SUTURE SELF
129
Judith grew silent, staring up at the cracks in the
aging plaster, as if the wiggly lines provided some sort
of map to The Truth. Except for a desultory word of
farewell to Heather, she remained quiet for several moments after the nurse continued on her rounds.
“Maya got fired,” Judith finally announced.
“I agree,” said Renie. “She talked too much, at least
to us. I hope we didn’t get her into trouble.”
“So do I,” Judith said. “But Maya is the kind who can’t
stop talking. And what did Heather mean by that solemn
statement about nobody at the hospital being at fault?”
“It would suggest,” Renie said slowly, “that she
knows more than she’s telling. That is, she’s aware that
there were no medical mistakes.”
“In other words,” Judith said, hauling herself up on
the pillows, “all three victims were murdered, possibly
by outsiders.”
Renie was skeptical. “
“It’s unlikely,” Judith said, “but you can’t completely discount the notion. Of course the modus
operandi is similar, as far as we can tell. Unless they’re
copy-cat killings.”
“And just what
“It has to be something—the drugs that the victims
supposedly ingested on their own—that was put into
their IVs.”
“We still haven’t heard what Bob Randall’s drug of
choice was,” Renie pointed out.
“No,” Judith agreed. “But I’ll bet it’s something like
the other two. A street drug, I’d guess.”
“Not self-ingested?” said Renie.
“No.” Judith grimaced as she tried to make herself
more comfortable. “I don’t know why I haven’t asked
Joe if the police are investigating. I think I’ll call him.”
130
Mary Daheim
Before she could pick up the phone, Mr. Mummy
appeared in the doorway with a carton marked “Sutures.” “Cluck, cluck,” he said with a merry smile.
“May I?”
“Of course,” Judith said, and introduced herself.
“Why don’t you join us, Mr. Mummy? There’s plenty
for three.”
“How kind,” Mr. Mummy said as he helped Renie
unload the carton. “The delivery wouldn’t fit in my
carryall so I found this box, which makes quite clever
camouflage, don’t you think?” He paused as Renie rewarded him with a big smile. “Maybe just a small
piece,” he said, sniffing the air that was now redolent
with fried chicken. “I’m not terribly hungry. I did manage to eat my hospital tray.”
“Was it better than the food?” Renie asked.
“What?” Mr. Mummy looked puzzled, then comprehension dawned. “Oh-ho! Very funny, Mrs. Jones. Yes,
