by Mary Daheim
“What caused Mr. Randall to die so suddenly?” Judith asked.
Corinne didn’t look at Judith. “I don’t know. He seemed to be doing quite well.”
“Why did they rush his body down the hall after he died?” Judith queried. “I mean, he was already beyond help, wasn’t he?”
Corinne gave a curt nod. “Yes. He must have been an organ donor. The same procedure was followed with Mr. Somosa and Ms. Fremont.”
Judith pressed on before Corinne could put the thermometer in her mouth. “Will they perform an autopsy on Mr. Randall?”
“Yes, it’s required in such cases.” The nurse still avoided Judith’s gaze as she began the pulse routine.
Renie had managed to get herself back under the covers. “But how can they do an autopsy if he’s donating his organs? That doesn’t make sense.”
“They can take the corneas,” Corinne replied. “Eyes aren’t part of a routine autopsy.”
“So they did autopsies on Fremont and Somosa?” Renie asked, filling in for her cousin, who now had the thermometer in her mouth.
“Yes.” Corinne kept focused on her watch. “As I said, they have to when a patient dies unexpectedly. The county automatically assumes jurisdiction in such cases.”
“What did they find out with the first two?” Renie inquired.
“I couldn’t say,” Corinne replied, removing the thermometer from Judith’s lips. “There, now let’s take your blood pressure.”
“Couldn’t?” Judith smiled. “Or can’t?”
“Won’t.” Corinne wound the cuff around Judith’s arm. “The hospital has made its public statement.”
“‘Extenuating circumstances’?” Renie quoted from what she’d read in the newspaper. “As in, not the hospital’s fault?”
Corinne shrugged, but said nothing. Judith couldn’t resist goading the nurse. “I saw the news last night on TV. Good Cheer is being sued, I gathered.” It was only an assumption, given the brief news bit the cousins had seen, but it seemed a logical conclusion.
Corinne made no response of any kind, but removed the cuff, made some entries on a chart, and started working with Renie.
“Nope,” Renie said, rolling over away from the nurse as far as she could. “I’m bored with vital signs. You aren’t any fun, Appleby. Why don’t they let Robbie the Robot do this stuff?”
“Please, Mrs. Jones,” Corinne said severely, “don’t act childish.”
“But I am childish,” Renie replied. “Often immature and a downright brat. Come on, lawsuits are a matter of public record.”
Corinne took a deep breath. “I really don’t know. There have been some rumors.”
Renie didn’t budge. “There were other rumors, too, about Fremont and Somosa being drug abusers. Is that the hospital’s defense?”
Corinne Appleby made an angry gesture, her face so flushed that the freckles disappeared. “None of that’s any of your business. If you won’t let me take your vitals, that’s fine. But I intend to enter your lack of cooperation on the chart.”
“Be my guest,” Renie shot back as the nurse headed for the door. “I’ll file a complaint. I’ll call you a big drip.”
Corinne was almost out of the room when a deep, angry voice could be heard from the hallway.
“Don’t tell me who I can talk to and who I can’t!” the man shouted. “I’m sick of this runaround! Where the hell is Dr. Garnett?”
Startled, Corinne scooted away and closed the door behind her.
“Drat!” Judith exclaimed. “She can’t do that! Coz, could you…?”
“Aargh,” groaned Renie. “I guess.” She struggled to get out of bed again. “Who do you suppose that is?”
“I don’t know,” Judith replied. “I could only hear, not see, him.”
Renie opened the door just in time to see the man, who had a dark beard, accost two young people. “Look, I’m sorry,” he said, “but I want to help. Let’s go somewhere else so we can talk in private.”
Trying to get a better look at the newcomers, Renie stepped farther out into the hall. From the bed, Judith could see only Renie’s backside and the IV stand. She gave a little jump when her cousin stumbled into the room, propelled by the firm hands of Sister Jacqueline.
“We simply cannot have patients interfering or getting involved with hospital routine this morning, Mrs. Jones,” the nun said in an emphatic tone. “Please remain in your room, and we’d prefer you to keep your door shut. Remember, it’s for your own sakes as well. You need to rest in order to make a quick recovery.”
Perhaps it was all those years in parochial school, but even Renie could comply with the wishes of a nun. “I know that bearded man,” she said, back-pedaling in a clumsy manner. “That’s Addison Kirby, the newspaper reporter. He was married to Joan Fremont.”
Sister Jacqueline merely gave a slight nod. “Please get back in bed, Mrs. Jones.”
“Who are those two young people?” Renie persisted. “Are they the Kirby kids?”
The nun started to turn away, then paused. “No. They’re Mr. Randall’s son and daughter. They came to the hospital to be with their mother.”
“How is Margie Randall doing?” Judith asked with genuine sympathy.
Sister Jacqueline had reached the doorway. “Not well, I’m afraid. She’s a very emotional woman. Excuse me, I must go.”
Judith gazed at Renie. “It cannot be a coincidence for three well-known people to die unexpectedly after routine surgery in Good Cheer Hospital.”
Renie looked pained. “I never like encouraging you to track down murderers, but I have to admit, this is pretty weird.”
“More than weird,” Judith responded, remembering to take another sip of water. “But what’s the connection? One actress. Two sports stars. One active, one retired. From different sports, too. Who could possibly want all three of them out of the way?”
Staring out through the windows with their faded muslin curtains, Judith grew thoughtful. It was another gray day, with heavy, dark clouds hovering over the city. Maybe it would snow. But the weather was the least of Judith’s worries.
“There’s got to be a police investigation that hasn’t been made public,” Judith said after a long pause. “Maybe Joe can find out from Woody.”
Lunch arrived, brought by a small Filipino woman with silver streaks in her short, dark hair. Making each of the cousins a little bow, she introduced herself as Maya. Sitting up in bed, Renie bowed back.
“Such a morning!” Maya exclaimed in little more than a whisper. “Did you hear about Mr. Randall? What next, I wonder?”
Judith had an impulsive urge to hug the little woman. At last, there was somebody on the floor who wasn’t tongue-tied. “It’s terrible,” Judith said, putting on her most sympathetic face. “It must be so hard for the people like you who work here, Maya.”
Maya set Judith’s tray in place, then put a hand on her breast. “It’s terrible,” she said, rolling her dark eyes and then crossing herself. “All these deaths. Fine people, too, each one very nice.”
“You were on duty when all three of them died?” Judith queried, trying to contain her own excitement.
“Yes.” Maya uttered the word like a victory chant. It was obvious to Judith that she reveled in high drama. “Can you imagine? Every time, the same thing, the same way. They do fine, getting better, then…” She held up her small hands. “Poof! They go to heaven.”
“It must be very sad for you,” Judith said, “to see these people and their families and then to have them die so unexpectedly. I suppose all their loved ones were extremely shocked. Did anybody say what might have happened?”
Maya waved a hand in a vexed gesture. “They say too little and too much. The doctors, they don’t understand what happens. Not their fault, they say. Can’t explain. Maybe patient have unknown sickness or take bad medicine. The families, they cry, they make threats, they blame doctors, nurses, everybody in hospital. Why, right now, Mr. Kirby, the husband of the actress, he’s here aga
in, making the big fuss.” Maya shook her head. “What is fame, what is riches, if you die too soon? So sad, so very sad.”
“Mr. Somosa left a wife, but no children, I believe,” put in Renie as Maya delivered her tray. “The Kirby children are grown, and I guess the Randall kids are, too.”
Maya nodded several times. “Yes. Mrs. Somosa, so pretty, so young, she had to be put in the hospital herself, she was so filled with grief. Now she has gone back to her homeland, the Dominican Republic, I believe. Mr. Somosa was buried there, with his ancestors. The Kirby children I never saw, they live far away, but they must have come for the funeral, yes? And now Mr. Randall…Oh, my! Mrs. Randall, she will be in the hospital, too, if she doesn’t stop crying so.”
“Maybe the children can help,” Judith said. “I understand they’re at the hospital now.”
Maya’s dark eyes flashed. “That’s so.” She put a finger to her lips. “Know what? They are with Mr. Kirby. Why do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Judith said.
“I do,” Maya said with an emphatic nod. “They talk of a cabal.”
Judith stared. “A cabal? What sort of cabal?”
“A plot to kill these poor souls,” Maya declared with a swift glance over her shoulder to make sure the door was firmly shut. “What else?”
Judith made an extra effort to look impressed. “Who would do such a thing?”
Maya waved her hand again. “The riffraff. The rabble. The kind of people who hate the rich and famous. Communists, no doubt. It’s what you call a vendetta.” She clenched a fist and made stabbing motions, as if she held a dagger.
The door opened suddenly and Heather Chinn appeared, looking suspicious. “Your lunch cart is outside, Maya,” said the nurse. “Is everything all right in here?”
“Yes, yes,” Maya said, smiling, her compact little figure all but bouncing toward the doorway. “These fine ladies, they need what you call the pep talk. You know Maya, she can give the good pep talk.”
Heather stepped aside as Maya made her exit. “I hope she wasn’t pestering you,” Heather said to the cousins, a faintly wary expression lingering on her face. “Maya’s quite a talker.”
“She’s interesting,” Judith said.
“Yes,” Heather agreed, turning to leave, “but don’t pay much attention to her. She likes to hear herself talk.”
The nurse departed, closing the door behind her. “Well?” Judith said. “How much of Maya’s spiel do you believe?”
“None of it,” Renie replied, lifting lids and looking dismayed. “It seems we have bath sponge for lunch.”
Judith also examined the meal. Everything was a pale yellow, including the lettuce leaves in the salad. “It might be some kind of creamed chicken on…something. Toast?” Judith prodded the gelatinous mass with her fork. “Hunh. Whatever. We also have pears, more apple juice, and a big, fat, unattractive cookie with jaundice-yellow frosting. No wonder I don’t have much appetite.”
“That makes two of us.” Renie sighed. “I was starved last night, but Art Huey’s food is always terrific. Today, I feel sort of…blah.”
“That’s not like you,” Judith remarked. Renie’s appetite was usually boundless. “I suppose it’s natural. We’ve been through a lot.”
“True,” Renie said as someone knocked on the door but entered before either cousin could respond.
“Mrs. Flynn and Mrs. Jones?” The man who spoke was Addison Kirby, who closed the door behind him and immediately introduced himself. He was hatless, and wearing a classic trench coat over dark slacks, a tweed jacket, and a light-brown flannel shirt. “May I?”
“You want to see us?” Judith asked in surprise.
The newspaper reporter gave a curt nod. “It’ll only take a minute.”
“Okay,” Judith said, puzzled. “Have a seat.”
Addison started to sit down in Judith’s visitor’s chair, then hesitated. “Are you sure?” he asked, his penetrating hazel eyes darting from cousin to cousin.
“Positive,” Renie said, draining her apple juice. “I recognized you out in the hall. Let me say right off, I’m terribly sorry about your loss. Your wife was a wonderful actress, and I’ve heard she was a fine person as well. She always seemed active in helping raise money for charity.”
Briefly, Addison hung his head. He was going bald, but there were only a few strands of gray in his well-kept beard. “She was terrific in every way,” he said, looking up. “On top of it, we managed to raise three children who are now off and on their own. We have two grandchildren, charming little twins. Joan was so fond of them. We’d visit when Le Repertoire wasn’t…” He stopped abruptly and bit his full lower lip. “Sorry. I’m not here to talk about that.”
“That’s okay,” Judith said with sympathy. “Go ahead, tell us whatever you want to.”
“No, no,” Addison replied, now very businesslike. “I have just a couple of questions.” Again, he paused, this time to clear his throat. “This morning, before Bob Randall died, did either of you see or hear anything unusual?”
Judith and Renie exchanged quick glances. “No,” Judith finally said. “I don’t recall anything.”
“You’re sure?” Addison Kirby looked disappointed.
Renie’s expression was uncharacteristically diffident. “I did hear Randall talking on the phone this morning while I was in there.” She gestured at the darkly stained wooden door to the bathroom. “He was talking about somebody named Taylor, or to somebody named Taylor. I couldn’t catch much of it, though.”
Addison looked puzzled. “The only Taylor I know was Joan’s eye doctor. But it’s a common name. That’s all you heard?”
“I’m afraid so,” Judith responded with an apologetic expression. “Why do you ask?”
Kirby shook his head. “I’m paranoid,” he said. “Obsessed. Nuts.”
“Who isn’t?” Renie offered.
Standing up, Kirby replaced the visitor’s chair and jammed his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. “I had an appointment this morning to meet with Dr. Garnett, the chief of surgery. I’ve got a lot of unanswered questions about Joan’s death. Garnett had been stalling me, figuring, I suppose, that anything he said would be on page one of the Times’s next edition. But he finally gave in, and we’d just gotten started when he was summoned to this floor. I could tell it was urgent, so I followed him, and learned that Bob Randall had died. I didn’t really know Bob, but I’ve seen him around town over the years. Anyway, it seemed damned peculiar, with Joan dying so suddenly and Joaquin Somosa, the same way.”
“It’s incredible,” Judith declared.
“You bet it is,” Addison asserted, the hazel eyes sparking. “I was already suspicious, that’s why I wanted to see Garnett. If nothing else, I wanted to clear Joan’s reputation.”
“In what way?” Judith asked.
Addison had turned to the door, but now he faced the cousins again. “Because,” he said angrily, “the results of the autopsy indicated she’d ingested a large quantity of Rohypnol—one of those date-rape drugs—which caused her death. That’s bull, Joan never did drugs in her life. Even if she had, why in the world would she take that one?” His voice dropped and his eyes sent off more sparks. “It doesn’t make sense, which is why I think my wife was murdered.”
FIVE
JUDITH WASN’T SURPRISED by Addison Kirby’s declaration. It only confirmed her suspicions about the three deaths.
“So you think there may be something fishy about Somosa and Randall as well?” she asked.
Addison shrugged. “Maybe. I can’t speak for Somosa, because I didn’t know him. But I heard through my county sources that the autopsy indicated he’d overdosed on some kind of street drug. Ecstasy, I think. As for Randall—we don’t know yet, do we?”
Their visitor paced back and forth in front of Judith’s iron bedstead. He seemed to be arguing with himself. “I just spoke with Randall’s son, Bob Jr., and his daughter, Nancy. They caught snatches of conversation among th
e staff that indicated suicide.”
“What?” Judith couldn’t believe her ears.
“That’s right,” Addison said, nodding gravely. “I can’t get to Mrs. Randall—she’s had some kind of emotional collapse.”
“What about his brother, Jim?” Judith asked. “Has he been notified?”
“Jim?” Addison blinked several times. “I didn’t realize Bob Randall had a brother. Is he around?”
“He was here last night,” Renie put in. “He was fussing because Bob had too many visitors and so much hubbub going on in his room.”
“Interesting,” Addison remarked. “I’ll try to get hold of him.”
“Say,” Renie said, adjusting her sling and leaning forward in the bed, “why haven’t you gone public with any of the stuff about your wife and Somosa? I haven’t seen a word about it in the Times.”
The journalist gave Renie a twisted little smile. “You don’t understand the politics of publishing, Mrs…. Jones, right? My superiors don’t want me ruffling feathers. Blanche Van Boeck is a powerful figure in this community.”
Renie slapped at her head with her good hand. “Of course! I didn’t make the connection with Dr. Jan Van Boeck. That’s his wife, right? She’s on the city council and just about everywhere on the map in this town. Oh, my.”
Addison’s smile became wry. “She certainly is. Rumor has it she may run for mayor. She has powerful friends in powerful places. Of course, she has enemies, too.”
Renie was suddenly wearing what Judith called her “boardroom face,” the no-nonsense sharpening of her features that she presented to corporate clients in her graphic design business.
“Blanche has made some big waves in the past few years,” Renie said. “She’s always struck me as putting Blanche at the head of her agenda, rather than the social and political programs she espouses.”
Addison nodded. “That’s what many people would say, which is why I have to dance all around her in print. Which also means I have to dance around Good Cheer Hospital, because her husband runs the place.”
“But Good Cheer was on the news last night,” Judith pointed out. “We missed the first part of the story. What was that all about?”