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Mary Daheim
“No, thanks.”
“Addison didn’t make a big deal of it,” Renie continued, “which indicated to me that the marriage must
have been solid. You know, if he’d gone on and on
about how devoted they were and all that junk, I’d have
figured him for a phony.”
“What about their kids?” inquired Judith.
Renie shrugged and chewed on her crackers. “They
haven’t been in town since Thanksgiving, which, alas,
was the last time they saw their mother alive. I mean,
they came for the funeral. But I got the impression they
were a close family, emotionally, if not geographically.”
“What about Joan’s colleagues at Le Repertoire?”
Renie shrugged again. “By and large, she got along
with most of them. Addison indicated that she wasn’t
happy with the direction the theater was going—too
much emphasis on social issues, rather than good
drama. But he didn’t know of any big rift. As for socalled rivals, he said that there were always some of
those. The theater is full of big egos. But Joan knew
how to handle them. She was a veteran, a real pro.”
“Gosh,” Judith said in a bleak voice, “it sounds as if
the community has lost more than just talent. Both
Joan and Joaquin sound like decent, upstanding human
beings. Did Addison say anything about Bob Randall?
We know he was brave both on and off the field. Bob
saved some lives, as well as games.”
“Addison hadn’t had time to do more than speak
with Nancy and Bob Jr.,” Renie responded after she’d
devoured two crackers and another chunk of cheese.
“As you might guess from the looks of them, they
weren’t a lot of help. Like their mother, they seem ineffectual and unable to cope with the rest of the world.
SUTURE SELF
173
I sure wish Bill would open the vault on his blasted patient confidentiality and let us know what’s going on.”
“Tell me,” Judith said, making yet another attempt
to get comfortable in the bed, “does Addison know
why there isn’t a full-fledged homicide investigation
going on around here?”
Renie shook her head. “That’s where he sort of
clammed up. I suspect he knows more about that than
he’s saying.”
“But does he agree that the police aren’t involved?”
Judith persisted.
“He told me he’d gotten nowhere going to his usual
sources at city hall, including the police department.”
Renie shot Judith a cryptic glance. “Think about it—
Addison Kirby has been covering city hall for ten, fifteen years. He must have cultivated all sorts of people
who can help him. But not this time. Why? Could it be
