Suture Self : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

“Maybe,” Bill said, more to himself than to the others, “I should try more random, unscientific experiments. Those Chihuahuas seem to have done . . .

something or other.”

“You’re brilliant,” Renie declared, with a loving

look for her husband. “Haven’t I always said that?”

“Well—” Bill began.

But Renie cut him off. “Are you sure you didn’t

bring me some snacks?”

The lethal surgical instruments had indeed been

found in Jim Randall’s clothing. The arrest was made

shortly after five o’clock. Woody reported that Jim had

laughed in his face. He didn’t care if he went to prison,

he didn’t even care if he got the death penalty. He

could see, and that was all that mattered. The case was

closed.

SUTURE SELF

321

Addison Kirby was impressed, as were members of

the hospital staff. Now that the murders were solved,

Addison had a big exclusive for the newspaper. He

vowed to write it up in such a way that he’d be a shoein for a Pulitzer Prize. That would scarcely make up

for losing his wife, though Addison said he’d dedicate

the award to Joan’s memory.

His candy gifts had been tested, though not scientifically. The night nurses had managed to swipe the jelly

beans from Addison’s room as well as the chocolates

that Judith had claimed earlier. They had been devoured; no one died. Addison discovered that they had

been sent by his fellow journalists. He also vowed to

describe the night staff as pigs in his Pulitzer

Prize–winning story.

Mike returned to his mountain cabin early that

evening. Renie went home Friday, as scheduled. Joe

was released the next day. But Judith, having dislocated the artificial hip, was told by Dr. Alfonso that

she’d have to remain in the hospital until Monday. She

protested mightily, but in vain. Meanwhile, she was

treated like a queen by the staff. Even Blanche Van

Boeck sent her four dozen roses, in magnificent red,

white, yellow, and pink hues.

The roses, which had arrived Friday, were still fresh

when Judith was ready to leave. She was checking

through her belongings to make sure she hadn’t left

anything behind when Father McConnaught came to

see her.

“Now would you be that glad to be going home?”

the priest asked with a smile.

“Oh, yes, Father,” she replied with an answering

smile, “that I would. I mean, I would. That is . . .”

322

Mary Daheim

Father McConnaught nodded sagely. “Bless you, my

child, for your great help in seeking justice. Poor Mr.