Suture Self : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

Before Judith could respond, a burly, uniformed

man in his late fifties poked his head in the door. “Mrs.

Jones?” he said in a gravelly voice.

“Here,” said Renie, raising her left hand. “You’re

Torchy Magee?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the security guard responded as another, much younger man in a patrolman’s uniform followed him into the room. “This is Johnny Boxx, that’s

with two xx’s, right, Johnny?”

“Right,” replied the young officer with a tight little

smile.

“He’s fairly new to the force,” Magee said, swaggering a bit as he nodded at Judith and approached

Renie’s bed. “Me, I was a cop for over twenty-five

years before I retired a while back. Arson, vice, larceny, assault—I did it all, and have the scars to show

for it.” He chuckled and gave Johnny Boxx a hearty

slap on the back. “Yessir, see this?” He pointed to a

82

Mary Daheim

long, thin scar on his right cheek. “Attacked by a knife

there.” Magee rolled up his left sleeve to reveal another

scar. “Shotgun, just below the elbow. Hurt like hell. I

was wounded three times, here, in the shoulder, and

just above my ear. Got a plate in my head to prove it.”

“My,” Renie said, keeping a straight face, though Judith could tell it was an effort, “you’ve had some bad

luck.”

“Just doing my job,” Magee responded. “That’s not

all, either. I got my nickname, Torchy, when I was in

arson. Look, no eyebrows.”

Sure enough, Magee’s forehead stretched from his

eyes to the bald spot on top of his head. “What happened?” Judith asked.

“Let’s put it this way,” Torchy Magee responded

with a chuckle and a wink, “when you’re investigating

an arson case, you should make sure the fire is out

first.” He chuckled some more, a grating sound, then

turned to Renie. “Okay, little lady, let’s hear all about

what you saw from this third-story window.”

“ ‘Little lady’?” Renie curled her lip.

“Well . . .” Torchy shrugged. “In a manner of speaking.” He rested one foot on Renie’s bed frame. “So

what’d you see?”

“I was standing by the window,” Renie began, eyeing Torchy’s foot with annoyance, “when I saw Mr.

Kirby leave through the front entrance.”

Officer Boxx held up a hand. “How did you know it

was Mr. Kirby?”

“I’d just met him,” Renie replied. “He was wearing

a trench coat, he had a beard, it wasn’t that hard to

identify him three floors up.”

“Sounds right to me,” Torchy said. “Go on, Mrs. J.”

“Mrs. Jones,” Renie said with emphasis. “Anyway,

SUTURE SELF

83

he’d just started toward the parking lot when a beige