“I worked in a gas station as a kid. You’re one hundred percent right.”
This pleased him. “Would you like a test-drive?”
“Not right now. I’d like more literature to study the car. It’s all so new. I want to make sure I understand it, and I’d like you to pop the hood.”
“Be glad to.” He opened the driver’s door, leaned down, and pulled the release to the left of the steering wheel, down low in the driver’s footwell by the door.
He turned on the car and then joined her. They both peered down.
“Amazing.” Annalise whistled. “Quiet.”
“I’ll confess that took some getting used to. When I drive, I listen for the engine.”
“And you really listen when it’s a manual shift, which I love. This is truly amazing. I don’t know if the idea will catch hold, but it does seem to me, who loves a big gas engine, that we have to find some compromise.” Annalise felt a leaching loss even at the thought of bidding the internal combustion engine goodbye.
She took the brochures, bade Sean goodbye. She liked him, but then, if you don’t like a car salesman, you aren’t going to buy. Likability ought to be the first quality a dealer looks for in an employee. You can always cram the knowledge about the vehicle in someone’s head, but you can’t make an individual personable.
She drove her old quirky Saab to the Volkswagen dealer, where she tried a diesel Jetta, which got forty-four miles per gallon on the open road. She could feel a slight diesel thump, but as she hit sixty-five on I-64, the engine felt smoother. Dawson English, the salesman sitting next to her, was relaxed, because the woman could drive. The small machine handled very well, but going from zero to sixty left something to be desired: It took 9.8 seconds.
You can’t have it all, she thought to herself.
Dawson said, “You ever drive competitively?”
“Loved it. I’d be happy driving go-carts. I never had the money for the big leagues. My father and I sprinkled garage fairy dust on a few cars. We did pretty good at local tracks. I still like to drive the quarter-mile races, but it’s so expensive now.”
“Everything is,” he agreed. “You’re a doctor. I sell a lot of cars to doctors who want good gas mileage but don’t want a crossover car. What do you think about healthcare reform?”
“I have no idea how it’s going to turn out, but I think the only people who can honestly deliver healthcare reform are doctors, nurses, and the hospital administrators.”
Peering out from under her umbrella, Thadia Martin said, “Rain, rain, go away, little Thadia wants to play.” She was waiting for a break in the rain to make a dash for her car.
“So they say,” replied Dr. Cory Schaeffer, also under an umbrella, a navy blue one. “How’s it going?”
They were in the hospital parking lot, close to the emergency room wing.
“Good. More and more keep coming through the door. Eventually the hospital will see that my rehab groups make money. Then I’ll ask for another assistant.”
“How many groups?”
“Right now five. I keep them at ten people. It’s difficult, because there’s such a need—a need for more counselors, more space. I’ve also been trying acupuncture. Need a special room for that.”
“Really?” He took her by the elbow. “Raining harder. Let’s step under the overhang.”
They walked back to the hospital, ducking under the protective overhang. It was quiet but for the pounding rain. They closed their umbrellas.
Thadia raised her voice to be heard over the downpour. “Acupuncture helps. I don’t know why, but it does. I got the idea from reading papers from Fenway Health.”
“The organization in Boston?”
“Right. They’re cutting-edge on so many things; curing addictive behavior is just one.”
“I’ll have to look into that.” He raised his voice. “How are you doing with the vitamin therapies?”
“Works for some. Not for others.”
“This all comes back to body chemistries. Cancer changes the body chemistry. I put some patients on a vitamin regime. I can’t say it provides a cure, but it sometimes provides a rollback: a slowing down of the cancer’s proliferation. I really will have to look into acupuncture.”
“People around here act like we’re practicing voodoo.” Thadia grimaced.
“If we did, we’d probably have more patients and would definitely have more fun.” He reached over, giving her arm a light pinch. “I can see you with a python wrapped around you. Thadia, Voodoo Queen of Crozet.”
“Worth a try.” She smiled. “Hey, not every patient responds to conventional treatment. If voodoo works, I’ll do it.”
“Me, too. Paula Benton, before her death, cussed me out.”
“Why?”
“I was getting to that. She didn’t say I was practicing voodoo, but she did say she didn’t think central Virginia was prepared for alternative treatments and therapies.”
“If she meant people’s attitudes, she was right,” Thadia responded.
“I don’t know. People aren’t as backward as they might appear. Paula told me to stick to surgery and let other people worry about what comes after. I took offense at that.”
“Tear her a new one?”
“No. I told her if she wanted to go toe to toe with me, she should go to med school and emerge with her M.D. Then it would be a fair fight.”
“Bet that pissed her off.”
“Did.”
“Thought you liked Paula. She was good-looking,” Thadia went fishing.
“She was.” Cory stared off into the distance for a moment, then snapped back. “I enjoyed working with her. I didn’t like when she’d question me. Nurses don’t question doctors. She thought she knew more than she did.” He shivered. The temperature was dropping as fast as the rain. “But she was good.”
“Nosy.” Thadia couldn’t resist a little jab.
He shrugged. “Speak no ill of the dead.”
“I guess.” Thadia spoke louder due to the downpour. “I don’t know why she was so opposed to trying new things, but the one thing she said, which I thought had some merit, is that we might give people false hope with alternative treatments. They haven’t been rigorously tested and don’t conform to the scientific method.”
“Some do. I have reams of tests with control groups for new drugs, like Crizotinib, which can be used to shrink lung cancer tumors. So what if the test group is only five hundred patients instead of fifty thousand? It may be a life preserver in a stormy sea. If someone is desperate and has the genetic anomaly for which Crizotinib is effective, why shouldn’t they try new approaches? As long as patients understand it’s a new approach. Studies, too. If a patient agrees to this. Good.”
Wryly, Thadia remarked, “My clientele can help you there. They’re so used to popping pills or sticking needles in their arms, they’ll volunteer.”
“Body chemistry.” Cory spoke louder, too. “I had this discussion with old Izzy Wineberg.”
“He’s getting old.”
“He ran the five-K, in good order. I’ll give him credit for that. He’s always telling me what it was like before this hospital was built.”
“He does vacation in the past. Anyway, what was the discussion?” Thadia leaned toward Cory, the picture of receptiveness.
“We were talking about how each patient is an individual. He was complaining that so many young doctors miss the whole person. He’s right. This started with us joking about how two different bodies, if opened, would not conform to the drawings in Gray’s Anatomy. One person might have their heart on the right side of their body. Another could have one less rib than the normal number, or two more. The human body is variable, and so is chemistry. In fact, I think blood chemistry is the most variable of all.”
“I know. Many of us are missing something, usually serotonin.”
“Cocaine or alcohol supplies it.”
“Right. It’s a bit more complicated. Family background factors into i
t, the person’s outlook on life, how much responsibility they’re willing to accept for their actions.”
“Back to Paula. Did she say why, other than false hope, she opposed a lot of what you’re doing?” Cory inquired.
“She thought it was wrong to charge for treatments that haven’t yet been proven effective.”
“What?”
“Her argument was if someone can kick their habit, it may not be because acupuncture or whatever helped. It might be something else, since there’s a medley of treatments and I can’t isolate one from another.”
“I don’t know what got into her.” Cory peered out from under the overhang. “This rain isn’t going to end anytime soon.”
“No.” Thadia reopened her umbrella, preparing to go to her car. “None of it.”
“Meaning?”
“Hostility toward new methods.”
“Ah.” He reopened his umbrella with a whoosh. “We have to keep keeping on.”
As Cory splashed through the puddles, now all over the paved parking lot, for the rain was unrelenting, he had the strange sensation that he was being followed. When he peered out from under his umbrella, though, he saw no one. He opened the door to his Lampo, keeping his left arm outside, then turned, closing his umbrella. His left arm was soaked. As he closed his door he thought he heard another door close nearby, but he couldn’t see anyone behind the wheel of a car.
He shook off the odd feeling, started the silent machine, and drove home.
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.
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• • •
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.
In the basement under the westernmost spoke of the Central Virginia Medical Complex, Harry, Toni Enright, and Franny Howard stood outside the room where the cancer support group met.
Hiss of Death: A Mrs. Murphy Mystery Page 10
