Hiss of Death: A Mrs. Murphy Mystery (15 page)

“She’s fine,”
Pewter called over her shoulder.

Tucker paid no attention, slipping through the animal door in the closed tack room door.

“Hello.” Removing a bit from a bridle, Harry smiled.

“Mother, you should pull a jacket over your sweater. It’s chilly.”

Harry had no idea of her dog’s concern, but she reached down to scratch those glossy ears.

A small electric wall unit kept the tack room warm. Harry dialed it on at night before retiring, keeping the temperature at sixty-two degrees. A sweater kept her warm enough. The frosts had vanished right around April 15, along with everyone’s money. By mid-May, the night temperatures hovered in the high forties, low fifties, although occasionally a night could get cold. In the morning, a light frost would silver the western side of the hills, the northernmost pastures, only to evaporate when the sun at last reached them.

Today the mercury would climb into the middle sixties, perfect for outdoor work. Stitches or not, Harry was determined to knock out some chores. A farmer doesn’t make money sitting on her nether regions.

What Harry had not foreseen was how tired she would get, even at the beginning of the day. She forced herself to keep going, having been up since 5:30
A.M.
Fair had an early-morning emergency: A horse roared through a fence, cutting up its leg. So many horse injuries were fence-related.

She reached into the small refrigerator and pulled out a Coca-Cola, gulping it down.

“I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”

Tucker wisely noted,
“Your body’s been under assault. Sleep heals. Why don’t you go back to bed?”

The phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Harry.” Big Mim’s voice sounded startlingly clear. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. How good of you to call.”

“Well, I’ve been through it. As soon as Jim and I return, I’ll visit, but do take care, and don’t try to do too much. You’re bad that way.” In her
mid-seventies, called the “Queen of Crozet” behind her back, Big Mim had known Harry since she was born.

“Well, I’m bored already, but I won’t be stupid. If I don’t take care, the healing will take that much longer.”

“What about chemo and radiation?”

“A short course of radiation. Start in two weeks.”

“Just get it over with, and don’t be surprised if you get burned. Radiation does burn.”

“How’s Austria?”

“Beautiful, as always. We’re in the Alps now. We stayed in Vienna for a week. Really, it is the most civilized city, and whenever I return I wonder why I stayed away for so long. However, I’ve discovered my German isn’t as serviceable as I’d hoped. That’s what I get for not taking a brushup course. Once you’re up and running, check on my horses. I know my team does a fabulous job, just fabulous, but you’re so good that way.”

“Thank you. Fair was over there last week.”

“No problem, I hope.” Big Mim’s voice rose.

“No. He wanted to check on Mind Game’s foal,” Harry said, mentioning one of Big Mim’s best flat-racing mares who had foaled in late January. The sire, Tapit, stood at Gainesway Farm in Kentucky for fifty thousand dollars. While that stud fee was completely out of reach for Harry, Big Mim could easily swing it. A shrewd breeder, Big Mim knew Tapit to be a bargain. She also knew, given the percentage of winners to the percentage of runners, the Tapit-sired stud fee would climb once the depression was over. “Growing like a weed and so correct, Big Mim. Breathtaking.”

“If she has her mother’s mind and her father’s constitution, then I’ve got everything. If ever a horse was aptly named, it’s Mind Game. To change the subject, how is my aunt?”

“As you would expect.”

“I see.” Big Mim lived in fear of what Aunt Tally would do next, since the old lady felt at age one hundred that the rules of propriety no longer applied to her.

Actually, Tally had felt that at twenty as well.

“What time is it there?” Harry asked.

“One-thirty.”

“You sound clear as a bell,” she marveled.

“When cellphones work, they are incredible. Well, Sugar, do take care. Jim and I are thinking about you. Oh, one more thing. Miranda.”

Big Mim was referring to Miranda Hogendobber, the woman with whom Harry formerly worked at the post office. In many ways, Miranda was like a second mother to Harry. The good woman, a contemporary of Big Mim’s, was down in South Carolina, where her sister was dying of cancer. What she thought would be a short trip had turned into an extended stay. The breast cancer had proved so aggressive, it baffled Didee’s doctors.

“Spoke to her last night,” Harry said. “I don’t think her sister has long to live.”

“Oh, dear. Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but Didee has had her threescore and ten and more, as have I. If we go, it’s in the nature of things. If
you
go, it’s far too early, so
do
what the doctor says.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Harry said goodbye. She knew once Big Mim came home, she’d watch Harry like a hawk. The elegant older woman had been a friend of Harry’s mother, and would consider it her duty to make sure Harry behaved.

•    •    •

As Harry considered her good fortune at having such wonderful friends, Dr. Cory Schaeffer arrived early at work. Like Dr. MacCormack, his office was in another of the modern buildings off the main circular drive. He’d often arrive early to enjoy the quiet. Much as he loved his children, three of them at the breakfast table could wear a guy down.

He didn’t flick on the waiting room lights, not wanting anyone to think the office was open for business. After unlocking the front door, he strode down the short hall to his private office. Putting his key in the lock, he was surprised the door was unlocked.

With concern, he pushed it open. His office, the desk, the shelves, looked just as immaculate as when he had left them. Breathing relief, he thought he’d locked his private office door, but perhaps he’d been interrupted somehow and forgot.

He walked behind his desk and stopped cold. In the center of his specially made desk—to the tune of $5,355—rested the scrubbed base of a skull. He looked around. Except for this macabre offering, all was in order. He touched the bone: cool, smooth.

Quickly he swiveled over to his computer and switched it on. He typed in the password to his private files; a busty babe appeared, then up came the lists. Also undisturbed.

Sweat beads appeared on his forehead. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a cotton handkerchief, and wiped his brow.

Someone had been in his office. Did he or she have a key? He got up and ran to the front door. No sign of forced entry. Three people had keys: himself, his assistant, and his part-time nurse for in-house procedures. But then he remembered there was a fourth: The cleaning service had one. Its employees were bonded.

Someone had easily entered his office and placed a skull fragment on his desk. That someone knew Cory could not call the sheriff’s department.

He grabbed the edge of the desk to steady himself. He was shaking like a naked man in Antarctica.

I
n the basement under the westernmost spoke of the Central Virginia Medical Complex, Harry, Toni Enright, and Franny Howard stood outside the room where the cancer support group met.

Voice low, Harry asked the other two, “What does the group do when someone dies?”

Toni replied, “We go to the funeral, of course.” She also lowered her voice. “It’s obvious that some of our number won’t be with us for long. We do what we can, and we draw closer together because it’s a reminder to everyone.”

Franny then added, “Babs Hatcher, as I’m sure you noticed, hasn’t long.”

“I did, but she seems … settled. I can’t think of another word.”

Toni nodded. “We’ve lost two of our number in the last year. That’s why we could take you. Luckily, you should be around for a long time, but Babs’s ovarian cancer, well, you know. She’s as prepared as one can be, and she sets an example for everyone else.”

Harry, who said very little in the group other than what her cancer was, asked, “Toni, have you had cancer?”

“No. Central Virginia encourages the nurses with oncology experience to be with a group. We all do it, and it’s a part of my job that I love.”

“Do any doctors ever come by?” Harry inquired.

“If the group asks, they do. Or if a new treatment is available. The
doctor gives us a talk about it. There’s so much happening with new drugs, new ideas, one person can’t keep up with it.”

“It’s a nice group of people.” Harry turned to Franny. “Thank you for telling me about it.”

Toni said, “Ladies, I have to go. Harry, I hope we see you again.”

Before Harry could reply, the next door opened. Laughter spilled out from a conference room into the hall. Thadia Martin walked out.

“Harry Haristeen? The real Mary Minor Haristeen, attack forward for Crozet High?”

It took Harry a moment to recognize Thadia. “Thadia, yes, yes, it’s me.”

Thadia, never one for subtlety, asked, “Are you all right?”

Obviously, she knew the cancer support group met at the same time as one of her drug rehab groups.

“I am now.”

“Good. There are vitamin therapies, you know, that can help people who are recovering from cancer. Well, they can help a lot of things. I get a lot of my people on these new strategies.”

Toni, shoulders tensed, interrupted, “Thadia, what works for recovering addicts and alcoholics will not necessarily work for cancer survivors.” She forced a professional smile. “With all due respect.”

Thadia ignored Toni, spoke directly to Harry. “Dr. Schaeffer is really on the cutting edge.”

Harry quipped, “As a surgeon, I expect he is.”

Toni pointedly said, “Thadia, if you’ll excuse us.”

Toni then walked back into the room, hand under Harry’s elbow. She shut the door behind her. Two other group members, in deep discussion, sat together. Franny followed in, too.

“She’s not your fav.” Harry smiled devilishly.

Toni scrunched up her face. “No. She’s so damned pushy.”

Franny supported Toni’s assessment. “That never gets a woman far in these parts, and the wonder of it is that Thadia was born and raised a Virginian.”

“Some people lack the patience for the dance of politeness.” Harry laughed. “Even back in school, Thadia was a bulldozer. She got away with it as far as she did because she’s pretty.”

“Amazing she kept her looks after all those years of self-abuse.” Franny folded her arms across her chest.

Franny changed the subject. “Toni, how’s your rattletrap doing?”

Toni laughed. “I’m going to trade it in.” She held up her hands when she saw the excitement on Harry’s face. “Don’t know yet, Harry.”

“Have you seen Alicia’s new Mustang? G-o-rgeous!”

“As is Alicia,” Franny added. “Before I forget, Toni, who has taken Paula’s place in the evening support group?”

“Violet Smith. She’s not an oncology nurse, but we’re shorthanded. Everyone is. Here we are, this unbelievable medical complex, and there’s no money for hiring. I’m sure Will”—Toni named the hospital administrator, Will Archer—“can find money for a star, but I’ll give him credit, he hasn’t hired any new doctors. I hope we pull out of this economic nosedive fast.”

Franny, ever the shrewd businesswoman, simply said, “It’s a W dive.”

“What?” Harry leaned toward her.

“They’re calling it a double dip, but that’s not really accurate. It’s a W. First, you go down one side of the W. We come back up a bit, right? Then you go down again and the second side of the W is a hell of a lot worse than the first. The forecasters, the government, no one wants to even hint at it, because that will stall out the tiny recovery we’re experiencing now. Anyway, let’s not talk about that. I can’t stand it. Back to Paula’s group. Are they all right?”

Toni shrugged. “As best they can be. Here we are, trained to deal with such matters, and she goes.” Toni snapped her fingers. “No one expected that.”

“She’s missed.” Franny then handed Harry a bag of catnip. “I promised. Sorry, I didn’t have any when you came in to get your tires. Said I would, but sometimes it’s one damn thing after another.”

“Thank you.” Harry opened the plastic container for a hit of high-powered catnip. “The kids will love it.

“Toni, did Paula have any enemies?”

Franny rolled her eyes. “Harry.”

“Well, Toni worked with her. Who knows what happens at the hospital.”

“Thadia.” Toni uttered the name.

“Why?” Harry asked, and now Franny was interested.

“Oh, the usual drama with her. She came to me after a meeting once—everyone had left, thank God—and she wanted to know what I knew about Paula and Cory Schaeffer. I told her the truth. Nothing. But she went on and on. She was convinced they were having an affair. They weren’t. I think I knew Paula as well as anyone around here, and she wasn’t interested in Cory Schaeffer. For one thing, she wanted time to herself.”

“The divorce?” Franny said.

“More or less. She was over it. That’s why she moved here, but she said so many times, ‘I never really took care of me.’ She was focusing on herself—not in a self-centered way, in a healing way. Paula wasn’t having an affair. She didn’t want one, and Cory wasn’t her type. Paula liked manly men. You know, linemen, farmers, garage mechanics.”