knack for fingering killers. I’ve read about detectives,
both real and fictitious, who could pick out a murderer
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just from the way they looked. How do you do it? Shape
of the head? Look in the eyes? Manner of speaking?”
“Nothing like that,” Judith said modestly. “I’m interested in people. They talk to me. I listen. And often,
they make some tiny slip that gives them away.” She
shrugged. “It’s not a talent. It’s just . . . paying attention.”
Again, Addison seemed to regard Judith with skepticism. “Your husband’s a cop, isn’t he? Joe Flynn,
very sharp. I remember him from my beat at city hall.
Hasn’t he retired?”
“Yes,” Judith answered. “He’s a private investigator
now.”
Addison merely smiled. Judith decided to change
the subject. “Why were you so angry with Mr.
Mummy just now? He seems like a harmless little
guy.”
“Does he?” Addison shifted his shoulders, apparently trying to get more comfortable. “You don’t find
him . . . suspicious?”
“Ah . . .” Judith wondered how candid she could be
with Addison Kirby. “I have to admit, I’ve wondered
why he was transferred into Good Cheer. His fractures
don’t seem very severe.”
“Exactly.” Addison suddenly seemed to grow distant. Perhaps he had doubts of his own about confiding
in Judith. “He’s a real snoop.”
“Curiosity,” Judith said. “He’s bored, too. Did he tell
you he’s a beekeeper by trade?”
“No.” Addison stroked his beard. “Interesting.”
“Different,” Judith allowed.
“Yes,” Addison said quickly, “that’s what I meant.”
Judith gave Addison a questioning look, but he
didn’t amplify his comment. “You’ve had a rather rig-SUTURE SELF
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orous day so far,” she finally said. “I happened to hear
Dr. Van Boeck shouting by your door. I hope he didn’t
upset you.”
“He didn’t.” Addison looked pleased with himself.
“He’s one of those professional types who hates the
media. Most doctors don’t like criticism—the godlike
ego and all that tripe. Doctors and lawyers are the
worst. CEOs are up there, too, except most of them are
too dumb to understand the news stories. That’s why
they hire PR types—to translate for them.”
“Does Dr. Van Boeck have a specific gripe?” Judith
inquired.
Addison chuckled. “Dozens of them, going back to
his football playing days. He actually played pro ball,
for the Sea Auks.”
“I know,” Judith said. “He backed up Bob Randall
for a season or two before he washed out of football.”
Addison cast Judith an admiring glance. “So you
know about that? Well, Van Boeck has never forgiven
the sportswriters for criticizing his ineptitude. He
might have good hands for a surgeon, but he sure as
hell didn’t have them for handling the ball. The irony,
of course, is that Mrs. Van Boeck uses the media to
great effect.”
“And tries to manipulate it as well?” Judith put in.
“That, too,” Addison said, looking grim.
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of
Jim Randall, who walked straight into the coat closet’s
sliding doors.
“Ooof!” he cried, staggering. “Sorry. Am I interrupting?” He peered first at Addison, then at Judith.
“You have a guest. I can’t quite see who . . .”
Judith hastily identified herself. “From next door,
remember?”
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“Oh.” Jim nodded as he carefully moved closer.
“Yes, we spoke. I just came to let Mr. Kirby know
when the funeral for my brother will be held. He’s
going to put it in the newspaper for me.”
“Since I can’t call from here, I’ll have a nurse phone
it into the obit and sports desks,” Addison said. “Have
you written it out?”
Jim fumbled at an inside pocket in his overcoat. “It
was a group effort. Margie, Nancy, Bob Jr., and me.
Here.” He handed several sheets of paper to Addison.
The handwriting was difficult to decipher. Addison
was forced to read the verbiage aloud to make sure that
everything was accurate. “You’ve hit the highlights of
Bob’s football career,” he said to Jim, “except for the
stats. One of the football reporters can fill those in for
the sports page.”
“Very illustrious,” Judith remarked. “I’d forgotten
how good Bob Randall really was.”
Addison began reading the official obituary.
“
‘Robert Alfred Randall Sr., born Topeka,
Kansas . . .’ ” He hurried through the factual information, then slowed down as he read the more personal
copy written by the family members: “ ‘Bob, nicknamed Ramblin’ Randall, and not just for his rushing
feats on the football field . . .’ ” Addison frowned at
Jim. “I don’t get that part.”
Through thick lenses that made his eyes look like
oversized coat buttons, Jim peered at Addison. “What
do you mean?”
“Okay,” Addison said sharply, “this sounds like
you’re talking about your brother’s off-the-field exploits. In particular, his love life.”
Jim nodded once. “That’s right.”
Addison stared at Jim. “You can’t do that. Nobody
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ever criticizes the deceased in an obit. Upon occasion,
they’ll make excuses, especially if it’s a suicide. But
criticism—never.”
Jim took umbrage. “I thought you dealt in facts.
Isn’t that what you told me the other day when we
spoke? That’s a fact—my brother was a philanderer.
Margie had to put up with a lot. Read the rest of it.”
“No.” Addison’s bearded jaw set stubbornly.
Judith leaned forward in the wheelchair, and before
the journalist could realize what she was doing, she
plucked the sheets of paper out of his hand.
“If it means so much to you, Jim,” she said, looking
sympathetic, “I’ll go over it with you. During the
years, I’ve helped write several obituaries for relatives.”
“Hey!” Addison cried, attempting to retrieve the
pages. “Don’t do that!”
But Judith had managed to move herself just beyond
Addison’s reach. “Please, we must see what can be salvaged here, or the family will have to do it all over
again.”
Jim was hovering over Judith’s shoulder. “Do you
see the part where we said he drove Margie to depression? And ruined his children’s lives?”
Judith did, and despite Addison’s professional reservations, she read the sentences aloud:
“ ‘Bob Sr. was so selfish and self-absorbed that he
could offer his wife of twenty-five years no sympathy
or understanding, even when her emotional problems
threatened to undermine her physical as well as her
mental health. His legacy to his children is not that of
a loving, caring father, but a cold, conceited athlete
who demanded excellence from Nancy and Bob Jr. but
who never gave them the slightest word of encourage-212
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ment, much less any sign of real love. He will be
missed by some of his cronies from the sports world,
but not by his family.’ ” Judith was appalled, and could
hardly blame Addison for looking outraged. But she’d
had to know what was in the scurrilous obituary.