibited sympathy.

  “Not precisely,” Blanche replied, finally lowering her

  voice. “He was . . . overcome. They took him to the OR

  merely as a precaution. My husband suffers from high

  blood pressure. His medication needs adjusting. But,”

  she went on, whirling around to look at Renie again, “it

  was a very near thing. That doesn’t let you off the hook.”

  Blanche Van Boeck stalked out.

  “Dammit,” Renie cried, “that woman will sue me.

  She’s just that ornery.”

  “She won’t win,” Judith said. “She admitted that Dr.

  Van Boeck has a preexisting condition.”

  “Bill and I don’t need the aggravation,” Renie declared, then frowned. “I can’t stop thinking about Bill

  and those Chihuahuas. What do you think he’s doing?”

  “Call him, ask,” Judith suggested.

  Renie shook her head. “You know how Bill hates to

  talk on the phone. He doesn’t answer it most of the

  time. I’ll wait until he calls me.”

  “He’s probably just amusing himself,” Judith said.

  “He’s housebound, you’re not around, the kids may be

  getting on his nerves.”

  “Maybe.” Renie, however, was still frowning.

  “When I went to see Addison Kirby this morning, he

  didn’t mention that he couldn’t use his phone.”

  “He may have just thought the system was fouled

  up,” Judith said. “You know, the weather and all.”

  “Yes,” Renie said absently as Mr. Mummy again

  poked his head in the door.

  “I thought I’d see if you two were all right,” he said,

  looking worried. “You’ve had a lot of commotion in

  the last hour. I saw Mrs. Van Boeck. Did she say how

  her husband was doing?”

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  “Tolerably,” Renie replied as Mr. Mummy limped

  into the room on his cast. “As near as I can tell, he blew

  a gasket.”

  Mr. Mummy seemed mystified, but smiled. “Mrs.

  Van Boeck appeared quite disturbed. Was she upset

  about her husband?”

  “She was upset with me,” Renie said. “She’s going

  to sue me for causing her husband to have a fit. But it

  really wasn’t my fault.”

  “Of course not,” Mr. Mummy soothed, approaching

  the foot of Renie’s bed. “I’m sure Dr. Van Boeck is

  under a great deal of stress. Why, just running such a

  large institution would take its toll on anyone.”

  “Or being married to Blanche Van Boeck,” Renie

  muttered. “I wonder how he stands her.”

  “An interesting question,” Mr. Mummy said, tipping his head to one side. “Yes, she must sometimes

  be a trial. Now which would you think would be

  worse? A rather overbearing woman such as Blanche

  Van Boeck or a helpless, dispirited creature like

  Margie Randall?”

  “Goodness,” Judith said, “that is a conundrum.”

  “Mere observation,” Mr. Mummy responded. “I’ve

  seen them both, and I wonder which is more difficult

  for the husband. Of course, in Mr. Randall’s situation,

  he’s beyond all that. Then again, perhaps Mrs. Van

  Boeck spoke kindly of her spouse when she was here

  a few minutes ago?”

  “Kindly?”
Renie made a face. “She was mostly mad

  at me, for—allegedly—making him foam at the mouth

  or whatever.”

  “At you, eh?” Mr. Mummy beamed at Renie. “Dear

  Mrs. Jones, I don’t see how you could ever annoy anyone.” Apparently, Mr. Mummy didn’t notice Judith

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  choking on her water, for he continued. “Are you certain she didn’t blame . . . someone else?”

  “Quite certain,” Renie replied firmly. “I’m the villain.”

  “Oh.” Mr. Mummy looked vaguely disappointed,

  perhaps in Mrs. Van Boeck’s judgment. He made a little bow. “I should be going on my way. You’ve had a tiring afternoon. Perhaps I’ll call on Mr. Kirby. The days

  here are so long when you can’t be particularly active.”

  Their visitor began his laborious exit, but before he

  could get out the door, Judith had a question:

  “What do you do for a living when you’re not laid

  up, Mr. Mummy?”

  He turned slightly, though his gaze didn’t quite meet

  Judith’s. “I’m a beekeeper,” he said, then chuckled.

  “Buzz, buzz.”

  “A beekeeper, huh?” Renie said after Mr. Mummy

  had disappeared. “Do you believe that?”

  “It’s so unusual that maybe I do,” Judith said. “He

  would definitely have to live out in the country to raise

  bees.”

  Renie’s phone rang, and this time it was her mother.

  Judith was trying to tune out the conversation when a

  hulking physical therapist named Henry arrived and

  announced that he was going to teach her to walk.

  “I thought Heather was going to let me sit in the

  wheelchair again,” Judith protested. “I really don’t

  think—”

  On the phone, Renie was trying to get a word in

  edgewise. “There really isn’t a draft through the windows, Mom. I couldn’t put a coat on over my sling if I

  had . . .”

  Henry snapped his fingers. “You don’t need to think.

  It’s better that you don’t.”

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  “Truly, none of the doctors have gotten fresh,” Renie

  was insisting. “No, I haven’t seen any white

  slavers . . .”

  “But,” Judith began, involuntarily shrinking back

  among the pillows, “it’s only been two days since—”

  “That’s the point, ma’am,” Henry said, beckoning to

  Judith. “Come on, sit up, let’s get you moving.”

  “Who did you say impersonated a doctor?” Renie

  sounded incredulous. “Well, sometimes a veterinarian

  knows more about medicine than . . . Yes, I know there’s