with a shrug. “It’s clean.”
“I can’t eat that swill,” Renie said, pouting.
“Then get something out of your goodies bag,” Ju-SUTURE SELF
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dith shot back. “Just put something in your mouth so
you’ll stop complaining.”
Renie rang her buzzer. In the five minutes that she
waited for a response, she didn’t say a word. Instead,
she drummed her fingernails on the side of the metal
bed and almost drove Judith nuts.
Heather Chinn showed up before Judith could
threaten to throttle Renie. “What can we do for you?”
she asked in her pert voice.
“ ‘We’?” Renie retorted. “I don’t see anybody but
you. And you can get me a big ham sandwich, preferably with Havarti cheese and maybe a nice sweet
pickle. I don’t care much for dills. They’re too sour,
except for the ones my sister-in-law makes.”
“Excuse me?” said Heather, her almond eyes wide.
“What became of your lunch?”
Renie tapped a finger against her cheek. “What be-
came of my lunch? Let me think. It came, but it didn’t
be a lunch. That is, it was not edible.” She pointed to
the small grinning doll that rested next to the Kleenex
box on the nightstand. “I wouldn’t feed that swill to
Archie.”
“That’s a shame,” Heather said with a tilt of her
head. “I see Mrs. Flynn found it edible. She’s almost
finished. How was the lime Jell-O, Mrs. Flynn?”
“Um . . .” Judith gazed at the small green puddle that
was left on her plate. Lime was not her favorite flavor,
but that wasn’t the hospital’s fault. “It was . . . fine.”
“Jell-O, huh?” said Renie. “I thought it was a dead
frog.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for the evening meal,
Mrs. Jones,” Heather said, at her most pleasant. “I
don’t think you’ll starve. Aren’t you just a teensy bit
squirrel-like?”
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“Are you referring to my teeth? ” Renie asked, looking outraged. “Are you making fun of my overbite because my parents couldn’t afford braces?”
Heather’s eyes grew even wider. “Goodness, no. I’d
never do such a thing. You have very nice teeth.
They’re just . . . sizable. I meant your little stash of
treats in that rather large grocery bag on the other side
of the bed.”
“Oh, that.” Renie attempted to look innocent.
But Judith seized the moment. “Don’t be too hard on
my cousin,” she said. “She’s always had a lot of allergies and is used to providing her own food. I suspect
that many patients do that.”
“Well,” Heather said, “some, of course. But your
cousin—all of our patients—are asked to put down any
allergies when they fill out the admitting forms. That’s
so the dieticians can avoid foods that may cause an allergic reaction. I’m sure you both filled out those sections.” Heather cast a sly glance in Renie’s direction.
Renie was still pouting.
“I understand,” Judith said. “But it’s a funny thing
about illness. You get certain cravings. One time after
I’d had the flu, I couldn’t eat anything for two days except scrambled-egg sandwiches.”
Heather nodded. “That’s because your system is depleted. You’ve lost certain vitamins and minerals.”
“One of my husband’s nieces ate all the paint off her
bed after she had bronchitis,” Renie said, still looking
annoyed.
“That’s a bit unusual,” Heather remarked, her fine
eyebrows lifting.
“I assume,” Judith said before Renie could go on
about Bill’s nieces and nephews, who numbered
more than a dozen, “that you don’t really come down
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too hard on patients who insist they have to have a
certain item. I imagine some of them are rather
amusing.”
Heather dimpled. “Oh, yes. We had an elderly man
last year who insisted on eating chocolate-covered
grasshoppers. I gather they’re quite a delicacy in some
cocktail party circles.”
“That’s very different,” Judith agreed with a big
smile. “Most, I suppose, are more ordinary.”
“That’s true,” Heather said. “Milk shakes are very
popular. So is chocolate and steak. Now while protein
is necessary, post-op patients shouldn’t eat steak because it’s difficult to digest. Quite frankly, a hamburger
is more acceptable.”
“It would be to me,” Renie said.
Judith ignored her cousin. “I heard,” she said with a
straight face, “that Joan Fremont had a fondness for
peppermint stick candy.”
Heather frowned. “I don’t recall that. I believe she
preferred Italian sodas. The ones with the vanilla syrup
in the cream and club soda.”
“Was she able to sneak one in?” Judith asked innocently.
“She did,” Heather said. “I wasn’t on duty, but
Corinne told me about it. At least one of them was
brought to the main desk by a funny little man wearing
polka-dot pants and a yellow rain slicker. Sister Julia,
our receptionist, got such a kick out of him. Ms. Fremont—Mrs. Kirby—actually had two of them brought
in, and first thing in the morning. It was very naughty
of her.”
“Really,” Judith said. “Was Mr. Kirby with her
then?”
“No,” Heather responded. “Mr. Kirby had a deadline
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Mary Daheim
to meet, so he didn’t come in that morning until . . .”
The nurse paused, her face falling. “He didn’t come in
until after his wife had expired.”
“Poor man!” Judith said with feeling. “Had he been
told that Joan died before he reached the hospital?”
“I don’t think so,” Heather said. “He’d come directly
from the newspaper.”
“What a shock,” Judith murmured. “Mr. Kirby must
have been overcome.”
“The truth is,” Heather said, “Mrs. Kirby wasn’t
one of my patients. I heard all this secondhand from
Dr. Garnett.”
“Oh,” Judith said, remembering what Heather had
told her earlier. “But you were on duty when Mr. Somosa died, right?”
“Yes.” Heather nodded solemnly. “I was the one
who found him. That is, I saw his monitor flat-line, and
immediately started the emergency procedures.”
Judith wore her most wistful expression. “I hope he
got to have his favorite thing, like Joan Fremont—Mrs.
Kirby—had with her Italian sodas.”
A spot of color showed on each of Heather’s flawless
cheeks. “He did, actually, even though I tried to dissuade
him. Somebody had brought him a special juice drink, the
kind he always drank before he pitched. I saw Mrs. Randall bring it in to him, and she said it smelled delicious.”
“So someone brought it to the front desk?” Judith
asked.
“I suppose,” Heather said, then frowned at Judith.
“You’re interrogating me, aren’t you? Why?”
Judith’s smile was, she hoped, guileless. “Curiosity.
What else is there to do but lie here and try to work out
a puzzle? Surely you see that the three deaths—I’m including Bob Randall’s—were peculiar?”
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“It happens,” Heather said, looking away. “It’s
part of nursing, to have patients, seemingly healthy,