Hiss of Death: A Mrs. Murphy Mystery (28 page)

He rubbed the top of his blond head. “If I were losing mine, think I’d do the same thing.”

“It’s funny, isn’t it? People are sexually attracted to each other because of their looks, and then you lose them one way or the other: illness or age.”

“You will always be that gorgeous girl I fell in love with when you were a junior in high school. Don’t care if you’re one hundred.”

“Ha!” She loved it, though.

“He’s smart,”
Mrs. Murphy noted.

“Hey, he keeps her happy.”
Tucker adored Fair.

“If he doesn’t keep her happy, some other man will,”
Pewter, finished, declared.

“You are such a sourpuss,”
Mrs. Murphy said.

“No, I’m not. I tell the truth. That’s the way humans are. They need to pay constant attention to one another or else. One cat’s observation”
—she puffed out her chest—
“but what a cat.”

Mrs. Murphy made a gagging sound.
“I’m going to throw up.”

Harry stood up, grabbed a paper towel. “You eat too fast, too much, and then you drink water.”

“It’s Pewter. I’m fine.”
Mrs. Murphy jumped off the counter and exited through the cat door to the small screened-in porch off the back door.

Then she went out the pet door in the outside door and trotted to the barn.

“It can now be said that you can empty a room.”

“Oh, shut up. She’s acting like an old Virginia biddy.”
Pewter snarled at the dog.

•    •    •

Three hours later, the chores were done and the cats and dogs were returning to their normal good humor—or as good as Pewter could manage. Harry lifted the hatch on the Volvo, and the cats jumped in.

On her hind legs, Tucker put her front paws on the car’s back end.

“Upsy-daisy.” Harry lifted Tucker’s hind end, and the dog was in.

First Harry stopped at her husband’s clinic. He was in the lay-up barn, checking on a patient who had a twisted gut. Fair had operated in time: No portion of bowel had atrophied or become necrotic. He removed the knot, and the animal would make a full recovery. The trick was in keeping the horse calm while the incision healed. For a time, that meant administering a light sedative.

While he was in the barn, Harry plucked a yellow shipping cylinder from the storage room. She didn’t tell Fair, and he didn’t know she was there.

Her next stop was Heavy Metal Gym.

At 10:30
A.M.
, the place was much quieter than it was when she worked out. The lunch crowd—looking for a fast workout—would trickle in starting at 11:30 and fade out by 1:30
P.M.
Then, at 5:30
P.M.
,
people would come in and the gym would be full until about 8:00 or 9:00
P.M.
, depending on the day. The late-night crowd wrapped it up at 11:00
P.M.

Another perfect day at seventy-two degrees. Harry, following one of her odd hunches, put the windows down two inches for the animals and grabbed the cylinder. “I’ll be right back.”

The three said nothing, but as she left, Mrs. Murphy said,
“I wish she hadn’t taken that cylinder.”

The other two nodded in agreement.

Out on the floor, Noddy was spotting for Annalise, flat on her back at the bench press.

Waiting until Annalise finished her exercise, Harry walked over. “Hey, what are you doing here at this hour?”

“My day off. It’s nice and quiet now. I don’t have to listen to that awful music the men play.”

Noddy replied, “Yeah, it is awful, but they love it. Unfortunately, there are more of them than people with good musical taste. Cock rock, as I call it, does nothing to make you lift harder and better. But it’s one of those myths that will die hard. They believe it, so therefore it helps them.”

Annalise laughed. “True. Still, it might be hard to work out to Mozart.” She noticed the cylinder. “What do you have in there?”

“Nothing. It’s used to ship horse semen.”

Annalise’s hand fluttered to her breast. “Glad you said that. I’d be worried if you’d come in here for the guys.”

Harry laughed. “They give it away for free. If it belongs to a horse, you pay and you pay a lot.”

At this, the three cracked up.

Noddy asked, “Need something?”

“Oh, I dropped by to ask you if you think steroids could be shipped in this. Fair says they come in big bottles and you couldn’t ship enough in this cylinder.”

“Harry,” Noddy said evenly, “if I tell you I know where to buy steroids, even what the stuff comes in, then I’m compromised. Every serious gym owner in America has to be extra-careful.”

Chagrined, Harry apologized. “Noddy, I’m so sorry. It never occurred to me.”

“Well, there’s no one here but us, but Jesus, Harry, don’t even ask me anything like that in public. Do I know about the stuff? Of course I do. Is it sold in my gym? I’m not selling it, and no one is selling it inside these walls. I’d lose everything I’ve worked for and my good name to boot.”

“Again, I’m sorry, Noddy.”

“Is it sold outside?” Noddy shrugged. “I have no doubt, but I don’t pry. However, anyone can go to any serious gym, and I emphasize ‘serious gym’—not the matching-leotard-and-top kind of gym—and find their way to better living through chemistry.”

Annalise seconded this. “That’s the truth.” She looked at Harry. “You know what our drug laws do? Screw up everybody but those on the take. We can’t stop drugs. I don’t care if it’s cocaine or steroids. So why don’t we grow up and consider these substances something to be controlled, like tobacco and alcohol? For one thing, it would stop a lot of suffering. For another thing, it would devastate organized crime. And if you quote me, I will say you are making it up. Our drug laws have turned me and most doctors into hypocrites. Actually, they’ve turned most Americans into hypocrites.”

“That and sex.” Noddy now sat on the bench next to Annalise.

“If a fifteen-year-old kid playing linebacker on the JV football team was considering taking anabolic steroids and they were controlled but legal, he could talk openly to a sports doctor. And that doctor, if he or she was responsible, would inform the kid that yes, they will improve his performance, but at his age they could have terrible consequences for his health later. For one thing, they could really damage his liver, and for another thing, there can be unpleasant emotional side effects while one is taking them.”

Noddy nodded vigorously. “She’s right, Harry. As it now stands, that fifteen-year-old reads some studies, Googles information from bodybuilding sites that show muscle growth through chemistry, and the kid learns to buy stuff on the black market. He then takes powerful drugs with no supervision. I see it more than most. A kid like that always takes too much.”

Annalise jumped in again. “The other thing, Harry, is what if you have a bad reaction to an illegal substance—any illegal substance? You’d be afraid to tell your doctor. Instead, you’ll wait and hope it passes. What if it doesn’t, and you overdose? The policies we have now are cruel, flat-out cruel, and bloody stupid.”

“Noddy, did you ever take them?”

“Harry, you go right for the throat.” Noddy shook her head. “Yes. When I was young, I was very, very lucky to find a doctor—call him crooked if you like—but I followed instructions, never went over the line, and stopped when I’d achieved my goal. My competitive days are long gone, and I stopped shall we say ‘chemical enhancement’ years ago. There’s nothing in my system.”

“Wouldn’t you be stripped of your bodybuilding titles like that Olympic sprinter?”

“Yes. More than one athlete has been stripped, but you’re referring to Ben Johnson,” Noddy said, naming the great Canadian athlete. “And the ones prancing about saying it was unfair competition, that when they ran they were clean. I don’t believe one word.”

“Come on, Noddy. Some athletes are clean,” Harry argued.

Annalise said, “It’s true. Not everyone takes those things, and not everyone is a liar, although I think most are. They have to be.”

“If they didn’t take the drugs, who would pay to watch baseball, football, or basketball?” said Noddy. “We’ve become accustomed to fantastic performance. Really fantastic, in all professional sports. We’d be bored. When you get right down to it, the reason all this goes on is because more people want it than don’t.”

“I opened a can of worms. I’m sorry.” Harry looked at the cylinder, still no closer to her objective but full of information about other things. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Noddy meant it, too.

•    •    •

Later, about 3:30
P.M.
, way in the back with her sunflowers, Harry reached into her hip pocket for her cellphone. What was going on had hit her like a bolt of lightning. It was obvious, but before now she
couldn’t see it. Nor could anyone else. Well, something is obvious once you know.

The animals tagged after her as she headed for the barn, where she’d left her cell in the tack room.

In the distance, she heard the crackle of wheels on the dirt road. She ran for the tack room. Too late.

S
hortro and Tomahawk watched in wonderment as the old Saab bumped over the open meadow behind the barn.

Harry turned back from the barn, running for all she was worth toward the creek. She knew Annalise couldn’t get the Saab over the steep banks. If Annalise was going to kill Harry, she’d have to get out and run after her.

Tucker flew to the paddocks.
“Jump out! Jump out!”

Shortro needed no further provocation. The Saddlebred took three trotting strides to gracefully arc over the three-board fence, which stood at three feet eight inches.

In the same paddock, Tomahawk soared over, too. The mares and youngsters remained in their paddocks.

“Follow me!”
The corgi tore after the Saab, tiny bits of soil flying off her claws.

Mrs. Murphy and Pewter sped alongside Harry. Bouncing over the pasture, Annalise bore down on Harry—now zigzagging to present a tougher target to hit. Windows up, the doctor didn’t hear the horses coming up behind her.

The steep creek, thirty yards off, might be Harry’s salvation. Running evasively delayed her reaching the wooded high banks.

Tomahawk and Shortro thundered up on Annalise’s left side. She could have cared less whether she killed the horses, but she knew if she
turned into them they’d damage her car. She needed the car to get out of here once the deed was done.

No fool, Harry ran to the left at a diagonal, finally reaching the creek. She slid down the banks above the beaver dam, where the water was lower.

Annalise skidded to a stop, her car’s nose in a pricker bush, and got out of the car, Colt MKIV .38 in hand. The gun, while well balanced, was heavy in her hand.

Tucker slammed into Annalise behind the knees. Down she went. Annalise rolled down the bank, the little dog right behind her, the horses peering over the bank. She never loosened her grip on the gun.

Pewter and Mrs. Murphy swam to the other side of the creek. Harry, who had been knee-deep, clambered up the steep side, slipping as she went. She grasped a protruding root, pulling herself up.

The beavers, out of their lodge now, began slapping the water with their broad, flat tails.

Annalise plunged in, holding her gun straight up over her head. Harry, already over the bank, proved a difficult target. Annalise needed to pull up over the bank.

Swimming behind her, Tucker called to the horses,
“Get in the water. Follow me!”

Harry turned, saw Annalise climbing up, more difficult for her while carrying a pistol.

“Go back to the creek bank! Use the trees!”
Mrs. Murphy hollered, heading to the creek bed to show Harry.

Whether she understood the cat or figured it out herself, Harry dodged behind a large old sycamore, large sheets of bark on the ground.

Pewter acted like a rear guard, slowing to watch Annalise, then telling Mrs. Murphy,
“She’s taking aim.”

A report, then a thud as a bullet hit the sycamore. Harry moved down into the creek bed, but she couldn’t go fast, for she was now below the beaver dam, and the water was high, the creek bed soggy.

“Won’t work,”
Mrs. Murphy screamed.
“Get back up, use the trees. It’s your only hope.”

Fit, Annalise was fast. By the time she reached the sycamore, Harry
had hauled herself back up on the creek’s bank again. Senses razor-sharp, Harry dug in her toes, bent low like a runner coming out of the blocks on hearing the pistol shot. But unlike those on the track, the pistol shot was aimed at her.

Again, moving from tree to tree, Harry continued downstream, sprinting, bent over, when she could. The only plan she had was to get to Coop’s house, if she made it that far down, or try to reach her own barn. She would be exposed when she ran across the back pastures to her sunflowers, which were not high enough to cover her. She’d also be a clear target in Coop’s newly mown pasture. She still might make it again, zigging and zagging. She didn’t know whether to again cross the creek into her farm or to keep on Coop’s side. Sooner or later, Annalise would empty out her clip. She’d counted three shots—five would be left. Then she’d run for all she was worth for about fifteen paces, hit the dirt, roll, and run some more.