Hiss of Death: A Mrs. Murphy Mystery (9 page)

“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.”

W
hen 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.

As they turned onto Harris Street, billows of black smoke curled upward. Even with the car windows closed, the smell of fire crept in.

Harry and Susan counted many friends among the business owners on Harris Street. Their worry was immediate.

Fire trucks blocked the way to Charlottesville Press.

“Oh, God, hope it’s not the pet store or Chuck Grossman’s business. Or Rodney,” Susan exclaimed.

Rodney was Rodney Thomas, owner of Charlottesville Press.

“Harry, we’ve got to turn around.”

“I know, but hold on one skinny minute.” Harry hit the brakes, pressed the flashing-light button, stepped out of her Volvo, and ran up to Luke Anson, an officer with the Charlottesville police whom she recognized.

“Luke.”

“Harry, turn round.”

“What’s burning?”

“Pinnacle Records. Go on, Harry. Everyone’s out of the building, even the dog.”

“Okay.” Back in the Volvo, Harry informed Susan.

Pinnacle Records housed hard copy, some of those records going
back to 1919. They also had sliding metal trays in temperature-controlled vaults for CDs, floppy disks, even removed hard drives. Two years ago, Pinnacle had developed another temperature-controlled small vault for the tiny thumb drives now coming into use.

Even though technology surged ahead, with files and backup becoming ever smaller, huge companies soon ran out of storage room, no matter how carefully they’d planned. The proliferation of materials was overwhelming. Pinnacle provided a much-needed service to many organizations. Of particular concern to some of their clients were their old papers, particularly if the paper was cheap, such as newsprint. Such articles disintegrated rapidly. Pinnacle worked with various libraries’ special collections, most notably the University of Virginia, keeping abreast of the latest developments in preserving historical documents. The old inks remained as long as the paper could hold them. Experts could pinpoint the chemicals in various inks, too. It was historically vital to preserve the actual paper document. Fortunately, many companies realized this.

Pinnacle carried insurance and was supposed to be fireproof.

“Pinnacle has so much sensitive, really important material.” Susan immediately grasped the problem.

“Not anymore.”

T
hursday, the day after Pinnacle Records burned, many law offices, medical offices, and businesses—from insurance companies to the tire dealer on Route 29—all checked their in-house records. They had used Pinnacle Records for backup, for storage, especially for materials that were old, older than computer files. With few exceptions, everyone was fine.

Safe Tire, for whatever reason, either had misplaced the files for 2002 or the computer ate them up. People who drove the usual fifteen thousand miles per year had replaced the tires purchased in 2002. However, a few customers barely put fifteen hundred miles per annum on their vehicles. Franny Howard, the owner, immediately hired a geek to comb through the computers.

People didn’t expect a woman to own a tire store. Franny, smart, hired men on the floor. In the garage, she had one female employee, the rest men. She worked in her sumptuous office behind the showroom. Even with the economy downturn, Franny made money. Many people feared things wouldn’t get better. Instead of buying a new car, they put a new set of tires on their old one.

Apart from Safe Tire, by the end of the day, many companies utilizing Pinnacle Records relaxed.

At four, Coop drove to the site of the fire. Rick usually drove, but he sat next to her, working a laptop computer. The state kept adding new
license plates. He pulled up the latest ones to refresh his memory. Sure was easier when there was one plate and that was that.