“Don’t ask me,” Judith responded without enthusiasm. She couldn’t take her mind off Joe, though something else was niggling at her brain. Not that it had
anything to do with her husband. Or did it? Judith was
afraid that the anesthetic had dulled her usually logical
mind. “Blanche held that other press conference out in
SUTURE SELF
271
the hall,” she pointed out. “Maybe she likes the intimacy.”
Renie had gotten out of bed again. The icicles were
definitely thawing, in big, heavy drips. “Hey,” Renie
said, excited, “there are some workmen out in the
parking lot. It looks as if they’re clearing off the cars
that have been stuck there.”
“Good.” Judith shifted positions, trying to get more
comfortable. The sound of happy voices in the hallway
distracted her. “Who’s out there?” she asked Renie.
“Huh?” Renie turned toward the door. “I can’t
see . . . Oh, it’s the Randall kids. Jeez, they’re practically skipping down the hall.” She moved as quickly as
she could to watch their progress, which halted at the
elevator. “They’re high-fiving,” she said. “What’s
going on with this family? Whatever happened to
proper respect and bereavement?”
Judith’s interest perked up. “They’re glad he’s
dead,” she declared. “That’s the only possible explanation.”
As the brother and sister disappeared inside the elevator, Renie stared at her cousin. “Do you think they
killed Bob Randall?”
Judith shook her head. “No. I can’t imagine an entire family plotting to murder another relative. I mean,
I
“Hold it,” Renie said, sitting down in Judith’s visitor’s chair. “What are the three guidelines Joe uses
when it comes to homicide? Motive, means, and opportunity, right?”
“Right.” Judith was looking dubious. “Okay, so
Margie had all three, assuming she really hated Bob. In
fact, she indicated that she may have delivered something lethal to each of the victims.”
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Mary Daheim
Renie raised a hand in protest. “Who told you she
admitted being the so-called vessel? It was Bob Jr., not
Margie. How do we know Margie ever said such a
thing?”
“Good point. But either way, it assumes that
Margie—or her son—knew what was in Joan’s Italian
soda, Joaquin’s juice, and Bob’s booze. Why would
Margie admit such a thing to anyone?”
“Because she’s a total ditz?” Renie offered.
“I don’t think she’s as much of a ditz as she pretends,” Judith said. “I think Margie—if she really said
it in the first place—was speaking metaphorically.
Why would she go to all that trouble to kill Joan and
Joaquin before finally getting to Bob? And why kill
him here, in the hospital? She could have slipped him
a little something at home.”
