Suture Self : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery Page 13

  Judith cocked her head at Renie. “You’re going to

  ask the general manager of a major league baseball

  team to deliver a box of fried chicken? Are you nuts?”

  “No,” Renie replied. “Wouldn’t you like to talk to

  Tubby? Not that he’ll say much. He’s Mr. Ambiguous.”

  “Well . . . I suppose I can’t miss the opportunity,” Judith said. “I’ll time his visit with Addison. Sister

  Jacqueline told Tubby to keep it to ten minutes.”

  “That’ll be twenty,” Renie put in. “Tubby talks and

  moves in low gear. That’s why he never makes a trade

  deadline.”

  “Okay,” Judith agreed. “I figure a little over five

  minutes have gone by.”

  Renie’s phone rang. She picked up the receiver and

  smiled. “Hi, Bill. You’re using the phone. What a nice

  surprise . . . Yes, I realize you can’t come up tonight.

  It’s snowing hard here, too . . . What?” Renie’s face

  froze. “You’re kidding! Did they call the cops? . . . Joe

  reported it? . . . Good . . . Yes, sure . . . Now don’t get

  too riled . . . Okay, will . . . Love you.”

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  117

  Renie hung up and stared at Judith. “Joe took Bill to

  pick up Cammy at the Toyota dealership,” Renie said,

  her face pale. “Cammy wasn’t there. She’d been

  stolen.”

  EIGHT

  “HOW,” JUDITH DEMANDED, “does a car that’s in for

  service at a dealership get stolen?”

  “That’s what Bill and I would like to know,”

  Renie said angrily. “We’re a one-car family. We’re

  stuck.”

  “Your kids each have a car,” Judith pointed out,

  hoping to assuage her cousin’s distress.

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean they’ll lend one to

  us,” Renie said, still fuming.

  “Nobody’s going out in this snow anyway,” Judith said, eyeing the young orderly, who had advanced into their room to mop the floor for the

  second time that day.

  “That’s not the point,” Renie snapped. “Poor

  Cammy’s out there in this blizzard, shivering and

  sobbing. Her little engine is probably freezing up.”

  “Don’t you and Bill have antifreeze in the radiator?” Judith inquired.

  “What?” Renie scowled. “Of course. It comes

  with the car these days. I meant metaphorically

  speaking.”

  “So Joe reported the car as stolen?” Judith asked,

  putting the dinner tray aside and smiling at the orderly as he made his exit.

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  119

  Looking glum, Renie nodded. “Stolen cars won’t be

  a high priority for a while. I’m sure there are too many

  accidents out there right now.”

  “Cheer up, coz,” Judith said, still not surrendering in

  her efforts to make Renie feel better. “Nobody’s taking

  your car anywhere in this storm. I guess I’ll bite the

  bullet and call Mother.”

  “Go for it,” Renie muttered, sinking back onto the

  pillows.

  Predictably, Gertrude answered on the eleventh ring.

  “Well,” she said in a deceptively affable voice, “so you

  pulled through. How come you didn’t let your poor old

  mother know before this?”

  “Joe told you I was okay,” Judith replied. “I’m sure

  that Carl and Arlene mentioned it, too. Besides, you

  hate to talk on the phone.”

  Gertrude bridled. “I do? Says who?”

  “Mother, you’ve always hated to talk on the phone,”

  Judith said patiently. “How are you getting along?”

  “Good,” Gertrude said. “I just had supper. Liver and

  onions. Arlene makes the best. And she gets it to me on

  time, straight-up five o’clock. That’s when supper

  ought to be served. Who cares about late meals and

  being fashionable?”

  Judith glanced at her watch. It was a few minutes

  after six. Usually, Judith wasn’t able to deliver her

  mother’s dinner until almost six-thirty. The timing

  had nothing to do with fashion, and everything to do

  with Judith’s busy late afternoons, greeting guests

  and preparing for the social hour. “Arlene’s very

  thoughtful,” Judith allowed. “What are you doing

  right now?”

  “Making a family tree,” Gertrude said. “Mike called.

  He wants to see who all’s hanging on it for Little

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  Stinkers Preschool or whatever it’s called. Dumb. Why

  can’t kids stay home and play like they used to?”

  “I don’t entirely disagree with you,” Judith said.

  “Today’s parents seem in such a rush to get them to

  grow up. Maybe that’s why when they hit twenty, they

  suddenly stop maturing until they’re almost middleaged. They’re making up for all the lost years when

  they should have been carefree kids.”

  “Well.” Gertrude chortled. “Maybe I haven’t raised

  such a nitwit after all. When was the last time you

  agreed with me on anything?”

  “Come on, Mother,” Judith said. “I agree with you

  on many things. Um . . . Who are you putting on the

  family tree?”

  “Family,” Gertrude retorted. “Our side. The Grovers

  and the Hoffmans. You can do Lunkhead’s.”

  Judith wasn’t sure which husband Gertrude was referring to. Her mother referred to both Dan and Joe as

  Lunkhead. In fact, Judith had never been sure if

  Gertrude knew—or recognized—that Mike wasn’t

  Dan’s son. Over thirty years ago, a baby conceived out

  of wedlock was a shameful thing. At least by

  Gertrude’s strict, old-fashioned standards. While Judith believed that her mother knew, deep down, she’d

  been in denial for the past three decades.

  “That’s good,” Judith said, aware that her mother’s

  memory, like those of most elderly people, recalled

  more from the distant past than the immediate present.

  “I mean, you can remember all those relatives who

  were dead before my time.”

  “You didn’t miss much with some of ’em,” Gertrude

  declared. “Take Uncle Kaspar. He thought he was a pencil. My grandmother was always pretending to sharpen

  him. The funny thing was, his head did come to a point.”

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  “I never heard you mention him before,” Judith said.

  “Maybe I forgot till now,” Gertrude said. “Then there

  was my father’s cousin, Lotte. Big woman. Lotta Lotte,

  my papa used to say. She sat on his favorite mare once

  and the horse fell down, broke a leg.”

  “Did they have to shoot her?” Judith asked.

  “Yep,” Gertrude replied. “The mare was fine,

  though. Fixed her up good as new.”

  “Mother,” Judith said severely, “you’re not telling

  me they shot Lotte!”

  Gertrude was chuckling. “Why not? It was the old

  country. They did a lot of queer things over there. Oldfashioned stuff, like wars and bombs and all that other

  goofy stuff.”

  “Mother,” Judith said stiffly, “I don’t want you making up information. It’s important to Mike and Kristin.

/>   In fact, I’d like to know more about our family tree myself.”

  “Wait till I get to your father’s side,” Gertrude said

  in a low, insinuating voice. “Bet you never knew about

  Uncle Percy.”

  “Before my time?” Judith ventured.

  “A bit.”

  “What about him?”

  There was a long pause. “I forget. It’ll come to me.

  Hey, toots, got to go. Arlene’s here to let me teach her

  how to play gin rummy.”

  Gertrude hung up.

  Judith looked at Renie, who was guzzling more

  Pepsi. “Did you ever hear of Uncle Percy on our fathers’ side of the family?”

  “No,” Renie replied. “Did your mother invent him?”

  “I think she’s making up most of my side,” Judith

  said. “It’s not like she doesn’t remember from way

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  Mary Daheim

  back. It’s five minutes ago that eludes her. Have you

  made up your mind how to get dinner from the front

  door to our room?”

  “I told you,” Renie replied with a scowl, “I’m asking Tubby Turnbull. He should be about ready to leave.

  I’ll go look.”

  Tubby, in fact, was sauntering out of Addison

  Kirby’s room. Renie put out a stocking-covered foot,

  which caught him above the ankle. “Oof!” Tubby exclaimed in mild surprise. “Sorry. Did I step on you?”

  “Mr. Turnbull,” Renie said, turning on what meager

  charm she could manage, “I’m upset. Who are you getting to replace Joaquin Somosa?”

  “Well . . . ,” Tubby drawled, rubbing his prominent

  chin, “that’s a darned good question. Who do you think

  we should get?”

  “Me?” Renie pointed to herself. “I’m just a fan, a

  mere woman at that. How should I know?”

  “Well . . .” Tubby scratched at the elaborate combover that covered his bald spot. “Sometimes player

  trade ideas come from the darnedest places. I got the

  inspiration for our closer, Ho Boy Pak, from a fortune

  cookie.”

  “Really,” Renie breathed. “I’m not surprised. He

  sort of pitches like chop suey.”

  “Yes,” Tubby agreed, “he can be kind of erratic.

  Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  Renie put out her good left hand. “Oh, please, Mr.

  Turnbull, could you step in for a minute and meet my

  cousin? She’s a huge Seafarers fan.”

  Renie made the introductions. “What a pleasure,” Judith enthused, studying Tubby more closely. He was definitely tubby, soft, and pliable. For a moment, Tubby

  seemed to be deciding whether to sit or stand. He eyed the

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  123

  visitors’ chairs, the beds, even the commode. At last, he

  stayed put. Judith knew of his reputation for indecisiveness, and noticed that the socks under his galoshes and

  shoes didn’t match. Judith wondered if he’d simply not

  been able to make up his mind when he got up that morning. “I’ve been rooting for the Seafarers ever since the

  franchise got here,” she said as Tubby slowly released her

  hand. “I’m a big sports nut. Wasn’t that terrible about Bob

  Randall?”

  Tubby nodded. “Really terrible. Just like Juan. And

  that actress, Addison Kirby’s wife. It makes you stop

  and think.” Tubby stopped, apparently to think.

  “It was nice of you to call on Mr. Kirby,” Judith said.

  “My cousin here actually saw him get hit by that car.”

  “Really?” Tubby turned to gaze at Renie. “That’s

  terrible, too. I guess you can’t blame Addison for being

  kind of upset.”

  “That’s true,” Judith responded. “You know, we

  spoke to him before the accident. He told us he was on

  his way to meet you. I’ll bet you wondered what happened to him when he didn’t show up.”

  Tubby rubbed at the back of his head. “Did I? Yes,

  sure I did. I wondered a lot. Then the hospital called

  and told me what happened and that I’d better mosey

  on over to see him. So here I am.”

  “How thoughtful,” Judith said. “We gathered that

  Addison had something very important on his mind. I

  hope he was feeling strong enough to tell you about it.

  It’s so hard to be laid up and not able to get things off

  your chest.”

  “That’s terrible,” Tubby agreed, “being laid up like

  that and not able to . . . Yes, he got it off his chest. But

  I don’t see how I can help him. I know very little.”

  Behind Tubby, Renie nodded emphatically.

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  Mary Daheim

  “You know very little about . . . what?” Judith

  prompted.

  “About . . .” Tubby scratched his triple chins. “About

  how Joaquin and Mrs. Kirby and Ramblin’ Randall

  died so all of a sudden. But I told him—Addison—that

  it seems like a real coincidence to me.”

  “It does?” Judith said, trying not to sound incredulous.

  “Well . . . sure,” Tubby replied, holding out his

  chunky hands in a helpless gesture. “What else? I

  mean, I know it wasn’t drugs with Joaquin. He never

  did drugs. He believed his body was like a . . . temple.

  Or something. And I suppose I have to believe what

  Addison said about his wife not taking drugs, either.

  He ought to know. But I can’t say about Bob Randall.

  I hardly knew him, except to see him at sports banquets and such. I figure this drug talk is a smoke

  screen. The doctors just plain screwed up. It happens.”

  “Occasionally,” Judith allowed, wondering if it was

  worthwhile to continue the conversation with Tubby

  Turnbull.

  Renie apparently thought not. She put a hand on

  Tubby’s elbow and steered him toward the door. “Thanks

  for coming by, Mr. Turnbull. You’ve given us a real . . .

  thrill. Good luck when spring training rolls around.”

  “What?” Tubby looked startled. “Oh—spring training. Yes, it’s coming. At the end of winter, right? Bye

  now.” He trundled off into the hallway, where he

  stopped, apparently undecided about which way to go.

  “You didn’t ask him to meet the dinner wagon,” Judith remarked. “How come?”

  “Because Tubby couldn’t handle it,” Renie said.

  “It’ll take him half an hour to find the exit, and then

  he’ll have to figure out if he’s going in or going out.

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  125

  I’ve got a better idea. Hey,” Renie called from the

  doorway, “Maya?”

  Judith heard a far-off voice tell Renie that Maya

  wasn’t on duty. Renie leaned back into the room. “No

  Maya tonight. But I’m not without resources. Are you

  in there, Mr. Mummy?”

  With great effort, Judith scooted farther down in the

  bed. She was just able to make out Mr. Mummy, who

  apparently had come out of his room and crossed the

  hall to Renie.

  “How,” Renie murmured, “do you feel about fried

  chicken, Mr. Mummy?”

  Mr. Mummy’s feelings about fried chicken, especially Bubba’s, were extremely positive. He was in a

  walking cast, and could get down to the main entrance

  with no trouble.

&nbs
p; “Can I fit the Bubba’s box into my plastic carryall?”

  he inquired, his cheeks pink with excitement.

  “Yes, you can,” Renie said, handing over the check

  she’d already written. “Just be sure no one sees you

  make the transfer.”

  Mr. Mummy beamed at Renie. “It’s like a spy story,

  isn’t it? You know, where one man sits on the park

  bench and the other one comes along with a folded

  newspaper and he leaves it on the seat and the first

  man—”

  “My, yes,” Renie interrupted. “You’d better go, Mr.

  Mummy. The delivery may be arriving any minute.”

  Judith saw Mr. Mummy scoot off down the hall, the

  leg in the walking cast at an angle, and his sacklike

  hospital gown waving behind him like a rag tied to a

  large load on a pickup truck.

  “He’s sweet,” Judith said as Renie headed back to

  bed. “I’ll bet he has a crush on you.”

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  Mary Daheim

  “Probably,” Renie said, a trifle glum. “Why couldn’t

  Sean Connery have fallen off a ladder instead of Mr.

  Mummy?”

  Heather Chinn appeared, taking more vital signs.

  “When will Maya be back?” Judith asked.

  Heather concentrated on Judith’s pulse. “Maya’s not

  with us anymore.”

  Judith lurched forward, disrupting Heather’s pulse

  count. “Literally? Figuratively?”

  “Both, I suppose,” Heather replied, slightly irritated.

  “Yesterday was her last day working for Good Cheer.”

  “Oh.” The thermometer cut off further comment

  from Judith.

  “Seeking new opportunities, huh?” Renie remarked.

  “Yes,” Heather said, still intent upon her tasks.

  “What was in the autopsy report on Bob Randall?”

  Renie inquired.

  “I don’t know,” Heather replied.

  “Surely not suicide,” Renie said.

  “I don’t know,” Heather repeated, her pretty face set

  in stone.

  “Yes, you do,” Renie asserted. “Bob Randall was

  one of your patients. You would be informed if he’d

  taken his own life. Don’t you think it would be prudent

  for you to tell other patients on this floor what really

  happened? Cover-ups never work, and then you’re left

  with serious egg on your face.”

  Heather removed the thermometer from Judith’s

  mouth and glared at Renie. “We’ve been told not to

  discuss Mr. Randall’s death. The orders have come

  down from on high.”