Hiss of Death: A Mrs. Murphy Mystery (10 page)

Virginia’s plate background for the last three decades was white and the letters and numerals were dark blue, easily read from twenty yards. Now plates had yellow swallowtail butterflies, the state insect. Others celebrated Jamestown, the beginnings of English settlement in 1607. Others honored war veterans, the exact war being specified. Foxhunters even had their own license plates—very pretty, too. You could get plates signifying your college. Pleasant though it was for those people willing to pay the extra dollars for the license plates with some meaning to them, this personalization created confusion.

Sheriff Shaw, Coop, and the people in his department, as well as any law enforcement officer in Virginia, simply memorized the plates. But a citizen in an accident—say, a hit-and-run—might not be able to identify the license plates on the fast-receding vehicle. The various surrounding colors and logos obscured for them the vital information, plus people in accidents were rattled as it was.

“I’m waiting for golfers to get their plate.” Rick closed the laptop as Coop parked the squad car.

“The logo will read ‘Put a tiger in your tank.’ ” Coop used the old Esso ad slogan from decades past but referred to the world’s most famous golfer.

Rick laughed. “If I’d done even ten percent of the stuff that guy did, I’d be singing soprano. Helen scares me,” he said, naming his wife.

“Oh, she does not.”

As they both got out of the squad car, he replied, “Just a little. Helen sees things I don’t. I can never tell if it’s because she’s a woman or if it’s because she’s so damned smart.”

“A little of both.” Coop liked Rick’s wife.

A sharp odor made them cough. The ruins still smoldered. Firemen remained on duty. But this was a bit different than the usual charred timber, insulation ashes smell.

“Plastic?”

“Dunno.” Rick shrugged as they walked toward Big Al Vitebsk, Pinnacle’s owner, who was talking to one of the firemen.

As Pinnacle was on Harris Street in Charlottesville, this was not Rick’s
jurisdiction. Al and Nita Vitebsk lived in the county. Everyone knew Big Al. He was one of those guys who throws himself into any charity work with enthusiasm. For years he had headed the Easter Seals drive, as well as giving generously to the Reformed Temple, of which he was a valued member.

“Sheriff.” Big Al turned to greet Rick. “Hello, Coop. Well, this is a goddamned mess.”

“Yeah, came to see it myself. I’m sorry, Al,” Rick commiserated.

The six-three, three-hundred-pound man shrugged. “My turn, I guess.”

“I’m glad everyone got out safely.”

“Even JoJo.”

JoJo, a medium-sized adorable mutt with floppy ears and a coat the color of apricots, sat in Big Al’s Range Rover, windows down. Big Al didn’t want his best friend to rush into the hot ruins and burn his pads. JoJo was smarter than that, but if Big Al had walked into it, so would JoJo. Rescued from the pound at five months old, JoJo loved Big Al as only a dog can love. And Big Al loved him in return.

“Nita okay?” Rick asked.

“She’s tough. Hell, she married me,” Big Al joked.

“Got that right.” Rick smiled. “Do you know how this started?”

“Right now, no. Until they can get in there, I don’t think we’ll know. I just hope it’s not something like faulty wiring. I run a tight ship, Rick, but things can slip by or just fool you. Look what happened down at Round Hill Industries. The whole roof collapsed last winter, and the roof had been built to code in 1995. Stuff happens.”

“It does, but we live in a society where blame has to be apportioned and attached to a person. I’m with you, buddy, whatever went wrong, I sure hope it isn’t something like wiring.”

“I hope the records in the heavy vaults survived. Once the terrible heat subsides, I’ll open them. Might take a day or two. I wouldn’t want to touch the locks, even with firemen’s gloves.” He stopped. “The old records, the ones back to the forties. I don’t know.”

“Those in the vaults probably survived,” Rick said.

“That old paper—” Big Al shrugged, not wishing to finish the thought. “Hope some of it survived, but the heat had to impact the
inside of the vault. It’s just flames can’t get in. I advised everyone placing old records with me to have them microfilmed. Of course, the newspaper has both microfilm from the old days and everything on thumb drives. But the old pharmacy that used to be a bank on the mall, the old stables on Main Street that were torn apart in 1919—those records are stored here. The inheritors of those old businesses knew records might be of some importance later to a historian, but they didn’t make copies.”

“It’s time-consuming, costly, and most folks think the world started when they came into it. Tell you what, I am indebted to anyone who has kept records. Every now and then I’ll yank up a cold case, some of them from the turn of the last century. If I had better records, I just might be able to close the case. Even though everyone is dead. Modern technology can help you—say, if there are hair samples. Methods have improved greatly.”

As the two men talked, Coop walked over, chatted with the fireman, then reached into the Range Rover to pet JoJo.

“Glad you’re in one piece.”

“Thank you,”
JoJo said, wagging his luxurious tail.
“Coop, the fire wasn’t an accident. When I came to work with Dad, I smelled a nasty odor. I think that’s what started the fire.”

With senses beyond human imagining, JoJo may have jumped to conclusions, but then again, because he listened to Big Al, Nita, and their employees, he knew how critical some of the stored information was.

I
just saw your husband!” Franny Howard exclaimed, catching sight of Harry standing in an aisle at Southern States.

Putting back the box of cat treats, Harry started to roll her cart toward Franny, who zoomed toward her. “What are you reading?” Franny asked.

“The label. I only buy cat food, dog food, and treats that have a high meat content. And I sure never buy anything if I know it comes from China. What scares me is how easy it is for companies to hide such vital information.”

“Wasn’t that an awful mess?” Franny referred to the contaminated pet food China sold to the United States a few years back.

“Not as bad as the contaminated milk.” Harry wondered how Chinese authorities could miss these abuses and put up with such a flagrant lack of standards.

“They killed the executives of the company responsible.” Franny leveled her amazing dark blue eyes at Harry. “And I applaud them. I don’t care how brutal it sounds. What happens here? A company president hires a PR firm, spin control. Then they hire a battery of slick lawyers, you know, the kind that could get Uncle Billy Sherman’s march to the sea considered trespassing? No punishment to speak of, and no accountability. There, I’ve had my rant and feel much the better for it. How do you feel?”

Harry burst out laughing. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“Isn’t that a nice way to say ‘Bullshit’?”

“Franny, you’re a Virginian. You know if that’s what I thought, I’d say ‘That’s incredible.’ ”

Now it was Franny’s turn to explode. “Girl, I need to see more of you. Don’t you need a new set of tires for that antique truck you drive?”

“Actually, I do, and I was going to bring it up. I do go off the road with it. I mean, not over boulders and the kind of stuff Jeep Rubicons do, but I am out in the fields, crossing shallow fords. It’s my go-to farm truck.”

“What about the dually Fair bought you some years back?”

“I don’t count that. It’s a dedicated vehicle. Anyway, it sucks gas like a boozehound hits Wild Turkey.”

By “dedicated vehicle,” Harry meant that the dually pulled their horse trailer or the heavily loaded hay wagon. The mighty machine did not make runs to the grocery store. It hauled, and that was that. Harry thought this was a good financial strategy, because the truck would last longer. A tricked-out dually, regular cab, would run forty-two thousand dollars. Add an extended cab or double doors and you tipped fifty thousand dollars. Astronomical. Her dually had better last twenty years.

“A lot of people do that. I just haul with a three-quarter-ton, no double wheels. But I don’t pull the loads you do, either. Now, while I have you”—she glanced at her watch, once her mother’s—“I can sell you any kind of tire you want for your F-One-fifty. 1978. Right?”

“How’d you remember?”

“If it has wheels on it, I remember. It’s my business. Bring her in. I’ll show you Bridgestones, Goodriches, and a pair of Goodyears. Nothing fancy. Come on to the shop. I’ll give you a preacher’s price.” She paused. “Even with that, Harry, a good set will put you back between six hundred and eight hundred dollars.”

“Thanks, Franny. I’ll come on Tuesday.”

“Hate to run after I’ve chewed your ear off, but our support group meets at two.”

“What support group?”

“Cancer. I ran the five-K. Well, you didn’t notice. You were at the table, and I checked in through email.”

“When did you have cancer?”

“I don’t know when it started. I only know when my annual checkup chest X ray showed some wonky cells in my lungs. Three years ago. Lung cancer can be a bad one, I tell you. Doesn’t have the best survival rate. Anyway, Paula Benton and I are—I mean, were—friends. She was the facilitator of this group. Those people pulled me through. Now, even though I’m clear, I go. My turn to help someone else. If only I could have helped Paula. You never know. I heard they found nothing.”

“Franny, I didn’t know you had lung cancer. I’m so sorry. I would have done something to help.”

A stern look passed over Franny’s attractive features, and she touched Harry’s hand. “Let me tell you something. I don’t care who knows now, but I cared then. There is still a prejudice against cancer, especially—and I emphasize especially—if you’re working in a big corporation or own a business. We’d just begun to hit the skids—the economy, I mean; I was in the process of refinancing the loan on the Safe Tire complex. I’m not so sure I would have gotten that loan if United Assets had known.” She named a bank that had merged so many times it now had the most innocuous name possible.

Its headquarters was in Memphis, Tennessee.

“I had no idea.”

“No one does until it happens to them. A cancer sufferer is marked. Oh, some places are better than others. I can rattle off a large brokerage house in town that stands behind its people one hundred percent and doesn’t hold back on the promotions, either.” She snatched a huge bag of catnip off the shelf. “I’ll give this to you Tuesday. That way I know you’ll be properly bribed.”

Harry laughed again. You had to like Franny.

Franny continued, “I do have to run, and I am sorry if I rattled on. The last thing to die on me will be my mouth. And hey, I haven’t even told you about some of my records burning to a toasty crisp in the Pinnacle Records conflagration. That’s another story. A hot one.”

With that she wheeled her cart around and sped for the counter checkout, waving without looking back.

Harry’s eyes followed her. She thought to herself, There’s a lot I don’t know, and I’m terrified I’m going to find out.

Her biopsy report was due on Monday. She’d push it out of her mind, and then, like a flea you think you’ve brushed off, back the worry would hop.

•    •    •

As Harry filled her cart, Big Al was kneeling down with the fire chief, Greg Miller, outside the Pinnacle Records building. A team of three people—wearing protective clothing, because there were still hot spots—filled nonflammable containers with samples of soot, ash, debris. The containers, built to dissipate the heat, did a pretty good job, but one still needed to wear heavy gloves.

The structure stood, charred but intact. The inside, however, no longer existed, except for the vaults. The meeting rooms, the rooms where people could lock the doors and go through their files, and the front offices were all gone.

Greg pointed to the base of the building. Then he walked Al alongside, stopping at a series of small charred canisters.

“Basic but effective. Gasoline, and I think it’s been enriched with something else. I don’t know. The fire was deliberate.”