Hiss of Death

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Ah.” Thadia’s brow furrowed. “I was hoping you could help me.”

  Here it comes, Harry thought to herself.

  “Do jockeys, show riders, or polo players use performance-enhancing drugs?”

  “Jeez, Thadia, I’ve never seen any evidence of it. Or even heard of it, either. Yes, the big-money riders, some of them, have battled the same demons a lot of people battle, but drinking and drugging, especially before riding, would be a real death wish.”

  “Why?”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t cocaine speed you up?”

  “Certainly speeds up your heart rate,” Thadia said.

  “And alcohol is a depressant, a downer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, then, when you ride, you have to be perfectly in tune with your horse. It’s like dancing. If you’re flying high, it isn’t going to work. You’ll rush your jumps or do something stupid, or you’ll set off your horse and the animal will refuse to do as you ask.”

  “Really.” Thadia was incredulous. “I never fooled with horses. Half the girls at Saint Anne’s did, but that wasn’t the half I ran with.” She smiled ruefully.

  “Horses are very emotional animals. They sense a great deal about you. Like I said, you need to get in tune. And it’s kind of like with people. Some you get along with better than others, but if you’re out of it or flat-out crazy, they know. They don’t like it.”

  “But aren’t a lot of horses on drugs?”

  “Depends on the venue. Are they on drugs foxhunting? No. Again, that would be a death wish. Flat racing.” She whistled. “Unfortunately, it’s a dreadful mess. Every state has different standards. Most of the drugs for horses abused by their trainers or owners don’t correspond to, say, cocaine for the horses, but they mask pain or inhibit bleeding—stuff like that. And, of course, there’s always steroids.”

  “Bodybuilding for horses?” Thadia had never heard of that.

  “For some medical conditions, steroids are appropriate. However, the horses loaded up on them aren’t being treated for those conditions. Steroids do to horses what they do to humans. They make them bigger, stronger, faster. In short, a better athlete.” She stopped. “Do you have people in the recovery groups who abused steroids?”

  “Not many. And I can’t say that was their primary problem. A lot of athletes fall into evil habits.” She half smiled when she said that. “Pressure—too much too soon—and a lot of them don’t come from stable backgrounds. Well, since we were talking of horses, forgive the pun.”

  Harry stated with conviction, “Horses have more sense than people. We screw up their body chemistry and the poor animal has no choice.”

  Thadia nodded. “I read somewhere, wish I could remember, that if you tested a thousand Americans, about eighty percent would show positive for trace amounts of cocaine.”

  Harry’s eyes opened wide. “What!”

  “They aren’t users. It’s on our money.”

  “Oh, my God.” Harry’s hand came up to her face. She’d never thought of anything like that.

  “You can see, I got my work cut out for me. Also, when times are hard, people drink more, drug more, abuse women, children, and animals more.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “The problem is men. They lash out. Women internalize their misery. They’ll hurt themselves, which in turn hurts others—it’s just not that obvious. Can you name one woman who’s picked up an assault rifle and gunned down innocent strangers?”

  “No.”

  “But I bet you can name some who have committed suicide.”

  “Sure.” Harry hated that thought.

  “Most of the work I do with the men in my groups is getting them to face their problems without taking it out on someone else or escaping via the bottle.”

  “Well, you have to do that with the women, too.” Harry was ever suspicious of gender statements, even though occasionally she made them herself.

  “I do, but it’s different. What really upsets me—and this gets back to drugs again—people, medical people, explain the violence of the men by latching on to physical explanations. Their hormones, the male brain. Blah, blah, blah, blah. Hey, there’s the male brain in France, too. They don’t have the problem of domestic violence to the extent that we do. It’s culture.”

  “Yeah, I agree with you. And our culture also encourages all the drug use. Doesn’t matter if a doctor’s pushing it on you or the guy on the street corner.”

  “Actually, Harry, the guy on the street corner corresponds to the streetwalker. Bottom of the barrel, because usually both of those jobs, if you will, are people who are paying for their habit. It’s the pushers in the country clubs that never get caught. The pusher in the big corporation, say, in personnel. It’s so easy.”

  “Given your history, I can understand your anger.”

  “What I’m angry about is our duplicity. Either legalize the crap or ban all of it. After all, the biggest drug is alcohol. It’s crazy. Our War on Drugs is a great recipe for failure, for ensuring that the brightest make fortunes and pay not a penny of taxes. It ensures that we have millions of poor people in prison, maybe they had a lid of marijuana. But the rich kingpin is untouchable. It’s so sick.”

  “Thadia, I can’t say I share your passion about this, but then I don’t have your history. Do I think it will change? If the American people want it to, it will, even though the bigwigs you’re talking about can buy our senators and congressmen, can sway the churches with giant contributions, and probably the media, too. I trust the boots-on-the-ground American. My fear is Americans too often wait until it’s a crisis squared before we do anything.”

  “Well, we’re already pretty damn close. Anyway, thanks for talking to me about people in the horse world.”

  “You can cross out performance-enhancing drugs, because they won’t enhance performance. I’m pretty sure about that, but as to cocaine and booze, after the show—well, most horsemen carry a bit of pain.”

  “You?”

  “I have my share. I take Motrin when it gets to me. The ground is pretty hard.” Harry laughed.

  “It was hard when I hit it playing lacrosse, and I was closer to it than someone falling off a horse,” Thadia remembered.

  “All part of the game.”

  “You take vitamins?”

  “Susan—you remember Susan Tucker—gave me a bottle of Centrum when I turned forty. I actually take it.”

  “She was the best midfielder I ever played against.”

  “Now she’s a good golfer. Her handicap is four, and she’s determined to get it down to zero.”

  “You’re a good natural athlete.”

  “You, too, but there wasn’t a path for us. Team sports, I mean. I was lucky because I had horses. Now girls have the hope of a future in professional sports if they play basketball. Still not much else, though, besides golf and tennis.”

  “And the skills you and I had, well”—Thadia shrugged—“golf and tennis are too tame.”

  “Not the way Susan plays.” Harry laughed.

  “Not to be pushier than I already am, but talk to your cancer support group about vitamins. They can really help.”

  “I will.”

  As Thadia turned to leave, Harry considered how lucky she was that she hadn’t gone down that gilded path, which turns to molten lead fast enough. Thadia—the pretty party girl, the good athlete, the girl everybody wanted to date—looked ragged, old, and gray in the face yet there was still something pretty about her. She’d lost her muscle tone by age thirty, every job she ever had, and all her friends. Much as Harry admired her comeback, she didn’t particularly want to be her friend, didn’t want to see much of her.

  And she wouldn’t. This was Thadia’s last day on earth.

  Harry had promised herself after her operation to try one new thing per day. It might be as quiet as reading Wilfred Owen or, like today, riding a different breed of horse with an acquaintance made on trail rides.

&
nbsp; “Like sitting in your easy chair.” Harry smiled after jumping a three-foot-six-inch coop on Sparkle Plenty.

  Following on Overdraft, her eight-year-old, Sue Rowdon enthused, “You can see why I love my Irish Draughts.”

  “Can. Takes up my leg,” Harry noted.

  Accustomed to riding Thoroughbreds and her one special Saddlebred, Shortro, the barrel of the Irish Draught meant she couldn’t reach as far down with her leg. Sparkle Plenty—five years old and 16.2½ hands, the flashy chestnut she was riding this morning—moved so smoothly she didn’t feel that she would pop off.

  “Aren’t you surprised at how cool it’s been?” Sue asked.

  “The humidity creeps in by this time of year. I try to get all my outside chores done by noon. Go out again about five or six. The killer time is around three to five, don’t you think?”

  Sue replied, “Yeah. I like fall. I’m not built for hot weather.”

  Harry liked all four seasons, and changed the subject. “You battled thyroid cancer. I was just getting to know you when it was over. What did radiation do to you?”

  “Unlike you, Harry, I drank mine. Actually, cancer turned out to be lucky for me. It was my dentist who found something wrong. I’d been so tired. He urged me to go to my doctor. Well, my body was making antibodies against my thyroid. I say lucky because I survived. My immune system—compromised before the cancer, which I didn’t know—came back strong when it was all over, thanks to good doctors.”

  “I can’t imagine drinking radiation crap.” Harry grimaced.

  “Gave me vertigo. I couldn’t move without throwing up. I never want to go through that again.” Sue whistled.

  “I don’t like what I have to do. Can’t imagine not being able to stand up, walk, or ride.”

  “You know, Harry, you go through what you must. I thought our ride would get your mind off cancer and”—she smiled—“onto Irish Draughts. I knew you’d never ridden one. I always bred and rode Thoroughbreds. As the years crept up, I decided I wanted a breed I could ride when I’m ninety.”

  “Think you found it.” Harry smiled.

  “Me, too.”

  “Would you consider joining our committee? It’s work, but it’s not too overwhelming until the week before the race. And it’s a great group of girls.” Harry switched gears and hoped.

  “No men?” Sue arched her eyebrow.

  “Dr. Cory Schaeffer is the nominal head. The oncologists, they’re all so busy, they do what they can. Jennifer Potter even shows up for meetings sometimes. And so does Annalise Veronese. She says she sees the damage cancer does and she wants to help.” Harry paused. “You don’t have to answer me now.”

  “I’d love to be part of it. Give me my marching orders.”

  “I will.” Harry grinned. “I’m so glad you said yes. The best part is dinner after the real work is done. Everyone takes a turn, and we meet once a month until just before the race, then it’s once a week the last month before the five-K. You will laugh until you cry, the stuff that comes out. Alicia got us all laughing at the last meeting. She’d clipped a silly report from The London Sunday Times. So now everyone is clipping stupid stories for our next meeting—the aftermath meeting. We made a lot of money on the race. Of course, having the BMW raffle was a big help.”

  “Don’t you all have a dinner?”

  “Next month. I’ll be sure to get you and Rick tickets. It’s a black-tie affair. God, I hate them.”

  “Oh, Harry, you look good in an evening gown.”

  “If only I could figure out how to walk in one.”

  “The female dilemma!”

  “Revenge would be to make the men wear an evening gown.” Sue giggled. “Fair Haristeen, six foot five inches, in a strapless. Oh, my Gawd.”

  “It’s the heels. I’d pay to see him tottering in!” Harry envisioned Fair in four-inch heels, towering over everyone at six-ten.

  “Men wore high heels at the Court of Louis the Fourteenth.”

  “Gross. People see Louis the Fourteenth as such a great king. I figure he’s the one who set the stage for the French Revolution.” Harry disliked overadornment, regardless of the century.

  “Could be. Come on, let’s canter,” Sue said, as they rode into the far rolling meadow at the back of her land, Wild Hare Farm.

  Tucker, who’d been trotting with them, picked up speed as well. Other dogs would have run to the side or up front, but Tucker—bred to herd and to keep a sharp eye on cattle—ran behind the horses. If anyone strayed out of line, she would nip them right back. Corgis have an important job in this world.

  • • •

  Back at Sue’s barn, Mrs. Murphy and Pewter sat on a sweet-smelling hay bale. The F-150, parked in the drive, had all the windows down. Harry used the Volvo for town errands. Loath to run up miles on it because she wanted to drive it for a good ten years, she used the truck for country visits, hauling feed bags. So accustomed to firing up her beloved truck, Harry couldn’t quite get used to driving the Volvo for as many chores as she might.

  Mrs. Murphy looked out the front door of the barn. “Yellow swallowtail.”

  Pewter followed the flight of the beautiful insect. “Easy to catch if they light on the low blooms of a butterfly bush.”

  “That’s why Mom cuts those off.”

  “It’s not fair. There must be millions of yellow swallowtails and black swallowtails in Virginia. If I kill a few, it’s not going to hurt the population,” Pewter sensibly replied.

  “Hurts her.”

  “Murphy, she’s such a softie. Insects.” Pewter puffed out her chest. “Six legs! Who cares what happens to something with six legs?”

  “She does. Haven’t you heard her lamenting about hive collapse?” Mrs. Murphy lifted her right paw to lick it.

  Pewter emitted a little puff of air. “Every word. She said her mother and father remembered the same thing in the 1940s. It’s happening here again and in Europe. She said tests show certain chemicals in the bees. Well, I bet those chemicals weren’t there in the forties. How can anyone know what goes on in an insect’s brain? Especially humans. They don’t even know what’s going on in their own brains.”

  “Aren’t we Mary Sunshine today?” Mrs. Murphy tartly said.

  “All I want are a few butterflies. As it is, Harry’s put the bluebird boxes so far from the house. I’m not going all that distance to sit under them.”

  “She’d never forgive you if you killed a bluebird or an indigo bunting. I do think she’d reward you if you killed that blue jay that’s been dive-bombing her lately.”

  “I will kill that bird if it’s the last thing I do.” Pewter puffed out her magnificent gray chest even further.

  “I’ll help you. Hateful. Hateful bird.”

  “I just wish she weren’t such a softie, our mom,” Pewter again lamented. “She can’t help it, but you have to admit, Pewts, she’s cool in a crisis.”

  “That she is,” the gray cat readily agreed.

  • • •

  Good thing, for Harry at that moment encountered one.

  The large meadow ended at a cul-de-sac, the end of Sue and Rick’s property. One could see the edges of an upscale subdivision east of this. The dirt road, which went nowhere, would someday probably be part of another subdivision. For now, the farmer who owned the adjoining acres, a good neighbor, hung on to them. But age was creeping up on him. Sue feared she and her husband wouldn’t have the money to purchase the good pastureland if he sold due to infirmity. The last thing she wanted was a subdivision hard up on her own farm.

  A deep drainage ditch also created a barrier at the easternmost edge of the land, curving toward the cul-de-sac.

  A 1992 white Corolla sat in the middle of the cul-de-sac, nose pointed west, toward the Blue Ridge Mountains. The driver’s door hung wide open. Someone sat behind the wheel, forearms bent at the elbow, elbows leaning on the steering wheel.

  From a distance, this looked odd.

  “Something’s not right,” Harry remark
ed.

  The two women, walking the horses as they’d finished their bracing canter, picked up a trot toward the car.

  They rode up onto the road.

  Tucker immediately warned, “Dead!”

  The two horses snorted.

  “Oh, my God.” Sue grimaced.

  Harry dismounted, handing her reins to Sue. “Got your cell?”

  “Harry, don’t go over there.”

  “Call the sheriff’s department. Tell them Thadia Martin is dead at the end of Pheasant Lane, the dirt road off Barker’s Crossing Road.”

  Accompanied by Tucker, Harry walked to the open door. Thadia, in rigor mortis, did not yet smell terrible. The night had been cool. The stink would come up by midday. If they hadn’t found her in two days, the odor would have been unbearable to all but vultures and dogs.

  “Harry, don’t touch her.” Sue was aghast.

  “I won’t. I don’t want to destroy evidence, but as we’re the first ones here, I should look.”

  Sue tried to avoid looking at the macabre sight of a woman in her early forties, hands straight up, jaw wide open, eyes bulging. She couldn’t see Thadia’s legs under the steering wheel, which prevented them from becoming as bent as the arms. A body in rigor mortis is difficult to remove. That would be the ambulance team’s problem.

  Sue marveled at Harry’s matter-of-fact approach. She did not marvel that Harry knew the deceased. Harry knew everybody.

  Harry touched nothing. She carefully looked for a sign of struggle.

  No struggle, but Thadia’s throat had been neatly slashed. Blood had spilled on her blouse; some had spurted on the windshield. Startling though this sight was, Harry’s curiosity kicked into high gear. She walked to the passenger door, did not open it—again, for fear of destroying fragile evidence. She peered in the window to see if she could get a view of Thadia’s right side.

  A small carton, which she reckoned to be six inches square, rested on the passenger seat. Thadia’s purse was in the passenger-side footwell.

  Harry walked close to the hood and peered in.

  Thadia wore a short-sleeved buttoned blouse, her sweater thrown in the backseat. Harry noticed her bracelet. She returned to the driver’s side. The bracelet had slipped down to her elbow. Harry could clearly see it was a scarab bracelet and one scarab was missing. She’d not noticed the bracelet on Thadia before, but then one doesn’t wear the same jewelry every day.