Hiss of Death: A Mrs. Murphy Mystery (27 page)

Just as she dismounted, so did the man next to her. He was in his mid-thirties and was unfamiliar to her. She didn’t know as many city
people as she did country people. His body was a work of art and discipline.

He, however, knew of her. He’d asked around, because he found her very attractive. As she was married, he didn’t pursue her, but he kept his eye on her if she was around.

“Good workout?” he asked.

“Was. What about you?”

“Good. I’m Dawson English.”

She held out her hand. “Harry Haristeen. Well, actually, my name is Mary Minor Haristeen, but everyone has called me Harry since I was little because my clothes were always covered in cat and dog hair. I hope you don’t have allergies.”

“No, ma’am.” He shook her hand.

He smiled, releasing her hand, much as he enjoyed holding it. “You’re in good shape.”

“Well, thank you. You, too. You must have a lot of motivation to create a body like that.”

“I sit a lot on the job. I get to walk the floor a little, but I was putting on weight. Hated it, so five years ago I made up my mind to really work for the best body I could have.”

“Staring at a computer?”

“No. I work at Flow Automotive. Sales. I like it. Well, when you have a good product, the cars sell themselves.” He grinned. “Don’t suppose you need a VW or a Porsche? Now, you would look spectacular in a Nine-eleven C-four.”

“Zero to fifty in four-point-four seconds, and the Turbo is even faster.” Harry looked up at him. “But you know, the new Cadillac CTS-V hits zero to sixty in, I think, three-point-nine seconds, which is hard to believe for a sports car, much less a big car.”

Surprised, he leaned forward. “You like cars?”

“I love cars. I love tractors. I love anything with a motor in it. I even like riding mowers.”

He laughed. “That’s great.”

“I’m sure you know that Don and Robin King are sponsors of a polo team, Team Flow, and they are the backbone of the Pink Ribbon Polo Classic, along with King Family Vineyards. They raise money for a good
cause, and everyone has a great time. It’s the social event of the summer, and it’s not expensive to get in.”

“I do know of it and had planned on attending. I’ll look for you this year.”

She smiled up at him. “I’m not the only female gearhead in Albemarle County. BoomBoom Craycroft is as big a nut as I am, but with a bigger budget.”

“One of my co-workers took out another lady for a test drive. She was a doctor, ummm—Anna, Anna something.”

“Annalise Veronese. Was she going to buy a Porsche?” Harry felt a twinge of envy.

“No, she drove a Jetta. The gas mileage on the diesel interested her, and I think she liked the fit and finish of the car. She’s called him back, but so far no sale.”

“Gotta be tough, sales.”

“I like it, though.”

“Dawson, I have horses, and I can spot one that’s been on steroids from one who hasn’t in the racing world. I think I can spot it with people, too. Bodybuilders and athletes who use them get big, of course, and stronger, no doubt. I notice the muscle has a kind of smooth quality.” She lightly touched his forearm. “You’ve done it the hard way.”

“You don’t miss much.”

“I don’t know about that.”

The two of them walked together toward their separate locker rooms.

Stopping in front of the women’s locker room, Harry, with an impish grin, asked, “Are you married?”

Really, she shouldn’t have been so direct. Her mother and grandmother were turning in their graves. But often Harry could get away with things others could not, thanks to that impish quality.

“No. I know you are. Noddy told me. Wish you weren’t.” He grinned back.

“How flattering.” She meant it. “I have some wonderful girlfriends. Most are married, but some aren’t. And friends have friends. If you’re going to be at the polo match out in Greenwood on Father’s Day, I’ll introduce
you. Since it’s a big event, it will be natural, know what I mean?”

“Thanks. I look forward to it.”

On the drive home, Harry, buoyed by the attention, whistled to herself. She’d never dream of stepping out on Fair, but oh, how sweet when a handsome man pays attention to you.

•    •    •

Days later, the polo game proved close and exciting. The field was only seven miles from Harry’s farm in Crozet. It was set in a vineyard. People loved the views, the acre upon acre of vines, the clean, non-fussy design of the farm buildings. She introduced Dawson to BoomBoom and Alicia, who introduced him to their girlfriends. She thought about the people buying tickets to the Pink Ribbon Polo Classic. Steroids weren’t much help to riders in this game.

Watching from her director’s chair, Harry heard the voice of Diana Farrell, the announcer, saying, “One out of eight women in America will be diagnosed with breast cancer in her lifetime.”

Harry was now that woman.

After the game, she turned onto Route 250 and felt a wave crash over her. She thought of Tina Leiter, who spoke at halftime about her struggle with breast cancer. No self-pity, but helpful facts and truthful information came from Tina. Harry paid some attention, but mostly she had focused on the lady’s lovely hat, wishing she’d had the style to wear one.

Then she thought of the horses, the players, the umpires, and all the sponsors, and suddenly Harry was sobbing, heaving. She drove into the parking lot of Western Albemarle High School and pulled over. She was one of those women. Those players and those beautiful ponies were playing for her. The Kings’ generosity was for her, as was the Flows’, and she felt a gratitude she could never express. She wanted to write everyone a thank-you. She wanted to kiss them, which would probably embarrass everybody but the horses.

She got hold of herself. Tears still flowing, she silently gave a prayer
of thanks for all those people all across America working with the American Cancer Society, coming up with fund-raisers.

The cancer attacked her body, but she looked to be all right. She still had a way to go, but she had never reckoned with what the cancer would do to her heart. Where did these emotions come from? What happened to her reserve? Last year she was proud of everyone who ran the 5K and thrilled at the polo match, but now … now everything and everyone looked different.

It wasn’t until the middle of the night when she got up just to see the first lightning bugs and to hear the night birds that she understood Dawson English had walked her one step closer to the killer.

W
hy don’t they hurry up?”
Pewter paced on the kitchen counter, her food bowl depressingly empty.

“She’s got a bee in her bonnet,”
Mrs. Murphy explained.
“The poor man can’t shave in peace. She’s perched on the toilet seat, yakking away.”

“I don’t care if she’s late for her breakfast. I want mine on time.”

The brass pendulum with the large rounded bottom swung in the old railroad clock. Harry loved that clock because it was so easy to read and because it came from the old whistle-stop in Crozet. Her mother saved the clock from the pretty little brick station when it was phased out.

Tucker looked up at the rhythmic swing.

Harry, old large T-shirt serving as a nightshirt, padded into the kitchen in her elk-skin slippers. She could have snuck up on a human, but the three animals heard her.

“Where’s my breakfast?”
the gray cat demanded.

“Who said you were first?”
Tucker grumbled from the floor.

“Pewter, shut up. I’m getting to it.” Harry slapped down a can of food but did not yet open it. First, she washed out the cat bowls, followed by the dog bowl.

“I don’t care if the bowl is clean.”

“I do.”
Mrs. Murphy quietly waited.

“You’re a priss.”
Pewter kept bumping Harry’s elbow as she washed.

“Pewter, leave me alone. I have half a mind not to give you canned food.”

“Never! Never. I will exact a revenge more terrible than you can imagine,”
the gray threatened, but she did stop bumping.

Dressed for work, Fair came into the kitchen. “Thinking about what you said.”

Harry walked over to the coffeepot, which she’d set up the night before, now pressing the on button.

“Don’t make coffee. Feed me!”
Pewter howled.

Finally, Harry took the manual can opener and opened the can, the aroma of chopped beef filling the room. She bypassed electric can openers because she thought they wasted electricity, but also she wanted to use the muscles between her thumb and forefinger. A manual can opener gives them a workout.

“I’m feeling faint.”
Pewter wobbled.

“Give this cat a scholarship to the American Academy of Dramatic Arts.”
Mrs. Murphy had had about enough.

Harry filled the two bowls. Pewter immediately shut up. Then Harry opened a can for Tucker and put the food in her ceramic bowl.

“Thank you,”
the corgi politely responded.

“Peace and quiet.” Harry poured her husband’s coffee.

“You didn’t want eggs, did you?”

“Honey, no,” she said. “Cereal’s good.”

He’d put down two bowls before asking, so now he opened the fridge, took out milk, and poured some in a striped ceramic pitcher.

As they settled at the table, Fair returned to the conversation in the bathroom. “Steroids used by equines are usually in bottles about the size of a pint of milk. Glass. It would make no sense to put a glass bottle of steroids, whatever the type, in one of those cylinders. Plus, there wouldn’t be enough money in shipping just one bottle at a time.”

“That’s what Coop said about cocaine and prescription drugs. The cylinders are too small, but Fair”—she put down her spoon, lightly smacking the table for emphasis—“the cylinders are not a coincidence. They mean something important.”

“Honey, they might. But whatever it is, I have no idea. Those cylinders
are perfect for shipping sperm. I don’t know if they are perfect for anything else.”

“Okay, back to steroids. Is there a lot of money to be made?” Harry asked.

“Not so much in the equine world. There are laws against using them in flat racing. Enforcement is another problem, but you can use them in other equine sports and—unless there is blood testing at the events—you can get away with it. Steroids, I mean.”

“Fair, you look at a horse and you can tell.”

“You can. I can. A person assigned by the government to draw blood, maybe not. They aren’t always vets. I hate to say this about my own profession, but someone offers twenty-five thousand dollars to shut up at that event, someone else might just take it. Or you take a sample of blood that’s clean and substitute that for the blood of the horse loaded up on steroids. Kind of on par with urine testing for humans. Before the authorities cracked down, you could use someone else’s urine or someone else’s blood. Now you pee on command.”

They both laughed.

Then Fair continued, “But the thing about steroids is if you give them to a yearling, the animal develops a robust musculature. But the bones aren’t completely set, especially at the joints. And I do not believe they are at two, but we race them at two, and you know how I feel about that, so I’ll shut up.”

“I feel the same way, but this has as much to do with a tax structure that mitigates against agricultural pursuits. The way things are now, a breeder, an owner, needs to put the horses on the track way too early. You just can’t afford to keep them that extra year while they continue to mature.”

“That’s why I love sitting with my beautiful wife at the breakfast table. You’re off and running.”

“I know.” She lowered her eyes for a moment.

“Trainers are so sophisticated these days about when to use steroids and when to drop off, even I have difficulty telling sometimes. But if I’m looking at a two-year-old that looks like a perfectly conditioned three-year-old? Steroids, no doubt. Beyond that, when they’re older, if I
don’t draw blood, I don’t know, because the musculature is consistent with age. And it’s the same for humans. Steroids give any competitor an edge.”

“Especially in strength sports or sports where you take a beating.”

“And there is a fortune in selling them. But using cylinders to ship? No. I’m no help to you. I’m frustrated, too. I guess you could ship contraband diamonds or emeralds. But we haven’t seen any jewelry around here.”

“It’s driving me crazy.”

Fair savored his coffee, then set the heavy Bennington pottery mug down. “Let it be. You have more important things to focus on, like your recovery.”

“I feel fine.”

“Harry.”

“Okay. I don’t feel fine after radiation, but then I come back. I feel good right now.”

“And you still have your hair.”

“Haven’t had enough radiation to lose it. Boy, when you see what happens to the people who get the one-two punch, chemo and radiation, it’s amazing they can stand up.”

“Speaking of steroids, doctors give steroids to help patients with the effect.”

“Back to legal and illegal drugs. What would you do if I lost my hair?”

“Sweep it up.” He smiled.

“I’d just shave it off, what was left. The hell with it. I’d wear a hat or something, but I’d make a preemptive strike.”