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

  mound, where an army of fried wontons marched onto

  the field and savagely attacked him with chopsticks.

  Joan Fremont, as Lady Macbeth, was wringing her

  hands when Birnam Wood, in the form of towering bok

  choy leaves, invaded the castle and crushed her to the

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  ground. Finally, Judith saw a third form, more shadowy than the others, wearing what looked like a cape

  and pacing anxiously as a band of deep-fried prawns

  lay in wait with a cauldron of boiling sweet-and-sour

  sauce.

  Judith woke up with a muffled gasp, but saw only

  Renie, clutching Archie the cheerful doll, and snoring

  softly.

  FOUR

  NO ONE HAD died by morning. Judith awoke after a

  fitful night, not only of pain and discomfort and

  nightmares caused by an overdose of Chinese food,

  but of constant disturbances by nurses taking more

  vital signs. Not only didn’t Judith feel rested, but

  she was very stiff and sore. The weakness she had

  suffered as a result of the surgery was still there,

  leaving her limp and lifeless.

  Breakfast turned out to be more palatable than the

  previous meal. The cousins ate oatmeal, toast,

  scrambled eggs, and bacon. There was apple juice

  and coffee. Even Renie didn’t complain. Much.

  “You get to go home in a couple of days,” Judith

  said, pushing her tray aside. She’d eaten only half

  the food; her appetite seemed to have shrunk. “Dr.

  Alfonso said I’d be in here for almost a week.”

  Renie was standing up, scratching various parts

  of her anatomy with her left hand and trying to adjust the sling on her right arm so that it didn’t tug at

  her neck.

  “I have the feeling that if we were in any other

  hospital,” Renie declared, finally managing to

  loosen the sling an inch or so, “I’d be headed home

  this morning. Good Cheer has held fairly firm in al-50

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  lowing longer patient stays. Maybe it’s got something

  to do with the hospital being run by a religious order.”

  “In other words, by people who have good sense?”

  Judith said.

  “Exactly.” Somewhat unsteadily, Renie went into

  the bathroom and closed the door.

  Judith felt envious. Her cousin was mobile; it would

  be weeks before Judith would be able to get around

  with ease. She’d be stuck using a bedpan or the commode. Doctors and nurses bragged of success stories

  about eighty-year-olds who danced the fandango six

  weeks after surgery. But Judith knew those tales were

  the exception to the rule. Besides, she’d never known

  how to dance the fandango with two good hips.

  Renie emerged from the bathroom, a big grin on her

  face. “That must be the original toilet,” she said, moving cautiously toward her bed. “It’s the old-fashioned

  chain type. It’s so high off the floor that my feet didn’t

  touch. By the way, we’re sharing.”

  “We are?” Judith said. “With whom? Robbie the

  Robot?”

  Renie shook her head. “No, Robbie the Pro Quarterback. There’s a door on the other side. I could hear him

  talking on the phone. He was thanking somebody

  named Taylor for something or other. No doubt some

  special treatment he’s getting that we are not.”

  “Bob Randall’s famous,” Judith said. “He’s used to

  five-star treatment. We are not famous, thus we are not

  entitled to special treatment.”

  “Doesn’t infamous count?” Renie retorted. “I’m

  working on that one.”

  Judith sighed. “So you are. And with great success,

  I might add.”

  Dr. Alfonso arrived on his rounds shortly before ten

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  o’clock. He was full of encouragement for Judith,

  though she remained skeptical. With the help of a willowy redheaded nurse named Appleby, he managed to

  get Judith into a sitting position. She confessed she felt

  dizzy, almost nauseous, and had to put her head down.

  The faded linoleum floor swam before her eyes.

  “Perfectly normal,” Dr. Alfonso assured her. “By tomorrow, you’ll hardly feel dizzy at all.”

  After the surgeon had gone, Corinne Appleby informed Judith that they’d have her on her feet by late

  afternoon. “You’ll be surprised,” the nurse said, a tired

  smile on her long, freckled face. Like Heather Chinn,

  Nurse Appleby wore a crisply starched white uniform,

  spotless white rubber-soled shoes, and a perky cap

  with a single black band. “You may feel weak now,”

  Corinne went on, “but little by little, you’ll get your

  strength back.”

  “I hope so,” Judith said, trying to block out Renie’s

  latest complaints to an orderly who was attempting to

  straighten her bed and apparently had attempted to molest Archie the doll. Maybe it was a good thing that her

  cousin would go home first. When Renie was in a

  drawn-out bad mood, she could be nerve-racking.

  “Did you bring a book?” Judith asked after the orderly had managed to flee.

  “Yes, but it sucks scissors,” Renie declared. “I

  started it last night, somewhere between the vital signs

  and the nurses’ argument over who ate the last package

  of M&M’s.”

  “Oh.” Judith glanced at the paperback on her bedside stand. “I couldn’t even try to read last night, but

  maybe I will now. Unless you want to watch TV.”

  “During the day?” Renie was aghast. “There’s nothing on except the Weather Channel.”

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  “There’s CNN,” Judith said meekly.

  “That’s just news, and it won’t be good,” Renie asserted. “I’d rather read. Maybe if I started this book

  from the end and read it backwards, it’d be more interesting.”

  “I brought a deck of cards,” Judith said, brightening.

  “If you could sit by my bed, we could play cribbage.”

  “I haven’t played cribbage in years,” Renie said. “I

  don’t know how anymore.”

  “I could teach you,” Judith said. “I play with Mother

  all the time. She usually beats me.”

  Raised voices and a sudden scurrying in the hallway

  diverted the cousins’ attention.

  “What’s that?” Renie asked, sitting up in bed.

  Judith leaned forward as far as she could, which was

  only a few inches. “I can’t tell. A couple of people—I

  think Nurse Appleby was one of them—just ran by.”

  “Code blue!” someone shouted.

  “What was that?” Renie asked, clumsily getting out

  of bed and trailing her IV stand behind her.

  “It sounded like ‘code blue.’ I don’t think that’s a

  positive phrase in a hospital.”

  Renie padded across the floor in her baggy hospital

  gown and brown-treaded bed socks. “I thought they

  said ‘cordon bleu.’ I thought it sounded like something

  good.”

  “I think maybe it means . . . dead,” Judith said, gulping.

  “Oh.” Renie sounded dismayed, but kept moving

  until she was in the doorway. After a
few seconds, she

  turned back to Judith. “Whatever it is seems to be happening in Bob Randall’s room next door.”

  “No!” Judith’s hands flew to her cheeks. “It can’t

  be! Maybe I’m wrong about what the code means.”

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  A large bald-headed man in a white coat came striding down the hall. He saw Renie halfway out of the

  door and barked at her to get back. Startled, she took a

  single step but remained on watch.

  “Dr. Van Boeck,” Renie said over her shoulder to Judith. “I heard somebody say his name.”

  “Who else do you see?” Judith asked, wishing she

  could join Renie at the door. But just thinking about it

  made her feel vaguely light-headed.

  “I see the patient from across the hall looking at

  me,” Renie said. “He’s a man.” She waved. “Hi, I’m

  Serena Jones.”

  “Hello,” Judith heard the man reply in a chipper

  voice. “I’m Mumford Needles. Call me Mr. Mummy.

  Everybody else does.”

  “Sure, Mr. Mummy,” Renie said. “What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know,” Mr. Mummy said. “I don’t think it’s

  anything good, though.”

  Judith had to strain to hear the last part of Mr.

  Mummy’s sentence. “Do you see anybody else?” she

  asked Renie.

  “Umm . . . Here comes Margie Randall. Can you

  hear her?”

  Judith could, as Margie uttered a series of keening

  noises that sounded like mourners at an Irish wake.

  “That’s awful,” Judith said, putting her hands over her

  ears.

  “There must be a bunch of people in the room,”

  Renie said, cautiously taking a couple of steps farther

  into the hallway.

  But suddenly, except for Margie Randall’s shrieks,

  the commotion seemed to subside. Renie informed Judith that there were a handful of staffers milling about,

  with anxious, curious expressions on their faces.

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  “Here comes Sister Jacqueline,” Renie said. “She’s

  with some guy who looks like Ronald Colman on a

  bad day. What was that movie he made where he was

  drunk all the time?”

  “Never mind,” Judith responded. “What does the

  guy look like? A doctor? Security? A wizard?”

  “A doctor, he’s wearing a white coat,” Renie answered as the man quickly passed by. “He looks very

  grim. So does Sister Jacqueline.”

  For several minutes, nothing seemed to happen, at

  least nothing that Renie could tell. Then, quietly and

  somberly, several of the people who had been in Bob

  Randall’s room came back into the hallway. They

  spoke in hushed tones, shaking their heads and placing

  hands on each other’s arms, as if to give comfort.

  Margie Randall had finally stopped shrieking, though

  she was nowhere in sight.

  Mr. Mummy gave a sad shake of his head. “I don’t

  like the looks of this, do you, Mrs. Jones? Or may I call

  you Serena?”

  “Mrs. Jones is fine. What did you do to your leg?”

  “I broke it in several places,” Mr. Mummy said. “A

  nasty fall off a ladder while I was taking down Christmas lights. I had surgery in the community hospital out

  where I live, then they transferred me in here today. It’s

  a very small town and a very small hospital, with only

  one surgeon. Excuse me, I must lie down. Perhaps I’ll

  see you again?”

  “Probably,” Renie said in mild surprise. Mr.

  Mummy returned to his room.

  “Is Mr. Mummy going to ask you out?” Judith inquired with a quirky little smile.

  “I hope not. He’s almost as old as I am, bald except

  for two tufts of hair sticking straight up, glasses, and

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  about a fifty-inch waist. Cute in a way, but not my

  type.” Renie spotted Corinne Appleby. “Nurse?” she

  asked, trying to sound humble but not succeeding.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Corinne’s face was very pale under her freckles.

  “There’s been a . . . problem. An emergency. Don’t

  worry, everything’s under control.”

  “It doesn’t seem like it to me,” Renie shot back.

  “Come on, we have a right to know. Whatever it is, it

  happened right next door.”

  With trembling fingers, Corinne tucked a red curl

  under her cap. “Sadly, Mr. Randall expired. Excuse

  me, I must get back to the desk.”

  If pain and posture had permitted, Judith would have

  fallen out of the bed. Instead, she stared at Renie, who

  had turned back into the room. “Bob Randall’s dead?”

  Renie gave a helpless shrug. “As a dodo, I gather.”

  Awkwardly, Judith fell against the pillows. “I should

  have known.”

  And then she wondered why she’d already guessed.

  Renie’s job as sentry wasn’t easy, but she remained

  propped up at the door, clutching the pole that held her

  IV, and keeping Judith apprised of what was going on

  in the next room.

  “I can hear Margie sobbing,” Renie reported, “but at

  least she’s not yelling her head off.”

  “Can you ask somebody what happened to Bob

  Randall?” Judith urged, feeling supremely frustrated. The room seemed to be closing in on her; the

  windows were shrinking and the walls were shriveling. Judith felt as if she were in a cage instead of a

  bed.

  Renie glared at Judith. “If I draw any more attention

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  to myself, they’ll probably make me go back inside

  and close the door.”

  Her cousin had a point. Judith tried to relax. She

  could hear the distorted sounds of the hospital loudspeaker, summoning certain parties to specific places.

  “Okay,” Judith inquired, “who do you think is in Randall’s room besides Margie and Dr. Van Boeck and the

  other guy?”

  “A couple of nurses, maybe,” Renie said. “What’s

  her name? Appleby? Oh, and Sister Jacqueline, but she

  just came out and is headed”—Renie paused—“right

  past me. She’s going to the nurses’ station.”

  The doctor who had reminded Renie of Ronald Colman came back into the hallway. He caught Renie’s

  eye and scowled.

  “Would you mind stepping back into your own

  room, please?” he said in a cold, cultured voice.

  “I kind of would,” Renie replied. “What about the

  patient’s right to know?”

  “Know?” snapped the physician, his fine silvery

  mustache quivering with outrage. “What do you need

  to know? Please go back inside and close your door.”

  “Okay,” Renie said, but didn’t budge. Apparently the

  doctor wasn’t used to being disobeyed, since he didn’t

  look back, but resumed his quick pace down the corridor.

  “Back to the play-by-play,” said Renie. “Coming in

  out of the bullpen and onto the mound, otherwise known

  as Bob Randall’s room, is Peter Garnett, chief of surgery.” She relayed the information she’d gotten off the

  man’s name tag. “His ERA, otherwise known as Good

 
Cheer’s mortality rate, is way up. No wonder he looks

  so bad.”

  A moment later, two orderlies bodily carried Margie

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  Randall out of her husband’s room. She looked as if

  she’d fainted. The little group moved off in the opposite direction. Then, before Renie could recount what

  had happened, two more orderlies appeared, on the

  run.

  “More action on the field,” Renie said. “Margie

  struck out—as in out cold—and another pair of orderlies have been called in from the dugout.” She’d barely

  finished speaking when the orderlies reappeared, pushing what looked like Bob Randall on a gurney. His face

  was covered with a sheet, and Renie let out a little

  squawk as the entourage all but flew down the hall,

  then disappeared into an elevator that must have been

  waiting for them.

  “Oh, dear.” Renie gulped and crossed herself. “I

  think Bob’s just been taken out of the game.”

  “What’s the rush?” Judith asked. “Maybe he’s not

  really dead.”

  But Renie sounded dubious. “He looked pretty dead

  to me.” She lingered in the doorway, but events seemed

  to have come to a standstill. Several staff members

  were still talking in groups of twos and threes, but the

  high-pitched excitement of the past few minutes had

  dwindled into muffled voices and slumped shoulders.

  Robbie the Robot scooted down the hall, blinking and

  beeping to announce his passage.

  “Call for the nurse, any nurse,” Renie said, finally

  returning to her bed. “They’ll come for you. Whoa.”

  She collapsed, still clinging to her IV stand. “I’m not

  ready for prime time. I feel all wobbly.”

  Judith pressed the button. “I could use a dose of

  painkiller,” she said. “It’s been a while.”

  But it was almost half an hour before Corinne Appleby appeared, her face flushed and her manner still

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  agitated. “I’m supposed to be off duty at eleven,” she

  said with a quick glance at her watch, “but as you

  probably know, we have had an emergency. I have to

  stay a bit longer. I’ll take your vitals now and then get

  some more pain medication.”

  The nurse’s fingers fumbled with the thermometer;

  she gave herself a good shake. “Sorry. It’s been an upsetting morning.”

  “What caused Mr. Randall to die so suddenly?” Judith asked.

  Corinne didn’t look at Judith. “I don’t know. He