Hiss Of Death

Still tight, colored deep magenta, the redbuds bent slightly westward as a stiff breeze charged down the eastern face of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Wild white dogwoods threatened to open, and the forsythias—already huge splashes of yellow—were peaking.

The old 1978 Ford F-150 truck, big engine growling, carried Harry, and her two cats and dog, just west of the nondescript Virginia town of Crozet. Born there, suffering no inclination to live anywhere else, she smiled at the riches of early spring. Any winter was worth enduring for the luxury, the new life, that inevitably followed.

She recited a line from Shelley, hoping she got it right: “Blow, blow thou winter winds, can spring be far behind.”

“What’s she babbling about?” wondered Pewter, the often-peevish gray cat.

The sleek tiger cat, Mrs. Murphy, paws on the dash, hind feet on the bench seat, replied, “She’s quoting poetry.”

“Bother,” the gray cat grumbled as she joined Mrs. Murphy to gaze through the brand-new windshield.

So many windshields in this part of the world cracked, although they didn’t shatter. Even though the local gravel trucks now covered their loads with heavy canvas, motorists hereabouts were forced to acknowledge that sooner or later a stone would fly off, or a preceding vehicle would kick up stones from one of the many dirt roads.

Harry would rather buy a new windshield than see the tertiary roads paved. Paved roads meant development. Development cannibalized farmland. It also meant an influx of “comeheres”—as locals dubbed new residents.

Suspicious but always friendly, Harry belonged to every preservation and environmental group she could find. Her husband proved less xenophobic. Much as Harry wanted to be open, deep down she hotly resented what she considered the flaunted superiority of the new people. The fact that they all had a lot of money fanned the flames.

At this moment she was driving to the home of a comehere. A flash of guilt filled her, because Paula Benton, an operating-room nurse, was one of the most helpful, lovely people she’d ever met.

Then she told herself, Paula was the exception that proved the rule. Harry had learned just how organized Paula was by working with her on the 5K. Like all of us, Paula had her quirks. Although a very competent nurse, one of her peculiarities was that she couldn’t give herself a shot. Once a week, Annalise Veronese gave Paula her B₁₂ shot.

How the group teased Paula, who took it all with good humor. She also feared spiders, as do many people. The girls gave her a big fuzzy stuffed toy spider to overcome her phobia. It didn’t work, but she kept the toy anyway.

Pulling into the long dirt drive down to Paula’s farm, Harry marveled at the work the divorced, quite pretty nurse had done in two years’ time. Lined with glossy green Nellie Stevens hollies, the drive funneled down to the restored frame farmhouse.

Even in her crabby moments, Harry was grateful for the number of old farms and larger estates the new-monied people had not only saved but improved. Then there were those who built the McMansions on five acres, but all of America was jam-packed full of those. Couldn’t blame the comeheres for that environmentally disastrous fad.

As she approached Paula’s farmhouse, Harry noticed that the hollies encircling the drive now reached five feet. The effect was pretty. In a few years’ time it would be dramatic, for Nellie Stevenses could top out at thirty feet.

Due to the odd hours she kept, Paula had no pets. This disappointed Tucker, the corgi, who evidenced a social streak. Nothing better than catching up with another canine. Living with two cats could pluck one’s last nerve.

Paula’s brand-new Dodge half-ton, sparkling silver, was parked off to the side of the house.

Harry cut the engine and let her animals out in the crisp spring air, then walked onto the porch and knocked on the door. No answer.

“She knows I’m coming,” Harry said aloud to her animals. “She’s got the extra runner numbers for me. They came in late. Sure glad they made it, or I’d be sitting up cutting out paper.”

“Paula!” Harry called.

Harry would happily ride a horse anywhere, but she avoided running since she did quite enough walking, trotting, and lifting on the farm. By the end of the day her thighs often ached—hence her willingness to do the “bench work” at the 5K.

The door was unlocked; Harry peeked in. “Paula?”

She walked around the house to the old barn in the back, to Paula’s potting-shed refuge, a pleasant place to force bulbs.

Pewter, feeling she already had enough exercise this morning, turned to go back to the truck.

Tucker paused to watch, then waited for Mrs. Murphy to join her. “No wonder she’s fat.”

“I heard that,” the gray cat called over her shoulder.

“You heard me, yet you’re doing nothing about it,” Tucker persisted.

“Bubble butt.” Pewter raised her head, her tail upright, as she marched toward the truck.

Mrs. Murphy and Tucker fell in behind Harry. As the temperature hung in the low fifties and probably would stay there all day, the barn doors were closed, but a light shone in the area Paula had closed off.

“Knew it. She lost track of time.” Harry smiled as she pushed open the barn doors.

She opened the door to the potting room, lit by both skylights in the roof and some infrared lights casting their odd color. The smile froze on her face.

“Paula!” Harry rushed to the woman slumped at her potting table, head on the table. Next to Paula, a dead hornet lay on the table, too.

Harry touched her. Cool. She took her pulse. None.

“She smells funny. I’ve smelled that odor before, but I can’t place it,” the corgi commented, her powers of smell surpassing anything a human could imagine.

“Yes, I know what you mean,” said Mrs. Murphy, no slouch in the nose department, either.

Not one to panic, Harry gently placed Paula’s hand back on the table, then left the room, animals with her.

Now she ran. Sprinting for the truck, she nearly stepped on Pewter’s tail, for the cat was under the truck, playing with something she’d found.

Opening the glove compartment, Harry pulled out her cell. She kept it in there so she wouldn’t be tempted to call while driving. This strategy forced her to pull over to make calls. Taking your eyes off country roads could wipe you out in a skinny minute.

She dialed 911, gave information and directions, and waited. Then her mind started spinning. Paula Benton, in her late thirties, was a runner. She didn’t smoke and drank alcohol in moderation. She regularly endured mammograms and her annual checkup, passing with flying colors. Her death appeared peaceful.

She picked up Tucker, since Mrs. Murphy had jumped up onto the truck. Then she got down on her knees. “Pewter, come on.”

“No.” The gray batted something to and fro.

“Dammit, I’m in no mood to fool with you!” Harry grabbed her tail and pulled out the protesting cat, who had the sense to put whatever she was playing with in her mouth.

Once Pewter was in the truck, Harry closed the door. She climbed in on the driver’s side.

Mrs. Murphy and Tucker wanted to know what Pewter had. Finally, the gray dropped it; a tiger stone, brown with a golden stripe, fell from her mouth. The size of an oblong nickel, it had been carved into a scarab beetle.

“I thought it was a mole.” Mrs. Murphy was disappointed.

“It glitters in the sun. It’s a good size to play with.” Pewter didn’t protest as Harry picked it up.

She wiped it on her jeans, then held the stone scarab in the palm of her hand. “Is this an Egyptian symbol for death?”

Then she thought, How morbid. She so liked Paula. Harry wasn’t the weepy type, but her heart raced and she felt a sinking sensation in her stomach.

The sirens of Crozet’s rescue squad howled in the near distance. Hearing their shrill call, she slipped the scarab into her pocket.

Within two minutes, she saw the flashing lights at the turn of the farm driveway. She would have to see Paula’s body again, for Harry would need to lead them to it. Her one comfort was that Paula had died doing something she loved. Then she wondered what comfort that was. A good woman had died much too young.