told that Joan died before he reached the hospital?”
“I don’t think so,” Heather said. “He’d come directly
from the newspaper.”
“What a shock,” Judith murmured. “Mr. Kirby must
have been overcome.”
“The truth is,” Heather said, “Mrs. Kirby wasn’t
one of my patients. I heard all this secondhand from
Dr. Garnett.”
“Oh,” Judith said, remembering what Heather had
told her earlier. “But you were on duty when Mr. Somosa died, right?”
“Yes.” Heather nodded solemnly. “I was the one
who found him. That is, I saw his monitor flat-line, and
immediately started the emergency procedures.”
Judith wore her most wistful expression. “I hope he
got to have his favorite thing, like Joan Fremont—Mrs.
Kirby—had with her Italian sodas.”
A spot of color showed on each of Heather’s flawless
cheeks. “He did, actually, even though I tried to dissuade
him. Somebody had brought him a special juice drink, the
kind he always drank before he pitched. I saw Mrs. Randall bring it in to him, and she said it smelled delicious.”
“So someone brought it to the front desk?” Judith
asked.
“I suppose,” Heather said, then frowned at Judith.
“You’re interrogating me, aren’t you? Why?”
Judith’s smile was, she hoped, guileless. “Curiosity.
What else is there to do but lie here and try to work out
a puzzle? Surely you see that the three deaths—I’m including Bob Randall’s—were peculiar?”
SUTURE SELF
185
“It happens,” Heather said, looking away. “It’s
part of nursing, to have patients, seemingly healthy,
who don’t recover from even a minor surgery. I must
say, I’ve never gotten used to it, but it’s part of the
job.”
“I suppose,” Judith said, without conviction. “Still,
I’d think you or the other nurses wouldn’t have allowed Mr. Randall to drink Wild Turkey so soon after
his operation.”
Heather appeared flustered. “Wild Turkey? Isn’t that
some kind of whiskey?”
“Very strong whiskey,” Judith said. “Did you know
he had a bottle in bed with him?”
“No,” Heather replied in a worried voice. “I wasn’t
on duty Tuesday morning. Corinne Appleby had her
usual morning shift. That’s odd—she didn’t mention
finding a whiskey bottle in Mr. Randall’s room. It’s the
kind of thing you usually mention, especially after
a . . . death.”
“Did the night nurse notice, I wonder?” Judith said.
“Not that I heard,” Heather replied, still looking
