by Mary Daheim
“He’d know how to do it,” Renie said.
“True. Still…I like Blanche as a suspect. She’s such a self-serving pain.”
“Why would she sabotage her own husband’s hospital?” asked Renie.
“Maybe she doesn’t like her husband,” Judith suggested.
“Maybe Sister Jacqueline doesn’t like either of them,” Renie said.
“Are you considering a nun as a suspect?” Judith asked, aghast.
“Well…nuns are human. Maybe it’s for the greater good. You know, all those moral theology questions. Is it a sin for a father to steal medicine to save his child’s life? Et cetera.”
“Don’t go Jesuitical on me,” Judith cautioned. “Okay, I’ll admit you have a point. We can’t rule anyone out.”
“What about the victims’ nearest and dearest?” Renie inquired. “Since when have you not considered them as prime suspects?”
Judith ran a hand through her short salt-and-pepper hair. “Since nonpersonal motives seem more obvious. Hospitals are big-bucks institutions. Not to mention the power involved in running them. Let’s face it, we’ve got at least four high-profile people involved—Dr. Garnett, Dr. Van Boeck, Mrs. Van Boeck, and Sister Jacqueline.”
“Agreed,” said Renie. “But you can’t rule out the lesser players.” She rolled over as far as she could on her right side. “Look at it from this point of view—maybe only one of the three victims needed to die. But in order to throw suspicion off, all three get killed so it looks like a serial kind of thing. What if a rival player on the Seafarers team wanted to get rid of Joaquin Somosa? Better yet, a rival actress at Le Repertoire who felt Joan Fremont was standing in her way? Or something even more basic, such as Margie Randall being sick and tired of Ramblin’ Robert?”
Judith reflected for a few moments. “All of them could have some kind of enemies, I suppose. That is, in a personal and professional sense. The trouble is, we don’t know much about their private lives.”
“Exactly,” Renie said, lying back on the pillows.
“I’d rule out Addison Kirby, though,” Judith mused. “I can’t help but think that the killer was the one who ran him down this afternoon.”
“It could have been an accident,” Renie pointed out.
“Do you really think so?” Judith asked with a frown.
“No. That is, I can’t be sure. People drive like such nuts these days.” Renie plucked at her blankets. “Not to mention taking cars that don’t belong to them.”
“I figure that Addison’s on to something,” Judith said, remembering to drink her water and taking a big swallow. “Maybe not who the killer is, but related to the motive.”
“Why Cammy?” Renie said. “Our Toyota is exactly like thousands of cars out there in the city. It’s one of the most popular brands in America. Why not steal a Mercedes or a Cadillac or a Beamer?”
“Addison has been covering city hall,” Judith went on, “which means he’s probably got the inside dope on Blanche Van Boeck. But if it’s something ruinous, why not kill him instead of his wife? Why kill Somosa and Randall? Or, given Blanche’s clout, why not get Addison fired?”
“What,” Renie demanded, “were those morons at the Toyota place thinking of? They’re usually so reliable. Why wasn’t somebody watching Cammy? Why did they leave the keys in the car?” She stopped and made one of her typical futile attempts to snap her fingers. “Because they’d finished their work and sometimes they tuck the keys under the floor mat on the driver’s side.” She hung her head. “Oh, my God, until my shoulder heals, I won’t be able to drive Cammy for months! Maybe we won’t ever ride in her again! What if she’s been driven over a cliff?”
Judith sat up straight and glared at Renie. “Will you shut up?”
“Huh?” Renie swerved around to face Judith. “What’s wrong?”
“I thought,” Judith said in an irritated voice, “we were trying to sleuth.”
Renie stifled a yawn. “We were. We were trying to figure out what happened to Cammy.”
“No, we weren’t,” Judith argued. “We were speculating about methods and motives.”
“You were,” Renie shot back. “You can afford to do that, you have two cars, your Subaru and Joe’s MG. Bill and I are now demoted to taking the bus.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Judith sniffed. “You have insurance, you can rent a car until Cammy turns up. And if she—I mean, it—doesn’t, you can buy another one.”
“Easy for you to say,” Renie snapped. “Go ahead, feel all smug. See if I care.” She reached out with her good arm and pulled the curtain between them.
Again, the room was silent. Someone was paging a doctor over the intercom. A glimpse of hospital equipment could be seen rolling down the hall. Somewhere, female voices laughed. Judith sat up in bed, her arms folded across her chest, her lower lip thrust out.
It was she who broke the silence. “Coz. We never fight. What’s wrong with us?”
Judith heard Renie sigh. “We’re tired, we hurt, we’ve been through major surgery, and we got a room next to a corpse. My car’s been stolen, you’re stuck with a major life decision about telling Mike who’s who on his family tree. What else could be wrong?”
“You’re right,” Judith said. “We’re a mess.”
“Justifiably so,” said Renie, pulling the curtain back. “It’s going on nine o’clock and we need a nap. I’m shutting off the light.”
“Go for it,” murmured Judith, clicking off her own bedside lamp. “Frankly, I’m exhausted.”
“We should be,” Renie said. “G’night.”
“Mmm,” said Judith.
Five minutes later, the night nurse, whose name was Trudy and who wasn’t given to idle chatter, came in to take the cousins’ vital signs and replenish their supply of pain medication. Ten minutes later, a workman in overalls arrived to check the thermostat.
“Kinda cold tonight, huh?” he said, fiddling with the dial.
Judith and Renie didn’t respond.
“Still snowing,” he said, pounding on the radiator with his fist. “Must be close to six inches out there.”
The cousins remained silent.
“Lots of accidents out there,” the workman said. “Damned fools don’t know how to drive in this weather. All those folks who move up here from California.”
Judith buried her head in the pillow; Renie chewed on her blanket and swore under her breath.
“Warm enough now?” the workman asked after yet another bang on the radiator, which wheezed like a dying asthmatic.
“Fine,” Judith bit off.
“Okey-dokey,” he said. “I’ll come back to check on it later.”
“Don’t,” Renie said, “or I’ll have to kill you.”
“Har, har,” said the workman, who finally left.
Seven minutes later, Trudy returned. Judith knew it was exactly seven minutes because she was now wide awake and had been staring at her watch with its glow-in-the-dark dial.
“You need to use the bedpan, Mrs. Flynn,” Trudy announced. “You haven’t voided for almost two hours. Are you sure you’re drinking enough fluids?”
“Yes. No. I’m trying to sleep,” Judith said, sounding cross.
“Plenty of time for that,” Trudy said. “It’s only a little after nine. Come, come, try to lift those hips.”
“Good Lord,” muttered Renie in a mutinous voice.
After the usual painful effort to move on and off the bedpan, Judith mumbled her thanks to Trudy and closed her eyes.
The radiator clanged and clanked, whistled and hissed. After two minutes of what sounded like a one-man band, Renie pressed her buzzer.
“We can’t sleep with that damned thing making such a racket,” she complained. “It was fine until Stoopnagle came in to supposedly fix it.”
Almost ten minutes passed before a male nurse peeked in. Judith explained the problem. The nurse said he’d see what he could do about it. The radiator continued its atonal cacophony.
“I’m wide awake,” Renie declared, sitting up and turning her light back on. “Damn.”
“I am, too,” Judith grumbled. “It’s no joke about not being able to get any rest in a hospital.”
“I’m hungry again,” Renie said. “I wonder if there’s a microwave around here. Don’t the nurses usually have one? I think I smelled popcorn earlier in the evening.”
“Why do you need a microwave?” Judith asked.
“To heat the leftover chicken,” Renie responded. “I don’t care much for cold chicken, unless it’s in a sandwich or a salad.”
“Go ask,” Judith said.
“They won’t tell me,” Renie replied, getting out of bed. “I’ll take the chicken with me and see what I can find. There’s a biscuit left over, too, and one piece of corn. I might as well bring them along.”
“Good luck,” said Judith in a tired voice.
Renie was gone so long that Judith had almost fallen asleep when her cousin returned.
“Pssst!” Renie called from the doorway.
“Huh?” Judith raised her head from the pillow and tried to focus on Renie. “What?”
Renie gestured with her bag of food. “Mr. Mummy. Sister Jacqueline just went in there and closed the door.”
Struggling to sit up, Judith gave herself a shake. “So?”
“Isn’t this a little late for a visit from the hospital administrator?” Renie asked, half in and half out of the room.
“Maybe,” Judith allowed. “But is it suspicious?”
Renie stepped all the way inside, keeping her eye on the closed door across the hall. “I think so. It’s pretty quiet out here right now. I was sneaking out of the staff room, where I found a microwave, and I turned the corner just in time to see Sister Jacqueline outside Mr. Mummy’s room, looking very furtive. I ducked back where she couldn’t see me, and when I peeked around the corner again, she slipped inside.”
“Hunh. That is odd,” Judith conceded, finally wide awake.
Renie sat down on the end of Judith’s bed, where she could keep an eye on the hall. “I think there’s something peculiar about Mr. Mummy.”
“I agree,” Judith said. “He’s very vague about his family and where he lives. I can’t think of any reason why, with a broken leg, his doctor would send him all 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 Rin-Tin-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 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 fine-looking 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.”
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.
“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?”
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.