Hiss Of Death

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.”

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.”