Suture Self : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

“I kind of would,” Renie replied. “What about the

patient’s right to know?”

“Know?” snapped the physician, his fine silvery

mustache quivering with outrage. “What do you need

to know? Please go back inside and close your door.”

“Okay,” Renie said, but didn’t budge. Apparently the

doctor wasn’t used to being disobeyed, since he didn’t

look back, but resumed his quick pace down the corridor.

“Back to the play-by-play,” said Renie. “Coming in

out of the bullpen and onto the mound, otherwise known

as Bob Randall’s room, is Peter Garnett, chief of surgery.” She relayed the information she’d gotten off the

man’s name tag. “His ERA, otherwise known as Good

Cheer’s mortality rate, is way up. No wonder he looks

so bad.”

A moment later, two orderlies bodily carried Margie

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Randall out of her husband’s room. She looked as if

she’d fainted. The little group moved off in the opposite direction. Then, before Renie could recount what

had happened, two more orderlies appeared, on the

run.

“More action on the field,” Renie said. “Margie

struck out—as in out cold—and another pair of orderlies have been called in from the dugout.” She’d barely

finished speaking when the orderlies reappeared, pushing what looked like Bob Randall on a gurney. His face

was covered with a sheet, and Renie let out a little

squawk as the entourage all but flew down the hall,

then disappeared into an elevator that must have been

waiting for them.

“Oh, dear.” Renie gulped and crossed herself. “I

think Bob’s just been taken out of the game.”

“What’s the rush?” Judith asked. “Maybe he’s not

really dead.”

But Renie sounded dubious. “He looked pretty dead

to me.” She lingered in the doorway, but events seemed

to have come to a standstill. Several staff members

were still talking in groups of twos and threes, but the

high-pitched excitement of the past few minutes had

dwindled into muffled voices and slumped shoulders.

Robbie the Robot scooted down the hall, blinking and

beeping to announce his passage.

“Call for the nurse, any nurse,” Renie said, finally

returning to her bed. “They’ll come for you. Whoa.”

She collapsed, still clinging to her IV stand. “I’m not

ready for prime time. I feel all wobbly.”

Judith pressed the button. “I could use a dose of

painkiller,” she said. “It’s been a while.”

But it was almost half an hour before Corinne Appleby appeared, her face flushed and her manner still

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