Hiss of Death (Mrs. Murphy Mystery: Thorndike Press Large Print Basic) - Hardcover

Rita Mae Brown is the bestselling author of several novels, including the Sneaky Pie Brown series, the Sister Jane series, A Nose for Justice, Rubyfruit Jungle, In Her Day, and Six of One. An Emmy-nominated screenwriter and a poet, Brown lives in Afton, Virginia.

Sneaky Pie Brown, a tiger cat born somewhere in Albemarle County, Virginia, was discovered by Rita Mae Brown at her local SPCA. They have collaborated on eighteen previous Mrs. Murphy mysteries: Wish You Were Here; Rest in Pieces; Murder at Monticello; Pay Dirt; Murder, She Meowed; Murder on the Prowl; Cat on the Scent; Pawing Through the Past; Claws and Effect; Catch as Cat Can; The Tail of the Tip-Off; Whisker of Evil; Cat’s Eyewitness; Sour Puss; Puss ’n Cahoots; The Purrfect Murder; Santa Clawed; and Cat of the Century, in addition to Sneaky Pie’s Cookbook for Mystery Lovers.

1

“Moldy money.” Susan Tucker jabbed her best friend, Harry Haristeen, with her elbow.

“Come on, you all, I’m cautious with money. That doesn’t mean I’m cheap,” Harry said, defending herself.

“Cautious? How about paralyzed?” BoomBoom Craycroft, another friend from childhood, said, laughing.

“My concern is I want to make as much money as possible for our five-K run this Saturday. I just think a thousand pink rubber bracelets is five hundred too many.”

Paula Benton, an ER nurse at Central Virginia Hospital and one of the prime organizers of the 5K Run for Breast Cancer Awareness, said, “Harry, they’re already here. What’s the point of complaining?”

Toni Enright, another operating-room nurse, agreed. “They’ll sell like hotcakes. Think positive, Harry.”

“I know. I know. I’m sorry. I just get nervous. Hey, we all have our quirks. I know a nurse who can’t give herself a shot.”

Paula reached over to pinch Harry. “No fair.”

“ ’Fess up,” Harry teased her. “If you all are going to pick on me, I’ll pick back.”

“Paula, are you really afraid to give yourself a shot?” Susan queried. “I thought you were allergic to bees, wasps, and hornets. Don’t you have to carry a little kit around? Shoot yourself up with the antidote?”

Paula rolled her eyes. “Luckily, I’ve never had to use it as an adult. Mom shot me up once. I suppose I could do it, but it just creeps me right out.” She playfully lunged for Harry. “I could hit you up, though.”

As they all laughed, Nita Vitebsk, the treasurer of the group, older than the others, in her mid-fifties, pushed her polka-dot reading specs up on the bridge of her nose, bringing them back to business. “The runners’ entry fees have paid for all our expenses. Those are the pre-entry fees, to be exact. You know we’re going to pick up more entries, and Harry, since you’re the check-in girl, you have the happy task of toting up the sums.”

The group of women, this Wednesday evening, April 14, sat cross-legged in a circle on the floor, bracelets in the middle, along with most of the numbers to be worn on runners’ backs. They had been working on this project since last year’s run.

Every year, the oncology department of Central Virginia Hospital offered staff support, and individual physicians wrote personal checks, too. The nominal head of the 5K run was Dr. Cory Schaeffer, a surgeon specializing in cancer as well as new therapies for healing. As he was developing a large reputation, his name on the fund-raising letterhead was a plus. He didn’t do the scut work, nor did most of the other doctors, understandably enough. Dr. Jennifer Potter, the new kid on the block, actually came to some meetings, as did Dr. Annalise Veronese, a pathologist. Annalise said that as she personally witnessed the ravages of cancer in a way others did not, she especially wanted a cure. Many doctors would be at the run, as would the media. The group could thank Alicia Palmer for that. The former movie star wheedled the media into cooperation. Then again, she could pretty much wheedle anyone into cooperation as she remained a dazzler, even in her mid-fifties.

The run would go off the first Saturday after April 15, a date picked because spring would be in its initial blush. Also, it would take people’s minds off the financial horrors of April 15. The other factor was that it usually was quite cool in the morning--mid-forties to low fifties, often warming to the mid-sixties--perfect weather for a run.

All the high school cross-country teams participated. The University of Virginia made a showing, too, unless there was an ACC track meet. Charlottesville nurtured a dedicated running club, and the members turned out in full force. Nadine “Noddy” Cespedes urged all her members at Heavy Metal Gym to run. Every year, the race had a big turnout. As it was one of the first celebrations of the spring, the public especially enjoyed it. The streets of the town were closed for three hours, and people lined the sidewalks, many offering drinks or towels. Volunteers dutifully grabbed the empty bottles and towels when runners stretched out their arms. Everyone felt as if they were part of the event. The police liked the run, as did the sheriff’s department.

The city of Charlottesville funded its own police department. The county, Albemarle, kept a sheriff’s department. The city and county were separate political entities. They cooperated with each other, but in many ways the two law enforcement groups faced different problems. The city police confronted endless fender benders as traffic increased each year. Certain “businessmen” from other countries moved in to sell hard drugs. In a wealthy city of 42,000, this was hardly surprising. The city did have its poor sections, along with the problems universally associated with poverty. The police department never had enough money, no surprise there.

This problem was shared by the county sheriff. Money was ever in short supply, yet people needed more services. However, country folks are less demanding, most times, than city folks. Sheriff Rick Shaw and his officers also faced traffic problems, but often enough they involved as many deer as humans. And all too often the county’s twisty narrow roads sent many a drunken speeder to his or her death. Unfortunately, these drunks often took other innocents with them.

Another distinctive problem for the county was meth. More of this drug circulated here than in the city. The labs could be set up in the back of a van if the “cooker” knew what she or he was doing. Didn’t matter that drugstores limited the sale of Sudafed and the like, which contained the pseudoephedrine used in making meth. The people making it never seemed to run out of supplies. Then, too, illegal distilleries abounded because of the pure water running off the Blue Ridge Mountains. While Albemarle County boasted of some folks who could turn out what is called “country waters,” Nelson County felt their county produced premier products.

When the sheriff’s people weren’t chasing the “white dog,” another name for country waters, they faced the usual quota of domestic abuse, suicide, and thefts. To call country waters moonshine marked one as an outsider. Meant you’d never be able to buy it.

This amused both the police department and the sheriff’s department. Sooner or later the sterling reputation for the local product’s quality reached a newcomer’s ears. They wanted a sip but couldn’t find it. After determining that they weren’t law enforcement or a plant, a bighearted local usually found a drop for them. A regular customer was born.

Perhaps all these things made the wholesome 5K something both law enforcement agencies liked. Closing the streets was preferable to their normal duties. The other reason they liked it? Many officers ran in the race.

This year, Deputy Cynthia Cooper--“Coop” to her buddies--Harry’s next-door neighbor, suggested that each participant from the sheriff’s department wear an armband with an outline of his or her badge.

Truth was, all those men and women in law enforcement--like everyone else--knew what cancer could do. The horrible disease seemed to miss no family, or any profession, leaving behind loved ones who had watched the painful struggle. A law enforcement officer fixes things, but you can’t fix cancer.

Of the group of women who’d worked to pull this together for the last five months, cancer had savaged their lives as well. Each of them had lost someone--a parent, a sibling, a co-worker, or, worst of all, a child--to the disease. A few had battled the disease themselves and won.

Harry decided not to fuss about the bracelets but to make a huge pink sign advertising them. Every participant received a bracelet, but Paula had wanted extras so people could buy them as a sign of support. Harry--who agonized over every expenditure, thereby driving her friends and her husband to distraction--couldn’t quite grasp that a non-runner would purchase a pink rubber bracelet.

Committee work finished, Alicia and BoomBoom brought out the food and drinks. Their strict rule was no gossip, eating, or imbibing until the official work was done. This removed extraneous chat. All was accomplished in a timely manner, a small miracle, given the human propensity for useless chatter.

Alicia’s dog, Max, tried to keep awake as they worked but had fallen asleep on the floor next to Alicia. When she rose, Max raised his head, bounced up, and followed the person he loved into the kitchen.

Each committee meeting was held at a different member’s house. This spread out the cost of entertaining, but it also drew the group closer. When you see someone’s furniture, pictures, the colors they chose for fabrics and the walls, you gain insight into them. Granted, most of these people had known one another from grade school. Others, like Alicia, had lived in the area off and on for thirty years. Nita Vitebsk was a sixteen-year resident. Toni Enright was originally from Harrisonburg, so she fit right in. Paula Benton, there for two years, was such a sunny personality that the ladies in the group had a hard time remembering when she had first come into their lives. Somehow it seemed she was always there.

Alicia’s subdued and elegant home reflected her tastes and her income. Any woman who has a Munnings on the wall can’t be poor. Sir Alfred Munnings’s canvases, the larger ones, routinely sold for two million and some for more. However, you never felt overpowered or smothered by Alicia’s money. Her home warmly enveloped you.