Suture Self : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery Read online

  Suture Self : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

  Mary Daheim

  MARY DAHEIM

  Suture

  SELF

  Contents

  ONE

  JUDITH GROVER MCMONIGLE Flynn took

  one look at the newspaper…

  1

  TWO

  JUDITH’S SURGERY WAS scheduled for

  eight-thirty on Monday. Renie’s was…

  16

  THREE

  IT WAS ALMOST a quarter of an hour

  before

  the…

  33

  FOUR

  NO ONE HAD died by morning. Judith awoke

  after

  a…

  49

  FIVE

  JUDITH WASN’T SURPRISED by Addison

  Kirby’s declaration. It only confirmed…

  68

  SIX

  JOE AND BILL arrived shortly after

  three o’clock. Both had…

  87

  SEVEN

  TEN MINUTES LATER, Dr. Garnett surprised

  the cousins with a professional…

  99

  EIGHT

  “HOW,” JUDITH DEMANDED, “does a car

  that’s in for service…

  118

  NINE

  “WHAT ELSE AM I supposed to do while I’m

  lying…

  137

  TEN

  ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, breakfast

  was again palatable.Dr. Ming and

  Dr.

  Alfonso…

  150

  ELEVEN

  BOB JR. HAD scarcely been gone more than

  a few seconds…

  167

  TWELVE

  UNFORTUNATELY, BOTH JUDITH and

  Renie began to suffer considerable pain…

  187

  THIRTEEN

  THE WHEELCHAIR SAILED into Addison

  Kirby’s room and bumped up…

  206

  FOURTEEN

  HEATHER CHINN CAME running. It wasn’t

  Renie’s insistent buzzer or…

  222

  FIFTEEN

  “SO,” RENIE SAID after Judith had finished

  speaking to Woody…

  238

  SIXTEEN

  JUDITH WILLED HERSELF not to faint

  twice in one day,…

  251

  SEVENTEEN

  “I FOUND MR. FLYNN,” Margie Randall

  announced with a triumphant expression.

  267

  EIGHTEEN

  “MOM! WHAT’S WRONG?”

  282

  NINETEEN

  RENIE WAS AMAZED by Judith’s theory.

  She was even more…

  294

  TWENTY

  JUDITH LET OUT a terrible cry of anguish.

  Joe

  tried…

  308

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PRAISE

  OTHER BOOKS BY MARY DAHEIM

  COVER

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  ONE

  JUDITH GROVER MCMONIGLE Flynn took one look at

  the newspaper headline, released the brake on her

  wheelchair, and rolled into the kitchen.

  “I’m not sure it’s safe to go into the hospital,” she

  said to her husband, Joe Flynn. “Look at this.”

  Joe, who had just come in through the back door,

  hung his all-weather jacket on a peg in the hallway

  and stared at the big, bold front-page headline.

  ACTRESS DIES FOLLOWING ROUTINE SURGERY

  John Fremont Succumbs After Minor Foot Operation

  “Who’s John Fremont?” Joe asked after kissing

  his wife on the cheek. “The explorer? No wonder he

  wrecked his feet, going over all those mountains.

  Huh. I thought he was already dead.”

  “He’s been dead for over a hundred years,” Judith

  replied. “It’s a—”

  “A shame the local newspaper doesn’t jump on

  those stories faster,” Joe interrupted. “What’s

  Queen Victoria up to this week?”

  Judith made a face at Joe. “It’s a typo,” she said

  in a testy voice. “It’s supposed to be Joan Fremont.

  See, there it is in the lead. You know who she is—

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  we’ve seen her in several local stage productions. She

  is—was—a wonderful actress.”

  Joe frowned as he read deeper into the story. “Jeez,

  don’t these people proofread anymore?”

  “That’s not my point,” Judith asserted. “That’s the

  second well-known person in three weeks to peg out at

  Good Cheer Hospital. I’m getting scared to go in next

  Monday for my hip replacement.”

  Joe opened the cupboard and got out a bottle of

  Scotch. “You mean Somosa, the pitcher? That’s no

  mystery. He was probably full of amphetamines.” With

  an air of apology, Joe gestured with the bottle. “Sorry,

  I hate to drink in front of you, but I spent ten hours sitting on my butt for that damned insurance stakeout.”

  “Never mind.” Judith sighed with a martyred air that

  would have made her Aunt Deb proud. “I’m used to

  sacrifice and self-denial. After a month in this stupid

  wheelchair and taking all those pain pills, I suppose I

  should be looking forward to surgery and getting back

  to a normal life. How’d the stakeout go?”

  “It didn’t,” Joe replied, dumping ice cubes into a

  glass. “The guy didn’t budge from his sofa except to go

  to the can. Then he used a walker. Maybe he’s legit.

  The insurance company expected him to play a set of

  tennis or jump over high hurdles or do the rumba. I

  hate these alleged insurance-fraud assignments.”

  “They pay well,” Judith pointed out, giving the

  amber liquid in Joe’s glass a longing look.

  “Oh, yeah,” Joe agreed, sitting down at the kitchen

  table. “We can use the money with the B&B shut down

  for five weeks. I’m expensive to keep, and you’re not

  delivering.”

  Teasing or not, the comment nettled Judith. Just

  after Christmas, her right hip had deteriorated to the

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  3

  point that she’d been confined to a wheelchair. With

  the help of Joe and their neighbors, Carl and Arlene

  Rankers, Judith had managed to keep Hillside Manor

  running smoothly through the holidays. But Carl and

  Arlene had left the day after New Year’s for a vacation

  in Palm Desert. And even though Joe was retired from

  the police force, his part-time private investigations

  had become almost a full-time job. It had been a difficult decision for Judith, but she had been forced to cancel all reservations for the first ten days of January,

  until the Rankerses’ return. Her only consolation was

  that the days in question were the slowest time of the

  year for the Bed-and-Breakfast industry.

  “We’ve lost at least four grand,” Judith said in a morose tone.

  Joe gave a slight shake of his head. “Dubious. The

  weather around here this winter isn’t exactly enticing

/>   to visitors.”

  Judith glanced up at the window over the kitchen

  sink. It was raining. It seemed to have been raining for

  months. Fifty degrees and raining. No sun breaks, no

  snow, just relentless rain and gloomy, glowering skies.

  Day after day of gray, gray, and grayer. Even a Pacific

  Northwest native like Judith had an occasional hankering for a patch of blue sky.

  “People still visit people,” Judith said, unwilling to

  let herself be cheered.

  Joe gave a solemn shake of his head. “Not in January. Everybody’s broke.”

  “Including us,” Judith said. “Because of me. Renie

  and Bill are broke, too,” she added, referring to her

  cousin and her cousin’s husband. “Renie can’t work

  with her bad shoulder. This is the busiest time of year

  for her, with all the annual reports. She usually designs

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  at least a half-dozen, which means big bucks. She’s out

  of commission until March.”

  “When’s her surgery?” Joe inquired.

  “A week after mine,” Judith replied. “We’ll be like

  ships passing in the night. Or should I say sinking?”

  Judith emitted another heavy sigh as she rolled over to

  the sink and took a Percocet. Then she took another

  Percocet. It couldn’t hurt. Besides, she ached twice as

  much as she had the day before.

  As a distraction, Judith read the rest of the story

  about Joan Fremont. The actress had been admitted to

  Good Cheer Hospital the previous day. Her surgery,

  pronounced successful, had been performed that afternoon. But at ten-thirty this morning, Joan had died

  suddenly and without warning. She left behind two

  grown children and her husband, Addison Kirby, the

  city hall reporter for the evening newspaper.

  “No wonder her name got misspelled,” Judith remarked. “Joan’s husband works for the paper. The staff

  must be shaken by her death.”

  “Oh?” Joe raised rust-colored eyebrows above the

  sports section. “Kirby, huh? I’ve run into him a few

  times at city hall. Nice guy, but strictly business.”

  Judith put the newspaper’s front section down on the

  table. “They’ll investigate, I assume?”

  “Oh, sure,” Joe responded, his gaze back on the

  sports page. “They did with Joaquin Somosa, they will

  with Joan Fremont. It’s automatic when someone relatively young and in otherwise good health dies in a hospital. The county medical examiner has jurisdiction.”

  “That makes sense,” Judith said as she rolled to the

  stove. “I made beef-noodle bake. It’s almost done. I’ve

  fixed a salad and there are some rolls I’ll heat up. Then

  you can take Mother’s portion out to the toolshed.”

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  5

  Joe grimaced. “Can’t I phone it in to her?”

  “Joe . . .” Judith stopped. Serving Gertrude’s meals

  was a bone of contention since Judith had become

  wheelchair-bound. Joe Flynn and Gertrude Grover

  didn’t get along. An understatement, Judith thought.

  How else to put it? If duels were still legal, they would

  have skewered each other by the birdbath a long time

  ago.

  The phone rang just as Judith slipped the foilwrapped rolls into the oven. Fumbling a bit, she pulled

  the cordless receiver out of the gingham pocket on her

  wheelchair.

  “Coz?” said Renie, who sounded excited. “Guess

  what.”

  “What? Make it quick, I’ve got my head in the

  oven.”

  “Coz!” Renie cried. “Nothing’s that bad! Hang in

  there, you’re only a few days away from surgery.

  You’ll be fine.”

  “I mean I’m trying to put dinner together,” Judith

  said, sounding cross. Her usual easygoing manner had

  begun to fray in recent weeks.

  “Oh.” Renie paused. “Good. I mean . . . Never mind.

  I called to tell you that Dr. Ming’s office just phoned to

  say that they’d had a surgery cancellation on Monday

  and I can go in a whole week early. Isn’t that great?

  We’ll be in the hospital together.”

  Judith brightened. “Really? That’s wonderful.” She

  paused. “I think.”

  “You think?” Now Renie sounded annoyed. “We

  could share a room. We could encourage each other’s

  recovery. We could make fun of the hospital staff and

  the other patients. We could have some laughs.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Judith said as she closed the

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  oven door. “It’s just that . . . Have you seen tonight’s

  paper?”

  “Ours hasn’t come yet,” Renie replied. “You know

  we always have a later delivery on this side of Heraldsgate Hill.”

  “Well,” Judith began, then caught Joe’s warning

  glance. “It’s nothing, really. You can see for yourself

  when the paper comes.”

  “Coz.” Renie sounded stern. “Tell me now or I’ll

  have to hit you with my good arm. You can’t run away

  from me, remember?”

  Judith sighed. “There’s been another unexpected

  death at Good Cheer Hospital. Joan Fremont, the actress.”

  “Joan Fremont!” Renie shrieked. “Oh, no! Wait till I

  tell Bill. I think he’s always had a crush on her. What

  happened?”

  Ignoring Joe’s baleful look, Judith picked up the

  front section of the paper and read the story to Renie.

  “That’s terrible,” Renie responded in a shocked

  voice. “She was so talented. And young. Well—

  younger than we are. A little bit, anyway. She’d probably had work done, being an actress.”

  “That’s two deaths in three weeks,” Judith noted.

  “Joaquin Somosa,” Renie murmured. “Younger still.

  Elbow surgery. Supposed to be healed by the All-Star

  break.”

  “Won’t,” Judith said, suddenly feeling light-headed.

  “Dead instead.”

  “This is scary,” Renie declared. “Do you suppose we

  should ask Dr. Ming and Dr. Alfonso to operate on us

  in the privacy of our own automobiles?”

  Judith started to respond, but just then the back door

  banged open. Gertrude Grover stood in the hallway,

  SUTURE SELF

  7

  leaning on her walker and wearing a very old and

  slightly shabby wool coat over her head. Worse yet, Judith saw two of her. Maybe she should have taken only

  one Percocet.

  “Where’s my supper?” Gertrude demanded, thumping the walker on the floor for emphasis.

  Judith spoke into the phone. “Gotta go. Mother’s

  here.” She rang off. “I’m heating the rolls,” Judith said

  with a feeble smile, trying not to slur her words.

  “Mother, you shouldn’t come out in the rain. You’ll

  catch cold.”

  “And die?” Gertrude’s small eyes darted in the direction of Joe’s back. “Wouldn’t that suit Dumbo

  here?”

  “Mother,” Judith said with a frown, accidentally ramming the wheelchair into the stove. “Oops! ’Course not.

  You know better.” She tried to ignore the puzzled expression on her hu
sband’s face. “Hasn’t Joe taken good

  care of you while I’ve been laid out? I mean, laid up.”

  “It’s part of his plan,” Gertrude said, scowling at

  Joe, who was still turned away from his mother-in-law.

  “He’s waiting until you go into the hospital. Then,

  when I’m supposed to be lulled into . . . something-orother, he’ll strike!” Gertrude slammed the walker

  again. “He knows the ropes, he used to be a cop.

  They’ll never catch him, and he’ll make off with all my

  candy.”

  “Mother . . .” Judith wished she didn’t feel so muddled. She wished she could walk. She wished her

  mother wouldn’t insist on wearing a coat that was at

  least twenty years old. She wished Gertrude would

  shut up. She wished she didn’t have two mothers,

  standing side by side.

  Joe had finally risen from the chair. “I don’t eat

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  Mary Daheim

  candy,” he said in his most casual manner. “You got

  any jewels stashed out there in the toolshed, Mrs. G.?”

  “Ha!” Gertrude exclaimed. “Wouldn’t you like to

  know?” It was one of those rare occasions when

  Gertrude addressed Joe directly. As a rule, she spoke of

  him in the third person.

  Clumsily, Judith opened the oven. “Here, your dinner’s ready. Joe can help dish it up for you, Mother.”

  “I’m watching his every move,” Gertrude said, narrowing her eyes. “He might slip something into my

  food. I should have Sweetums eat it first, but that

  ornery cat’s too danged finicky.”

  Joe got the salad out of the refrigerator and removed

  the beef-noodle bake from the oven. He filled

  Gertrude’s plate with a flourish, added a roll, and

  started for the back door. “At your service,” he called

  over his shoulder. “Let me help you out.”

  “Out?” Gertrude snapped. “Out where? Out of this

  world?”

  She was still hurling invective as the two of them

  went outside. It was a conflict of long standing, a personal Thirty Years War between Joe Flynn and

  Gertrude Grover. When Joe had first courted Judith,

  Gertrude had announced that she didn’t like him. He

  was a cop. They made rotten husbands. He was Irish.

  They always drank too much. He had no respect for his

  elders. He wouldn’t kowtow to Gertrude.

  Judith and Joe had gotten engaged anyway. And

  then disaster struck. Joe had gotten drunk, not because he was Irish but because he was a cop, and had

  come upon two teenagers who had overdosed on

  drugs. Putting a couple of fifteen-year-olds in body

  bags had sent him off to a bar—and into the arms of