Suture Self (8 page)

Johnny Boxx had strolled to the door, maybe, Judith thought, in an effort to disassociate himself from Torchy Magee. “If you think of anything else,” Boxx said to Renie in a courteous voice, “let us know.” It was clear he meant the police, not security.

“I will,” Renie promised.

Torchy lingered after Officer Boxx went out into the hall. “Let me know first,” he said to Renie, his jocular manner evaporating.

“Sure,” Renie said, her brown eyes wide with innocence.

Judith pushed herself up on the pillows. “Drugs, huh?” she said in a conspiratorial tone. “Fremont and Somosa both, I heard. And Bob Randall committed suicide. How horrible.”

Torchy's close-set gray eyes narrowed. “Where'd you hear all that?”

Judith shrugged. “Hospital scuttlebutt. You know how people like to gossip.”

The security man, who had been midway to the door, stopped at the foot of Judith's bed. “Don't pay attention to what you hear. Of course,” he went on, lightly caressing the iron bedstead rail, “sometimes
truth has a way of getting out.” Once again, Torchy winked.

“That's so,” Judith said, smirking a bit and ignoring Renie, who was making threatening gestures at Torchy with her cheese knife. “It's hard to imagine why Bob Randall would kill himself. It's even harder to imagine how he did it.” She gave a little shudder, which wasn't entirely feigned.

Torchy frowned. “I'm not sure I know yet. That is, I couldn't say if I did, of course. That'd be telling tales out of school.” Torchy gave the bedstead a quick slap. “Gotta go. No rest for the wicked.”

The security man left. The cousins stared at each other.

“What do you think?” Renie inquired.

“I think,” Judith said slowly as her eyelids began to droop, “that no matter how Bob Randall died, it wasn't suicide. I'm willing to bet that it was…”

She fell asleep before she could finish the sentence.

J
OE AND
B
ILL
arrived shortly after three o'clock. Both had already heard about Bob Randall's sudden death. Joe was wild; Bill was thoughtful.

“I don't get it,” Joe raged, pacing up and down the small room. “There's nowhere you can go in this entire world and not run into a dead body. If I shot myself right now with my trusty thirty-eight, and you entered a cloistered nunnery tomorrow, the first thing you'd find is the Mother Superior's corpse, carved up like a damned chicken!”

“Joe,” Judith pleaded, “you know I was apprehensive even before…”

“Post-op anxiety, depression, fear—it could play out that way,” Bill was saying quietly to Renie, “but I doubt it. On the other hand…”

“I'll have you moved,” Joe said, suddenly stopping between the cousins' beds. “To some rehab place; I think there's one connected to our HMO…”

“…Bob Randall may have been overcome with family difficulties,” Bill continued. “Maybe, when he signed that release before surgery, he envisioned his own mortality and…”

“No, what am I thinking of?” Joe said, catching
himself. “There'd still be a damned body somewhere. It's hopeless, it's beyond comprehension, it's…”

“…given his other problems, Randall felt his life was unbearable.” Bill turned his palms up in a helpless gesture.

Judith turned toward Bill. “What did you say? About Bob Randall's family problems?”

Bill gave Judith a vaguely apologetic look. “Sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned it. You see, I've been treating Margie Randall for some time.”

“What?”
Both cousins shrieked at Bill.

“Good God almighty!” Joe exclaimed under his breath and fell into Judith's visitor's chair.

“You never mentioned Bob Randall's wife as a patient,” Renie said in an accusing tone.

“Of course not,” Bill replied calmly. “I don't disclose my patients' identities to you unless it's someone you've never heard of and the name is meaningless. In fact, I often make up the names.”

“Patient confidentiality,” Renie scoffed. “How come you didn't speak to Margie Randall in the waiting room yesterday morning?”

“Because it would have frightened and embarrassed her,” Bill said. “Besides, I don't think she saw me. Which is understandable. Part of her problem is that she's completely locked into herself.”

“So what awful problems—other than Margie—did Bob Randall have with his family?” Judith asked, trying to ignore Joe's angry glare.

Bill sighed. “Honestly, I shouldn't say. But we may be involved in a homicide here, and eventually, the media will get hold of all the details. Besides, Margie canceled her last two appointments and may not still consider me her psychologist; I can allow that the two
Randall children are deeply troubled. In fact, they're a big, fat mess.”

“That's clinical enough,” Renie said, her annoyance fading. “How so?”

As was his wont, Bill took his time to answer. “Really, I can't betray a patient's trust. Nancy, the daughter, and Bob Jr., the son, both have what you might consider life-threatening problems. Let's leave it at that.”

“You're no fun,” Renie said. “I want a divorce.”

“You can't have one,” Bill responded. “But I can assure you that life on the home front wasn't all highlight reels. Bob might have had good reasons to do himself in.”

“No such luck,” Joe said glumly with a dirty look at his wife. “I'll bet my old classic MG that he got himself killed. I should be so lucky to have my charming bride run into a plain old suicide.”

Judith felt too tired to carry the fight any further. “Knock it off, Joe, please.” She gave him her most winsome look. “Be reasonable. I had to have this surgery, Good Cheer is the only hospital in town that does it, I'm incapacitated, and it's not—and never has been—my fault that I keep running into dead people. I'm just an ordinary wife, mother, and innkeeper.”

“You'd run into fewer dead people if you were a coroner,” Joe muttered. “Okay, okay, your usual logic has made a slight impression. For now. Here,” he said, reaching down to the shopping bag he'd placed on the floor. “I got you some books and magazines.”

Bill, meanwhile, had given Renie another Falstaff's grocery bag. A veteran of his wife's foraging, he stepped back as wrappers ripped, paper flew, and liquid spilled from an unknown source. Renie removed
sandwiches, peeled carrots, sliced cantaloupe, potato chips, two packages of cookies, a box of graham crackers, and more Pepsi, the beverage she claimed inspired her graphic designs.

“Great,” Renie enthused, opening one of the sandwiches, which was on a small baguette. “Lunch was inedible.” She leaned toward Judith. “Ham or chicken?”

“I'm not that hungry,” Judith admitted.

Joe was concerned, so Judith reluctantly related her experience in trying to stand up. “I've got to do it again this afternoon. I don't suppose you could stick around until they make me try it?”

Joe grimaced. “I can't, Jude-girl. I'm really sorry. I have to get back on this homeless homicide investigation. I finished the background this morning. Now I'm going to check out the sites where the bodies were found. Both of the murders occurred in the same area, not far from here, under the freeway.”

Judith knew the area that Joe was talking about. Many homeless people tucked their whole world beneath the city's major north-south arteries. It wasn't as aesthetic as the local parks, but citizens and police alike were less apt to hassle them. Still, their ragtag little neighborhoods were occasionally sent packing, a caravan of bundles, bags, and grocery carts. And people. The thought made Judith sad.

But she wasn't naïve. “Be careful, Joe. I don't like this assignment any more than you like me encountering murder.” She paused, a fond expression on her face. “Joe, we have to talk.” Judith paused and swallowed hard. “About Mike. He wants a family tree made up for little Mac's preschool.”

“Oh?” Joe's face was blank.

Judith nodded. “He called just a while ago. I told him I'd do it.”

“Preschool?” The word seemed to strike Joe as an afterthought. “Good God, the kid's only a baby. He's still wetting his pants.”

“They teach them to stop in preschool,” Judith responded with a glance for Renie and Bill, who suddenly, discreetly, seemed to be absorbed in their own conversation. “Mac's not going to enter until the fall. He'll be two this summer. Anyway, that's not the point. Don't you want Mike to know the truth? The last time we discussed this seriously, you seemed crushed because I wasn't ready to tell him.”

Joe sighed and scratched at his thinning red hair. “It almost seems like it's too late.”

“What do you mean, too late?” Judith was taken aback. “Mike's over thirty, he's matured, he ought to know because you and he have never had that father-son intimacy. You've been buddies, period.”

“That's what I mean,” Joe said, ducking his head. “He's a grown man. He doesn't need a father.”

“Oh, Joe!” Judith put her hands over her mouth and stared wide-eyed at her husband. “I was still in my teens when my dad died, and I miss him every day. Your father lived much longer, until you were—what?—almost forty. How can you say such a thing?”

“Because,” Joe said slowly, “I wasn't there for Mike when he needed a real father. When Dan died, Mike was about the same age as you were when your dad passed away. I missed out on all those years. And I still marvel at how well Mike turned out. Maybe I owe Dan something, too.”

Judith bit her lip. “You can't do this to me. Not after
all the agony I've been through and the guilt and the—”

Joe cut Judith off with a wave of his hand. “Stop. This isn't the time for a family crisis. You need to concentrate on getting well. Let me think it over.” He stood up. “I don't know why the hell a preschooler needs a family tree. He'd be better off if I built him a tree house.”

“Do it,” Judith said, forcing a small smile. “That's what grandpas do. If you weren't around for Mike, you're here for Mac.”

“Right.” Joe's shoulders slumped. “Got to go. Hey, Bill—let's hit the pavement.”

Bill, who had been plucking food particles from Renie's sling and other parts of her person, stood up. “Okay.” He turned back to Renie. “Joe picked me up at the Toyota place downtown. I left Cammy there to have new windshield wipers put on, just in case it snows.” Bill bent down to kiss his wife on the one spot on her face that wasn't covered with mayonnaise, butter, or bread crumbs.

The husbands, who seemed to exit at a rather brisk pace, hadn't been gone for more than five minutes when Judith glimpsed a patient being rolled down the hall.

“Who's that?” Renie asked, following her cousin's gaze.

Judith didn't answer right away, listening to see if she could hear anyone speak. “I couldn't see, but I wonder if it's Addison Kirby. I'm almost sure they took whoever it was into Bob Randall's private room.”

“How can they?” Renie demanded. “Isn't that what you'd call a crime scene?”

“Not as far as the hospital officials are concerned,”
Judith said with a frown. “I don't get it. Nurse Appleby told us that the county has jurisdiction in a sudden hospital death. So why haven't we seen the sheriff and his men prowling around? The only real cop who showed up was Johnny Boxx, who looks as if he hasn't sprouted a beard yet.”

“A beat cop at that,” Renie remarked. “Not a detective.”

“Exactly. Coz?” Judith leaned in Renie's direction and gestured toward the hallway with her thumb. “Could you?”

Renie finishing cleaning up from her picnic lunch. “Yeah, yeah, I can. I have to go to the bathroom anyway. I'll do that first.”

“Good. See if you can hear anything through the wall,” Judith urged.

Renie was in the bathroom for almost five minutes. When she emerged, she looked triumphant. “It's Addison Kirby, all right. I could hear a doctor talking to him. A very humble doctor, I might add.”

“Which one?” Judith asked.

“I don't know. Shall I?” Renie moved toward the door.

“Please.” Judith tried to sit up a little straighter as Renie peered out into the hall. “Anything?”

“Hold on.” Renie waited for at least a full minute before turning back to Judith. “It's a damned parade, coming from the other direction. TV people, with cameras and sound equipment, in apparent pursuit of a woman in a sable coat.”

“Sable?” Judith was impressed.

“And a gold turban,” Renie noted. “
I'm
impressed.” She turned to look at Judith. “It's Blanche Van Boeck. I recognize her from her photographs. They've stopped
down by that alcove with the seats for visitors. It looks as if there's going to be a press conference.”

“Is Mavis there from KINE-TV?” Judith asked, once again undergoing a bout of frustration.

“It isn't KINE, it's KLIP,” Renie replied. “I don't know any of these people, do you?”

“No. Can you hear them?”

Again, Renie didn't answer right away. Finally, she stepped back into the room. “They're too far down the hall. I don't dare go any farther because Dr. Garnett just came out of Addison's room and he's standing about six feet from where I parked myself. He doesn't look very happy, I might add.”

“It was Garnett next door, huh?” Anxiously, Judith pleated the sheet between her fingers. “Let me get this straight—Van Boeck is chief of staff, Mrs. Van Boeck is queen of the world. Peter Garnett, chief of surgery, is second in command to Van Boeck. Thus, Dr. Garnett has a stake in all this.”

“You might say that,” Renie conceded, glancing back into the hall.

“Any sign of Sister Jacqueline?” Judith inquired.

“Not that I can see,” Renie replied. “She's tall, too. I should be able to spot her.”

“Yoo-hoo,” called Mr. Mummy from across the hall. “Don't we have excitement around here today?”

“Yes, Mr. Mummy,” said Renie. “Have you heard anything about what happened to Mr. Randall?”

Mr. Mummy lowered his voice, and Judith could barely hear him. “I heard he took poison. Isn't that dreadful?”

“Yes,” Renie agreed with a sad shake of her head and a rise in her own voice. “Taking poison is a bad way to kill yourself.”

“It may not be true,” Mr. Mummy said. “What do you think?”

“I think,” Renie said slowly and clearly, “that too many healthy people die in this hospital.”

“Exactly.” Again Mr. Mummy's voice dropped, forcing Judith to lean far over to the side of the bed. “I don't believe a word of it. The poison, I mean. Where would he get it?”

“Where indeed?” Renie said a bit absently as she tried to keep track of what was going on down the hall.

“Can you move just a little closer?” Judith asked in a humble tone.

“Well…Dr. Garnett is wandering off toward the media,” Renie said. “I'll try to sneak up behind him.”

As her cousin disappeared, Judith propped herself up on the pillows and considered patience as a virtue. But there wasn't time to practice it. A moment later, Renie back-pedaled into the room with Heather Chinn right behind her.

“
Please,
Mrs. Jones!” the nurse admonished, shaking a slim finger. “How many times do I have to tell you to stay out of the way?”

“Sorry.” Renie trudged back to bed. “I was curious, that's all. You can't blame me when the guy next door kills himself, another guy gets run over outside my window, and Mrs. Van Boeck holds a press conference just down the hall.”

Heather grimaced. “Yes, it has been an eventful day. But you won't make a good recovery unless you rest more. Now let me take your vitals.”