a difference between a man and a squirrel. Usually.”
“No, there isn’t any difference,” Henry said with a
solemn expression. “They both have nuts. Come on,
Mrs. Flynn, be brave.”
Renie shot Henry a withering glance. Judith shut
her eyes tight, then attempted to sit up and swing her
legs over the side of the bed. Henry held on to her
forearms. It occurred to Judith that she didn’t feel
dizzy this time, only weak. She took a step. Two.
Three. Henry slowly released her. Judith took a final
step on her own.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I did it!”
“Two more,” Henry urged. “Then you can go for a
nice ride.” He pulled the wheelchair just out of her
reach.
Judith expected to wilt, but she didn’t. Hesitantly,
cautiously, she took the extra steps, then sank into the
chair. “I’ll be darned,” she breathed.
“You know how to run this thing?” Henry inquired.
Judith nodded. “I was confined to a wheelchair for
some time before I had the surgery.”
“Good.” He released the brake. “Hit the road, Mrs.
Flynn. You’re on your own. Come back before it gets
dark.”
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205
Judith eyed the hallway as if it were the open road.
Freedom, she thought. Sort of.
But she didn’t go far. Mr. Mummy blocked her way
as he came racing out of Addison Kirby’s room.
“If I ever see you again,” Addison was shouting, “I’ll
kill you! So help me God!”
Trying to avoid Mr. Mummy, Judith steered the
wheelchair to the left, but Robbie the Robot was heading straight toward her. She reversed, bumped into a
laundry cart, and spun out of control.
“Help!” Judith cried.
But the only response was from Robbie the Robot.
“Beep, beep,” he uttered, and kept on going.
THIRTEEN
THE WHEELCHAIR SAILED into Addison Kirby’s room
and bumped up against his visitor’s chair. The journalist, whose broken leg was in traction, looked
apoplectic.
“What the hell . . . ?” Addison shouted. “Get out,
get out!”
“I can’t,” Judith shouted. “I’ve lost control.” Having come to a stop, she braced herself, trying to determine if the mishap had done any damage to the
hip replacement. To her relief, there was no new
pain. She offered Addison a piteous look. “I’m so
sorry. This wheelchair must be broken.”
Addison’s features softened a bit. “I didn’t recognize you right away. You’re Judith Flynn from next
door, right?”
Collecting herself, Judith nodded. “Yes.” She
paused to take some deep breaths. “It was my
cousin, Mrs. Jones, who saw the car that hit you. Do
you have any idea who was driving it?”
Addison grimaced. “Unfortunately, no. I barely
saw the car. It was one of those mid-sized models,
kind of beige or tan. It all happened so fast. Has
your cousin given a formal statement yet?” Addison
inquired.
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“Not in writing,” Judith said, finally managing to get
the wheelchair into a more convenient position.
Addison snorted. “I’m not surprised.”
Judith looked at the journalist with shrewd eyes.
“Part of the cover-up?”
“Is that what you call it?” Addison looked at her, a
quirky expression on his face.
“I’m beginning to think so,” Judith replied. “You
think so, too. Does it have something to do with
Restoration Heartware’s attempt at a takeover?”
Addison uttered a sharp little laugh. “You’re no
slouch when it comes to figuring things out, are you,
Mrs. Flynn?”
“Call me Judith. Figuring things out is about all I
can do while I’m lying around in bed,” she asserted.
Addison’s dark eyes narrowed slightly. “Do you
own a B&B on Heraldsgate Hill?”
“Ohmigod.” Judith, who knew what was coming
next, felt the color rise in her cheeks.
“You got some publicity on TV a while ago,” Addison said. “There was a murder at an old apartment
house not far from where you live. But if I remember
correctly, it wasn’t the first time you’d been involved in
crime-solving.”
“That’s true,” Judith said, “but it was an accident.
They were all accidents. I mean,” she went on, getting
flustered, “I don’t seek out homicide cases. I just sort
of stumble into them. I guess it has something to do
with my work. I meet so many people, and some of
them aren’t very nice.”
The understatement didn’t seem to convince Addison.
“The buzz around city hall was that you had an uncanny
knack for fingering killers. I’ve read about detectives,
both real and fictitious, who could pick out a murderer
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Mary Daheim
just from the way they looked. How do you do it? Shape
of the head? Look in the eyes? Manner of speaking?”
“Nothing like that,” Judith said modestly. “I’m interested in people. They talk to me. I listen. And often,
they make some tiny slip that gives them away.” She
shrugged. “It’s not a talent. It’s just . . . paying attention.”
Again, Addison seemed to regard Judith with skepticism. “Your husband’s a cop, isn’t he? Joe Flynn,
very sharp. I remember him from my beat at city hall.
Hasn’t he retired?”
“Yes,” Judith answered. “He’s a private investigator
now.”
Addison merely smiled. Judith decided to change
the subject. “Why were you so angry with Mr.
Mummy just now? He seems like a harmless little
guy.”
“Does he?” Addison shifted his shoulders, apparently trying to get more comfortable. “You don’t find
him . . . suspicious?”
“Ah . . .” Judith wondered how candid she could be
with Addison Kirby. “I have to admit, I’ve wondered
why he was transferred into Good Cheer. His fractures
don’t seem very severe.”
“Exactly.” Addison suddenly seemed to grow distant. Perhaps he had doubts of his own about confiding
in Judith. “He’s a real snoop.”
“Curiosity,” Judith said. “He’s bored, too. Did he tell
you he’s a beekeeper by trade?”
“No.” Addison stroked his beard. “Interesting.”
“Different,” Judith allowed.
“Yes,” Addison said quickly, “that’s what I meant.”
Judith gave Addison a questioning look, but he
didn’t amplify his comment. “You’ve had a rather rig-SUTURE SELF
209
orous day so far,” she finally said. “I happened to hear
Dr. Van Boeck shouting by your door. I hope he didn’t
upset you.”
“He didn’t.” Addison looked pleased with himself.
“He’s one of those professional types who hates the
media. Most doctors don’t like criticism—the godlike
ego and all that tripe. Doctors and lawyers are the
worst. CEOs are up ther
e, too, except most of them are
too dumb to understand the news stories. That’s why
they hire PR types—to translate for them.”
“Does Dr. Van Boeck have a specific gripe?” Judith
inquired.
Addison chuckled. “Dozens of them, going back to
his football playing days. He actually played pro ball,
for the Sea Auks.”
“I know,” Judith said. “He backed up Bob Randall
for a season or two before he washed out of football.”
Addison cast Judith an admiring glance. “So you
know about that? Well, Van Boeck has never forgiven
the sportswriters for criticizing his ineptitude. He
might have good hands for a surgeon, but he sure as
hell didn’t have them for handling the ball. The irony,
of course, is that Mrs. Van Boeck uses the media to
great effect.”
“And tries to manipulate it as well?” Judith put in.
“That, too,” Addison said, looking grim.
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of
Jim Randall, who walked straight into the coat closet’s
sliding doors.
“Ooof!” he cried, staggering. “Sorry. Am I interrupting?” He peered first at Addison, then at Judith.
“You have a guest. I can’t quite see who . . .”
Judith hastily identified herself. “From next door,
remember?”
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“Oh.” Jim nodded as he carefully moved closer.
“Yes, we spoke. I just came to let Mr. Kirby know
when the funeral for my brother will be held. He’s
going to put it in the newspaper for me.”
“Since I can’t call from here, I’ll have a nurse phone
it into the obit and sports desks,” Addison said. “Have
you written it out?”
Jim fumbled at an inside pocket in his overcoat. “It
was a group effort. Margie, Nancy, Bob Jr., and me.
Here.” He handed several sheets of paper to Addison.
The handwriting was difficult to decipher. Addison
was forced to read the verbiage aloud to make sure that
everything was accurate. “You’ve hit the highlights of
Bob’s football career,” he said to Jim, “except for the
stats. One of the football reporters can fill those in for
the sports page.”
“Very illustrious,” Judith remarked. “I’d forgotten
how good Bob Randall really was.”
Addison began reading the official obituary.
“
‘Robert Alfred Randall Sr., born Topeka,
Kansas . . .’ ” He hurried through the factual information, then slowed down as he read the more personal
copy written by the family members: “ ‘Bob, nicknamed Ramblin’ Randall, and not just for his rushing
feats on the football field . . .’ ” Addison frowned at
Jim. “I don’t get that part.”
Through thick lenses that made his eyes look like
oversized coat buttons, Jim peered at Addison. “What
do you mean?”
“Okay,” Addison said sharply, “this sounds like
you’re talking about your brother’s off-the-field exploits. In particular, his love life.”
Jim nodded once. “That’s right.”
Addison stared at Jim. “You can’t do that. Nobody
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ever criticizes the deceased in an obit. Upon occasion,
they’ll make excuses, especially if it’s a suicide. But
criticism—never.”
Jim took umbrage. “I thought you dealt in facts.
Isn’t that what you told me the other day when we
spoke? That’s a fact—my brother was a philanderer.
Margie had to put up with a lot. Read the rest of it.”
“No.” Addison’s bearded jaw set stubbornly.
Judith leaned forward in the wheelchair, and before
the journalist could realize what she was doing, she
plucked the sheets of paper out of his hand.
“If it means so much to you, Jim,” she said, looking
sympathetic, “I’ll go over it with you. During the
years, I’ve helped write several obituaries for relatives.”
“Hey!” Addison cried, attempting to retrieve the
pages. “Don’t do that!”
But Judith had managed to move herself just beyond
Addison’s reach. “Please, we must see what can be salvaged here, or the family will have to do it all over
again.”
Jim was hovering over Judith’s shoulder. “Do you
see the part where we said he drove Margie to depression? And ruined his children’s lives?”
Judith did, and despite Addison’s professional reservations, she read the sentences aloud:
“ ‘Bob Sr. was so selfish and self-absorbed that he
could offer his wife of twenty-five years no sympathy
or understanding, even when her emotional problems
threatened to undermine her physical as well as her
mental health. His legacy to his children is not that of
a loving, caring father, but a cold, conceited athlete
who demanded excellence from Nancy and Bob Jr. but
who never gave them the slightest word of encourage-212
Mary Daheim
ment, much less any sign of real love. He will be
missed by some of his cronies from the sports world,
but not by his family.’ ” Judith was appalled, and could
hardly blame Addison for looking outraged. But she’d
had to know what was in the scurrilous obituary.
“Here,” she said, handing the sheets of paper back to
Addison. “I agree. That’s not printable.”
“Then don’t give that crap to me,” Addison cried,
batting at Judith’s hand. “It belongs to Jim—or in the
“But it’s all true,” Jim declared, sounding offended.
“How could we lie about my brother? He was a
wretched man.”
“I thought,” Judith said, frowning, “that you mentioned how Margie and the kids couldn’t get along
without him.”
“They can’t,” Jim replied with a helpless shrug as he
took the obituary from Judith. “Bob made good money
as a football consultant. Now all they’ll have is what he
left in the bank.”
“Which,” Addison sneered, “is considerable, I’d
bet.”
Jim shrugged again. “It’s fairly substantial. But
Bob didn’t play in the era of million-dollar contracts.
And he tended to spend much of what he made. On
himself, of course. He had it all, in more ways than
one. As if,” Jim added, tearing the obituary into
small pieces that fluttered to the floor, “he didn’t
have enough to begin with. All that talent and a fine
physique and good looks besides.” Defiantly, he
flung the final pieces of paper onto the floor.
“Frankly,” Judith asserted, “he sounds like a pitiful
sort of person. I can’t imagine he was truly happy.”
“Oh, he was very happy,” Jim said bitterly. “I never
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knew a man who was as happy as he was. As long as
he got his way, which he usually did.”
“Look,” Addison said, his aggravation spent, “I’m
sorry I can’t send on that obit. Why don’t you write another draft with jus
t the facts? Plenty of people don’t
tack on personal notes. Remember, on the obituary
page you’re paying for it by the word.”
“I am? I mean, we are?” Jim fingered his chin. “I’ll
tell Margie. I don’t think she knows that.” He started
for the door.
“Say,” Judith called after him, “may I ask you a
question?”
Jim looked apprehensive. “Yes?”
“Your nephew, Bob Jr., mentioned that his mother—
Margie—felt like ‘the vessel’ in terms of bringing on
the deaths of your brother, Mr. Kirby’s wife, and
Joaquin Somosa. Do you have any idea what Bob Jr.
was talking about?”
Jim blinked several times and his hands twitched.
“No. No idea. Whatsoever. Margie—as usual—is
being hard on herself. Poor Margie.” He sketched a little bow and dashed out of the room, narrowly missing
a collision with Dr. Garnett.
“I have some good news for you,” the doctor said to
Jim as both men proceeded down the hall and out of
hearing range.
Judith turned to Addison. “I’m sorry I had to bring
that up about Margie being a vessel. Did you know that
your wife had two Italian sodas the morning that she
passed away?”
“No.” Addison’s voice was hushed. “Are you sure?
They were her favorites, but no one told me about it.”
“No one tells anyone about anything around here,
right?”
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“Right.” Addison looked sour. “How did she get
them?”
“I have no idea,” Judith admitted, “other than that
apparently Margie Randall took them to her. I just happened to hear a chance remark from one of the nurses.”
Addison nodded. “Otherwise, a wall of silence. Do
you know what happened today? Dr. Van Boeck informed the front desk I wasn’t to have any visitors.
That’s because they must be afraid one of my colleagues in the media will try to see me. I can’t call out
on my phone, either. That’s why I couldn’t call in the
obit myself.” He gestured toward the floor on the
other side of the bed. “You probably can’t see it from
your wheelchair, but at least four people have tried to
visit me today, including my editor. All they could do
was leave me their get-well gifts and go home. Imagine, after going to the trouble of coming out in this
snow.”
Judith made an extra effort to steer the wheelchair
around the end of Addison’s bed without bumping him.