“Try one of your other sources, some place closer to
the hospital,” Judith suggested.
“I don’t know this neighborhood,” Renie complained. “What’s close?”
“Bubba’s Fried Chicken,” Judith said. “Their flagship restaurant isn’t too far from here.”
Bubba’s was legendary. Renie turned away from the
window and licked her lips. “Um-um, good idea.”
She’d just picked up the phone when Judith heard
voices in the hall. The speechless orderly had left the
door halfway open.
“Hold on,” Judith said, cocking an ear. “Listen.”
A hefty, mild-voiced man in a cashmere overcoat
was speaking to a woman Judith couldn’t see. But after
a few words the woman’s voice was recognizable as
belonging to Sister Jacqueline.
“. . . just as long as you don’t upset Mr. Kirby,” the
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115
nun said. “He hasn’t been out of the recovery room for
very long.”
“We had an appointment,” the man said, still
sounding mild, almost indolent. “Addison said it was
urgent, though I can’t think why. I mean, he’s not a
sports reporter.”
“Tubby Turnbull,” Renie said in a whisper.
“Ah.” Judith tried to lean farther away from her pillow.
“Ten minutes,” Sister Jacqueline said. “While you’re
with him, please keep reminding him to drink plenty of
fluids. He hasn’t been taking in as much liquid as he
should, and he’ll become dehydrated.”
“Will do,” Tubby replied, and disappeared from Judith’s range of vision.
Judith looked at Renie. “Addison is going to blow
this story all over the Times,” Judith said. “He’s certain
that his wife, Somosa, and Randall were murdered. I
don’t think that his catastrophe out in front of the hospital was an accident.”
Renie had picked up the phone again. “I don’t either.
Obviously, Addison wanted to meet with Tubby Turnbull to see how he and the rest of the Seafarers’ front
office felt about Joaquin Somosa’s death.”
“Comparing notes,” Judith said as Renie asked the
operator to put her through to Bubba’s Fried Chicken.
“Do you suppose the person who ran Addison down is
the killer?”
Renie, however, gave a quick shake of her head, then
spoke into the phone. “Are you delivering? . . . Within
a one-mile radius? I think we qualify. Now here’s what
I’d like . . .”
After placing the large order, Renie beamed at Judith. “Bubba’s has chained up their delivery vans.
They’ll be here in forty minutes. Oh, happy day!”
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Mary Daheim
“For you, maybe,” Judith said with a grim expression. “Not for some other people.”
“Right.” Renie didn’t look particularly moved.
“Say,” Judith said, “how are you going to get the fried
chicken past the front desk this time? You didn’t give
any special instructions.”
Renie slapped at her forehead. “Shoot! I forgot.” She
thought for a moment. “I’ll go meet them at the door.”
“You can’t walk that far,” Judith pointed out. “Even
if you could, you can’t carry that great big order with
only one hand.”
Resting her chin on her left fist, Renie thought hard.
“I know,” she said, brightening, “I’ll ask Tubby Turnbull to meet the delivery guy and bring it up to us.”
Judith cocked her head at Renie. “You’re going to
ask the general manager of a major league baseball
team to deliver a box of fried chicken? Are you nuts?”
“No,” Renie replied. “Wouldn’t you like to talk to
Tubby? Not that he’ll say much. He’s Mr. Ambiguous.”
“Well . . . I suppose I can’t miss the opportunity,” Judith said. “I’ll time his visit with Addison. Sister
Jacqueline told Tubby to keep it to ten minutes.”
“That’ll be twenty,” Renie put in. “Tubby talks and
moves in low gear. That’s why he never makes a trade
deadline.”
“Okay,” Judith agreed. “I figure a little over five
minutes have gone by.”
Renie’s phone rang. She picked up the receiver and
smiled. “Hi, Bill. You’re using the phone. What a nice
surprise . . . Yes, I realize you can’t come up tonight.
It’s snowing hard here, too . . . What?” Renie’s face
froze. “You’re kidding! Did they call the cops? . . . Joe
reported it? . . . Good . . . Yes, sure . . . Now don’t get
too riled . . . Okay, will . . . Love you.”
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Renie hung up and stared at Judith. “Joe took Bill to
pick up Cammy at the Toyota dealership,” Renie said,
her face pale. “Cammy wasn’t there. She’d been
stolen.”
EIGHT
“HOW,” JUDITH DEMANDED, “does a car that’s in for
service at a dealership get stolen?”
“That’s what Bill and I would like to know,”
Renie said angrily. “We’re a one-car family. We’re
stuck.”
“Your kids each have a car,” Judith pointed out,
hoping to assuage her cousin’s distress.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean they’ll lend one to
us,” Renie said, still fuming.
“Nobody’s going out in this snow anyway,” Judith said, eyeing the young orderly, who had advanced into their room to mop the floor for the
second time that day.
“That’s not the point,” Renie snapped. “Poor
Cammy’s out there in this blizzard, shivering and
sobbing. Her little engine is probably freezing up.”
“Don’t you and Bill have antifreeze in the radiator?” Judith inquired.
“What?” Renie scowled. “Of course. It comes
with the car these days. I meant metaphorically
speaking.”
“So Joe reported the car as stolen?” Judith asked,
putting the dinner tray aside and smiling at the orderly as he made his exit.
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119
Looking glum, Renie nodded. “Stolen cars won’t be
a high priority for a while. I’m sure there are too many
accidents out there right now.”
“Cheer up, coz,” Judith said, still not surrendering in
her efforts to make Renie feel better. “Nobody’s taking
your car anywhere in this storm. I guess I’ll bite the
bullet and call Mother.”
“Go for it,” Renie muttered, sinking back onto the
pillows.
Predictably, Gertrude answered on the eleventh ring.
“Well,” she said in a deceptively affable voice, “so you
pulled through. How come you didn’t let your poor old
mother know before this?”
“Joe told you I was okay,” Judith replied. “I’m sure
that Carl and Arlene mentioned it, too. Besides, you
hate to talk on the phone.”
Gertrude bridled. “I do? Says who?”
“Mother, you’ve always hated to talk on the phone,”
Judith said patiently. “How are you getting along?”
“Good,” Gertrude said. “I just had supper. Liver and
onions. Arlene makes the best. And she gets it to me on
time, straight-up five o’clock. That’s when supper
ought to be served. Who cares about late meals and
being fashionable?”
Judith glanced at her watch. It was a few minutes
after six. Usually, Judith wasn’t able to deliver her
mother’s dinner until almost six-thirty. The timing
had nothing to do with fashion, and everything to do
with Judith’s busy late afternoons, greeting guests
and preparing for the social hour. “Arlene’s very