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

  for eleven minutes nonstop. Nobody came. I think I’ll

  set fire to the bed.”

  “Coz—” Judith began to plead, but was interrupted

  by a tall, handsome nun in an exceptionally well-tailored

  modified habit.

  “Mrs. Jones? Mrs. Flynn?” the nun said, standing on

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  the threshold. “Which of you has been requesting

  help?”

  If not embarrassed, Renie at least had the grace to

  look slightly abashed. “Yes . . . that would be me.” She

  offered the nun a toothy smile. “I’m having quite a bit

  of pain.”

  You’re being quite a pain, Judith thought, but kept

  silent.

  The nun glanced at the IV. “I’ll see what I can do,”

  she said in her crisp, no-nonsense voice. “By the way,

  I’m Sister Jacqueline, the hospital administrator. I

  should point out that our staff is extremely busy this

  week. The surgery floor is full, and as usual, we’re a

  bit shorthanded. The economics of medicine aren’t

  what they used to be.” She gave the cousins a tight little smile.

  “I understand,” Judith said. “It’s a terrible problem

  that nobody seems able to solve.”

  “It’s those damned insurance companies,” Renie asserted, lifting her head a few inches from the pillow.

  “Let’s not even talk about the greedy jackasses who

  run the pharmaceutical industry. What about the patient? I’m lying here in misery and half starved while

  a bunch of bumbling morons in Washington, D.C., try

  to figure out whether their pants get pulled up over

  their fat butts or go down over their empty heads. Or

  maybe they aren’t wearing any pants at all. Furthermore, if anybody had an ounce of—”

  Sister Jacqueline cleared her throat rather loudly.

  “Mrs. Jones. Ranting will do you no good. I suggest

  that you exercise the virtue of patience instead.”

  “I am the freaking patient!” Renie cried. “And I’m

  not a patient patient.”

  “I gather not,” Sister Jacqueline said mildly, then

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  Mary Daheim

  turned to Judith and spoke almost in a whisper. “If

  someone is discharged tomorrow, we might be able to

  move you to a different room.”

  Judith tried to smile. “It’s fine, Sister. Honestly. I’m

  used to her. She’s my cousin.”

  The nun drew back as if Judith had poked her.

  “Really!” She glanced from Judith to Renie and back

  again. “Then patience must be one of your outstanding

  virtues.”

  Judith looked sheepish. “Well . . . Many things in

  life have taught me patience. In fact, my cousin really

  doesn’t—”

  A tall, thin middle-aged man who looked vaguely

  familiar tapped diffidently on the open door. “Sister?”

  he said in an uncertain voice.

  The nun stepped away from Judith’s bed. “Yes?”

  “I’m worried,” the man said, removing his thick

  glasses and putting them back on in a nervous manner.

  “My brother isn’t getting any rest. There are way too

  many visitors and deliveries and I don’t know what all.

  I thought since Margie volunteers at the hospital, she’d

  keep things under control.”

  “I haven’t seen Mrs. Randall since Mr. Randall was

  in the recovery room,” Sister Jacqueline replied. “Even

  though the post-op news was very good, she seemed

  downcast. Perhaps she went home to rest.”

  “I hope not.” The man who appeared to be Bob Randall’s brother gave a shake of his head. “There’s supposed to be a big snowstorm moving in. She might get

  stuck at the house.” He uttered a heavy sigh. “Poor

  Margie. She’s always downcast. I guess it’s just her nature.”

  The nun turned back to Judith, but avoided looking

  at Renie, who wore a mutinous expression. “Excuse

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  31

  me, I must get things straightened out. Keep drinking

  those liquids, both of you. Come along, Mr. Randall.

  Jim, is it?” She put a firm hand on Jim Randall’s elbow

  and steered him out into the hall. “I agree, too much

  excitement isn’t good for . . .”

  Her voice faded as they moved down the hall. Renie

  picked up a tiny digital clock from her nightstand. “It’s

  going on five. I haven’t eaten since last night. When do

  they serve around here?”

  “I thought you hurt so much,” Judith remarked,

  plucking listlessly at the white linen sheet. “Good

  Cheer Hospital” had been stitched in blue on the hem,

  but the letters had worn away to leave only “Goo . .

  h . er Ho . p . . .”

  “I do,” Renie said, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t be

  hungry.”

  Before Judith could respond, Dr. Alfonso reappeared, now dressed in blue jeans, a denim shirt, and a

  black leather jacket. “You’re looking a bit brighter,

  Mrs. Flynn,” he said, though his own voice was weary.

  “Let’s take a peek at that dressing.”

  “When do we eat?” Renie asked in a petulant tone.

  “After a bit,” the surgeon replied without taking his

  eyes off the loose bandage. “We’ll get the nurse to

  change that. How’s the pain?”

  “Awful,” Renie broke in. “Whatever happened to

  Demerol?”

  “It’s bearable,” Judith responded bravely. “Though

  it hurts quite a bit to make even the slightest move.”

  “We’ll take care of that, too,” Dr. Alfonso said with

  a tired smile. “Now let’s talk about your rehab—”

  “How can a person rehab,” Renie demanded, “when

  his or her arm feels like it fell off? In fact, I think it did.

  Do you want to check the floor for me?”

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  Mary Daheim

  “We’ll have you try to sit up tomorrow,” the doctor

  said to Judith. “Maybe later in the day, we’ll see if you

  can take a few steps.”

  “That sounds next to impossible right now,” Judith

  said, though her weak smile tried to convey courage.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “I’ll do my worst if somebody doesn’t put something besides corn syrup in this IV,” Renie snarled.

  With shoulders slumped, Dr. Alfonso started to turn

  away from Judith. “I’ll be by in the morning to—”

  His words were cut short by screams and a large

  thud from nearby. Judith stiffened in the narrow bed

  and Renie’s expression went from grumpy to curious.

  Dr. Alfonso picked up his step, but was met by a petite

  Asian nurse in a fresh white uniform and cap.

  “Come, please, Doctor,” the nurse urged in an anxious voice. “Something’s happened to Mr. Randall.”

  “Randall?” Dr. Alfonso echoed, following the nurse

  out into the hall. “Dr. Garnett’s patient?”

  Judith’s jaw dropped. Surely not another local

  celebrity had succumbed at Good Cheer Hospital. She

  pricked up her ears, trying to catch the nurse’s fading

  reply.

  “Not Bob Randall,” she said. “It’s his brother, Jim.

  He suddenly collapsed and is
unconscious.”

  Renie made an airy gesture of dismissal with her left

  hand. “Maybe he’s dead. Can anybody around here tell

  the difference?”

  Judith stared incredulously at her cousin. “That’s

  not funny.”

  Renie’s face fell as she realized the enormity of

  what she had just said. “No,” she agreed, a hand to her

  head. “It’s not.”

  THREE

  IT WAS ALMOST a quarter of an hour before the

  cousins learned what had happened to Jim Randall.

  A simple faint, it seemed, according to the Asian

  nurse, whose name tag identified her as “Chinn,

  Heather, R.N.”

  “He’s so different from his brother, the football

  player,” Heather Chinn said as she adjusted Renie’s

  IV. “They look alike, sort of, but they don’t act like

  brothers, let alone twins.”

  “Twins?” Judith said, comparing the gaunt, pale

  Jim Randall with the robust, suntanned Bob. “As in

  identical?”

  Heather shrugged and smiled. She had matching

  dimples in a perfect heart-shaped face. “I don’t

  know about that. Their mannerisms are really at opposite ends, too. Mr. Jim is so shy and doesn’t seem

  to have much self-esteem. Mr. Bob is full of life and

  confidence. He’ll be out of here in no time.”

  “What made Mr. Jim pass out?” Judith inquired

  as the nurse added more painkiller to her IV.

  Heather shrugged again. “Stress, maybe. Worrying about his brother. Though I don’t think Mr. Jim

  is very well. He’s had several tests to determine

  what’s wrong, but . . .” She finished with the IV and

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  Mary Daheim

  grimaced. “I shouldn’t gossip like that. It’s unprofessional, and I’m merely speculating.”

  The pain was beginning to ebb. Judith moved in the

  bed, her gaze following Heather Chinn as she tried to

  make Renie more comfortable.

  “You’d have more room,” Heather said in a pleasant,

  reasonable voice, “if you’d put some of these . . . items

  in the drawers of your nightstand.” Her slim fingers

  pointed to the paperback book, two magazines, pack of

  gum, roll of breath mints, several spring fashion catalogues, and a small grinning doll with an equally small

  suitcase.

  “Don’t touch Archie,” Renie warned as Heather

  started to move the doll. “He stays with me. My husband got him as a good luck charm. Archie loves hospitals.” Renie grasped Archie’s tiny hand. “Don’t you,

  Archie? See how cheerful he is? Archie always looks

  cheerful.”

  While Judith was accustomed to Renie and Bill’s

  proclivity for talking to inanimate objects, including

  their car, Heather Chinn wasn’t. The nurse looked

  askance.

  Judith decided to intervene before Heather recommended committing Renie to the mental health wing.

  “I don’t suppose,” Judith said in a manner that only

  suggested a question, “you had either Joan Fremont or

  Joaquin Somosa as patients.”

  “The actress?” Heather responded, looking at Judith

  over Renie’s tousled head. “No. But the other one—

  was he some kind of ballplayer, too? I was on duty

  when he flat-lined.”

  Renie jerked around to look at the monitor beside

  her bed. “Flat-lined? Is that what you call it? All those

  funny squiggly marks are good, then?”

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  35

  “Yes.” Heather smiled, revealing her dimples.

  “You’re doing fine, Mrs. Jones. In fact, we’ve noticed

  that you’re unusually . . . resilient.”

  Loud, Judith figured was what Nurse Heather

  meant. And maybe nuts. “Mr. Somosa . . . flat-lined for

  no apparent reason?”

  “Not at the time,” Heather replied, checking Renie’s

  IV. “I believe there was something in the postmortem

  that indicated otherwise.”

  “Drugs?” Renie put in. “I heard that might have

  been the case with Joan Fremont.”

  “I really can’t discuss it,” Heather asserted, the dimples now invisible and the brown eyes on the silent TV

  set. “Would you like to watch the news? There’s a button on each of your beds.”

  “No,” Renie said.

  “Yes,” Judith replied. “I never get to see the early

  news at home. I’m always working.”

  “I almost never watch the news,” Renie said crossly,

  “unless it’s sports.” She pulled herself up in the bed

  and addressed Heather Chinn. “Are you saying Somosa did drugs? I don’t believe it. For one thing, the

  Seafarers have a tough stand on drugs. So does major

  league baseball in general. Not only that, but until he

  blew out his elbow, Somosa had a 2.4 ERA and averaged ten strikeouts a game. How do you explain that?”

  “I can’t,” Heather replied with the ghost of a smile.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t follow sports. I only know about Mr. Randall—Mr.

  Bob—because somebody said he’d played professional football.”

  “Hunh,” snorted Renie, and fell back against the pillows.

  Heather had refilled the cousins’ water carafes, re-36

  Mary Daheim

  placing them on the old wooden bedside stands that

  matched the room’s much-varnished door and window

  frames. “Remember to keep drinking fluids. Dinner

  will be along shortly,” she added as she exited the

  room.

  “It better be,” Renie muttered after taking a big sip

  of fresh water. “Really, coz, I doubt that Somosa did

  drugs. Or Joan Fremont, either. They didn’t call her the

  First Lady of the local theater for nothing. She was a

  lady, in every way.”

  “Good Cheer is undoubtedly dodging a couple of

  huge malpractice suits,” Judith said, clicking on the

  TV. “Can you imagine? Not only the survivors, but

  maybe Le Repertoire Theatre and the Seafarers’ ownership.”

  Renie was silent for a moment as KINE-TV’s anchorpersons radiated their own type of good cheer by

  rehashing humankind’s latest tragedies. “At least turn

  down the sound,” she said crossly. “It’s Mavis LeanBrodie doing the news and she’s never liked me.”

  Years ago, Mavis had been involved in a homicide

  that had occurred in Judith’s dining room. Since then,

  Judith had encountered her a few times, including a recent run-in during a murder investigation at an apartment house on Heraldsgate Hill. Mavis had featured

  Judith in a well-intentioned TV interview that had

  come off as awkward and inaccurate. Still, Judith held

  no grudge.

  “Mavis is okay,” Judith allowed, hitting the mute

  button as the screen switched to a close-up of the governor in front of the state capitol. “She’s just aggressive. It comes with the job description.”

  Dinner was brought in by a solemn young orderly.

  Wordlessly, he set up Judith’s tray first. There were

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  37

  two covered dishes, a plastic container, a plastic cup,

  packets of salt and pepper, silverware, and a napkin. A

  whole-wheat roll wrapped in plastic rested on a plate

  wit
h a butter pat.

  The orderly moved to Renie’s bed. “What the hell is

  this crap?” she yelled, removing the metal cover from

  the larger of the two dishes. “It looks like cat spit!”

  The orderly, who sported a mustache, a shaved head,

  and a gold stud in one ear, didn’t respond. Without

  speaking, he left the room.

  “I think,” Judith said warily, “it’s mutton.”

  Renie’s brown eyes widened in horror. “No Grover

  since our grandfather has ever eaten mutton, and he

  only did it because he was English. I think I’m going

  to be sick.”

  “It’s not very good,” Judith allowed. “In fact, it’s

  tasteless. I tried salting the gravy, but that doesn’t help

  much. There’s a green salad, though.” She searched

  around on the tray. “It’s under the other covered dish,

  but I don’t see any dressing.”

  “Rice,” Renie said, holding her head. “How can you

  ruin rice? And why is it sort of beige?”

  “Brown rice?” Judith suggested, taking a bite. “No,

  maybe not.”

  “This isn’t even wholesome,” Renie complained.

  “Mutton is fatty. I’m going to call Bill.”

  “What for?” Judith asked. “He’s not with the Department of Health.”

  “No, but he can swing by Art Huey’s and pick us up

  some Chinese. What do you want?”

  Judith’s attention, however, had been caught by the

  TV screen. Sister Jacqueline was in living color,

  speaking in front of Good Cheer Hospital. Judith

  turned the sound back on.

  38

  Mary Daheim

  “. . . to clear our reputation,” Sister Jacqueline was

  saying. “The general public doesn’t realize that every

  time a person goes into surgery under a general anesthetic, they risk death. It’s simply a fact, which is why

  hospitals require signed waivers before any procedure.

  Sometimes, of course, there are extenuating circumstances.”

  Mavis’s male coanchor reappeared, looking solemn.

  “Statistically, the number of otherwise healthy patients

  who die within a week of a surgical procedure is very

  small. Good Cheer Hospital’s most recent deaths have

  been local celebrities, thus bringing the long-time institution under scrutiny. It should also be pointed out

  that Good Cheer is the only local hospital where orthopedic surgeries are performed. As chief of surgery

  Dr. Peter Garnett said earlier, the statistics are bound

  to be skewed when each hospital has its own specialties.”