Suture Self (14 page)

“Maybe,” Judith allowed. “But is it suspicious?”

Renie stepped all the way inside, keeping her eye on the closed door across the hall. “I think so. It's pretty
quiet out here right now. I was sneaking out of the staff room, where I found a microwave, and I turned the corner just in time to see Sister Jacqueline outside Mr. Mummy's room, looking very furtive. I ducked back where she couldn't see me, and when I peeked around the corner again, she slipped inside.”

“Hunh. That
is
odd,” Judith conceded, finally wide awake.

Renie sat down on the end of Judith's bed, where she could keep an eye on the hall. “I think there's something peculiar about Mr. Mummy.”

“I agree,” Judith said. “He's very vague about his family and where he lives. I can't think of any reason why, with a broken leg, his doctor would send him all the way into the city to recuperate. It seems downright fishy.”

After offering the leftovers to Judith, who insisted she was still full, Renie was gnawing on a chicken wing when the workman returned.

“So Clarabelle's acting up tonight, is she?” The workman chuckled. “Temperamental, that's our Clarabelle. But then so's Jo-Jo and Winnie and Dino.”

“Those would be radiators?” Renie asked. “You name them?”

“Yep.” The workman, who Judith had noticed bore the name of Curly embroidered on his overalls, chuckled some more. “After almost twenty years, you get to know these things pretty well. Every radiator has its own personality. Come on, Clarabelle, settle down.” Curly whacked the radiator with a wrench. “Take Rin-Tin-Tin next door. Last night, Rinty acted up something terrible. That football player, Bob Randall, thought it was funny. He said it sounded like his old Sea Auks coach on a bad Sunday. Too bad he passed
on this morning.” Using the wrench, Curly turned something on Clarabelle that let out a big stream of vapor.

“Mr. Randall seemed all right last night, I take it,” Judith said.

“What? Oh—yep, he seemed real chipper.” Curly gave the radiator another whack. “That oughtta do it.” He grinned at the cousins. “'Course, I'd be chipper, too, if I had a pint of Wild Turkey under the covers.”

“He had booze stashed away?” Renie said in mild surprise.

“Sure,” Curly replied, adjusting the radiator one last time. “You'd be surprised what people smuggle in here.” Renie's overflowing wastebasket with its telltale Bubba's chicken boxes caught his eye. “Then again, maybe you wouldn't.”

“Do the patients bring these illicit items in,” Judith inquired, “or do other people sneak them past the front door?”

“Both,” Curly answered, moving toward the door. “A couple of months ago, one guy brought in his barbecue grill. Damned near set the place on fire. Smoke everywhere, all the alarms went off, everybody in a panic. A shame, really, he burned up some mighty fine-looking T-bones.”

“Terrible,” Judith remarked. “I don't suppose Mr. Randall mentioned who brought him the liquor.”

“That was the funny part,” Curly said, swinging his wrench like a baton. “He swore he didn't know where it came from. A Good Samaritan, he insisted.
I
should know such good guys. Wild Turkey's the best. I feel real bad about him dying. He was a swell guy, and not just as a ballplayer. He even offered me a swig out of his bottle.”

Judith's eyes narrowed. “Did you accept?”

Curly shook his head, which, in fact, was adorned with a crown of gray curls. “Nope. I was on duty. The good sisters here, they got rules.”

“I can see why you want to abide by them,” Judith said with a smile. “Your job must be a challenge. Everything in this hospital is so old, and I understand that they'd rather fix it than replace it. Besides, you get to meet some fascinating patients. Did you happen to get acquainted with Joan Fremont or Joaquin Somosa before they…ah…departed?”

Curly scratched his neck. “That actress? No, can't say that I did. No problems with her room. But Somosa's TV got unplugged somehow, so I went in there to get it going for him. Nice guy, great arm. But his English wasn't all that hot. He seemed kind of agitated and kept saying something about a bear. I guess he'd seen it on TV before the set got unplugged. Anyway, I tried the nature channels, but no bears. Poor fella—I heard he died not more than twenty minutes after I fixed the set and left.”

“Goodness,” Judith murmured. “That's terrible.”

Curly shrugged. “It happens in hospitals. You get kinda used to it. But it's a damned—excuse my language—shame when people go before their time. The Seafarers will miss him in the rotation this season.”

“The team will have to trade for a new ace,” Renie said. “Not that I have much faith in Tubby Turnbull. He'll end up giving two hot minor league prospects away for a first aid kit and a case of wienies.”

“Har, har,” laughed Curly. “Ain't that the truth? You gotta wonder why the Seafarers don't fire his ass—excuse my language. But maybe he's got pictures. If you know what I mean.” Curly winked, waved the wrench, and left the room.

“A bear?” said Judith.

“The drugs,” Renie responded. “They were probably taking effect. Poor Joaquin must have been hallucinating.”

“It's really awful,” Judith said, taking another sip of water. “Here these three people were, helpless and trusting.”

“Like us,” Renie noted. “Helpless, anyway,” she amended.

Judith looked askance. “Yes. It's something to ponder.”

“Let's not,” Renie said. “Let's go to sleep.”

Judith agreed that that was a good idea.

But she fretted for some time, wondering if, in fact, they hadn't put themselves in danger by asking too many questions. The killer was faceless, unidentifiable. Anyone they talked to—Curly, Heather, Torchy, the doctors, the rest of the nurses, even the orderlies—could be hiding behind a deadly mask.

Judith slept, but not deeply or securely. Indeed, she had never felt quite so helpless. Her dreams were not filled with homicidal maniacs, however, but with family. Dan. Mike. Joe. Gertrude. Effie. Kristin. Little Mac. The faces floated through her unconscious, but only one spoke: It was Mike, and he kept saying, “Who am I?”

Judith tried to answer, but the words wouldn't come out. She felt as if she had no breath, and awoke to find that she'd been crying.

O
N
W
EDNESDAY MORNING
, breakfast was again palatable. Dr. Ming and Dr. Alfonso made early rounds, assuring both patients that they were making progress. Judith would take a few steps later in the day, said Dr. Alfonso. Renie could try flexing her right wrist a few times, according to Dr. Ming.

“You need to keep from getting too weak,” Dr. Alfonso said to Judith.

“You don't want to tighten up,” Dr. Ming said to Renie.

After their surgeons had left and Corinne Appleby had taken their vitals and added more pain medication to the IVs, the cousins looked at each other.

“Are we atrophying?” Renie asked.

“Probably,” Judith responded, glancing at the morning paper, which had been delivered along with breakfast. “Guess what, we didn't stay up late enough last night to see the news.”

“You're right,” Renie said, making an attempt to brush her short chestnut hair, which went off in several uncharted directions. “Do you see anything in the paper about Addison's accident or Blanche's impromptu press conference?”

Judith studied the front page, which was full of national and international news, all of it bad. “No, I don't even see a story about Bob Randall's death. I'll check the local news.”

“Toss me the sports and the business sections,” Renie requested, reaching out with her good arm.

Judith complied. “Here,” she said, “on page one of the second section—‘Former Star Quarterback Dies Following Knee Surgery.' There's not more than two inches of copy, along with a small picture of Bob that was taken in his playing days.”

“What?” Renie gaped at Judith. “That's it?”

“The article only says that the surgery was pronounced successful, his death was unexpected, and he had been in good health otherwise. There's a brief recap of his career, lifetime stats, and how he once saved two children from a house fire and received an official commendation from the governor.”

“What about Blanche?” Renie asked.

“I'm looking. I…” Judith's head swiveled away from the paper as Margie Randall, wearing her blue volunteer's jacket, tapped tentatively on the door frame.

“Hello. May I come in?” Margie inquired in an uncertain voice. Her pale blonde pageboy was limp, and her delicate features seemed to have sharpened with grief.

“Of course,” Judith responded. “Mrs. Randall? We're very sorry for your loss.”

Margie slid her hands up her sleeves and hugged herself. “Oh, so am I! How will I manage without darling Bob?”

“I was widowed when I was about your age,” Judith said kindly.
My grief was only for the waste that had
been Dan's life, not for me.
“Somehow I managed.”
Much better, after he was gone
. “I had to learn to stand on my own two feet.”
Instead of letting Dan's four hundred plus pounds lean on me until I was about to collapse from worry and exhaustion.

“Easy to say.” Margie sighed, taking small, unsteady steps into the room. “I feel as if my whole world has fallen apart.”

“You're working today?” Renie asked, her tone slightly incredulous.

Slowly, Margie turned to look at Renie, who hadn't quite managed to tame her wayward hair. Several strands were standing up, out, and every which way. She looked like a doll that had been in a cedar chest too long.

“Yes,” Margie replied softly. “We couldn't make the funeral arrangements until this afternoon because of the autopsy, so I felt obligated to come in today. I can't let my patients and their families down. So many need cheering. How are you feeling? I wasn't able to visit with you yesterday because of…” She burst into tears and struggled to find a Kleenex in her jacket pockets.

“We're okay,” Renie said in a chipper voice.

“Is there anything we can do for you?” Judith inquired with concern.

Margie shook her head. “N-n-no. I'll be fine.” She dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. “Please tell me if you're comfortable, if there's anything you need.” She gazed at Judith with red-rimmed eyes. “Hip replacement surgery, I believe? Oh, dear, that can be so dangerous! I can't tell you how many patients dislocate within a short time of being sent home. It's terribly painful, worse than childbirth.”

“Really?” Judith's dark eyes were wide.

Margie turned back to Renie. “Shoulder?” She nodded several times. “You never really recover from rotator cuff surgery. Oh, they tell you, ninety, even ninety-five percent, but it's nowhere near that high, especially if you're past a Certain Age. You'll be fortunate if you can ever raise your arm past your waist.”

“Gee, thanks,” said Renie in a bleak voice. “I feel so much better since you came to see us.”

“Good,” Margie said, dabbing again at her eyes. “Anything I can do to cheer you, just let me—” She stopped and turned as two young people stood at the door. “Oh! My children! How sad!”

Mother, daughter, and son embraced in a three-way wallowing of hugs. Margie's tears ran afresh. “Let me introduce you,” she blubbered to the cousins. “This is Nancy, and this is Bob Jr., my poor semiorphans!”

Nancy Randall was a pale, gaunt younger version of her mother except that her hair hung below her shoulders. Bob Jr. was thin, with rimless glasses, scanty blond hair, and sunken cheeks. They both waved listlessly at Judith and Renie, who waved back. Neither of the Randall offspring spoke.

“They're numb with grief,” Margie lamented, a hand on each of her children's arms. “Come, darlings, let me get you some nice Moonbeam's coffee from the staff room. Then we can talk about the funeral. We'll make some wonderful plans.” With a surprisingly energetic wave, Margie Randall left the cousins in peace.

“Jeez,” Renie shuddered, “she's a real crepe pants, as my mother would say.”

“Those poor kids,” Judith said. “They look awful. It can't be just grief—they look like they've been drawn through a knothole—as
my
mother would say.”

Renie nodded. “Bill was right. Something's wrong
with them. I mean, really wrong.” She got out of bed and gazed through the window. “It's stopped snowing. I'll bet we got at least a foot. It's beautiful out there.”

“Maybe I can walk far enough to look outside later today,” Judith said, digging into her purse. “Maybe I won't pass out if I try.”

“What're you doing?” Renie asked as Judith began dumping items onto the bed.

“I'm looking for something bigger than my little notebook to start putting together the family tree. I don't suppose—you being an artist and all—you'd have any drawing paper with you?”

“I do, actually,” Renie replied, going to the coat closet. “I've got a pad tucked away in the side of my suitcase. Hang on.”

A moment later, Renie produced the drawing pad, but wore a puzzled expression. “That's odd. I could have sworn I closed this suitcase. I mean, I know I did, or the lid would have opened and everything would've fallen out.”

“Has somebody been snooping?” Judith asked in apprehension.

Renie was going through the small suitcase. “I guess so. My makeup bag's unzipped. I always close it when I'm finished.” She turned around to stare at Judith. “Who? When? Why?”

Judith gave a faint shake of her head. “While we were asleep, I suppose. That's when. But who and why are blanks I can't fill in.”

“Nothing's been taken,” Renie said, going through the few belongings she'd brought along. “Of course there's always the problem of thievery in a hospital. None of them are sacred.”

Judith agreed. “Some people, especially borderline poverty types, can't resist temptation.”

“How about just plain crooks?” Renie said, now angry. She slammed the lid shut and closed the clasps with a sharp snap. “I suppose that's who it was. It's a damned good thing I didn't have anything valuable in there except for a twenty-five-dollar lipstick that the would-be thief probably figured was from Woolworth's. Let me check your train case.”

“I locked it,” Judith said. “It's just a habit. I used to hide any extra money I earned from tips at the Meat & Mingle in there. If I hadn't, Dan would have spent it on Twinkies and booze.”

Renie checked the train case to make sure. “It looks okay.” She stood up and handed over the drawing pad.

Judith offered her cousin a grateful smile and then sighed. “I feel as if I'm about to sign my life away.”

“Put it down on paper and see how it looks,” Renie suggested, glancing up from the newspaper. “That's what I do with my work. If it seems okay, then it's right, then it's Truth.”

“Uh-huh,” Judith responded without enthusiasm. She started with Mac and a question mark for the baby to come, then put in Mike and Kristin. Next, she wrote in her own name, Judith Anne Grover McMonigle Flynn. Then she stopped. “Here I go,” she said, and incisively lettered in Joseph Patrick Flynn above Mike's name. “It's official. Joe is down here in black and white as Mike's real father.”

“I'll be damned,” Renie said in amazement.

“Did you think I was a complete coward?” Judith retorted with a faintly hostile glance.

“What?” Renie turned away from the newspaper. “I'm not talking about you. I'm referring to this brief
and almost-buried article in the business section. Listen: ‘Restoration Heartware of North America yesterday reiterated its intention to expand its medical facilities beyond cardiac care. The Cleveland-based firm has shown interest in a half-dozen orthopedic facilities in the United States, including Good Cheer Hospital, which is currently owned and operated by the Sisters of Good Cheer. A spokesperson for Good Cheer stated that the religious order is not interested in any kind of merger or buyout at this time.' Is that spokesperson Blanche Van Boeck?”

Intrigued, Judith leaned on one elbow to face her cousin. “Who's asking the question?”

“Me,” Renie replied. “The article doesn't identify the spokesperson. Maybe that's because Blanche isn't official. Why didn't Dr. Van Boeck or Sister Jacqueline meet with the press? How come Blanche barged in instead? The morning paper must have gotten this from the TV news story, since KLIP seemed to be the only one asking questions out here in the hall yesterday.”

Judith was also puzzled. “You know a lot more about the business world than I do, coz. What do you make of all this?”

With her disheveled hair standing on end, the big bandage on her shoulder, the blue sling on her arm, and the baggy hospital gown sagging around her figure, Renie's boardroom face looked more like it belonged in the bathroom. Still, she approached the question with her customary professionalism.

“There's a conspiracy of silence about Good Cheer,” she said. “It's not necessarily malevolent or mysterious. Any institution or business enterprise deplores speculative publicity and rumors. If a company is ripe
for a takeover or a merger, they feel vulnerable, like a wounded animal. It's a sign of weakness, particularly when stockholders are involved. The top brass go to ground to wait for the worst to blow over.”

“Are you saying,” Judith inquired, “that Good Cheer is in financial trouble?”

“Many hospitals are in financial trouble,” Renie answered. “In the past few years, I've done brochures and letterheads and other design projects for at least three hospitals, including our own HMO. All of them were very bottom-line conscious, and all of them expressed serious concerns about keeping afloat.”

Judith nodded. “I understand that modern medicine is a mess, but it seems impossible in a country as rich and supposedly smart as the United States that we could have gotten into such a fix. No wonder Mother keeps ranting about how Harry Truman tried to get universal medical coverage legislation through Congress over fifty years ago, and how if he couldn't do it, nobody could. And nobody has.”

“Very sad, very shortsighted,” Renie agreed. “But in the case of Good Cheer, I get the impression that they're simply trying to survive. Certainly the nuns would hate to give up the hospital. There may be a shortage of vocations, but certainly nursing—and administrative skills—are worthwhile in a religious community. Not to mention that they're drawing cards for women who are contemplating a vocation. If the Sisters of Good Cheer don't have a hospital to run and patients to care for, what will they do? Medicine is their tradition of service.”

“It's sad,” Judith sighed. “If it's true.” She gazed up at the statue of Mary with the infant Jesus. The plaster was a bit cracked and the paint a trifle chipped, but the
Virgin's expression was easy to read: She looked worried, and Judith couldn't blame her.

“It's the whole bigger-is-better mentality,” Renie said in disgust. “By the time our kids are our age, about four people will own everything in the world. It'll be stifling, stupid, and I'll be damned glad to be either dead or gaga.”

“Don't say that, coz,” Judith said in mild reproach. “And don't get off on a tangent. You still haven't explained why you think there's a cover-up.”

“Do I need to?” Renie snapped. “There are tons of reasons for a cover-up. Good Cheer may be losing money hand over fist. They're certainly losing patients in a most terrible way. The hospital and the religious order have their reputations on the line. So do individuals, like Dr. Van Boeck, Dr. Garnett, Sister Jacqueline. With Blanche in their corner—or at least in the hospital's corner—there's enough clout to muzzle the media. Except, of course, for a rogue reporter like Addison Kirby, who's not only something of a star in his own right, but who has a personal stake in all this because of what happened to his wife.”

Judith paused as the mop brigade arrived. Two middle-aged women, one Pakistani and the other Southeast Asian, silently and efficiently began cleaning Judith's half of the room. When they reached the other side where Renie had trashed her sector, they looked at each other in dismay. In her native tongue, the Pakistani rattled off a string of what, in any language, sounded like complaints. The Southeast Asian looked mystified, but responded with her own invective, jabbing a finger at Renie and scowling.