home tomorrow?”
“You mean Blanche Van Boeck isn’t evicting me
today?” Renie asked, faintly surprised.
Dr. Ming laughed as he backed away from the bed.
“No, she’s too busy.” He glanced at his watch. “In
fact, in about twenty minutes, Blanche is going to
hold a press conference just down the hall. If you’re
not doing anything else, Mrs. Jones, you might want
to listen in. I’m sure she’ll have some words of wisdom for us all.”
Renie sneered, but said nothing until Dr. Ming had
left. “Why is Blanche holding her damned press conference out in the hall? Why not the foyer? Or the auditorium? I assume they have one. Teaching hospitals
always do.”
“Don’t ask me,” Judith responded without enthusiasm. She couldn’t take her mind off Joe, though something else was niggling at her brain. Not that it had
anything to do with her husband. Or did it? Judith was
afraid that the anesthetic had dulled her usually logical
mind. “Blanche held that other press conference out in
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the hall,” she pointed out. “Maybe she likes the intimacy.”
Renie had gotten out of bed again. The icicles were
definitely thawing, in big, heavy drips. “Hey,” Renie
said, excited, “there are some workmen out in the
parking lot. It looks as if they’re clearing off the cars
that have been stuck there.”
“Good.” Judith shifted positions, trying to get more
comfortable. The sound of happy voices in the hallway
distracted her. “Who’s out there?” she asked Renie.
“Huh?” Renie turned toward the door. “I can’t
see . . . Oh, it’s the Randall kids. Jeez, they’re practically skipping down the hall.” She moved as quickly as
she could to watch their progress, which halted at the
elevator. “They’re high-fiving,” she said. “What’s
going on with this family? Whatever happened to
proper respect and bereavement?”
Judith’s interest perked up. “They’re glad he’s
dead,” she declared. “That’s the only possible explanation.”
As the brother and sister disappeared inside the elevator, Renie stared at her cousin. “Do you think they
killed Bob Randall?”
Judith shook her head. “No. I can’t imagine an entire family plotting to murder another relative. I mean,
I can, but it seems unlikely.”
“Hold it,” Renie said, sitting down in Judith’s visitor’s chair. “What are the three guidelines Joe uses
when it comes to homicide? Motive, means, and opportunity, right?”
“Right.” Judith was looking dubious. “Okay, so
Margie had all three, assuming she really hated Bob. In
fact, she indicated that she may have delivered something lethal to each of the victims.”
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Renie raised a hand in protest. “Who told you she
admitted being the so-called vessel? It was Bob Jr., not
Margie. How do we know Margie ever said such a
thing?”
“Good point. But either way, it assumes that
Margie—or her son—knew what was in Joan’s Italian
soda, Joaquin’s juice, and Bob’s booze. Why would
Margie admit such a thing to anyone?”
“Because she’s a total ditz?” Renie offered.
“I don’t think she’s as much of a ditz as she pretends,” Judith said. “I think Margie—if she really said
it in the first place—was speaking metaphorically.
Why would she go to all that trouble to kill Joan and
Joaquin before finally getting to Bob? And why kill
him here, in the hospital? She could have slipped him
a little something at home.”
“What about the others? Bob Jr. and Nancy and even
Jim?” Renie asked. “Could one of them have used
Margie?”
“As ‘the vessel’?” Judith gave her cousin an ironic
smile. “Maybe. But why kill the other two? We haven’t
seen any connection between Joaquin Somosa and
Joan Fremont and Bob Randall Sr.—except that they
were all well-known, successful individuals.”
Renie looked thoughtful. “I know that Margie and
Jim both evinced a certain amount of sadness at the
time of Bob’s death. But then they let loose, and the funeral hasn’t even taken place yet. What do you think?
Denial? Relief? Hysteria?”
Slowly Judith shook her head. “It’s impossible to
figure out because we don’t know them. You have to
consider who benefits from any or all of the three
deaths. Apparently, not the Randalls. Bob Sr. was
worth more to them alive. Stage actresses in repertory
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273
theaters don’t earn that much. Of course you have to
consider insurance policies, but would Joan or Bob
have had huge amounts? That means expensive premiums. Bob was probably insured to the max when in his
playing days, but the team, not Margie, probably was
the beneficiary. And he didn’t really play ball in the era
of million-dollar quarterbacks.”
“Somosa might have had a big personal policy, since
he did play in the era of million-dollar pitchers,” Renie
pointed out. “But Mrs. Somosa was in the Dominican
Republic when Joan and Bob died. That bursts that
balloon.”
Judith looked startled. “What?”
“I said, that bursts that . . .”
“Balloons,” Judith broke in. “What about the guy
who delivered the balloons and the cardboard cutout to
Bob’s room after he came back from surgery? Did you
get a good look at him?”
“No,” Renie confessed. “He went by too fast. And I
was still sort of groggy. The only thing I really remember besides what he was carrying was that his
shoes didn’t match.”
“Interesting.” Judith paused for a moment. “What
if he also delivered the Wild Turkey? They must
know at the desk who came in.”
“Probably,” Renie said, then stopped as a chattering
stream of people began to filter down the hall, accompanied by TV equipment and snaking cables.
“It must be the newshounds arriving for Blanche’s
announcement,” Judith said. “Help me get into the
wheelchair. I want to hear this.”
It was a bit of a struggle, but the cousins managed it.
Judith, who was becoming accustomed to the wheelchair’s vagaries, was able to propel herself into the
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doorway, where she sat with Renie standing next to
her. At least thirty people had filled the corridor. Sister
Jacqueline was one of them, and she didn’t look happy.
While the reporters and cameramen positioned
themselves, Dr. Van Boeck and Dr. Garnett appeared,
coming from different directions. Judith noted that Dr.
Van Boeck didn’t look much the worse for his collapse
the previous day, though both physicians seemed grim.
At last, the elevator doors opened and the star of the
show made her entrance. Blanche Van Boeck had shed
her furs, revealing what Renie whispered was a gray
Armani suit. Knee-high boots and a black turban completed the ensemble. “Big bucks,” Renie noted as
Blanche passed by on her way to the alcove down the
hall.
Judith gestured at the empty doorway across the
hall. “No Mr. Mummy,” she murmured. “Where do
you suppose he is?”
Renie shrugged as Sister Jacqueline found herself
being pushed back in the cousins’ direction.
“Excuse me,” the nun apologized, bumping into Judith’s wheelchair. “This is quite a mob. I wish Mrs.