Hiss Of Death

Tuesday, Harry sat in the tack room. It was 7:30 A.M. The sound of horses eating from their feed buckets made her feel all was right in the world. Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Pewter patrolled the aisles. The possum, Simon, after a night’s rambling, was asleep in his nest in the hayloft. The great horned owl, another night creature, slept in the cupola. Matilda, the blacksnake who wintered in the back of the hayloft, burrowed in old hay that wouldn’t be used for feed, was slowly waking.

Fortunately, Harry had no need for a drain tube. The incision was low, two inches long. Tonight she’d change the dressing with Fair’s help. She refused to take painkillers. It hurt, but not so much that she couldn’t function. The greatest irritation was not being able to throw hay or lift anything more than ten pounds, as she might rip her stitches. Her focus now was in healing fast, getting the stitches out, and getting back to her old routine. She could, however, still use a hoe. She could mow or ladle out sweet feed. These activities improved her mood. She didn’t feel completely useless.

“I’m going back in the tack room.” Tucker felt the aisleway was free of varmints, thanks to her presence.

The cats greatly enjoyed the sounds of scurrying-away mice, for they could hear their little claws, and they took full credit for the intimidation. After all, whoever heard of a corgi catching mice?

“She’s fine,” Pewter called over her shoulder.

Tucker paid no attention, slipping through the animal door in the closed tack room door.

“Hello.” Removing a bit from a bridle, Harry smiled.

“Mother, you should pull a jacket over your sweater. It’s chilly.”

Harry had no idea of her dog’s concern, but she reached down to scratch those glossy ears.

A small electric wall unit kept the tack room warm. Harry dialed it on at night before retiring, keeping the temperature at sixty-two degrees. A sweater kept her warm enough. The frosts had vanished right around April 15, along with everyone’s money. By mid-May, the night temperatures hovered in the high forties, low fifties, although occasionally a night could get cold. In the morning, a light frost would silver the western side of the hills, the northernmost pastures, only to evaporate when the sun at last reached them.

Today the mercury would climb into the middle sixties, perfect for outdoor work. Stitches or not, Harry was determined to knock out some chores. A farmer doesn’t make money sitting on her nether regions.

What Harry had not foreseen was how tired she would get, even at the beginning of the day. She forced herself to keep going, having been up since 5:30 A.M. Fair had an early-morning emergency: A horse roared through a fence, cutting up its leg. So many horse injuries were fence-related.

She reached into the small refrigerator and pulled out a Coca-Cola, gulping it down.

“I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”

Tucker wisely noted, “Your body’s been under assault. Sleep heals. Why don’t you go back to bed?”

The phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Harry.” Big Mim’s voice sounded startlingly clear. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. How good of you to call.”

“Well, I’ve been through it. As soon as Jim and I return, I’ll visit, but do take care, and don’t try to do too much. You’re bad that way.” In her mid-seventies, called the “Queen of Crozet” behind her back, Big Mim had known Harry since she was born.

“Well, I’m bored already, but I won’t be stupid. If I don’t take care, the healing will take that much longer.”

“What about chemo and radiation?”

“A short course of radiation. Start in two weeks.”

“Just get it over with, and don’t be surprised if you get burned. Radiation does burn.”

“How’s Austria?”

“Beautiful, as always. We’re in the Alps now. We stayed in Vienna for a week. Really, it is the most civilized city, and whenever I return I wonder why I stayed away for so long. However, I’ve discovered my German isn’t as serviceable as I’d hoped. That’s what I get for not taking a brushup course. Once you’re up and running, check on my horses. I know my team does a fabulous job, just fabulous, but you’re so good that way.”

“Thank you. Fair was over there last week.”

“No problem, I hope.” Big Mim’s voice rose.

“No. He wanted to check on Mind Game’s foal,” Harry said, mentioning one of Big Mim’s best flat-racing mares who had foaled in late January. The sire, Tapit, stood at Gainesway Farm in Kentucky for fifty thousand dollars. While that stud fee was completely out of reach for Harry, Big Mim could easily swing it. A shrewd breeder, Big Mim knew Tapit to be a bargain. She also knew, given the percentage of winners to the percentage of runners, the Tapit-sired stud fee would climb once the depression was over. “Growing like a weed and so correct, Big Mim. Breathtaking.”

“If she has her mother’s mind and her father’s constitution, then I’ve got everything. If ever a horse was aptly named, it’s Mind Game. To change the subject, how is my aunt?”

“As you would expect.”

“I see.” Big Mim lived in fear of what Aunt Tally would do next, since the old lady felt at age one hundred that the rules of propriety no longer applied to her.

Actually, Tally had felt that at twenty as well.

“What time is it there?” Harry asked.

“One-thirty.”

“You sound clear as a bell,” she marveled.

“When cellphones work, they are incredible. Well, Sugar, do take care. Jim and I are thinking about you. Oh, one more thing. Miranda.”

Big Mim was referring to Miranda Hogendobber, the woman with whom Harry formerly worked at the post office. In many ways, Miranda was like a second mother to Harry. The good woman, a contemporary of Big Mim’s, was down in South Carolina, where her sister was dying of cancer. What she thought would be a short trip had turned into an extended stay. The breast cancer had proved so aggressive, it baffled Didee’s doctors.

“Spoke to her last night,” Harry said. “I don’t think her sister has long to live.”

“Oh, dear. Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but Didee has had her threescore and ten and more, as have I. If we go, it’s in the nature of things. If you go, it’s far too early, so do what the doctor says.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Harry said goodbye. She knew once Big Mim came home, she’d watch Harry like a hawk. The elegant older woman had been a friend of Harry’s mother, and would consider it her duty to make sure Harry behaved.

• • •

As Harry considered her good fortune at having such wonderful friends, Dr. Cory Schaeffer arrived early at work. Like Dr. MacCormack, his office was in another of the modern buildings off the main circular drive. He’d often arrive early to enjoy the quiet. Much as he loved his children, three of them at the breakfast table could wear a guy down.

He didn’t flick on the waiting room lights, not wanting anyone to think the office was open for business. After unlocking the front door, he strode down the short hall to his private office. Putting his key in the lock, he was surprised the door was unlocked.

With concern, he pushed it open. His office, the desk, the shelves, looked just as immaculate as when he had left them. Breathing relief, he thought he’d locked his private office door, but perhaps he’d been interrupted somehow and forgot.

He walked behind his desk and stopped cold. In the center of his specially made desk—to the tune of $5,355—rested the scrubbed base of a skull. He looked around. Except for this macabre offering, all was in order. He touched the bone: cool, smooth.

Quickly he swiveled over to his computer and switched it on. He typed in the password to his private files; a busty babe appeared, then up came the lists. Also undisturbed.

Sweat beads appeared on his forehead. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a cotton handkerchief, and wiped his brow.

Someone had been in his office. Did he or she have a key? He got up and ran to the front door. No sign of forced entry. Three people had keys: himself, his assistant, and his part-time nurse for in-house procedures. But then he remembered there was a fourth: The cleaning service had one. Its employees were bonded.

Someone had easily entered his office and placed a skull fragment on his desk. That someone knew Cory could not call the sheriff’s department.

He grabbed the edge of the desk to steady himself. He was shaking like a naked man in Antarctica.