by Mary Daheim
Woody shook his head. “No. He felt like a big failure. He’s been a private detective for over thirty years, and he insisted that he’d never come across such a baffling crime.”
Joe shot Judith a rueful look. “The cunning killer never dreamed he’d come across my dear wife.”
“Now, Joe…” Judith began, then turned to Woody. “What are you going to do about Jim Randall? I know he’s probably not in any condition to be arrested right now, but later when he…”
Woody was looking remorseful. “Judith, I’m sorry. The truth is, we have no evidence. Even what’s been collected before now doesn’t prove Jim Randall was the killer.”
“What was collected?” Renie asked.
“The containers,” Woody said. “Sister Jacqueline saved all the containers, including the whiskey bottle. The fingerprints were smudged, but Sister had the dregs analyzed. You’re right, the drugs were in the juice and the soda and the liquor. But what did that prove? It was impossible to pin down who had delivered them to the hospital, and in the first two instances, Margie Randall had brought the items to Joaquin Somosa and Joan Fremont. No one paid any special attention to the homeless men being at Good Cheer because the nuns offer them free medical care.”
“But,” Renie argued, “now you can have the technicians who gave those medical tests testify that they didn’t give them to Jim Randall.”
“That’s possible,” Woody allowed.
“You can do better than that,” Judith declared.
Woody seemed skeptical. “How?”
Judith turned to Joe. “Could you ID the suspicious-looking man you saw in the park?”
Joe grimaced. “Maybe. It was pretty dark.”
Judith nodded. “I’ll bet you can when you see Jim Randall. But there’s another way.” She looked at Woody. “If you check Jim’s clothes, I’ll bet you’ll find a surgical instrument or two among his belongings. He hasn’t been able to go home because of the snow, and he wouldn’t risk throwing them away. He couldn’t be sure that there might not be some residual evidence implicating him. Nor would he have had time to get rid of them before he went into surgery. I’m told that with transplants, everything happens very fast. Anyway, the medical examiner should be able to match the wounds to the kind of weapon that killed those poor men.”
Woody winced. “He already has. At least he indicated that surgical instruments might have caused the deaths. And of course he examined Joe.”
Judith swung around to stare at her husband. “He did?”
Joe shrugged.
“That’s why,” Woody explained, “there was such secrecy surrounding Joe’s hospitalization. In fact, Blanche hired Joe in the first place because she had an inkling that there might be some oddball connection between the hospital slayings and the homeless murders. It didn’t seem like a coincidence that in each instance, the first two pairs of Good Cheer homicides, and the first two killings in the homeless camp, had occurred within twenty-four hours of each other. Say what you will about Blanche Van Boeck, she is one very sharp woman.”
Judith looked at Joe. “Did you know Blanche thought there was a connection?”
Joe shook his head. “She never mentioned it. All she told me was that FOPP was concerned about the homeless homicides.”
“So,” Woody continued, “the ME was here last night in the ICU before Joe was moved upstairs. We’d begun to put together some theories of our own.”
“That’s who I saw in the ICU?” Judith cried. “The ME?”
“Probably,” Joe said. “He couldn’t get here until late, and I had to stay down there until he showed up. Bringing him to a ward would have raised a lot of questions. Or so Sister Jacqueline felt.”
“Is that why some of Joe’s medical records were shredded?” Judith asked. “For security reasons?”
Woody nodded. “Apparently Mrs. Van Boeck felt it was necessary to keep Joe’s real condition a secret. Maybe—and I’m guessing—she had a hunch the murderer was on the premises, or at least in the immediate area. If Joe’s life was already in jeopardy, Jim Randall—or whoever—might not bother to finish him off. Remember, Jim had undoubtedly seen Joe around the hospital. Jim may have learned he was a former detective and now a private investigator. Apparently, Jim never did figure out that Harold Abernethy—Mr. Mummy—was also on the case, but from a different angle.”
“Wait a minute,” Judith said, narrowing her eyes at Joe. “Are you trying to tell me you weren’t at death’s door?”
“Well…” Joe began, but avoided his wife’s incensed gaze. “I wanted to tell that redheaded nurse I saw in the elevator because she was getting off on your floor…”
“Corinne,” Judith breathed, and glanced at Renie. “That’s where she saw Joe. Couldn’t she tell me he wasn’t in extremis?”
“He wasn’t in good shape,” Woody put in. “Really.”
“But not fifty-fifty?” Judith demanded. “Not critical?”
“More like seventy-thirty,” Joe said, grinning weakly. “And ‘critical’ covers a broad range these days.”
“Joe.” Judith folded her arms across her breast. “You can’t imagine how upset I was.”
“It couldn’t be helped,” Joe said, wincing a bit. “Honest.”
“I don’t care,” Judith asserted. “I’m mad at you.” She turned to Woody. “Well? Are you going to check Jim Randall’s clothes or sit here and watch me ream your ex-partner?”
Woody appeared more than willing to do Judith’s bidding. “I really should be going. Great to see you all again. Get well, ladies, Joe. Nice work with the dogs, Bill. Take care of your mother, Mike. Bye.”
“Maybe,” Bill said, more to himself than to the others, “I should try more random, unscientific experiments. Those Chihuahuas seem to have done…something or other.”
“You’re brilliant,” Renie declared, with a loving look for her husband. “Haven’t I always said that?”
“Well—” Bill began.
But Renie cut him off. “Are you sure you didn’t bring me some snacks?”
The lethal surgical instruments had indeed been found in Jim Randall’s clothing. The arrest was made shortly after five o’clock. Woody reported that Jim had laughed in his face. He didn’t care if he went to prison, he didn’t even care if he got the death penalty. He could see, and that was all that mattered. The case was closed.
Addison Kirby was impressed, as were members of the hospital staff. Now that the murders were solved, Addison had a big exclusive for the newspaper. He vowed to write it up in such a way that he’d be a shoe-in for a Pulitzer Prize. That would scarcely make up for losing his wife, though Addison said he’d dedicate the award to Joan’s memory.
His candy gifts had been tested, though not scientifically. The night nurses had managed to swipe the jelly beans from Addison’s room as well as the chocolates that Judith had claimed earlier. They had been devoured; no one died. Addison discovered that they had been sent by his fellow journalists. He also vowed to describe the night staff as pigs in his Pulitzer Prize–winning story.
Mike returned to his mountain cabin early that evening. Renie went home Friday, as scheduled. Joe was released the next day. But Judith, having dislocated the artificial hip, was told by Dr. Alfonso that she’d have to remain in the hospital until Monday. She protested mightily, but in vain. Meanwhile, she was treated like a queen by the staff. Even Blanche Van Boeck sent her four dozen roses, in magnificent red, white, yellow, and pink hues.
The roses, which had arrived Friday, were still fresh when Judith was ready to leave. She was checking through her belongings to make sure she hadn’t left anything behind when Father McConnaught came to see her.
“Now would you be that glad to be going home?” the priest asked with a smile.
“Oh, yes, Father,” she replied with an answering smile, “that I would. I mean, I would. That is…”
Father McConnaught nodded sagely. “Bless you, my child, for your great help in seeking justice. Poor Mr. Jim,
I’m afraid he must be daft.”
“I’m sure he is,” Judith replied, growing solemn.
“We’ll pray for the poor man,” the priest said. “I’ll pray for you, too. Is there anything I can do before you leave us?”
“Yes,” Judith said. “I’d like you to hear my confession. I couldn’t go before Christmas because I was laid up with my hip. Would you mind?”
“I’d be delighted,” the priest replied, reaching into his pocket and taking out the purple stole he wore for the Sacrament of Penance.
Judith bowed her head and blessed herself, then recited a brief list of venial sins before she got to the crux of the matter. As briefly as she could, she told Father McConnaught about Joe and Dan and the deception surrounding Mike’s paternity. She had resolved to end the web of lies. But was it fair to Dan’s memory and his conscientiousness as a father to Mike? This was the sticking point, and had been since Dan died.
“Well now,” Father McConnaught said, “you take Good Cheer and the blessed sisters who’ve run it all these long years. Soon this place will be taken from them, and they’ll be left with only memories. But no one can take away what they did, how they served, how much love they offered in the name of our blessed Lord. Can we say less for your late husband, rest his soul? No matter what his faults or failures, he lived, he loved, he made his mark. Glory be to God, eh?”
Through glistening tears, Judith smiled at Father McConnaught. “You’re right. Thank you so much. I feel better. It’s just that it’ll be so hard to finally tell Mike.”
“God will guide you,” the priest said, and gave Judith absolution.
Robbie the Robot, apparently swerving to avoid someone in the hall, briefly faced into the room. “Beep-beep,” he said.
Still smiling, Judith beeped right back.
Shortly before eleven, Joe and Mike showed up in her hospital room. Judith was sitting with the release form, checking off the detailed information and list of instructions for posthospital care. Joe was wearing a big bandage under his jacket, but definitely seemed on the mend.
“Kristin and Little Mac are at the house,” Mike said. “They rode down with me this morning. Mac wants to see Ga-ga.”
Judith flinched as she always did when she heard Mac’s name for her. She sometimes wondered if he couldn’t pronounce “grandma” or if he was describing her. Maybe he really was a Little Einstein.
“Everything’s fine at the B&B,” Joe assured Judith, taking her reaction as concern about Hillside Manor. “All the odious guests are gone, and the Rankerses can go home because Mike and Kristin are staying through the week.”
“Oh, Mike!” Judith beamed at her son as Joe went off to the nurse’s station to check Judith out. “You don’t have to…”
“It’s cool,” Mike asserted. “We want to. Kristin thinks it’ll be fun. She’s even got some ideas about how you could run the place more efficiently.”
“Oh. Good.” Judith swallowed hard. “Mike, I have something to tell you—”
“Hey,” Mike said, holding up a hand. “Kristin won’t get in your face. She just wants to help. If you don’t like some of her ideas, tell her.”
“No, it’s not that,” Judith insisted. “It’s about Joe. When you came down here to see him in all that bad weather, I felt then that I should have spoken to you about what a risk you took and that—”
Mike put his hand up again. “No problem. Why wouldn’t I do that?” Suddenly Mike’s expression grew uncharacteristically sober. “After all, he’s my father.”
Judith’s jaw dropped. “You know?”
Mike’s eyes were level with Judith’s as he took her hand. “I’ve known for a long time. I just didn’t know if you wanted me to know. Are you okay with it?”
“Oh, Mike!” Judith burst into tears.
Joe reappeared in the doorway. “We’re all set. Hey, what’s wrong?”
“N-n-nothing,” Judith blubbered. “I’m just so happy!”
Joe stared at Mike. “This is happy?”
“It sure is. Pops,” Mike added. He grinned at Joe, then shoved the hospital form at his mother. “Here, sign this so we can go home.”
With trembling fingers, Judith signed the form. She fought for control and handed the sheet of paper to Joe. “That’s right. I’m very happy.” Judith took a deep breath. “I’ve finally gotten my release.”
About the Author
Seattle native MARY RICHARDSON DAHEIM began reading mysteries when she was seven. She started writing them when she was eleven, but her career as a published novelist didn¹t begin until much later. After graduating from the University of Washington¹s School of Communications, Daheim worked on small-town newspapers and in corporate public relations. Her goal to write fiction remained in place, however, and she began publishing the Bed-and-Breakfast series in 1991, adding the Alpine mysteries a year later. She is married to David Daheim, and the couple lives in Seattle. They have three grown daughters: Barbara, Katherine, and Magdalen. Daheim received the Pacific Northwest Writers Association 2000 Achievement Award “for distinguished professional achievement and for enhancing the stature of the Northwest literary community”.
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Praise for SUTURE SELF
and MARY DAHEIM’s other
Bed-and-Breakfast Mysteries
“Delightful”
Kansas City Star
“Skillfully takes a satiric scalpel to the hospital industry…There are funny twists aplenty…[and] telling jabs at modern hospital care as the novel scampers to its zany conclusion. The other inmates of Good Cheer Hospital—staff and patients alike—are so wacky that every ward seems like a psychiatric unit.”
Portland Oregonian
“Like Joan Hess’ Maggody series, Daheim’s bed-and-breakfast mysteries show a funny and often stinging insight into people’s relationships and behavior. SUTURE SELF is less about solving a crime than about the too-real-not-to-be-funny personalities of the people involved.”
Houston Chronicle
“Daheim fans will relish the witty and revealing interactions between familiar characters.”
Publishers Weekly
“[A] screwball crime novel…The banter…is choice…And Good Cheer Hospital does live up to its name in the warped sense that it malfunctions even more blatantly than a real-life hospital.”
Newark Star-Ledger
Other Bed-and-Breakfast Mysteries by
Mary Daheim
A STREETCAR NAMED EXPIRE
CREEPS SUZETTE
LEGS BENEDICT
SNOW PLACE TO DIE
WED AND BURIED
SEPTEMBER MOURN
AUNTIE MAYHEM
NUTTY AS A FRUITCAKE
MURDER, MY SUITE
MAJOR VICES
A FIT OF TEMPERA
BANTAM OF THE OPERA
DUNE TO DEATH
HOLY TERRORS
FOWL PREY
JUST DESSERTS
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SUTURE SELF. Copyright © 2001 by Mary Daheim. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition February 2007 ISBN 9780061755019
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