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

  The camera angle expanded to include Mavis.

  “Thanks, Paul,” she said with a grim smile. “I guess

  I’ll think twice before I get those bone spurs removed.”

  Paul dutifully chuckled. Mavis announced they were

  cutting to a commercial break.

  “Face-lift,” Renie said. “She’s had two already.

  Pretty soon her ears are going to be sticking out from

  the top of her head.”

  “The hospital had to expect some bad publicity,” Judith remarked, ignoring Renie’s comment and muting

  the TV again. “I’m surprised there hasn’t been more

  about it in the newspapers.”

  “So am I,” Renie said, dumping her entire tray in

  the wastebasket beside her bed. “I wonder if the

  Times has muzzled Addison Kirby. You know, Joan

  Fremont’s husband who covers city hall.”

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  “You think so?” Judith remarked, then realized that

  Renie had hung up the phone without speaking to Bill.

  “Hey, what about your Chinese order?”

  Renie let out an exasperated little sigh. “The anesthesia must have affected my brain. I’m told it can, especially your memory. I forgot that Bill never answers

  the phone, especially around the dinner hour. Why

  don’t you call Joe?”

  Judith hesitated. Joe had plenty of responsibilities

  on his shoulders now that Judith was completely incapacitated. “I kind of hate to. We don’t live as close to

  Art Huey’s as you and Bill do.”

  “Okay.” Renie picked up the phone again. “Art Huey’s

  Restaurant,” she said. “Yes, you can dial it for me.”

  “You’re going to have them deliver our dinner?” Judith asked, taken aback. “Is that allowed?”

  “Who knows? Who cares? I’m paying for it. Yes,

  this is Mrs. Jones, and I’d like to order the prawn chow

  yuk, the wonton soup, the . . .” Renie listed another

  half-dozen items, then gave some special instructions:

  “Tell the people at the front desk you’re visiting Mrs.

  Jones. Put the stuff in a plain cardboard box and throw

  one of those plastic geraniums on top. There’s a big tip

  in it for you if the food arrives hot.”

  “If the food arrives at all,” Judith remarked as Renie

  hung up. “Do you think whoever brings it can get past

  the desk?”

  “Yes,” Renie declared, clicking on the old-fashioned

  gooseneck lamp next to the bed. “Now dump that crap

  off your tray and settle back. I should have ordered a

  couple of drinks while I was at it.”

  “We can’t drink,” Judith said, taking yet another sip

  from her plastic water glass, “except for stuff like this.

  We’re on pain medication.”

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  Mary Daheim

  “We are?” Renie harrumphed. “You couldn’t prove

  it by me.”

  The food did indeed arrive, along with Joe, Bill, and

  the delivery boy. Renie had already managed to get out

  her checkbook, though it was a struggle to write with

  her left hand.

  “Let me,” Bill sighed, tearing up the check. “This

  looks as if you’d written it with your lips.”

  “I should try that,” Renie murmured, struggling to

  open the cartons. “Here, pass some of this to my roommate.”

  Joe and Bill had come to the hospital together. The

  guests were settled in, Carl and Arlene had things well

  in hand, and Gertrude was spending the evening inside

  Hillside Manor playing three-handed pinochle with Judith’s stand-ins.

  “They’re so good to her,” Judith said, referring to the

  Rankerses. “I try to ignore Arlene’s threats to move. I

  couldn’t bear it if they weren’t next door.”

  Taking a bite of Judith’s marinated steak, Joe

  agreed. “By the way, I’ve accepted a new case.”

  “You have?” Judith was surprised. “But you’re already overloaded.”

  “I’m okay, I got most of the loose ends tied up before your surgery,” Joe said, sampling a sweet-andsour prawn. “But this is one I don’t feel I can refuse.

  There was a call from FOPP waiting for me when I got

  home from the hospital this afternoon.”

  Judith’s forehead wrinkled. “FOPP? What’s that?”

  “Friends of Powerless People, advocates for the

  homeless,” Joe replied, eyeing another of Judith’s

  prawns. “It seems that a couple of street residents have

  been killed in the last month. Not that it’s unusual in itself, but these weren’t the typical murders. You know,

  SUTURE SELF

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  a couple of the poor devils get into it, one brains the

  other with an empty bottle of Old Horsecollar. Or

  smart-ass kids hassle the homeless until it gets out of

  hand. According to Steve Moeller at FOPP, the two

  most recent killings appeared to be deliberate and were

  committed out of sight. Both stabbings, maybe by the

  same knife. I’ll get more details tomorrow.”

  “What about the police?” Judith inquired. “Aren’t

  they trying to find the killers?”

  Joe gave a slight shrug. “Sure, but you know how it

  is. Even when I was still on the job, if Woody and I got

  a case that was more high-profile, then our homeless

  homicide got put at the bottom of the pile. That’s why

  FOPP has decided to hire a private investigator.”

  Judith frowned. She’d always had a sense of security

  during the years that Woodrow Wilson Price had been

  Joe’s partner. A solid man of African-American descent with a walrus mustache and deceptively soulful

  eyes that could wring a confession out of the most

  hardened criminals, Woody had never let Joe down.

  And vice versa. But that was then and this was now. “It

  sounds dangerous. Furthermore, you don’t have

  Woody for a partner anymore.”

  Joe shook his head and grinned. “I’ll manage. The

  worst of it is trying to make sense of what the witnesses will say. If I can find any witnesses.”

  “Take someone with you,” Judith urged. “Bill, for

  instance. He can tell who’s crazy and who isn’t.”

  Joe made a face at Judith. “Bill has plenty to do, too.

  He still sees some of his private patients and consults

  at the university. Besides, on these investigations, I like

  to work solo.”

  Judith started to argue, but she was too worn out and

  knew she’d lose. At the other bedside, the Joneses were

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  arguing, something about the assignments of their

  three children while Renie was in the hospital.

  “Why,” Renie was demanding, “should Tom wash

  the windows in January? He needs time to work on his

  Ph.D. thesis.”

  “That doesn’t mean the windows aren’t dirty,” Bill

  pointed out. “Besides, he’s been in graduate school for

  eight years. I don’t see that he’s in any rush.”

  “He has deadlines,” Renie countered. “You know

  that, you’ve been through it.”

  “Not in Babylonian history,” Bill pointed out, his

  voice growing more heated. “What’s he going to do

  with that degree when
he gets it? How many recruiters

  are out there looking for an expert on the Mushkenu

  social class?”

  “He can teach,” Renie retorted.

  “He doesn’t want to teach,” Bill asserted. “He wants

  to stay in graduate school, live in our house, eat our

  food, and wait until we’re carried out feetfirst, just like

  his brother and his sister are doing.”

  Joe, who had been fidgeting, stood up. “Hey, Bill,

  maybe we should head on out. It may snow tonight.”

  Bill all but flew out of his visitor’s chair. “Good

  idea. Heraldsgate Hill has some pretty mean streets in

  bad weather.”

  Joe and Bill kissed their wives and fled.

  “Do you really think they have girls lined up?” Judith asked.

  “No,” Renie answered. “They have basketball

  games, though. Pro and college. Besides, we’re boring.”

  “Joe ate half my dinner,” Judith said in dismay.

  “Bill didn’t try to touch any of mine,” Renie said. “He

  knows better.”

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  Judith checked her watch, which was lying on the

  bedside stand. “It’s almost eight. I could use some

  more painkillers.”

  “Me, too,” said Renie. “You buzz. They hate me.”

  Judith pushed the button. “I have to admit, they

  aren’t exactly killing us with kindness. Excuse the

  phrase.”

  But Heather Chinn appeared almost immediately.

  “Sorry,” she apologized. “It’s been so busy on this

  floor tonight. I’m behind in taking vitals.”

  “How about victuals?” Renie said, indicating the

  empty white boxes on her tray. “Could you get rid of

  these for us?”

  Heather hadn’t noticed the small cartons. “Oh, dear!

  Did you two . . . ? Really, that’s not allowed. Lately,

  our patients seem to think they can consume just about

  anything they like. That’s not so. You have to keep to a

  hospital diet while you’re with us. If we hadn’t been so

  caught up with other patients, we’d never have permitted this.”

  “Those aren’t ours,” Renie said, feigning shock.

  “Our husbands brought their own dinner. We’ll both

  speak severely to them about doing it again.”

  Frowning, Heather removed the boxes, then began

  taking Judith’s pulse and temperature. “What happened with Jim Randall?” Judith inquired after the

  paper thermometer had been removed.

  “Oh,” Heather said, wrapping the blood pressure

  cuff around Judith’s arm, “he went home. I guess he

  was upset about his brother.”

  “Mr. Bob’s recovering nicely?” Judith asked.

  Heather didn’t answer right away. She was listening

  to the stethoscope and looking at the gauge attached to

  the cuff. “Yes,” she finally said as she made entries on

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  Judith’s chart, “he’s doing fine, though I don’t think

  he’ll like being on a walker and then a cane for some

  time. He strikes me as a very active person.” Heather

  moved to Renie’s bed. “Here, Mrs. Jones, let’s see how

  you’re getting along.”

  “I could have eaten more fried wontons,” Renie said.

  “I think they shorted us on the sweet-and-sour

  prawns.”

  Heather shook her head in a disapproving manner,

  then became involved in taking Renie’s vital signs. Judith watched until a wispy figure appeared in the doorway. It was Mrs. Randall, looking morose.

  “Nurse Chinn?” she called in a soft, tentative voice.

  “I’m leaving now, but I’ll be on duty at nine tomorrow.”

  Heather Chinn finished taking Renie’s pulse, then

  turned to the newcomer. “That’s fine, Mrs. Randall.

  You must be very pleased with your husband’s successful surgery.”

  Margie Randall hung her head. “Dr. Van Boeck says

  I should be, but you never know. All sorts of things can

  happen—pneumonia, a blood clot, an aneurysm. I’ve

  seen it before, here in this very hospital, and recently,

  too. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

  “You need your rest,” Heather said, now working

  with the blood pressure cuff on Renie. “You put in

  such long days volunteering for us.”

  “It’s such a source of comfort for me,” Margie

  sighed, though she looked quite desolate. “It’s such a

  blessing to be able to offer consolation to patients and

  their families. Why, this very morning, while Bob was

  in surgery, I counseled a family who had just lost an

  elderly father. They’d been practically immobilized

  with grief until I began telling them how soon any one

  of them could be called to join him. A brief, deadly ill-SUTURE SELF

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  ness. An auto accident. Getting caught in the gunfire of

  a drive-by shooting. They suddenly became energized

  and all but ran out of the hospital.”

  “Lovely,” Heather said absently. “Good night, Mrs.

  Randall.”

  Margie Randall drifted away. Judith leaned slightly

  toward the nurse. “I was wondering, who operated on

  Joaquin Somosa and Joan Fremont? Do you recall?”

  Heather removed the blood pressure cuff from

  Renie’s arm and looked at Judith. “It was Dr. Garnett,

  the same surgeon who performed Mr. Randall’s surgery. I remember, because it’s sort of unusual. Surgeons specialize, like Dr. Alfonso for hips and Dr.

  Ming for shoulders. But Dr. Garnett is the second in

  command at Good Cheer, under Dr. Van Boeck, and he

  likes to stay diversified.”

  “I see,” said Judith, who wasn’t exactly sure what

  Heather meant in terms of medical skill, hospital privilege, or professional hierarchy.

  “The good stuff,” Renie put in, using her left elbow

  to point to the IV. “Make me feel good. Or at least tolerable.”

  Heather finished dispensing medication, a short,

  stout woman with a blonde Dutch-boy bob drew their

  blood, and, finally, the priest Judith had seen that

  morning came by to visit.

  “I’m Father McConnaught,” he said in a voice that indicated he wasn’t quite sure. “God bless you, Mrs. Flynn.

  An Irish lass, perhaps?”

  “No, actually I’m—”

  He nodded at Renie. “And Mrs. Jones. Welsh, you’d

  be, eh?”

  “No, I’m pretty much the same as my—”

  “Well, now.” Father McConnaught’s faded blue eyes

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  Mary Daheim

  crinkled at the corners. He was almost bald, except for

  a few strands of white hair that stood up on his head

  like little wisps of smoke. “Let’s say a prayer of

  thanksgiving that you both came through, eh?”

  Judith and Renie dutifully said the Our Father and

  the Hail Mary along with the priest, which was a good

  thing because he seemed to forget some of the words

  along the way.

  “Now,” the priest said, smiling even wider, “how

  many will this be, Mrs. Flynn?”

  “How many what?” Judith asked, puzzled.

  “And you, Mrs. Jones?” he inquired of Renie.
/>   “Since I’ve only got one other arm—” Renie began.

  Father McConnaught put up an arthritic hand.

  “Never mind now, the Good Lord always provides

  extra hands. Will we be seeing you both again next

  year with another wee one?”

  “I doubt it,” Judith said, finally enlightened and

  smiling gently. “Ten’s quite a few, Father.”

  The priest looked skeptical. “Twelve, and the archbishop himself will baptize the babe.”

  “Will he raise the kid, too?” Renie asked.

  Father McConnaught put his hand behind his ear.

  “Eh?”

  “Never mind,” Judith said kindly. “Thank you for

  coming, Father. We’ll keep you in our prayers.”

  “And so shall I with you and all the wee ones.” He

  made a small, painful bow and departed.

  “Deaf and blind,” Renie remarked after Father McConnaught had gone. “When are we going to get some

  younger priests around here?”

  “We should pray more for vocations,” Judith said.

  “Nuns as well as priests. I’ll bet very few members of

  the nursing staff are from the Sisters of Good Cheer.”

  SUTURE SELF

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  “It’s like the teaching orders,” Renie said, then

  stared at Judith. “Say—when you were talking to

  Nurse Heather about who operated on Joan Fremont

  and Joaquin Somosa, were you sleuthing?”

  “What?” Judith feigned disbelief.

  “You heard me,” Renie said. “Are you suspicious

  about the cause of their deaths?”

  “Well . . . you have to wonder.”

  “You do,” Renie retorted, turning off the light by her

  bed. “I don’t. In fact, I’m going to try to get some

  sleep.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Judith agreed. “Frankly, I’m

  exhausted.” She, too, clicked off her light. “I guess I

  was just curious.”

  “Oh.”

  “I mean, it’s got to be a coincidence, right?”

  “Right.”

  “If they hadn’t been well known, we’d probably

  never have heard about their deaths.”

  “Shut up.”

  Judith obeyed, but couldn’t get comfortable. “I still

  hurt like hell. This bed’s too narrow. I’ll never be able

  to sleep.”

  “Count sheep. Count Chinese food cartons. Count

  all those imaginary kids you told Father McConnaught

  you had.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Judith slept, but her dreams were disquieting in the

  extreme. Joaquin Somosa appeared on the pitcher’s