Bob Randall’s family problems?”
Bill gave Judith a vaguely apologetic look. “Sorry. I
shouldn’t have mentioned it. You see, I’ve been treating Margie Randall for some time.”
“Good God almighty!” Joe exclaimed under his
breath and fell into Judith’s visitor’s chair.
“You never mentioned Bob Randall’s wife as a patient,” Renie said in an accusing tone.
“Of course not,” Bill replied calmly. “I don’t disclose my patients’ identities to you unless it’s someone
you’ve never heard of and the name is meaningless. In
fact, I often make up the names.”
“Patient confidentiality,” Renie scoffed. “How come
you didn’t speak to Margie Randall in the waiting
room yesterday morning?”
“Because it would have frightened and embarrassed
her,” Bill said. “Besides, I don’t think she saw me.
Which is understandable. Part of her problem is that
she’s completely locked into herself.”
“So what awful problems—other than Margie—did
Bob Randall have with his family?” Judith asked, trying to ignore Joe’s angry glare.
Bill sighed. “Honestly, I shouldn’t say. But we may
be involved in a homicide here, and eventually, the
media will get hold of all the details. Besides, Margie
canceled her last two appointments and may not still
consider me her psychologist; I can allow that the two
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Randall children are deeply troubled. In fact, they’re a
big, fat mess.”
“That’s clinical enough,” Renie said, her annoyance
fading. “How so?”
As was his wont, Bill took his time to answer.
“Really, I can’t betray a patient’s trust. Nancy, the
daughter, and Bob Jr., the son, both have what you
might consider life-threatening problems. Let’s leave it
at that.”
“You’re no fun,” Renie said. “I want a divorce.”
“You can’t have one,” Bill responded. “But I can assure you that life on the home front wasn’t all highlight
reels. Bob might have had good reasons to do himself
in.”
“No such luck,” Joe said glumly with a dirty look at
his wife. “I’ll bet my old classic MG that he got himself killed. I should be so lucky to have my charming
bride run into a plain old suicide.”
Judith felt too tired to carry the fight any further.
“Knock it off, Joe, please.” She gave him her most
winsome look. “Be reasonable. I had to have this surgery, Good Cheer is the only hospital in town that does
it, I’m incapacitated, and it’s not—and never has
been—my fault that I keep running into dead people.
I’m just an ordinary wife, mother, and innkeeper.”
“You’d run into fewer dead people if you were a
