for the husband. Of course, in Mr. Randall’s situation,
he’s beyond all that. Then again, perhaps Mrs. Van
Boeck spoke kindly of her spouse when she was here
a few minutes ago?”
“Kindly?” Renie made a face. “She was mostly mad
at me, for—allegedly—making him foam at the mouth
or whatever.”
“At you, eh?” Mr. Mummy beamed at Renie. “Dear
Mrs. Jones, I don’t see how you could ever annoy anyone.” Apparently, Mr. Mummy didn’t notice Judith
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203
choking on her water, for he continued. “Are you certain she didn’t blame . . . someone else?”
“Quite certain,” Renie replied firmly. “I’m the villain.”
“Oh.” Mr. Mummy looked vaguely disappointed,
perhaps in Mrs. Van Boeck’s judgment. He made a little bow. “I should be going on my way. You’ve had a tiring afternoon. Perhaps I’ll call on Mr. Kirby. The days
here are so long when you can’t be particularly active.”
Their visitor began his laborious exit, but before he
could get out the door, Judith had a question:
“What do you do for a living when you’re not laid
up, Mr. Mummy?”
He turned slightly, though his gaze didn’t quite meet
Judith’s. “I’m a beekeeper,” he said, then chuckled.
“Buzz, buzz.”
“A beekeeper, huh?” Renie said after Mr. Mummy
had disappeared. “Do you believe that?”
“It’s so unusual that maybe I do,” Judith said. “He
would definitely have to live out in the country to raise
bees.”
Renie’s phone rang, and this time it was her mother.
Judith was trying to tune out the conversation when a
hulking physical therapist named Henry arrived and
announced that he was going to teach her to walk.
“I thought Heather was going to let me sit in the
wheelchair again,” Judith protested. “I really don’t
think—”
On the phone, Renie was trying to get a word in
edgewise. “There really isn’t a draft through the windows, Mom. I couldn’t put a coat on over my sling if I
had . . .”
Henry snapped his fingers. “You don’t need to think.
It’s better that you don’t.”
204
Mary Daheim
“Truly, none of the doctors have gotten fresh,” Renie
was insisting. “No, I haven’t seen any white
slavers . . .”
“But,” Judith began, involuntarily shrinking back
among the pillows, “it’s only been two days since—”
“That’s the point, ma’am,” Henry said, beckoning to
Judith. “Come on, sit up, let’s get you moving.”
“Who did you say impersonated a doctor?” Renie
sounded incredulous. “Well, sometimes a veterinarian
knows more about medicine than . . . Yes, I know there’s
a difference between a man and a squirrel. Usually.”
“No, there isn’t any difference,” Henry said with a
solemn expression. “They both have nuts. Come on,
Mrs. Flynn, be brave.”
Renie shot Henry a withering glance. Judith shut
her eyes tight, then attempted to sit up and swing her
legs over the side of the bed. Henry held on to her
forearms. It occurred to Judith that she didn’t feel
dizzy this time, only weak. She took a step. Two.
Three. Henry slowly released her. Judith took a final
step on her own.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I did it!”
“Two more,” Henry urged. “Then you can go for a
nice ride.” He pulled the wheelchair just out of her
reach.
Judith expected to wilt, but she didn’t. Hesitantly,
cautiously, she took the extra steps, then sank into the
chair. “I’ll be darned,” she breathed.
“You know how to run this thing?” Henry inquired.
Judith nodded. “I was confined to a wheelchair for
some time before I had the surgery.”
“Good.” He released the brake. “Hit the road, Mrs.
Flynn. You’re on your own. Come back before it gets
dark.”
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205
Judith eyed the hallway as if it were the open road.
Freedom, she thought. Sort of.
But she didn’t go far. Mr. Mummy blocked her way
as he came racing out of Addison Kirby’s room.
“If I ever see you again,” Addison was shouting, “I’ll
kill you! So help me God!”
Trying to avoid Mr. Mummy, Judith steered the
wheelchair to the left, but Robbie the Robot was heading straight toward her. She reversed, bumped into a
laundry cart, and spun out of control.
“Help!” Judith cried.
But the only response was from Robbie the Robot.
“Beep, beep,” he uttered, and kept on going.
THIRTEEN
THE WHEELCHAIR SAILED into Addison Kirby’s room
and bumped up against his visitor’s chair. The journalist, whose broken leg was in traction, looked
apoplectic.
“What the hell . . . ?” Addison shouted. “Get out,
get out!”
“I can’t,” Judith shouted. “I’ve lost control.” Having come to a stop, she braced herself, trying to determine if the mishap had done any damage to the
hip replacement. To her relief, there was no new
pain. She offered Addison a piteous look. “I’m so
sorry. This wheelchair must be broken.”
Addison’s features softened a bit. “I didn’t recognize you right away. You’re Judith Flynn from next
door, right?”
Collecting herself, Judith nodded. “Yes.” She
paused to take some deep breaths. “It was my
cousin, Mrs. Jones, who saw the car that hit you. Do
you have any idea who was driving it?”
Addison grimaced. “Unfortunately, no. I barely
saw the car. It was one of those mid-sized models,
kind of beige or tan. It all happened so fast. Has
your cousin given a formal statement yet?” Addison
inquired.
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207
“Not in writing,” Judith said, finally managing to get
the wheelchair into a more convenient position.
Addison snorted. “I’m not surprised.”
Judith looked at the journalist with shrewd eyes.
“Part of the cover-up?”
“Is that what you call it?” Addison looked at her, a
quirky expression on his face.
“I’m beginning to think so,” Judith replied. “You
think so, too. Does it have something to do with
Restoration Heartware’s attempt at a takeover?”
Addison uttered a sharp little laugh. “You’re no
slouch when it comes to figuring things out, are you,
Mrs. Flynn?”
“Call me Judith. Figuring things out is about all I
can do while I’m lying around in bed,” she asserted.
Addison’s dark eyes narrowed slightly. “Do you
own a B&B on Heraldsgate Hill?”
“Ohmigod.” Judith, who knew what was coming
next, felt the color rise in her cheeks.
“You got some publicity on TV a while ago,” Addison said. “There was a murder at an old apartment
house not far from where you live. But if I remember
correctly, it wasn’t the first time you’d been involved in
crime-solving.”
“That’s true,” Judith said, “but it was an accident.
They were all accidents. I mean,” she went on, getting
flustered, “I don’t seek out homicide cases. I just sort
of stumble into them. I guess it has something to do
with my work. I meet so many people, and some of
them aren’t very nice.”
The understatement didn’t seem to convince Addison.
“The buzz around city hall was that you had an uncanny