mused. “Malpractice insurance, too, I suppose.”
Heather nodded. “It’s terrible for the doctors. But
you can’t practice medicine without it. Look at what’s
happened . . .” She stopped abruptly and bit her lower
lip.
“Yes,” Judith said kindly. “Have the suits been filed
yet in the instances of the Somosa and Fremont
deaths?”
“I can’t say,” Heather replied doggedly as she read
the thermometer.
“Yes, you can,” Renie retorted. “It’s a matter of public record.”
But Heather refused to cooperate. “Whatever comes
next, it’s not Good Cheer’s fault,” she insisted.
“Meaning?” Judith coaxed.
“We did nothing wrong,” Heather said, her manner
heated. “Not the nurses, not the doctors, not anybody
employed by Good Cheer.”
“You sound very certain,” Judith remarked.
“Hey,” Renie yipped, “aren’t you putting that blood
pressure cuff on awfully tight?”
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129
Judith grew silent, staring up at the cracks in the
aging plaster, as if the wiggly lines provided some sort
of map to The Truth. Except for a desultory word of
farewell to Heather, she remained quiet for several moments after the nurse continued on her rounds.
“Maya got fired,” Judith finally announced.
“I agree,” said Renie. “She talked too much, at least
to us. I hope we didn’t get her into trouble.”
“So do I,” Judith said. “But Maya is the kind who can’t
stop talking. And what did Heather mean by that solemn
statement about nobody at the hospital being at fault?”
“It would suggest,” Renie said slowly, “that she
knows more than she’s telling. That is, she’s aware that
there were no medical mistakes.”
“In other words,” Judith said, hauling herself up on
the pillows, “all three victims were murdered, possibly
by outsiders.”
Renie was skeptical. “Three outsiders?”
“It’s unlikely,” Judith said, “but you can’t completely discount the notion. Of course the modus
operandi is similar, as far as we can tell. Unless they’re
copy-cat killings.”
“And just what is the MO?” Renie asked.
“It has to be something—the drugs that the victims
supposedly ingested on their own—that was put into
their IVs.”
“We still haven’t heard what Bob Randall’s drug of
choice was,” Renie pointed out.
“No,” Judith agreed. “But I’ll bet it’s something like
the other two. A street drug, I’d guess.”
“Not self-ingested?” said Renie.
“No.” Judith grimaced as she tried to make herself
more comfortable. “I don’t know why I haven’t asked
Joe if the police are investigating. I think I’ll call him.”
130
Mary Daheim
Before she could pick up the phone, Mr. Mummy
appeared in the doorway with a carton marked “Sutures.” “Cluck, cluck,” he said with a merry smile.
“May I?”
“Of course,” Judith said, and introduced herself.
“Why don’t you join us, Mr. Mummy? There’s plenty
for three.”
“How kind,” Mr. Mummy said as he helped Renie
unload the carton. “The delivery wouldn’t fit in my
carryall so I found this box, which makes quite clever
camouflage, don’t you think?” He paused as Renie rewarded him with a big smile. “Maybe just a small
piece,” he said, sniffing the air that was now redolent
with fried chicken. “I’m not terribly hungry. I did manage to eat my hospital tray.”
“Was it better than the food?” Renie asked.
“What?” Mr. Mummy looked puzzled, then comprehension dawned. “Oh-ho! Very funny, Mrs. Jones. Yes,
I must say, the meals here aren’t very delectable. Still,
I’m not a fussy eater.”
Renie was filling the carton’s lid with chicken,
mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, coleslaw, and baking powder biscuits. “Here, Mr. Mummy, pass this to
my cousin.”
“Delighted,” Mr. Mummy replied. “I thought it wise
to put the chicken delivery box inside something that
looked as if it belonged to the hospital. It worked out
just fine.”
“You’re a genius,” Renie said, offering a white box
filled with chicken to Mr. Mummy. “Take some.”
“Indeed, I will.” Mr. Mummy beamed at Renie.
“Sometimes I can hear you two from across the hall. It
sounds quite lively in here. You’ve had a lot of guests.”
“Not really,” Judith said, munching on corn. “I
SUTURE SELF
131
mean, only our husbands have been to see us. The others have sort of dropped in.”
“I see,” Mr. Mummy said. “Yes, even Mrs. Van
Boeck was in here briefly, am I not right?”
“Briefly,” Judith said with a nod.
“Such a spirited woman,” Mr. Mummy remarked,
biting into a juicy thigh. “Did you find her conversation invigorating?”
Judith hesitated. “Well . . . I suppose. She didn’t stay
long.”
“I hear she may run for mayor,” Mr. Mummy said.
“Our current mayor has had his problems lately.”
“Yes,” Judith said. “The step up from the city council would be a natural for Blanche Van Boeck.”
“I’m surprised she didn’t do a little campaigning
while she was in here,” Mr. Mummy said with a sly
look.
“Not really,” Judith said, remembering Blanche’s menacing attitude.
“It sounded to me,” Mr. Mummy said with a twinkle, “as if Mrs. Van Boeck and Dr. Garnett had quite an
argument. I don’t suppose she mentioned it to you.”
“She told him to buzz off,” Renie said, glancing down
at the particles of crisp chicken skin that had fallen onto
her sling and hospital gown. “Or words to that effect. I
gathered there was bad blood between them. You have to
wonder how Dr. Garnett and Dr. Van Boeck get along.”
“Well,” said Mr. Mummy, giving Renie a “May I?”
glance before taking a biscuit out of a box, “there
must be a rather intense rivalry there. That is, all doctors have big egos, and I assume Dr. Garnett may
sometimes resent Dr. Van Boeck’s decision-making.”
“So Dr. Garnett is ambitious?” Judith asked. “I
mean, he’d like to run Good Cheer?”
132
Mary Daheim
Mr. Mummy stretched out his leg with its walking
cast. “I have no idea. But he could be. I suspect he
doesn’t like what’s been going on around here lately.”
“You mean,” Renie said, “the epidemic of death?”
“Yes.” Mr. Mummy nodded slowly. “It’s very unfortunate.”
“So you’ve heard all about the previous deaths?” Judith remarked.
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Mummy said. “We may live in a rural
area, but we take the city newspapers. Not to mention
TV. I find health issues very interesting, since they affect almost everyone in this country.”
“What’s surprised me,” Renie said, buttering her
second piece of corn, “is how little coverage there has
been in the media. Considering that Somosa and Joan
Fremont were very well-known popular figures—and
now Bob Randall—you’d think the local reporters
would be all over the stories.”
Judith clapped a hand to her head. “Oh! We forgot to
turn on the evening news.”
Mr. Mummy waved a pink, pudgy hand. “You didn’t
miss much. I saw the news, and they merely said that