Suture Self : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

said, remembering to drink her water and taking a big

swallow. “Maybe not who the killer is, but related to

the motive.”

“Why Cammy?” Renie said. “Our Toyota is exactly

like thousands of cars out there in the city. It’s one of

the most popular brands in America. Why not steal a

Mercedes or a Cadillac or a Beamer?”

“Addison has been covering city hall,” Judith went

on, “which means he’s probably got the inside dope on

Blanche Van Boeck. But if it’s something ruinous, why

not kill him instead of his wife? Why kill Somosa and

Randall? Or, given Blanche’s clout, why not get Addison fired?”

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Mary Daheim

“What,” Renie demanded, “were those morons at

the Toyota place thinking of? They’re usually so reliable. Why wasn’t somebody watching Cammy? Why

did they leave the keys in the car?” She stopped and

made one of her typical futile attempts to snap her fingers. “Because they’d finished their work and sometimes they tuck the keys under the floor mat on the

driver’s side.” She hung her head. “Oh, my God, until

my shoulder heals, I won’t be able to drive Cammy for

months! Maybe we won’t ever ride in her again! What

if she’s been driven over a cliff?”

Judith sat up straight and glared at Renie. “Will you

shut up? ”

“Huh?” Renie swerved around to face Judith.

“What’s wrong?”

“I thought,” Judith said in an irritated voice, “we

were trying to sleuth.”

Renie stifled a yawn. “We were. We were trying to

figure out what happened to Cammy.”

“No, we weren’t,” Judith argued. “We were speculating about methods and motives.”

“You were,” Renie shot back. “You can afford to do

that, you have two cars, your Subaru and Joe’s MG.

Bill and I are now demoted to taking the bus.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Judith sniffed. “You have insurance, you can rent a car until Cammy turns up.

And if she—I mean, it—doesn’t, you can buy another

one.”

“Easy for you to say,” Renie snapped. “Go ahead,

feel all smug. See if I care.” She reached out with her

good arm and pulled the curtain between them.

Again, the room was silent. Someone was paging a

doctor over the intercom. A glimpse of hospital equipment could be seen rolling down the hall. Somewhere,

SUTURE SELF

143

female voices laughed. Judith sat up in bed, her arms

folded across her chest, her lower lip thrust out.

It was she who broke the silence. “Coz. We never

fight. What’s wrong with us?”

Judith heard Renie sigh. “We’re tired, we hurt,