Suture Self (10 page)

“That's a shame,” Judith commiserated. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Not so far,” Jim said, adjusting his glasses. “But then Bob's right knee went out, so my left one goes. That's part of the mirror-twin effect, you see. I planned to have my surgery after Bob got back on his feet. But now…” Jim's voice trailed away.

“You still need to think of yourself,” Judith said gently. “Although I suppose Margie and perhaps her children will need your support for a while.”

Jim hung his head. “I can't replace Bob,” he said on a note of defeat.

“But you can lend them moral support,” Judith said, her voice still gentle.

Clumsily, Jim Randall lowered himself into Judith's visitor's chair. He still held the bouquet, though his slack grip allowed the flowers to brush the floor. “I don't know about Nancy and Bob Jr. Young people, you know how they are. All caught up in their own little worlds. Margie, maybe, will need my help. She's kind of…high-strung. Well, not exactly. She's more low-strung—if you know what I mean.”

“Depression?” Renie asked.

Jim nodded. “She's tried every kind of medication, several different therapists. The last one just about drove her over the edge.”

“Hold it!” Renie yipped.

Judith threw her cousin a fierce warning glance. “Maybe Margie didn't give him enough time.”

“No,” Jim began, “that wasn't it. He was very hard on her, saying that maybe she didn't want to get well. I don't blame her for—”

“Maybe she doesn't,” Renie interrupted, ignoring Judith's glare. “Maybe she likes the attention. Maybe sitting around on the sidelines for almost twenty years while Bob grabbed the headlines ticked her off. Maybe she's a spoiled brat.”

“Wow.” Jim spoke softly as he peered at Renie. “That's harsh.”

“Maybe Bob killed himself because Margie was a big fat pain in the butt,” Renie went on, despite the sliver of cantaloupe that dangled from her lower lip. “That's clinical talk, of course.”

Jim looked dumbfounded. “It is? But it's not fair. Margie is a wonderful person.”

“Then you'd better take her those flowers before you step on them,” Renie said. Her tongue darted out like a lizard's as she retrieved the bit of cantaloupe.

“Oh!” Jim snatched up the flowers, which he'd managed to let fall to the floor. “Gosh, that was careless. You're right, I'd better try to find her.”

“I understand your niece and nephew are dealing with some serious problems of their own,” Judith said, still at her kindliest. “That must be very hard on Margie.”

Briefly, Jim's pliant features turned hard. “She mustn't feel guilty about Nancy and Bob Jr. If there's blame for what's happened to them, you can look elsewhere.”

“Oh?” Judith's gaze was fixed on Jim's face.

Jim dropped his head and shuffled his feet. “Sorry. I spoke out of turn. I'd better get going.”

“Say,” Judith said, not quite ready to relinquish their visitor, “you were outside this afternoon when Addison Kirby got hit by that car. Did you happen to see who was driving it?”

“That was Addison Kirby?” Jim had risen to his feet. “Gee, I didn't realize it was him. His wife died recently, didn't she?”

Judith nodded. “Yes, here in this same hospital.”

“Gosh.” Jim shook his head several times, then frowned. “What was he doing here?”

“He'd been talking to your weird niece and nephew,” Renie put in. “I suspect he was trying to figure out if they felt their father had been murdered.”

“Oh!” Jim dropped the flowers again. “No! That's worse than suicide!”

“Same result,” Renie noted.

Judith was trying to shut her cousin up, but the glares and the gestures weren't working. “Now, Mr. Randall, I'm sure that Mrs. Jones doesn't mean…”

Tears were coursing down Jim Randall's gaunt cheeks. He snuffled several times, removed his glasses, and swiped at his eyes. “My brother didn't have an enemy in the world. He was one of the most beloved sports figures in America. And here, in this city, he was a god.”

“Mr. Fumbles,” Renie muttered. “I remember one headline after a big loss that read, ‘Can Randall Get a Handle on the Ball?' Between interceptions and fumbles, he turned the ball over six times that day, leading to a total of twenty-four points for the other guys. His so-called eagle eye couldn't seem to tell who was wearing which uniform.”

“He'd eaten bad beef!” Jim cried. “He was very ill, he was playing on courage alone.”

“He should have played on the field,” Renie retorted. “He should have sat down and let his backup take over. I don't know what the coach was thinking of, except that Randall was a big star and the second-stringer was a third-year man who was out of football by the next season.”

“I can't stand it!” Jim bent down to pick up the bouquet and stormed out of the room.

“Coz…” Judith was exasperated.

“I'm sorry,” Renie said, exhibiting absolutely no sense of remorse. “Bill and I were at that game, and it made me mad. Granted, it was probably the worst performance of Bob Randall's career, but we paid out over a hundred bucks for tickets and we saw a really rotten game. Furthermore, I don't like Margie Randall blaming Bill for her Sad Sack state. I'll bet I'm right, she enjoys being miserable.”

“That's not the point,” Judith said. “You were rude, even mean. The poor guy just lost his brother, he's got his own health problems, and now he's saddled with two very unfortunate young people and a sister-in-law who's an emotional wreck.” Judith pointed to the statue of Mary and the baby Jesus. “You're in a Christian hospital. How about a little charity?”

Renie let out a big sigh. “Okay, okay. So I was kind of blunt with Jim. I suppose I'm feeling sorry for myself, for you, too, and wondering how many more of these procedures and surgeries and operations we'll have to have before they carry us out like Bob Randall. If, like Margie Randall, I were inclined to depression, I'd be in about a forty-foot hole by now.”

Judith was quiet for a few moments, considering Renie's words. “You're right, this isn't one of our brightest moments. But we can still act like decent
human beings, especially to people who are in a worse mess than we are.”

“Yeah, right.” Renie flipped open the top of a can of Pepsi. “I told you, even though I know Bob Randall was the best quarterback ever to play for the Sea Auks, I simply never saw him give one of his better performances. I guess I had that one lousy game all bottled up inside for the past twenty-odd years. And,” she went on, gathering steam and wagging a finger, “I
still
don't know why the coach didn't pull Randall and put in his backup. Maybe Bob was sick, but if that had been the case, he should have come out of the game. No wonder the second-stringer quit football and went to medical school.”

“He did?” Judith eyed Renie curiously. “Who was he?”

Renie shook her head. “I forget. It was a name like that quarterback from the Rams a million years ago.” She took a big sip of Pepsi and choked.

“Coz,” Judith said in alarm, “are you okay?”

Renie sputtered, coughed, and waved her arms. “Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Give me a minute.” Getting herself under control, she stared at Judith. “I
do
remember the guy's name. It was Jan Van Boeck. I guess,” Renie said slowly, “I remembered Norm Van Brocklin, but I got him mixed up with Bill Van Bredakoff, who played basketball, not football. Anyway, Van Boeck's name suddenly came to me after all these years. I never made the connection before. He played so seldom for the Auks.”

“I suppose I'm dreaming,” Judith said, fingering her chin. “But what if Dr. Van Boeck has been jealous of Bob Randall all these years? What if he blamed him for ruining his chances at becoming a superstar?”

“Van Boeck would be delusional,” Renie said. “If
he'd had any real talent, he could have gone to another team. I don't recall an era when any franchise had a plethora of outstanding quarterbacks.”

“Maybe not,” Judith admitted. “Still…”

“Besides,” Renie noted, “Van Boeck
is
a superstar in the medical world.”

“It's not the same,” Judith pointed out. “Doctors don't do TV ads for Nike scrubs. Furthermore,” she continued, sitting up as straight as she could manage, “all your harangues kept us from finding out if Jim Randall saw who was driving the car that hit Addison Kirby.”

“Darn. Sorry.” At last Renie looked genuinely contrite.

Judith smiled faintly. “That's okay. I don't think Jim Randall can see much of anything with those Coke-bottle glasses. Besides, it all happened so fast.”

Dinner arrived, brought by the silent orderly. Judith was disappointed; she'd hoped that the garrulous Maya would be on duty. After the orderly had left the trays, the cousins dared to take a peek.

“Some kind of meat,” Renie said.

“Some kind of greens,” Judith said.

“Perhaps a potato on the side?” Renie suggested.

“I don't think so,” Judith replied. “It might be a very pale squash.”

“Turnip—or maybe parsnip?” Renie ventured as she picked up the phone and punched in a single digit. “Operator, can you connect me with Delphi Pizza?” She waited, meanwhile grinning at Judith. “We don't need this crap. We can get real food. Hello? This is Mrs. Jones at Good Cheer Hospital. I'd like to place an order for delivery. One extra-large pizza with…what? The snow? No, I haven't looked out lately. Really? Damn. But thanks anyway,” she added hastily.

“What's wrong?” Judith asked.

Renie was getting out of bed and going to the window. “Good grief, it's really coming down. The driveway into the parking lot is covered. Oh—here comes a car now. Slowly. It looks like the driver's having trouble. I guess the children to whom I gave life have another excuse for not visiting their ailing mother.”

“You were expecting them?” Judith asked.

“Sort of,” Renie replied, still watching the snow. “So if we can't get a Delphi pizza delivered, will anybody else brave the storm?”

Judith poked at her meal with her fork. “I'm not really that hungry. And you have your Falstaff's stash to fall back on.”

“But I wanted something hot,” Renie said, her tone faintly querulous. “I need serious protein. Now that I think about it, a steak sounds good.”

“Try one of your other sources, some place closer to the hospital,” Judith suggested.

“I don't know this neighborhood,” Renie complained. “What's close?”

“Bubba's Fried Chicken,” Judith said. “Their flagship restaurant isn't too far from here.”

Bubba's was legendary. Renie turned away from the window and licked her lips. “Um-um, good idea.”

She'd just picked up the phone when Judith heard voices in the hall. The speechless orderly had left the door halfway open.

“Hold on,” Judith said, cocking an ear. “Listen.”

A hefty, mild-voiced man in a cashmere overcoat was speaking to a woman Judith couldn't see. But after a few words the woman's voice was recognizable as belonging to Sister Jacqueline.

“…just as long as you don't upset Mr. Kirby,” the
nun said. “He hasn't been out of the recovery room for very long.”

“We had an appointment,” the man said, still sounding mild, almost indolent. “Addison said it was urgent, though I can't think why. I mean, he's not a sports reporter.”

“Tubby Turnbull,” Renie said in a whisper.

“Ah.” Judith tried to lean farther away from her pillow.

“Ten minutes,” Sister Jacqueline said. “While you're with him, please keep reminding him to drink plenty of fluids. He hasn't been taking in as much liquid as he should, and he'll become dehydrated.”

“Will do,” Tubby replied, and disappeared from Judith's range of vision.

Judith looked at Renie. “Addison is going to blow this story all over the
Times
,” Judith said. “He's certain that his wife, Somosa, and Randall were murdered. I don't think that his catastrophe out in front of the hospital was an accident.”

Renie had picked up the phone again. “I don't either. Obviously, Addison wanted to meet with Tubby Turnbull to see how he and the rest of the Seafarers' front office felt about Joaquin Somosa's death.”

“Comparing notes,” Judith said as Renie asked the operator to put her through to Bubba's Fried Chicken. “Do you suppose the person who ran Addison down is the killer?”

Renie, however, gave a quick shake of her head, then spoke into the phone. “Are you delivering?…Within a one-mile radius? I think we qualify. Now here's what I'd like…”

After placing the large order, Renie beamed at Judith. “Bubba's has chained up their delivery vans. They'll be here in forty minutes. Oh, happy day!”

“For you, maybe,” Judith said with a grim expression. “Not for some other people.”

“Right.” Renie didn't look particularly moved.

“Say,” Judith said, “how are you going to get the fried chicken past the front desk this time? You didn't give any special instructions.”

Renie slapped at her forehead. “Shoot! I forgot.” She thought for a moment. “I'll go meet them at the door.”

“You can't walk that far,” Judith pointed out. “Even if you could, you can't carry that great big order with only one hand.”

Resting her chin on her left fist, Renie thought hard. “I know,” she said, brightening, “I'll ask Tubby Turnbull to meet the delivery guy and bring it up to us.”

Judith cocked her head at Renie. “You're going to ask the general manager of a major league baseball team to deliver a box of fried chicken? Are you nuts?”

“No,” Renie replied. “Wouldn't you like to talk to Tubby? Not that he'll say much. He's Mr. Ambiguous.”