Judith thought she was asleep. But the actress must
have heard someone approach. “What now?” she
asked in a disgruntled, if subdued voice.
“It’s Judith Flynn.”
“Who?” Angela didn’t bother to move.
“Judith Flynn, your innkeeper at the B&B. How are
you?”
“Awful,” Angela replied, still not moving. “What do
you want?”
Judith sat down in the molded plastic visitor’s chair.
“You’re my guest. Naturally I’m concerned.”
“Bull,” Angela muttered. “You’re here to pry. Why
should you be concerned? Are you afraid I’m going to
peg out like Bruno did?”
“Of course not,” Judith said a bit testily. “I’m genuinely concerned about your welfare. You gave us an
awful scare today.” She paused, waiting for a response.
There was none, except for a restless flutter of the
young woman’s hands at the top of the bedsheet. “I
also wanted to know,” Judith continued, her voice a bit
stern, “why you used my name when you checked into
the hospital.”
“I didn’t use it,” Angela said querulously. “Dirk
checked me in. Or somebody. I was out of it.”
“But why Flynn?” Judith persisted.
At last Angela turned to look at her visitor, though
the movement made her wince. “Why? Because it’s
my name, dammit. You don’t really think I was born
Angela La Belle?”
“Ah . . .” Judith hadn’t considered this possibility. “I
see. I’m sorry I was impertinent. That is, I didn’t mind
you using my name, I just thought it was . . . odd.”
“It’s not odd,” Angela insisted, her voice a trifle
stronger. “I was born Portulaca Purslane Flynn. My
mother was into plants and herbs. Even if I hadn’t become an actress, I’d have dumped all three of those
names just like my mother dumped me when I was
two. Now how about getting out of here? My head
hurts like hell.”
“Shall I ring for the nurse to bring you more pain
medication?” Judith offered.
“Are you kidding? These sadists are afraid I’ll get
addicted to aspirin.”
“I’m sorry, really I am,” Judith said. “I was in the
hospital last January. I know how difficult the medical
profession can be when it comes to administering
painkillers.”
