by Mary Daheim
“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.”
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 Demerol 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.”
“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, 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 kid-glove-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.
“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?”
“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 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.”
“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 a difference between a man and a squirrel. Usually.”
“No, there isn’t any difference,” Henry said with a solemn expression. “They both have nuts. Come on, Mrs. Flynn, be brave.”
Renie shot Henry a withering glance. Judith shut her eyes tight, then attempted to sit up and swing her legs over the side of the bed. Henry held on to her forearms. It occurred to Judith that she didn’t feel dizzy this time, only weak. She took a step. Two. Three. Henry slowly released her. Judith took a final step on her own.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I did it!”
“Two more,” Henry urged. “Then you can go for a nice ride.” He pulled the wheelchair just out of her reach.
Judith expected to wilt, but she didn’t. Hesitantly, cautiously, she took the extra steps, then sank into the chair. “I’ll be darned,” she breathed.
“You know how to run this thing?” Henry inquired.
Judith nodded. “I was confined to a wheelchair for some time before I had the surgery.”
“Good.” He released the brake. “Hit the road, Mrs. Flynn. You’re on your own. Come back before it gets dark.”
Judith eyed the hallway as if it were the open road. Freedom, she thought. Sort of.
But she didn’t go far. Mr. Mummy blocked her way as he came racing out of Addison Kirby’s room.
“If I ever see you again,” Addison was shouting, “I’ll kill you! So help me God!”
Trying to avoid Mr. Mummy, Judith steered the wheelchair to the left, but Robbie the Robot was heading straight toward her. She reversed, bumped into a laundry cart, and spun out of control.
“Help!” Judith cried.
But the only response was from Robbie the Robot.
“Beep, beep,” he uttered, and kept on going.
THIRTEEN
THE WHEELCHAIR SAILED into Addison Kirby’s room and bumped up against his visitor’s chair. The journalist, whose broken leg was in traction, looked apoplectic.
“What the hell…?” Addison shouted. “Get out, get out!”
“I can’t,” Judith shouted. “I’ve lost control.” Having come to a stop, she braced herself, trying to determine if the mishap had done any damage to the hip replacement. To her relief, there was no new pain. She offered Addison a piteous look. “I’m so sorry. This wheelchair must be broken.”
Addison’s features softened a bit. “I didn’t recognize you right away. You’re Judith Flynn from next door, right?”
Collecting herself, Judith nodded. “Yes.” She paused to take some deep breaths. “It was my cousin, Mrs. Jones, who saw the car that hit you. Do you have any idea who was driving it?”
Addison grimaced. “Unfortunately, no. I barely saw the car. It was one of those mid-sized models, kind of beige or tan. It all happened so fast. Has your cousin given a formal statement yet?” Addison inquired.
“Not in writing,” Judith said, finally managing to get the wheelchair into a more convenient position.
Addison snorted. “I’m not surprised.”
Judith looked at the journalist with shrewd eyes. “Part of the cover-up?”
“Is that what you call it?” Addison looked at her, a quirky expression on his face.
“I’m beginning to think so,” Judith replied. “You think so, too. Does it have something to do with Restoration Heartware’s attempt at a takeover?”
Addison uttered a sharp little laugh. “You’re no slouch when it comes to figuring things out, are you, Mrs. Flynn?”
“Call me Judith. Figuring things out is about all I can do while I’m lying around in bed,” she asserted.
Addison’s dark eyes narrowed slightly. “Do you own a B&B on Heraldsgate Hill?”
“Ohmigod.” Judith, who knew what was coming next, felt the color rise in her cheeks.
“You got some publicity on TV a while ago,” Addison said. “There was a murder at an old apartment house not far from where you live. But if I remember correctly, it wasn’t the first time you’d been involved in crime-solving.”
“That’s true,” Judith said, “but it was an accident. They were all accidents. I mean,” she went on, getting flustered, “I don’t seek out homicide cases. I just sort of stumble into them. I guess it has something to do with my work. I meet so many people, and some of them aren’t very nice.”
The understatement didn’t seem to convince Addison. “The buzz around city hall was that you had an uncanny knack for fingering killers. I’ve read about detectives, both real and fictitious, who could pick out a murderer just from the way they looked. How do you do it? Shape of the head? Look in the eyes? Manner of speaking?”
“Nothing like that,” Judith said modestly. “I’m interested in people. They talk to me. I listen. And often, they make some tiny slip that gives them away.” She shrugged. “It’s not a talent. It’s just…paying attention.”
Again, Addison seemed to regard Judith with skepticism. “Your husband’s a cop, isn’t he? Joe Flynn, very sharp. I remember him from my beat at city hall. Hasn’t he retired?”
“Yes,” Judith answered. “He’s a private investigator now.”
Addison merely smiled. Judith decided to change the subject. “Why were you so angry with Mr. Mummy just now? He seems like a harmless little guy.”
“Does he?” Addison shifted his shoulders, apparently try
ing to get more comfortable. “You don’t find him…suspicious?”
“Ah…” Judith wondered how candid she could be with Addison Kirby. “I have to admit, I’ve wondered why he was transferred into Good Cheer. His fractures don’t seem very severe.”
“Exactly.” Addison suddenly seemed to grow distant. Perhaps he had doubts of his own about confiding in Judith. “He’s a real snoop.”
“Curiosity,” Judith said. “He’s bored, too. Did he tell you he’s a beekeeper by trade?”
“No.” Addison stroked his beard. “Interesting.”
“Different,” Judith allowed.
“Yes,” Addison said quickly, “that’s what I meant.”
Judith gave Addison a questioning look, but he didn’t amplify his comment. “You’ve had a rather rigorous day so far,” she finally said. “I happened to hear Dr. Van Boeck shouting by your door. I hope he didn’t upset you.”
“He didn’t.” Addison looked pleased with himself. “He’s one of those professional types who hates the media. Most doctors don’t like criticism—the godlike ego and all that tripe. Doctors and lawyers are the worst. CEOs are up there, too, except most of them are too dumb to understand the news stories. That’s why they hire PR types—to translate for them.”
“Does Dr. Van Boeck have a specific gripe?” Judith inquired.
Addison chuckled. “Dozens of them, going back to his football playing days. He actually played pro ball, for the Sea Auks.”
“I know,” Judith said. “He backed up Bob Randall for a season or two before he washed out of football.”
Addison cast Judith an admiring glance. “So you know about that? Well, Van Boeck has never forgiven the sportswriters for criticizing his ineptitude. He might have good hands for a surgeon, but he sure as hell didn’t have them for handling the ball. The irony, of course, is that Mrs. Van Boeck uses the media to great effect.”
“And tries to manipulate it as well?” Judith put in.
“That, too,” Addison said, looking grim.
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Jim Randall, who walked straight into the coat closet’s sliding doors.
“Ooof!” he cried, staggering. “Sorry. Am I interrupting?” He peered first at Addison, then at Judith. “You have a guest. I can’t quite see who…”