Hiss of Death: A Mrs. Murphy Mystery (11 page)

Al’s broad face registered shock and dismay. “Oh, no.”

“Arson. You don’t see much of this kind of thing in central Virginia.”

“Why? Look, Greg, I have backup records. Why me? Wouldn’t it make more sense if someone wanted records destroyed to go to the source first, not the backup?”

“Maybe they have. For all we know, Al, there’s a law firm in town that’s missing some highly compromising material and they don’t know yet. How many companies routinely check old files?”

Big Al nodded as he retrieved JoJo from the Range Rover. “It’s an election year next year.”

“That would be a compelling reason if you want to run and you’ve got a nasty scarlet skeleton in a closet. I ask you to think about this when you can go through your own records. My hunch—and it’s only a hunch—is that whoever burned you out knew the compromising records were not in the massive vaults. Pay special attention to the storage units that were not as secure.”

“I see.” Big Al quietly nodded, then knelt down to rub JoJo’s head.

The huge man always felt better if he could touch his dog. The grounds had cooled off enough that he could walk the perimeter with JoJo.

“Don’t worry, Daddy. I’ll protect you!”
the mixed breed promised.

Al stood up; his knees creaked a little. “Jewish lightning.”

“Beg pardon.” Greg’s eyebrows raised upward.

“When I was a kid, they called arson Jewish lightning.” He sighed deeply. “I hated that, and I hate this.”

W
hat do I do now?” Harry sat next to Dr. Regina MacCormack as the doctor pulled up information on her computer screen.

“You have choices. I can offer my advice, but you have to make the decisions.”

Harry exhaled deeply. “Tell me again what Stage One breast cancer means. Sorry to make you repeat yourself.”

Dr. MacCormack had known Harry as an acquaintance for many years, and liked her enormously. The feeling was mutual. Their hobbies were so different that when they saw each other it was usually at a fund-raiser or down at the Paramount, the rejuvenated old movie theater that had transformed itself into a cultural hot spot.

Harry, with a hint of defiance, said, “I’m not going to cry.”

“No harm in it, but I know you’re not a crier, and I also know you’ll fight.”

“I will.”

“All right. Stage One breast cancer means the cancer is in your breast. Although it doesn’t look like it, there’s the possibility that it has spread to your lymph nodes. We remove them, because they are the body’s dispatch stations. However, I don’t think your cancer has spread, and I’ve seen a lot of breast cancer. Far, far too much, really.”

“It’s an epidemic, isn’t it? An unacknowledged epidemic.”

“That’s a later discussion, but”—Regina leaned back in her seat, taking
her hand off the mouse—“something is wrong. It isn’t just breast cancer, Harry. It’s all forms of cancer. Well, I’m already getting off the track. Stage Two. The eight-year survival rate is seventy percent, quite good, and you are an excellent candidate as you have Stage One. Better survival rate.”

“Do I have to have surgery?”

“I would suggest it.” She paused. “The two best surgeons, I think, are Cory Schaeffer and Jennifer Potter.”

“I’d have a hard time trusting myself to a man who bought an electric car.”

Dr. MacCormack burst out laughing, for she knew of Harry’s fascination with cars. “He’s in love with that car.”

“Yuck. Besides, if someone is fooling around with my boob, I want it to be a woman.”

“Many women feel that way. But there are some fabulous men out there, and they are as sensitive as any woman oncologist I know.”

“Cory Schaeffer isn’t one of them,” Harry posited.

Dr. MacCormack lowered her voice, even though it was only the two of them in her office. “He does think highly of himself. You already have a relationship with Jennifer Potter. You’ll need to consult with her before your final decision, of course.”

“All right.”

“We can make an appointment for you,” Dr. MacCormack offered. “Let’s consider what’s possible. Obviously, the absolute safest course is always a radical mastectomy, because everything goes. No nasty cancer cell escapes if the cancer is contained in the breast. This is such radical surgery. But I must say, it is the most complete, and you can have the reconstructive surgery done while you’re on the table. Saves two surgeries. I don’t think you need a mastectomy, however.”

Harry slumped a little. “Thank God. I know there are worse things. I think about the men and women coming back from Iraq and Afghanistan who are blown up. This is small beans, but then again, it scares me even though I know there’s a lot more bad stuff that could happen to me or anyone.”

“You’ve got the right attitude. I knew you would. What I think will provide you with the least trauma is a lumpectomy with post-op treatment
A lumpectomy means the tumor and some surrounding tissue are removed but not your whole breast.”

“That means chemo and radiation, doesn’t it?”

“Depends. It is possible when your tumor is removed you may not require chemo and radiation, or you may not require chemo.” Noticing Harry’s quizzical look, Dr. MacCormack continued, “Based on your biopsy, the location of the tumor, it will definitely grow if unchecked. Stage One is a proper diagnosis based on the size of your tumor, just shy of one centimeter. Again, I don’t think the cancer has spread to your lymph nodes, but we won’t be one hundred percent sure of its size until it’s out. If the tumor is over one centimeter, then you are considered Stage Two. It’s not as bad as it sounds—Stage Two, I mean. We won’t know until the tumor is actually removed. But—and I emphasize
but
—to be as safe as possible, a regimen of radiation and possibly chemo after surgery is prudent. If the surgeon missed any cells or some actually have migrated—it only takes one—the treatments will kill them.”

“Might kill me, too.”

“No. You’re forty, strong, not overweight at all, no diabetes or any conditions that could compromise healing. You’ll live through it, but I’d be a liar if I said it won’t have a cumulative effect. The farther along you are in those treatments, the worse you feel. Some patients report nausea, especially with chemo, but some also feel a bit off that way with radiation. Both radiation and chemo make you tired. And I repeat, it’s cumulative.”

“How long must I submit to treatment?”

“Again, Harry, we won’t know until we have the tumor. I hope it will be a short course.” Dr. MacCormack’s voice, soothing, was a tonic in itself. “Let’s just knock this right out of you.”

“I’m for that. Is there a course of treatment that doesn’t have such awful side effects?”

“Herceptin is a new drug used to treat women with metastatic breast cancer who are HER-two-positive. You aren’t HER-two-positive.”

“Should I be glad about that?”

Dr. MacCormack nodded, then added, “About twenty-five percent of women with cancer have an excess of the protein which makes the cancer
spread quickly. Called HER-two. You don’t fall into that twenty-five percent, which I know from your bloodwork.

“However, you are premenopausal, so your body is still pumping out lots of hormones. There are drugs to inhibit the cancer getting the hormones it needs to grow. But again, you’re lucky because you don’t have hormone receptor–positive cancer. You’ve got a straightforward type of cancer. We can treat it in a straightforward way.”

“Well, it’s hard to think of myself as lucky at this moment, but I guess I am.”

“You have no idea.” Dr. MacCormack looked serious. “Again, we’ll know a lot more after the surgery, and I am already assuming you will have the tumor removed.”

“I will. I want to talk it over with Fair, but I will.”

“He’s a vet. He knows a great deal. In fact, some of what we have learned we’ve learned from cancers in dogs. Some breeds are especially prone, like golden retrievers and boxers. You’d be surprised how much veterinary medicine helps human medicine. An obvious example: The research and surgeries on dachshund back problems have proved invaluable for human treatments.”

“Sounds like you think I should go under the knife straightaway.”

“I do. I’ve seen so much, Harry. Get it out.”

“All right.”

“We’ll make you an appointment to consult with Dr. Potter. We have a roster of wonderful surgeons in our area if for some reason you don’t click with Dr. Potter on a patient level.”

“She’s been great about the five-K. I’m sure I’ll be just fine with her.” Then Harry laughed. “Annalise Veronese’s been great working for the five-K, too. Don’t want to wind up with her.”

Smiling, Dr. MacCormack stood up. Harry did also. “I’m sorry to give you the news from your biopsy, but I’m glad it’s not more serious. Your chances of full recovery are excellent. I do, however, think you should opt for the radiation, even if Dr. Potter thinks she’s removed all the tissue. She’ll think so, too. Unpalatable as it is, once it’s over, you bounce back and you can rest knowing you’re on the road to full recovery.”

•    •    •

When Harry walked into the kitchen, Fair was drying a glass. He felt she would be getting bad news, and he wanted to be home. Harry would never tell her husband about her diagnosis on the phone. It had to be face-to-face.

The two cats and dog immediately knew, because they could smell the tension.

“Well.” Her husband tried to look bright.

“Stage One breast cancer.”

Fair dropped the glass, which shattered on the floor. He bent down to pick up the shards.

“Honey, don’t.” She knelt down, grabbing his hand. “I’ll sweep it up.”

As they stood, he hugged her. He couldn’t speak. Then he found his voice. “I broke it, I’ll sweep it up.”

“Your hands are shaking. Let me do it.”

“I’m supposed to comfort you.” Sorrow filled his voice.

“I’ve had the whole drive back from Charlottesville to adjust. You sit down.”

As soon as she swept up all the pieces, putting them in the metal trash can, she sat across from her husband at the kitchen table. “I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Tucker, listening, said,
“If only I could bite this cancer thing, I’d kill it.”

Pewter, puffed up, said,
“I could scratch its eyes out.”

Mrs. Murphy looked up at Harry, leaning forward toward Fair, at the table as he held her hand tightly.
“Now we have to trust our human to people we don’t even know.”

W
here does the time go?” Harry leaned on the three-board fence of the pasture behind the barn.

Twilight lingered, a languid, early-May twilight enrobing the Blue Ridge with cobalt velvet.

The cloudless sky—backlit, for the sun had set a half hour ago—promised a crisp night.

Matilda, the blacksnake who lived in the hayloft, had finished her hunting and slithered back to the barn. She paused for a moment, flicked out her tongue, emitting a little hiss. This was not a comment on anything; it was more of a little salute to Harry, whom she recognized.

Like all farmers, Harry focused on weather with intensity. Too much rain, crops rotted in the field. Too little, they burned up. If one could afford an irrigation system, one could fight a drought. Nothing could combat too much rain.

Her tough sunflowers continued to grow. Her grapes, in their second year, sported leaves, ever enlarging, on the trained vines, which thrilled her. She had worried because of the ferociously cold winter, the worst winter for one hundred years. Spring, remarkably cool, was wet.

So wet, she’d rented a drill seeder only a week ago. Usually she over-seeded her pastures in early to mid-April.

Since Mother Nature was her business partner, she did as Mother dictated. Harry limed the fields in the spring. Sometimes she put down
weed-and-feed fertilizer, but usually she put down chicken poop or commercial fertilizers in the fall. When the oil prices climbed through the sky, non-manure-based fertilizers skyrocketed to nine hundred percent of their former cost. This did not make the news. Agriculture economics rarely did. A frost in Florida’s orange groves might get coverage, or a terrible drought in the Midwest, but the distressing effect of oil prices on your everyday small farmers wasn’t news. They suffered plenty, whether that suffering was reported to their fellow citizens or not.