Mary Daheim - Suture Self - A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

first name, and he’s a deaf-mute.”

“Oh!” Judith reddened with embarrassment. “I feel

terrible!”

“Don’t,” Heather said, applying the blood pressure

cuff. “You couldn’t know.”

“I’d still like to talk to him,” Judith said. “I mean,

exchange written notes. To let him know we appreciate

his work. Could you ask him to drop by when he has

the time?”

Heather looked wary, but agreed. “I know how to

sign,” she offered. “Would you like to have me join

you?”

Judith started to accept, then politely declined. “I

don’t want to take up your valuable time. I also wanted

296

Mary Daheim

to ask him a couple of questions about . . . how we might

be able to get some other kind of food. My cousin hasn’t

been able to eat some of the last few meals.”

“Oh.” Heather looked dubious. “I’m not sure Pearson

could help you. That’s something that should be taken

up with the dietician.”

“Let Mrs. Flynn do it her way,” Renie broke in. “I

trust her. She knows my needs.”

Apparently, Heather wished to avoid arguing with

the cousins. “All right,” she said, putting the thermometer in Judith’s mouth.

A quarter of an hour passed before Pearson reappeared. He wore a curious expression and tugged at the

ear that bore the gold stud.

Judith had already written her questions on a piece

of paper. Giving Pearson a big smile, she handed him

the single page. “No rush.” She formed the words as

emphatically as possible.

Pearson sat down in the visitor’s chair, carefully

reading the questions. He scratched his shaved head

and frowned. Judith handed him a ballpoint pen. With

a quizzical glance, Pearson began to write down his

answers.

1. Were you on duty when any of these persons

died—Joaquin Somosa, Joan Fremont, Bob

Randall? Yes.

2. Which ones, if any? All of them .

3. If you were, do you recall seeing such items as

a take-out juice cup in Somosa’s room, one or

two plastic Italian soda glasses in Fremont’s

room, and a pint of Wild Turkey in Randall’s

room? Yes, all of them, vaguely.

4. If so, what happened to the containers?

SUTURE SELF

297

At the fourth and last question, Pearson looked

flummoxed. He started to give Judith a palms-up signal, but stopped abruptly.

“Nurse Appleby removed S’s and F’s drink contain-

ers,” he wrote, and gave Judith a diffident grin. Then

he formed a single word: “Why?”

Judith wasn’t sure what he meant. “Why do I ask?”

she wrote. Pearson nodded. “Because I’m trying to

help my husband, who has been stabbed.” Pearson

looked bewildered. Judith added another note. “His

stabbing may be connected with the deaths of S, F, and

R.” The orderly grimaced. Judith scribbled another

question.

“What about R’s liquor bottle?”

Pearson shook his head and shrugged.

Judith held up one finger to indicate she had yet another query. “What did Appleby do with the juice and

soda containers?”

Pearson pointed to Judith’s wastebasket, then held up

two fingers.

“Both?” Judith formed the word carefully.

Pearson nodded again.

Judith put out her hand. “Thank you,” she mouthed,

and gave the orderly a grateful smile.

Pearson stood up and smiled back, then nodded at

Renie and left.

“Let’s see those questions,” Renie said, getting out

of bed.

“What do you think?” Judith asked after her cousin

had finished reading.

Renie’s face screwed up in concentration. “Corinne

threw out the containers belonging to Somosa and Fremont. So what?”

“Let’s call on Addison Kirby,” Judith said, attempt- 298

Mary Daheim

ing to sit up on her own. To her astonishment, she managed it. “Hey, look at me! I’m just like a real person!”

“So you are,” Renie said with an encouraging smile.

“Don’t get too frisky. I’ll help you into the chair.”

A few minutes later, the cousins were at Addison’s

door. He turned and grinned, apparently glad to see

them.

“I’m so bored I could start tweezing my beard with

ice tongs,” he told them as they moved to the bedside.

“Since I don’t watch much TV except sports, all I can

do is read, and it seems the hospital library is woefully

lacking in sex-and-violence thrillers.”

“That’s probably because the nuns are reading

them,” Renie said, only half joking.

Addison chuckled, then turned a more serious face

to Judith. “I guess you never had a chance to ask your

husband about those chocolates. I heard he got himself

stabbed. How’s he doing?”

“Better,” Judith replied, “though I still haven’t seen

him. My— our —son is with him right now. As soon as

I hear from Mike—our son—I’ll try to see Joe. Right

now, I’ve got a couple of questions for you. They may

be painful.” She hesitated, then continued. “After

Joan’s death, when and where did you first see the

body?”

Addison looked surprised. “In her room. They

wouldn’t move her until I’d gotten here. I’d been covering a story downtown, and only found out she was

dead when I got here. I suppose it was at least an hour

after she . . . died.”

“Think hard,” Judith urged. “Was her wastebasket

empty?”

Addison Kirby gave Judith an odd glance, then

slowly nodded. “I know what you’re getting at. I re- SUTURE SELF

299

member, because my first, crazy reaction was that Joan

wasn’t wearing her wedding band. She never took it

off, not even onstage.” He held up his left hand, revealing an intricately carved gold ring that caught the

sunlight coming through the window. “We had these

specially made. The masks of tragedy and comedy are

entwined with a pen, to symbolize both our professions. My first thought was that the ring had been

stolen, but somehow that seemed unlikely at Good

Cheer. Then I wondered if it had fallen off and was on

the floor or under the wastebasket. I looked around and

saw that the wastebasket was empty. And then I remembered that Joan had left the ring at home, on the

hospital’s advice.” Addison’s face clouded over at the

memory.

“Empty,” Judith echoed. “That makes sense. Can you

tell me the exact date that your wife died? I want to be

very sure about this.”

“January sixth,” Addison replied promptly. “How

could I forget? We had the funeral last Saturday.”

Exuding sympathy, Judith nodded. “Do you remember exactly when Joaquin Somosa died?”

Addison gave Judith a crooked little smile. “Actually, I do. It was on my late father’s birthday, December nineteenth.”

“Good,” Judith said. “I mean, it’s good that you remember.”

Addison was eyeing her curiously. “You’re on to

something, aren’t you, Mrs. Flynn? Or should I call

you Miss Marple?”

Judith assumed a modest expression. “I don’t want

to elaborate because my theory is so far out that, along

with my hip, Dr. Alfonso may have replaced my brain

with a battery—a faulty one at that. And unlike Miss

300

Mary Daheim

Marple with her St. Mary Mead village eccentrics, I