Suture Self : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

wanted to see Garnett. If nothing else, I wanted to clear

Joan’s reputation.”

“In what way?” Judith asked.

Addison had turned to the door, but now he faced the

cousins again. “Because,” he said angrily, “the results

of the autopsy indicated she’d ingested a large quantity

of Rohypnol—one of those date-rape drugs—which

caused her death. That’s bull, Joan never did drugs in

her life. Even if she had, why in the world would she

take that one?” His voice dropped and his eyes sent off

more sparks. “It doesn’t make sense, which is why I

think my wife was murdered.”

FIVE

JUDITH WASN’T SURPRISED by Addison Kirby’s declaration. It only confirmed her suspicions about the

three deaths.

“So you think there may be something fishy

about Somosa and Randall as well?” she asked.

Addison shrugged. “Maybe. I can’t speak for Somosa, because I didn’t know him. But I heard

through my county sources that the autopsy indicated

he’d overdosed on some kind of street drug. Ecstasy,

I think. As for Randall—we don’t know yet, do we?”

Their visitor paced back and forth in front of

Judith’s iron bedstead. He seemed to be arguing

with himself. “I just spoke with Randall’s son,

Bob Jr., and his daughter, Nancy. They caught

snatches of conversation among the staff that indicated suicide.”

“What?” Judith couldn’t believe her ears.

“That’s right,” Addison said, nodding gravely. “I

can’t get to Mrs. Randall—she’s had some kind of

emotional collapse.”

“What about his brother, Jim?” Judith asked.

“Has he been notified?”

“Jim?” Addison blinked several times. “I didn’t

realize Bob Randall had a brother. Is he around?”

SUTURE SELF

69

“He was here last night,” Renie put in. “He was fussing because Bob had too many visitors and so much hubbub going on in his room.”

“Interesting,” Addison remarked. “I’ll try to get hold

of him.”

“Say,” Renie said, adjusting her sling and leaning

forward in the bed, “why haven’t you gone public with

any of the stuff about your wife and Somosa? I haven’t

seen a word about it in the Times.”

The journalist gave Renie a twisted little smile.

“You don’t understand the politics of publishing,

Mrs. . . . Jones, right? My superiors don’t want me ruffling feathers. Blanche Van Boeck is a powerful figure

in this community.”

Renie slapped at her head with her good hand. “Of