ahead, tell us whatever you want to.”
66
Mary Daheim
“No, no,” Addison replied, now very businesslike. “I
have just a couple of questions.” Again, he paused, this
time to clear his throat. “This morning, before Bob
Randall died, did either of you see or hear anything unusual?”
Judith and Renie exchanged quick glances. “No,”
Judith finally said. “I don’t recall anything.”
“You’re sure?” Addison Kirby looked disappointed.
Renie’s expression was uncharacteristically diffident. “I did hear Randall talking on the phone this
morning while I was in there.” She gestured at the
darkly stained wooden door to the bathroom. “He was
talking about somebody named Taylor, or to somebody
named Taylor. I couldn’t catch much of it, though.”
Addison looked puzzled. “The only Taylor I know
was Joan’s eye doctor. But it’s a common name. That’s
all you heard?”
“I’m afraid so,” Judith responded with an apologetic
expression. “Why do you ask?”
Kirby shook his head. “I’m paranoid,” he said. “Obsessed. Nuts.”
“Who isn’t?” Renie offered.
Standing up, Kirby replaced the visitor’s chair and
jammed his hands into the pockets of his trench coat.
“I had an appointment this morning to meet with Dr.
Garnett, the chief of surgery. I’ve got a lot of unanswered questions about Joan’s death. Garnett had been
stalling me, figuring, I suppose, that anything he said
would be on page one of the Times’s next edition. But
he finally gave in, and we’d just gotten started when he
was summoned to this floor. I could tell it was urgent,
so I followed him, and learned that Bob Randall had
died. I didn’t really know Bob, but I’ve seen him
around town over the years. Anyway, it seemed
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67
damned peculiar, with Joan dying so suddenly and
Joaquin Somosa, the same way.”
“It’s incredible,” Judith declared.
“You bet it is,” Addison asserted, the hazel eyes
sparking. “I was already suspicious, that’s why I
wanted to see Garnett. If nothing else, I wanted to clear
Joan’s reputation.”
“In what way?” Judith asked.
Addison had turned to the door, but now he faced the
cousins again. “Because,” he said angrily, “the results
of the autopsy indicated she’d ingested a large quantity
of Rohypnol—one of those date-rape drugs—which
caused her death. That’s bull, Joan never did drugs in
her life. Even if she had, why in the world would she
take that one?” His voice dropped and his eyes sent off
more sparks. “It doesn’t make sense, which is why I
think my wife was murdered.”
FIVE
JUDITH WASN’T SURPRISED by Addison Kirby’s declaration. It only confirmed her suspicions about the
three deaths.
“So you think there may be something fishy
about Somosa and Randall as well?” she asked.
Addison shrugged. “Maybe. I can’t speak for Somosa, because I didn’t know him. But I heard
through my county sources that the autopsy indicated
he’d overdosed on some kind of street drug. Ecstasy,
I think. As for Randall—we don’t know yet, do we?”
Their visitor paced back and forth in front of
Judith’s iron bedstead. He seemed to be arguing
with himself. “I just spoke with Randall’s son,
Bob Jr., and his daughter, Nancy. They caught
snatches of conversation among the staff that indicated suicide.”
“What?” Judith couldn’t believe her ears.
“That’s right,” Addison said, nodding gravely. “I
can’t get to Mrs. Randall—she’s had some kind of
emotional collapse.”
“What about his brother, Jim?” Judith asked.
“Has he been notified?”
“Jim?” Addison blinked several times. “I didn’t
realize Bob Randall had a brother. Is he around?”
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69
“He was here last night,” Renie put in. “He was fussing because Bob had too many visitors and so much hubbub going on in his room.”
“Interesting,” Addison remarked. “I’ll try to get hold
of him.”
“Say,” Renie said, adjusting her sling and leaning
forward in the bed, “why haven’t you gone public with
any of the stuff about your wife and Somosa? I haven’t
seen a word about it in the Times.”
The journalist gave Renie a twisted little smile.
“You don’t understand the politics of publishing,
Mrs. . . . Jones, right? My superiors don’t want me ruffling feathers. Blanche Van Boeck is a powerful figure
in this community.”
Renie slapped at her head with her good hand. “Of
course! I didn’t make the connection with Dr. Jan Van
Boeck. That’s his wife, right? She’s on the city council and just about everywhere on the map in this town.
Oh, my.”
Addison’s smile became wry. “She certainly is. Rumor
has it she may run for mayor. She has powerful friends in
powerful places. Of course, she has enemies, too.”
Renie was suddenly wearing what Judith called
her “boardroom face,” the no-nonsense sharpening
of her features that she presented to corporate clients
in her graphic design business.
“Blanche has made some big waves in the past few
years,” Renie said. “She’s always struck me as putting
Blanche at the head of her agenda, rather than the social and political programs she espouses.”
Addison nodded. “That’s what many people would
say, which is why I have to dance all around her in
print. Which also means I have to dance around Good
Cheer Hospital, because her husband runs the place.”
70
Mary Daheim
“But Good Cheer was on the news last night,” Judith
pointed out. “We missed the first part of the story.
What was that all about?”
“The Seafarers are calling for an investigation into
Somosa’s death,” Addison replied. “Apparently, they
think something’s wrong, too. I intend to meet with
Tubby Turnbull, the team’s general manager, this afternoon.”
Judith was shaking her head. “So I wasn’t wrong,”
she said faintly.
At the door, Addison frowned at Judith. “Wrong
about what?”
“About these deaths being linked,” Judith said.
“Frankly, the deaths of your wife and Somosa struck
me as more than a coincidence right from the start.
Now, with Randall’s passing, the situation seems
downright ominous.”
Addison’s expression was frankly curious. “Why
does it interest you so much, Mrs. Flynn?”
Judith felt the color rise in her cheeks. “Oh . . . You
might say that my hobby is snooping.” She uttered a
lame little laugh.
Addison now looked puzzled. “Snooping?” he said.
“It’d be more accurate,” Renie said, “to say that her
hobby is murder.”
“And to think,” Renie mused after Addison Kirby
had departed, “I wondered how we’d pass the time during our hospital stay.”
“I don’t think the deaths of those poor people were
intended to keep us occupied,” Judith said, feeling
glum and staring up at the mottled plaster ceiling.
The uncommunicative orderly of the previous day
came in to remove the cousins’ luncheon trays. If he
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