the sink and took a Percocet. Then she took another
Percocet. It couldn’t hurt. Besides, she ached twice as
much as she had the day before.
As a distraction, Judith read the rest of the story
about Joan Fremont. The actress had been admitted to
Good Cheer Hospital the previous day. Her surgery,
pronounced successful, had been performed that afternoon. But at ten-thirty this morning, Joan had died
suddenly and without warning. She left behind two
grown children and her husband, Addison Kirby, the
city hall reporter for the evening newspaper.
“No wonder her name got misspelled,” Judith remarked. “Joan’s husband works for the paper. The staff
must be shaken by her death.”
“Oh?” Joe raised rust-colored eyebrows above the
sports section. “Kirby, huh? I’ve run into him a few
times at city hall. Nice guy, but strictly business.”
Judith put the newspaper’s front section down on the
table. “They’ll investigate, I assume?”
“Oh, sure,” Joe responded, his gaze back on the
sports page. “They did with Joaquin Somosa, they will
with Joan Fremont. It’s automatic when someone relatively young and in otherwise good health dies in a hospital. The county medical examiner has jurisdiction.”
“That makes sense,” Judith said as she rolled to the
stove. “I made beef-noodle bake. It’s almost done. I’ve
fixed a salad and there are some rolls I’ll heat up. Then
you can take Mother’s portion out to the toolshed.”
SUTURE SELF
5
Joe grimaced. “Can’t I phone it in to her?”
“Joe . . .” Judith stopped. Serving Gertrude’s meals
was a bone of contention since Judith had become
wheelchair-bound. Joe Flynn and Gertrude Grover
didn’t get along. An understatement, Judith thought.
How else to put it? If duels were still legal, they would
have skewered each other by the birdbath a long time
ago.
The phone rang just as Judith slipped the foilwrapped rolls into the oven. Fumbling a bit, she pulled
the cordless receiver out of the gingham pocket on her
wheelchair.
“Coz?” said Renie, who sounded excited. “Guess
what.”
“What? Make it quick, I’ve got my head in the
oven.”
“Coz!” Renie cried. “Nothing’s that bad! Hang in
there, you’re only a few days away from surgery.
You’ll be fine.”
“I mean I’m trying to put dinner together,” Judith
said, sounding cross. Her usual easygoing manner had
begun to fray in recent weeks.
“Oh.” Renie paused. “Good. I mean . . . Never mind.
I called to tell you that Dr. Ming’s office just phoned to
say that they’d had a surgery cancellation on Monday
and I can go in a whole week early. Isn’t that great?
We’ll be in the hospital together.”
Judith brightened. “Really? That’s wonderful.” She
paused. “I think.”
“You think?” Now Renie sounded annoyed. “We
could share a room. We could encourage each other’s
recovery. We could make fun of the hospital staff and
the other patients. We could have some laughs.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Judith said as she closed the
6
Mary Daheim
oven door. “It’s just that . . . Have you seen tonight’s
paper?”
“Ours hasn’t come yet,” Renie replied. “You know
we always have a later delivery on this side of Heraldsgate Hill.”
“Well,” Judith began, then caught Joe’s warning
glance. “It’s nothing, really. You can see for yourself
when the paper comes.”
“Coz.” Renie sounded stern. “Tell me now or I’ll
have to hit you with my good arm. You can’t run away
from me, remember?”
Judith sighed. “There’s been another unexpected
death at Good Cheer Hospital. Joan Fremont, the actress.”
“Joan Fremont!” Renie shrieked. “Oh, no! Wait till I
tell Bill. I think he’s always had a crush on her. What
happened?”
Ignoring Joe’s baleful look, Judith picked up the
front section of the paper and read the story to Renie.
“That’s terrible,” Renie responded in a shocked
voice. “She was so talented. And young. Well—
younger than we are. A little bit, anyway. She’d probably had work done, being an actress.”
“That’s two deaths in three weeks,” Judith noted.
“Joaquin Somosa,” Renie murmured. “Younger still.
Elbow surgery. Supposed to be healed by the All-Star
break.”
“Won’t,” Judith said, suddenly feeling light-headed.
“Dead instead.”
“This is scary,” Renie declared. “Do you suppose we
should ask Dr. Ming and Dr. Alfonso to operate on us
in the privacy of our own automobiles?”
Judith started to respond, but just then the back door
banged open. Gertrude Grover stood in the hallway,
SUTURE SELF
7
leaning on her walker and wearing a very old and
slightly shabby wool coat over her head. Worse yet, Judith saw two of her. Maybe she should have taken only
one Percocet.
“Where’s my supper?” Gertrude demanded, thumping the walker on the floor for emphasis.
Judith spoke into the phone. “Gotta go. Mother’s
here.” She rang off. “I’m heating the rolls,” Judith said
with a feeble smile, trying not to slur her words.
“Mother, you shouldn’t come out in the rain. You’ll
catch cold.”
“And die?” Gertrude’s small eyes darted in the direction of Joe’s back. “Wouldn’t that suit Dumbo
here?”
“Mother,” Judith said with a frown, accidentally ramming the wheelchair into the stove. “Oops! ’Course not.
You know better.” She tried to ignore the puzzled expression on her husband’s face. “Hasn’t Joe taken good
care of you while I’ve been laid out? I mean, laid up.”
“It’s part of his plan,” Gertrude said, scowling at
Joe, who was still turned away from his mother-in-law.
“He’s waiting until you go into the hospital. Then,
when I’m supposed to be lulled into . . . something-orother, he’ll strike!” Gertrude slammed the walker
again. “He knows the ropes, he used to be a cop.
They’ll never catch him, and he’ll make off with all my
candy.”
“Mother . . .” Judith wished she didn’t feel so muddled. She wished she could walk. She wished her
mother wouldn’t insist on wearing a coat that was at
least twenty years old. She wished Gertrude would
shut up. She wished she didn’t have two mothers,
standing side by side.
Joe had finally risen from the chair. “I don’t eat
8
Mary Daheim
candy,” he said in his most casual manner. “You got
any jewels stashed out there in the toolshed, Mrs. G.?”
“Ha!” Gertrude exclaimed. “Wouldn’t you like to
know?” It was one of those rare occasions when
Gertrude addressed Joe directly. As a rule, she spoke of
him in the third person.
Clumsily, Judith opened the oven. “Here, your dinner’s ready. Joe can help dish it up for you, Mother.”
“I’m watching his every move,” Gertrude said, narrowing her eyes. “He might slip something into my
food. I should have Sweetums eat it first, but that
ornery cat’s too danged finicky.”
Joe got the salad out of the refrigerator and removed
the beef-noodle bake from the oven. He filled
Gertrude’s plate with a flourish, added a roll, and