Suture Self : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

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Suture Self : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery Page 32

by Mary Daheim


  Judith could barely contain her excitement. “Who

  was it?”

  Mike gave his mother and his aunt an ironic smile.

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  “That’s the weird thing. He didn’t look like most of the

  homeless types.”

  Judith nodded. “I’m not surprised.”

  “Huh?” Mike looked puzzled. “What do you

  mean?”

  Maybe, Judith thought, it was only fair to enlighten

  her son. But before she could say anything, Bill Jones

  came through the door, panting mightily.

  “Bill!” Renie cried. “You’re alive!”

  Bill leaned one thermal-gloved hand against the

  door frame and panted some more. “Huhuhuhuhuhu,”

  he uttered.

  “Did you bring me some snacks?” Renie asked,

  smiling widely.

  Bill, his tongue hanging out, shook his head.

  “Uhuhuh.”

  Renie’s face fell. “Oooh . . .”

  “Why don’t you smack her, Uncle Bill?” Mike

  asked, half serious.

  Bill finally caught his breath. “The crowns in heaven

  that await me . . . ,” he murmured, coming all the way

  into the room and kissing his wife.

  Renie appeared contrite. “Are you all right? Are you

  cold? Are you tired?”

  Bill nodded emphatically at each question, then

  slumped into Renie’s visitor’s chair and removed his

  snap-brim cap. “I came to find out how Joe was doing,

  but the elevator’s broken. I couldn’t make it all the way

  to the fourth floor on the stairs. What’s happening?”

  “Joe’s much better,” Judith said happily. “Mike’s

  seen him, but I haven’t yet. Because of the elevator.”

  Bill nodded again. “You two seem to be doing okay.”

  “We are,” Renie replied, patting Bill’s arm. “Are you

  sure you don’t have frostbite?”

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  This time, Bill shook his head. “It’s actually beautiful out there, with the sun shining and all the snow

  that’s still left. I didn’t mind the walk at all.”

  “Good,” Renie said, then turned serious. “Tell me,

  what on earth are you doing with those blasted Chihuahuas? I was beginning to think you’d gone over the

  edge.”

  “Oh.” Bill chuckled. “This may sound whimsical,

  but an occasional nonscientific experiment can prove

  interesting, if not entirely valid. This was one I’d had

  in mind for a long time. I became curious about animal

  versus human behavior several years ago and—”

  “Bill,” Renie interrupted, “spare us the background,

  okay?”

  “What?” Bill frowned at his wife. “Okay, okay. Anyway, you must realize that this wasn’t a controlled situation. But recently I’d read an abstract in one of my

  psychology journals by Dr. Friedbert Von Schimmelheimer in Vienna, who had some fascinating ideas on

  the subject, though his experiments involved—”

  “Bill . . .” Renie broke in.

  “What? Oh, all right, never mind. If you understand the

  problems with replication, then you’ll appreciate how—”

  “Bill!” Renie looked fierce. “Layman’s language,

  please.”

  Bill glared at his wife. “Okay, I’ll cut to the chase. I

  would have preferred to do it with monkey siblings,

  but then we found the dogs. Anyway, you know how

  Oscar is about experimenting with apes.”

  Renie nodded while Judith gazed at the ceiling and

  Mike looked puzzled. Oscar was the Joneses’ stuffed

  ape and was treated like a member of the family.

  “So how did it turn out?” Renie asked, her patience

  restored.

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  “Fascinating,” Bill replied. “I called them John and

  Paul. For the pope. John’s the one wearing Archie’s

  tuxedo.” He paused to look at the doll on his wife’s

  nightstand. “Hi, Archie. How are you doing? You look

  really cheerful.” Judith and Mike exchanged amused

  glances. “Anyway,” Bill continued, “Paul has on those

  Wisconsin sweats, the ones that Clarence ate most of

  the badger symbol off. John got the expensive dog

  food, Paul got the cheaper kind. I made a bed for John

  in the bottom drawer of my desk. I put Paul in a cardboard box. John drank Evian water; Paul had to make

  do with water from the tap. Sure enough, after twentyfour hours, John started to become spoiled, while Paul

  sulked. Then, this morning, when I gave John a leftover rib-steak bone, Paul pounced on him. The experiment proved what I thought would be true. Even

  nonhuman siblings can suffer resentment and lack of

  self-esteem when one of them gets preferred treatment

  over the other. They can also exhibit hostility and aggression.”

  Judith stared at Renie. “What do you think?”

  Renie glanced at Bill. “I think my husband’s right.

  As usual.”

  Judith turned to Mike. “Go upstairs and get Woody.

  The time has come to call in a consulting police detective.”

  Sister Jacqueline telephoned a few minutes later.

  The nun still sounded dubious about revealing the information Judith had requested, but when she finally

  did, another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Feeling

  as if she had a solid grip on the solution to the murders,

  Judith smiled grimly.

  Mike and Woody had their own way of making Ju-SUTURE SELF

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  dith smile. When they entered the ward fifteen minutes later, they were pushing a wheelchair. Joe Flynn

  offered his wife a feeble, though fond, grin.

  “Joe!” Judith cried. In her excitement, she instinctively leaned forward to touch him, then screamed and

  doubled over in pain. “Oh, my God!” she cried through

  her misery. “I think I’ve dislocated my hip!”

  TWENTY

  JUDITH LET OUT a terrible cry of anguish. Joe tried to

  reach out to help his wife, but weakness overcame

  him. It was Mike who rushed to his mother’s side as

  she moaned in pain.

  “Mom!” He attempted to move her into a sitting

  position, but she resisted.

  “I can’t move!” she gasped through tears. “Get a

  nurse! A doctor!”

  Corinne Appleby and Heather Chinn both

  showed up almost immediately. Then, in a haze of

  agony, Judith saw Pearson, the orderly, arrive with a

  gurney. Though the slightest movement was agonizing, she endured being moved onto the gurney,

  rushed down the hall and into the elevator, which

  obviously had been repaired, and hustled to a room

  with bright lights. Staff members she’d never seen

  before were at the ready.

  Despite a fresh dose of painkillers, the next half

  hour was a nightmare. At last, after X rays had been

  taken and Dr. Alfonso had arrived, her self-diagnosis

  was confirmed: She had indeed dislocated the new hip.

  It would take only a couple of minutes to put it back,

  but Judith would have to be virtually unconscious during the procedure. She welcomed the oblivion.

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  An hour later, Judith awoke in her own bed on the

  third floor. Th
rough a haze, she saw the same people

  who had been there when disaster had struck.

  “Joe . . .” she murmured.

  “I’m here, Jude-girl,” he said, taking her hand.

  “So cunning, so cruel . . .” she mumbled.

  Joe looked at Renie, who was sitting in Judith’s visitor’s chair. “Does that mean me? ” he asked with a

  worried expression.

  Renie, however, shook her head.

  “Threes . . .” Judith murmured, squeezing her eyes

  shut against the bright, setting sun. “Everything in

  threes . . . Three lives saved . . . three patients dead . . .

  three homeless men stabbed . . . three inedible salads . . .”

  “Salads?” Joe looked at Bill.

  Bill shrugged.

  “Is she delirious?” Woody whispered.

  “Must be,” Joe muttered. “My poor little girl.”

  “Planned in advance . . . Surgical instruments

  stolen . . . Should have guessed . . . to kill homeless . . .

  Poor souls, set up with bribes to provide iron-clad alibis and drive car . . . Bill and Renie’s car . . . stolen because the snow starting, couldn’t get to usual

  vehicle . . .”

  Renie glanced at Bill. “Poor Cammy,” she sighed.

  Joe shot both the Joneses a quizzical look. “Your

  Toyota?”

  Bill nodded.

  “Who’s Cammy?” Woody asked.

  “Uncle Bill and Aunt Renie’s car,” Mike said

  under his breath.

  Woody looked befuddled.

  “So sad, those homeless men . . .” Judith made a fee-310

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  ble attempt to squeeze Joe’s hand. He made a feeble attempt to squeeze back. “Had to die, couldn’t be trusted

  not to tell . . . Only organ donors need apply . . .”

  “What?” Joe leaned closer to his wife. “Jude-girl,

  what the hell are you talking about?”

  “Definitely delirious,” Woody murmured. “Maybe I

  should come back later.”

  “No, please . . .” Judith opened her eyes and gazed

  compellingly at Woody.

  Woody stayed.

  “So many odd little things . . .” Judith tried to sit up,

  failed, and pointed to the water container on the nightstand. Mike filled a glass and handed it to her.

  “Thirsty,” she said with a small smile of thanks. “After

  surgery, fluids so important . . . Everybody must drink,

  drink, drink . . . Why not put street drugs into IVs?

  Simple, if you know how . . . not so simple if you

  don’t . . . Everybody must drink, any fluids, all fluids . . . exotic juice, Italian sodas, booze . . . Just keep

  pouring it down . . .” She paused to take another sip of

  water. “The Chihuahuas, one in a tuxedo, one in a

  sweatsuit . . . They clinched it.”

  “I’m afraid,” Joe said, a note of alarm in his voice,

  “that whatever they gave her when they put her hip

  back in has fried her brain. Do you think we should

  send for a psychologist?”

  “I am a psychologist,” Bill reminded Joe. “She’s not

  crazy. I think I know what she’s trying to say.”

  Joe glanced at Archie, cheerfully smiling on Renie’s

  nightstand, then gave both the Joneses a look that indicated he wasn’t convinced of their sanity, either. “O-oo-kay,” he said under his breath.

  “All those years of being the opposite,” Judith said,

  her eyes wide open and almost in focus, “of feeling in-SUTURE SELF

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  ferior, of being a mirror twin, of suffering near blindness . . . That’s why Jim Randall killed his brother, and

  several innocent victims along the way.”

  The golden light from the fading winter sun bathed

  the room in a tattered antique splendor. With the dark

  wood, the wavery window glass, and the religious statues, Judith could almost believe she was in a nineteenthcentury hospital, where only gaslights and candles

  provided illumination. The Demerol was working, and

  so was her brain. A wondrous calm came over her as

  she saw some of the people she loved most standing or

  sitting around her bed. Then her gaze traveled from Joe

  to Mike, and a surge of panic filled her. But she had

  made her resolution to tell the truth. Not quite yet, but

  later, maybe when she was home again.

  “Jim Randall!” Woody exclaimed, his usual quiet

  demeanor shattered. “You mean Bob’s brother?”

  “His mirror twin,” Judith replied after drinking more

  water. “They faced each other in the womb, they’re exactly opposite. Bob once saved Jim’s life, and I’m not

  entirely sure Jim was grateful. Even as a child, he must

  have sensed his physical inferiority. Then, when Jim

  started to lose his sight—or maybe he never had full

  vision—he brooded. Finally he got on a list for cornea

  recipients. Even there, he knew that he probably

  wasn’t high on the list, and in some twisted, deranged

  way, decided to speed up the process. He found out—

  probably from Margie, his sister-in-law—where he

  stood on that list and which patients were organ donors

  at Good Cheer. Obsessed with the concept of finally

  being able to see clearly, he began to eliminate patients. Not just any patients, but successful ones, the

  type of person he could never be. Yes, those victims

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  were all organ donors, though he didn’t necessarily expect to get their corneas.”

  Judith paused to pick up the notes she’d taken down

  from Sister Jacqueline. “On each of the dates that Somosa and Fremont died, Jim had scheduled medical

  tests, right up to Tuesday when Bob Randall had his

  surgery. Jim didn’t strike me as a healthy person,

  though he may also have been a hypochondriac. I suspect he faked that faint to allay suspicion. Anyway, he

  talked his doctors into a CAT scan, an ultrasound, and

  an MRI. But he never took those tests, he had a homeless person do it for him. Renie told me after she had

  her MRI for her shoulder that all she had to do when

  she went to the place where they did the test was hand

  them some information in a folder she’d gotten from

  the reception desk.”

  “Judith’s right,” Renie chimed in. “I thought it was

  odd at the time, and even asked the people giving the

  test how they knew it was really me. They said they

  didn’t, I could be anybody as long as I was female and

  of a certain age.”

  “This deception not only gave Jim an alibi,” Judith

  went on, “but allowed him to get the homeless men to

  drop off the special treats for his victims. Jim couldn’t

  risk doing it himself, and he certainly never could have

  put the drugs into the IVs. He couldn’t see well enough.”

  “Hold on,” Woody interrupted. “How could Jim

  know what special drinks Joaquin Somosa and Joan

  Fremont wanted?”

  “Margie,” Judith said simply. “She’d hardly be suspicious of such an innocent question. Even though she

  may have delivered the drinks—though not her husband’s booze—it wouldn’t dawn on her that Jim had

  purchased the stuff.”

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  “Still,” Renie put in, “it must have occurred to

  Margie that the lethal
drugs were in those drinks.

  That’s why she referred to herself as ‘the vessel.’ ”

  Joe was still looking skeptical. “How,” he asked,

  “could Jim ensure that he’d actually get corneas if he

  wasn’t at the top of the list?”

  “He couldn’t,” Judith said. “First of all, he may not

  have been down as far as you’d think. Even if the

  medical tests showed that something was wrong, it

  wasn’t really him undergoing the tests. If one of the

  homeless men turned up with a problem, Jim could

  simply ask to retake the test and claim a medical mistake. But another key was the weather. Organs are

  flown in from all over the country. When we first met

  Jim, he mentioned that he knew there was a big storm

  coming in. That usually means the airport is closed—

  and it was—so that if a local donor died, the corneas

  could only be delivered by helicopter. And, having

  maneuvered himself to the top of the city’s list, he

  knew he’d be here to receive them. Even if he wasn’t

  number one, he was at the hospital. Another recipient

  might not have been able to reach a hospital in this

  weather.”

  “Taylor,” Renie murmured. “I overheard Bob Randall talking to someone named Taylor. Addison Kirby

  said that was the name of his wife’s eye doctor. Maybe

  he was Jim’s doctor, too, and Bob was thanking him

  for good news, like Jim being near the top of the recipient list.”

  “That would make sense,” Judith said.

  Joe sucked in his breath, an effort that obviously cost

  him pain. “So a cold-blooded killer with new eyes is

  lying across the hall from us?”

  Judith nodded. “I’m afraid he is.”

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  Woody shook his head. “I’ve never heard of such a

  strange homicide case. All those innocent victims.”

  “Three in the hospital,” Judith said. “The number

  three was symbolic to Jim. His brother had saved three

  lives—Jim’s, and two children who were rescued by

  Bob from a house fire. It was as if Jim had to do just

  the opposite—take three successful lives, including

  that of the mirror twin who had saved him from drowning. The three homeless men may have—perhaps subconsciously—symbolized his own inferiority. Jim felt

  like them—a loser.”

  “I wonder,” Renie said, “if Bob was really as big a

  jerk as Jim and the rest of the family indicated.”

  “I’ll bet he was,” Judith replied. “Big sports stars

 

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