Hiss of Death: A Mrs. Murphy Mystery Read online

  “Not a chance.” Pewter tossed her head.

  “Well, she does have that on her mind,” Tucker said.

  “Pewter’s right. Mom’s displaying that nosy look. First there was the distressed look and the weird smell, and now there’s the nosy look.” Mrs. Murphy batted the blue rubber bone.

  Tucker sighed. “Yeah, I know. I was hoping I was wrong. That nosy look is never good for her.”

  “ ‘Her’? It’s never good for us,” Pewter said with conviction.

  The sun bathed the mountains, meadows, and rooftops in soft afternoon light. Harry—an art history major who had graduated from Smith—always thought of this time of day as being wrapped in spun gold. People who didn’t know her well would ask how she shifted from Smith to down-and-dirty farming, and Harry answered truthfully that farming taught her to appreciate nineteenth-century painting. Her eye—good to begin with, and trained at Smith—found in nature such symmetry, change, and ravishing beauty that farming was the perfect life for an art history major.

  In an hour, the sun’s outer rim would dip behind the Blue Ridge Mountains. The colors depended on the pollen in the air, dust particles, and the angle of the sun to the earth. Most spring sunsets, like today’s in late April, were a clear sky, which then deepened. However, if there were clouds, the colors radiated salmon, peach, and periwinkle, with streaks of flaming scarlet. This would settle into lavenders, dusty roses, and finally purple, transforming into a pulsating Prussian blue. As for the mountains, the shadows in the deep crevices and bowls turned from dove gray to gray to charcoal and finally black. The normal blue of the mountains became a cobalt blue with dark gray streaks until at last sky and mountains accepted nightfall.

  She would turn forty-one in August. With the exception of college in Northampton, Massachusetts, and weekends at Yale and Dartmouth, as well as Boston, her life was in central Virginia. She loved New York City, but what art history major wouldn’t? For graduation, her parents, not rich, had sent her to Europe. Susan’s parents sent her, too. The friends went to different colleges, but instead of weakening their bond, it had strengthened it. Harry loved England and Ireland, especially the countryside. The biggest surprise to both of them was how small Europe was. Driving east through Austria, they realized an hour would dump them into Hungary. Even Germany, a relatively large country in Europe, seemed tiny compared to the United States. But art, well, Harry often thought of what she had seen in galleries, in cathedrals, and on the people themselves. The Viennese were stylish, the Parisians more so in an obvious manner; the Berliners and Hamburgers certainly threw themselves together; and then there was London. Somehow she expected everyone to look like the since-departed, much-loved Queen Mum. The Brits’ reputation for dowdiness was undeserved. Wherever she and Susan traveled, they were dazzled by the artifacts and the people, all of whom were kind to two kids from Virginia.

  Much as she learned and loved it all, looking at the mountains, seeing the peach trees in full bloom, the pastures turning an impossible emerald green, she knew she’d be a country girl forever. Given the lump in her breast, Harry wondered how long forever would be. Putting that out of her mind, as well as the nasty fact that Wednesday loomed, for it was already Sunday, she handed Cynthia Cooper a gin rickey.

  “When did you learn to make one of these?” Coop admired the tall, thin glass, leaning back in the lawn chair in Harry’s backyard. “My mother used to make these, and gin and tonics.”

  “Once the weather turned, right? That’s when your mother made them?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, I am officially welcoming spring. We’re more than a month on the other side of the equinox, but damn, March twenty-first was cold. It’s stayed cold. Today feels like spring, the light looks like spring.”

  “Yes, it does.” Coop gratefully sipped the drink, her fingerprints on the frosted glass. “Did your mother show you how to make a gin rickey?”

  “She did. One and one-half ounces of good gin. Momma stressed good. Juice of half a lime and ice-cold club soda. Fill the glass with ice, then add the gin and lime juice, and finally fill it up with club soda. But you know, I’ve turned into a lazy toad. If it takes preparation I don’t do much, and that includes food—unless we’re entertaining or if Fair’s had a brutal day.”

  “We’re all starved for time, aren’t we?” Coop pondered.

  “My mother always arranged fresh flowers; she handed Dad a Scotch and soda the minute he walked through the door. She made meals with fresh ingredients. Who can live like that anymore?” Harry shrugged.

  “I don’t know. I’m lucky if I have time to water my garden. The sheriff’s department hasn’t hired new people since the crash. We need help. I’m working more hours than ever,” Coop noted.

  Then Coop added, “Seems like a lame excuse. My mother did it all herself, and she worked as a telephone operator, long hours sometimes. I don’t know as she had any more time than I do.”

  “Mine, too. She worked in the library both because they needed the money and she loved it. You know, she’s been dead for eighteen years. Dad, too; one really couldn’t live without the other, and I think about them every day. I miss them, I’d give anything to talk to them. You’re lucky yours are still with you.”

  “I am. Say, how did it go packing up Paula’s?”

  “Great. So many people turned up to help the Bentons, we had it all knocked out by three-thirty. Hey, Paula’s nickname was Pooch. Her mother told me.”

  “Funny.” Coop took a long sip, then closed her eyes, leaning back on the lawn chair.

  Both women wore sweaters, for the mercury stubbornly hung at fifty-four degrees all day. However, it was such a lovely time of day, just six P.M., both wanted to be outside.

  The cats sat on the fence to watch the horses. Tucker flopped on her side, slept under Harry’s lawn chair.

  “Rick’s on a diet,” Coop said, referring to her boss, Sheriff Rick Shaw. “His mood is like the stock market.”

  “And you’re in the squad car with him most of the time.”

  “Friday he plucked my last nerve. I told him his wife could divorce him, I can’t. Take pity on me. Made him laugh. He’s not really that out of shape. Ten pounds. If he loses that, he’ll look good. No, he wants to go back to his weight when he played football for Davidson.”

  “Give him credit for a high goal.”

  “He was the middle linebacker. You know that, I think. He’s got that linebacker brain, which is actually about perfect for law enforcement: Stop the run!”

  Harry laughed. “Guess it is.”

  “Oh, I did a little research on the scarab beetle. It isn’t a symbol of death. First, I’m sorry it took me a while.”

  “Don’t apologize. We’re both busy as cat’s hair.”

  The cats, with their sharp hearing, turned to look at Harry, who was about fifty yards from where they sat.

  “Is that a slur?” Pewter wondered.

  “Nah, it’s one of those expressions that doesn’t exactly make sense. You know, like ‘the exception proves the rule’.”

  “I don’t get that one, either,” Pewter agreed. “She has quite a few. ‘A square peg in a round hole’ confuses me. She doesn’t own any square pegs.”

  Back on the lawn, Cooper shared her research. “The Egyptians thought the dung beetle, the scarab beetle, kept the sun moving. That’s why they were so important. If they stopped rolling the sun, we’d all die. Turns out, obviously, once I got on the Internet I couldn’t stop.” Coop paused. “Maybe that’s why our mothers could accomplish so much. No Internet. Your mother would have been obsessed with it.”

  “You’re probably right, but she loved holding a book in her hands, so perhaps she could moderate her impulse to know everything right this minute.”

  “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Coop took another delicious sip. “Back to the poop, literally. Turns out, Harry, that the dung beetle is the strongest beetle in the world. The male can pull one thousand one hundre
d and forty-one times his own body weight.”

  “I’ll be. I’m as amazed that you’ve remembered all this.”

  “Got hooked. Plus, I’m a cop. I’m trained to remember detail.” Coop said this not realizing Harry really was going to get hooked midweek. “Okay, there’s more. If you and I were that strong, we’d be able to pull six double-decker London buses filled with passengers.”

  “Jeez.” Harry began to admire the beetle.

  “Furthermore, the males battle rivals. They descend into the tunnels the female digs under dung. If another male is there, they duke it out. Has to be the heavyweight contest of the world. They actually lock horns. Whoever pushes out his opponent wins.”

  “Actually, Coop, the female wins, which is the way of the world.”

  The tall, lean deputy thought about this. “True. That explains so much male dysfunction, which I see every day, whether it’s violence, drunkenness, crazy risks. Most crimes are committed by men, and there are millions of unhappy men out there. For some, the unhappiness turns to anger. They have to lash out at somebody or something.”

  “Funny. When I was young and the feminist movement was firing up, Mother always said that it didn’t matter how much political power men had. Nature had given women the most powerful weapons.”

  “Your mother had a lot of insight. Even the Muslim radicals can’t control women one hundred percent. Instead, they kill them.”

  “We don’t have to look to the Mideast for nutcases.”

  “Right. How’d we get from dung beetles to this?”

  “Friendship. One of the greatest joys of my life is sitting talking to you, to someone I love, and letting our minds go wherever.”

  “It’s a luxury, isn’t it?” Coop said.

  “ ’Tis. Thanks for the research.”

  “Glad to do it.”

  “I keep wondering whether Paula saw something amiss at the hospital. In my head, there was no crime committed, but my weakness is I want a reason.”

  “Your weakness is you want the truth. Millions are satisfied with a reason that has no relationship to the truth. Think about that. Every day I see people who are so irrational, so completely off the rails. Even worse, some of them are armed.”

  “Yes, but if we give up our guns, then only the criminals have them.”

  “I know. Listen, I don’t know any of us who are in law enforcement who don’t have our concealed-weapon permit for when we’re off-duty. You see too much, and, Harry, it happens so fast.”

  “I don’t know how you do it.”

  “Sometimes I wonder why I am out there, but I really believe I’m making a difference, and that makes me feel like I’m living a life of purpose.”

  “You are. And you’re a good researcher, too.”

  Coop smiled. “Your beetle has led you nowhere, at least as far as unexplained natural death is concerned.”

  “True, but it led me closer to you.”

  • • •

  That night, wrapped up in Fair’s arms to go to sleep, Harry told him about her conversation with Coop.

  “Coop’s a deeper thinker than I give her credit for,” he said.

  Fair always loved holding Harry, but since her news, the uncertainty, he didn’t want to let her go. He was trying not to let his fear show. She was taking it better than he was.

  “That she is,” said Harry. “Honey, apart from Paula’s untimely passing, which couldn’t be helped, and my needing tests, it’s been awfully quiet. I could use a little excitement.”

  The cats—at the foot of the bed—and Tucker—on the rug by the bed—perked up.

  Mrs. Murphy spoke for the other two: “Mom, be careful what you wish for.”

  When you look back on things, they’re clear. When you’re in the middle of them, they’re a mess.” Susan cupped her hand under Harry’s elbow to walk her out to the parking lot.

  “Susan, I’m not recovering from anesthesia.”

  Susan dropped her hand. “Right, but that was unpleasant.”

  “Damn straight.”

  Wednesday, nine on the dot, Harry and Susan appeared at Dr. Jennifer Potter’s office. While Dr. Potter used Central Virginia Hospital for large, complicated procedures, she could perform simpler procedures in her office. Most patients hated the idea of being in a hospital.

  The expense of the equipment she’d purchased made the young woman worry that she’d be paying those bills into her mid-fifties. The uproar over healthcare reform amplified that worry. Like many physicians, Dr. Potter considered raising prices, but so many people labored now just to make ends meet. She didn’t want to raise her rates. She figured she’d learn to live with less.

  Regina MacCormack provided Harry with a list of doctors who could perform the procedure of harvesting her breast cells. In some cases, a surgeon wasn’t needed. A physician specializing in oncology, such as Cory Schaeffer, could perform it. However, Dr. MacCormack believed Dr. Potter was the quickest and the best. She always figured out the quickest way to deliver any necessary discomfort. No reason to keep anyone on the table too long.

  Harry submitted to the process, and Dr. Potter liked having Susan there to support Harry. Fair wanted to be there, but Harry forbade him. For one thing, Alicia’s wonderful mare was about to foal, a late foaling. For another thing, she’d known her husband since childhood. He was more upset than she was. He didn’t need the added stress, nor did she in worrying about him later.

  She had to lie down on a padded table and drop her right breast through an opening in the table, which was then adjusted to fit and hold her breast secure.

  Before this, Dr. Potter smeared the spot with lidocaine and God knows what else. It tingled. Once the numbing agent took full effect, the procedure started.

  It was mercifully short, but Harry sure felt the hook and snatch. There was a puncture wound but no obvious incision. A Band-Aid took care of that.

  Like most horse people, Harry was tough.

  Stoic or not, the body knows it is under attack. She sweated, felt a trifle woozy, but recovered as she sat up. She hadn’t eaten breakfast to prevent any possible nausea.

  Dr. Potter told her she could leave, as she’d gotten a good sample from the growth. Harry liked Jennifer Potter. Everyone did.

  Toni Enright—who came in to assist because Harry had helped so much on the 5K—walked them to the door. “Harry, whatever the result, you’re in good hands. I hope it’s nothing, really.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Thanks, Toni,” Susan said at the office door.

  Once in her Volvo station wagon, Harry exhaled.

  “Why don’t you let me drive?” Susan offered. “I’ve wanted to do that.”

  “Thanks, Susan. I guess I’m shakier than I think, huh?”

  “I don’t know if I could do it. They’d have to knock me out.”

  “Oh, you could. Doesn’t last long, and I’ll tell you what, hurt like hell. I’m not doing that again.”

  They switched places. Harry showed Susan how to keep her foot on the brake, push in the rectangular key, and then press a button next to that to start the engine.

  “Can’t carmakers use a simple key anymore?”

  “Apparently not. I hate it, too, but I love the wagon.”

  They drove to a T intersection, and Susan turned right onto the two-lane highway, heading for Charlottesville.

  “Don’t want to take Sixty-four?” Harry mentioned the interstate.

  “No. I want to see how this handles on twisty roads.”

  “You picked a good one. I like it. I never thought I’d drive a station wagon. I like your Audi, but it costs more than the Volvo. You’ve got everything on your wagon.”

  “Fair was right to buy this Volvo for you. It’s a lot of car for a good price. If he’d bought you one like mine or the Mercedes wagon, you’d have had a fit. You needed a safe vehicle, a station wagon, to haul stuff but something that doesn’t gulp gas like the old F-One-fifty.”

  “I like the Tahoe, but I’ll
admit it isn’t good on gas. The Volvo’s center of gravity is lower, too. Hey, did I tell you about Cory Schaeffer’s Lampo?”

  “Did. He’s a bit of a pompous ass.”

  “What he is is a holier-than-thou liberal, and I don’t like them any more than the nuts on the far right fringe.”

  “Remember how your mother used to call liberals the people to the left of Pluto? What’d she call the right-wingers?” Susan thought a moment, then smiled. “To the right of Genghis Khan.”

  They both laughed, remembering Harry’s mother.

  “You’re not taking me home in my own car?”

  “You didn’t eat breakfast. I’m taking you to the club,” Susan said.

  As they tackled waffles drenched in Vermont maple syrup, grits swimming in butter, and a thin slice of early melon, they didn’t avoid the pressing subject. Until the results came in, though, there wasn’t much to say.

  Back in the wagon, Harry now driving, Susan asked, “Will you swing by Charlottesville Press?”

  “Sure.”

  Charlottesville Press on Harris Street stayed afloat, even with home printers. You couldn’t get married without them. Well, a Virginian could pay for the invitations to be printed by Tiffany. But Tiffany now used Crane papers more than their own, so no Tiffany watermark. What was the point? Then again, the bride’s parents, trying to save money, could print them themselves or go to someone using a laser printer. While it saved bundles, one slipped precipitously on the social scale. Much as such things shouldn’t matter, they did.

  Is there a Southerner, male or female, who doesn’t hold paper up to the light to see the watermark? Probably, but neither Harry nor Susan nor their husbands fell into that lot. All of their mothers would be turning over in their graves if things were not properly done.

  Susan—with two children of marriageable age, one male, one female—had so far been spared the expense of a blowout wedding. She was, however, in charge of the gold invitational banquet for the Multiple Sclerosis Foundation. The invitations had to be perfect. Perfect. The fees for the feast proved rather steep. Hence Charlottesville Press. The invitation had to match the elegance of the event held at Keswick Hall.