Рита Браун - Hiss Of Death

Surprised, he leaned forward. “You like cars?”

“I love cars. I love tractors. I love anything with a motor in it. I even like riding mowers.”

He laughed. “That’s great.”

“I’m sure you know that Don and Robin King are sponsors of a polo team, Team Flow, and they are the backbone of the Pink Ribbon Polo Classic, along with King Family Vineyards. They raise money for a good cause, and everyone has a great time. It’s the social event of the summer, and it’s not expensive to get in.”

“I do know of it and had planned on attending. I’ll look for you this year.”

She smiled up at him. “I’m not the only female gearhead in Albemarle County. BoomBoom Craycroft is as big a nut as I am, but with a bigger budget.”

“One of my co-workers took out another lady for a test drive. She was a doctor, ummm—Anna, Anna something.”

“Annalise Veronese. Was she going to buy a Porsche?” Harry felt a twinge of envy.

“No, she drove a Jetta. The gas mileage on the diesel interested her, and I think she liked the fit and finish of the car. She’s called him back, but so far no sale.”

“Gotta be tough, sales.”

“I like it, though.”

“Dawson, I have horses, and I can spot one that’s been on steroids from one who hasn’t in the racing world. I think I can spot it with people, too. Bodybuilders and athletes who use them get big, of course, and stronger, no doubt. I notice the muscle has a kind of smooth quality.” She lightly touched his forearm. “You’ve done it the hard way.”

“You don’t miss much.”

“I don’t know about that.”

The two of them walked together toward their separate locker rooms.

Stopping in front of the women’s locker room, Harry, with an impish grin, asked, “Are you married?”

Really, she shouldn’t have been so direct. Her mother and grandmother were turning in their graves. But often Harry could get away with things others could not, thanks to that impish quality.

“No. I know you are. Noddy told me. Wish you weren’t.” He grinned back.

“How flattering.” She meant it. “I have some wonderful girlfriends. Most are married, but some aren’t. And friends have friends. If you’re going to be at the polo match out in Greenwood on Father’s Day, I’ll introduce you. Since it’s a big event, it will be natural, know what I mean?”

“Thanks. I look forward to it.”

On the drive home, Harry, buoyed by the attention, whistled to herself. She’d never dream of stepping out on Fair, but oh, how sweet when a handsome man pays attention to you.

• • •

Days later, the polo game proved close and exciting. The field was only seven miles from Harry’s farm in Crozet. It was set in a vineyard. People loved the views, the acre upon acre of vines, the clean, non-fussy design of the farm buildings. She introduced Dawson to BoomBoom and Alicia, who introduced him to their girlfriends. She thought about the people buying tickets to the Pink Ribbon Polo Classic. Steroids weren’t much help to riders in this game.

Watching from her director’s chair, Harry heard the voice of Diana Farrell, the announcer, saying, “One out of eight women in America will be diagnosed with breast cancer in her lifetime.”

Harry was now that woman.

After the game, she turned onto Route 250 and felt a wave crash over her. She thought of Tina Leiter, who spoke at halftime about her struggle with breast cancer. No self-pity, but helpful facts and truthful information came from Tina. Harry paid some attention, but mostly she had focused on the lady’s lovely hat, wishing she’d had the style to wear one.

Then she thought of the horses, the players, the umpires, and all the sponsors, and suddenly Harry was sobbing, heaving. She drove into the parking lot of Western Albemarle High School and pulled over. She was one of those women. Those players and those beautiful ponies were playing for her. The Kings’ generosity was for her, as was the Flows’, and she felt a gratitude she could never express. She wanted to write everyone a thank-you. She wanted to kiss them, which would probably embarrass everybody but the horses.

She got hold of herself. Tears still flowing, she silently gave a prayer of thanks for all those people all across America working with the American Cancer Society, coming up with fund-raisers.

The cancer attacked her body, but she looked to be all right. She still had a way to go, but she had never reckoned with what the cancer would do to her heart. Where did these emotions come from? What happened to her reserve? Last year she was proud of everyone who ran the 5K and thrilled at the polo match, but now … now everything and everyone looked different.

It wasn’t until the middle of the night when she got up just to see the first lightning bugs and to hear the night birds that she understood Dawson English had walked her one step closer to the killer.

W hy don’t they hurry up?” Pewter paced on the kitchen counter, her food bowl depressingly empty.

“She’s got a bee in her bonnet,” Mrs. Murphy explained. “The poor man can’t shave in peace. She’s perched on the toilet seat, yakking away.”

“I don’t care if she’s late for her breakfast. I want mine on time.”

The brass pendulum with the large rounded bottom swung in the old railroad clock. Harry loved that clock because it was so easy to read and because it came from the old whistle-stop in Crozet. Her mother saved the clock from the pretty little brick station when it was phased out.

Tucker looked up at the rhythmic swing.

Harry, old large T-shirt serving as a nightshirt, padded into the kitchen in her elk-skin slippers. She could have snuck up on a human, but the three animals heard her.

“Where’s my breakfast?” the gray cat demanded.

“Who said you were first?” Tucker grumbled from the floor.

“Pewter, shut up. I’m getting to it.” Harry slapped down a can of food but did not yet open it. First, she washed out the cat bowls, followed by the dog bowl.

“I don’t care if the bowl is clean.”

“I do.” Mrs. Murphy quietly waited.

“You’re a priss.” Pewter kept bumping Harry’s elbow as she washed.

“Pewter, leave me alone. I have half a mind not to give you canned food.”

“Never! Never. I will exact a revenge more terrible than you can imagine,” the gray threatened, but she did stop bumping.

Dressed for work, Fair came into the kitchen. “Thinking about what you said.”

Harry walked over to the coffeepot, which she’d set up the night before, now pressing the on button.

“Don’t make coffee. Feed me!” Pewter howled.

Finally, Harry took the manual can opener and opened the can, the aroma of chopped beef filling the room. She bypassed electric can openers because she thought they wasted electricity, but also she wanted to use the muscles between her thumb and forefinger. A manual can opener gives them a workout.

“I’m feeling faint.” Pewter wobbled.

“Give this cat a scholarship to the American Academy of Dramatic Arts.” Mrs. Murphy had had about enough.

Harry filled the two bowls. Pewter immediately shut up. Then Harry opened a can for Tucker and put the food in her ceramic bowl.

“Thank you,” the corgi politely responded.

“Peace and quiet.” Harry poured her husband’s coffee.

“You didn’t want eggs, did you?”

“Honey, no,” she said. “Cereal’s good.”

He’d put down two bowls before asking, so now he opened the fridge, took out milk, and poured some in a striped ceramic pitcher.