Suture Self : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

drugs. Putting a couple of fifteen-year-olds in body

bags had sent him off to a bar—and into the arms of

the sultry singer at the piano. Vivian, or Herself, as

SUTURE SELF

9

Judith usually called her, had shanghaied the oblivious Joe to Las Vegas and a justice of the peace. The

engagement was broken, and so was Judith’s heart.

Judith was still dwelling on the past when Joe returned to the kitchen. “She’s still alive,” he announced,

then looked more closely at his wife. “What’s wrong?

You look sort of sickly.”

“Nozzing,” Judith replied, trying to smile. “I mean,

nothing—except Mudder. Mother. It bothers me when

she’s so mean to you.”

Joe shrugged. “I’m used to it. In fact, I get kind of a

kick out of it. Face it, Jude-girl, at her age she doesn’t

have much pleasure in life. If it amuses her to needle

me, so what?”

Judith rested her head against Joe’s hip. “You’re

such a decent person, Joe. I love you.”

“The feeling is eternally mutual,” he said, hugging

her shoulders. “How many pain pills did you take?”

“Umm . . .” Judith considered fibbing. She was very

good at it. When she could think straight. “Two.”

Joe sighed. “Let’s eat. Food might straighten you

out a bit.”

“Wouldn’t you think,” Judith said halfway through the

meal when she had begun to feel more lucid, “that when

you and I finally got married after your divorce and

Dan’s death, Mother would have been happy for us?”

Joe shook his head. “Never. You’re an only child,

and your father died fairly young. You’re all your

mother has, and she’ll never completely let go. The

same’s true with Renie. Look how your Aunt Deb pulls

Renie around like she’s on a string.”

“True,” Judith allowed. “What I meant was that even

if Mother resented you at first, after I married Dan on

the rebound, and he turned out to be such a . . . flop,

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Mary Daheim

you’d figure that Mother would be glad to see me married to somebody with a real job and a sense of responsibility and a girth considerably less than

fifty-four inches. Dan’s pants looked like the sails on

the Britannia.”

Joe grinned and the gold flecks danced in his green

eyes. “Your mother didn’t want a replacement or an

improvement. She wanted you, back home, under her

wing.”

“She got it,” Judith said with a rueful laugh. “After

Dan died, Mike and I couldn’t go on living in that

rental dump out on Thurlow Street. The rats were so