Suture Self : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

vehicle . . .”

Renie glanced at Bill. “Poor Cammy,” she sighed.

Joe shot both the Joneses a quizzical look. “Your

Toyota?”

Bill nodded.

“Who’s Cammy?” Woody asked.

“Uncle Bill and Aunt Renie’s car,” Mike said

under his breath.

Woody looked befuddled.

“So sad, those homeless men . . .” Judith made a fee-310

Mary Daheim

ble attempt to squeeze Joe’s hand. He made a feeble attempt to squeeze back. “Had to die, couldn’t be trusted

not to tell . . . Only organ donors need apply . . .”

“What?” Joe leaned closer to his wife. “Jude-girl,

what the hell are you talking about?”

“Definitely delirious,” Woody murmured. “Maybe I

should come back later.”

“No, please . . .” Judith opened her eyes and gazed

compellingly at Woody.

Woody stayed.

“So many odd little things . . .” Judith tried to sit up,

failed, and pointed to the water container on the nightstand. Mike filled a glass and handed it to her.

“Thirsty,” she said with a small smile of thanks. “After

surgery, fluids so important . . . Everybody must drink,

drink, drink . . . Why not put street drugs into IVs?

Simple, if you know how . . . not so simple if you

don’t . . . Everybody must drink, any fluids, all fluids . . . exotic juice, Italian sodas, booze . . . Just keep

pouring it down . . .” She paused to take another sip of

water. “The Chihuahuas, one in a tuxedo, one in a

sweatsuit . . . They clinched it.”

“I’m afraid,” Joe said, a note of alarm in his voice,

“that whatever they gave her when they put her hip

back in has fried her brain. Do you think we should

send for a psychologist?”

“I am a psychologist,” Bill reminded Joe. “She’s not

crazy. I think I know what she’s trying to say.”

Joe glanced at Archie, cheerfully smiling on Renie’s

nightstand, then gave both the Joneses a look that indicated he wasn’t convinced of their sanity, either. “O- oo-kay,” he said under his breath.

“All those years of being the opposite,” Judith said,

her eyes wide open and almost in focus, “of feeling in-SUTURE SELF

311

ferior, of being a mirror twin, of suffering near blindness . . . That’s why Jim Randall killed his brother, and

several innocent victims along the way.”

The golden light from the fading winter sun bathed

the room in a tattered antique splendor. With the dark

wood, the wavery window glass, and the religious statues, Judith could almost believe she was in a nineteenthcentury hospital, where only gaslights and candles

provided illumination. The Demerol was working, and