Hiss of Death: A Mrs. Murphy Mystery by Rita Mae Brown and Sneaky Pie Brown Read Free Book Online Page B

heal without cutting, and more tests than even a genius could remember. It overwhelmed her, and she mistrusted it. It was her nature to distrust the new.
    “I’ll try,” she fibbed.
    Cory rested his hand on the short hood of the Lampo. “You found her, didn’t you?”
    “Yep.”
    “Well, I’m sorry for that, Harry. What a good nurse she was. If you’re in the operating room, you want Paula.”
    “Didn’t mean to criticize you about trusting technology.”
    He reached over and touched Harry’s shoulder. “We can’t know everything, but we can try, and so often technology can show us the problem much faster than our own senses.”
    “It’s good to see you, Cory. Thanks for talking to me about your car.”
    “Oh, I know you’re a gearhead.” He smiled. “One of the first conversations I had with you when I moved here from Minneapolis was why a live axle is a rougher ride but better for a truck. I thought, well, I haven’t met too many women who know stuff like that, and then I met BoomBoom Craycroft. Must be something in the water in these parts.”
    “Hope so. Saves us money when we go for auto repair.” Cory blinked.
    “I hadn’t thought of that.”
    “Men usually don’t.”
    A puzzled look crossed his face. “What’s being a man got to do with it? I figure if you know motors, you can tell the mechanic where to look first. Save some money.”
    “True enough. However, Cory, there are those dishonest mechanics out there who figure a woman is as dumb as a sack of hammers about motors. So they give you a laundry list of repairs, all of which are unnecessary. The woman foots the bill. That’s never happened to BoomBoom or me.”
    He smiled slyly. “No, but I bet a lot else has.”
    Harry laughed and waved him off as he walked away. She then hopped up into the high seat of her F-150 with the live axle—so good for hauling. She cranked the engine and luxuriated in the rumble of that big old gas-guzzling V-8.
    “Damned if I’d buy an electric car.” She rolled down the road, then pulled over.
    She opened the glove compartment, fished out her cellphone, which was taped together after many little accidents, and dialed Susan Tucker.
    “Hey.”
    “Hey back at you. Where you at?” Susan used the grammatically incorrect sentence.
    “Dr. MacCormack’s. Can I see you? Now.”
    After so many years of friendship, Susan knew Harry was in trouble.
    “I’m on the golf course. Want to meet me at the Nineteenth Hole or home?”
    “Home.”
    “Be there in about a half hour.”
    “Good enough.”
    •    •    •
    When Susan pulled into her driveway, Harry felt a flood of relief and love. She needed Susan, and Susan never failed her. Harry prayed that she had never failed her friend, either.
    Within minutes, the two sat at Susan’s kitchen table, tea in front of them, as well as Harry’s problem.
    “You’re going to have the procedure, aren’t you?”
    “I am, but I’m not looking forward to it. I have to lie on a table, drop my boob through it, and they go in with a tiny, tiny scalpel with a little fishhook, sort of, pull out some tissue, then test it.”
    “They’ll put some numbing cream on. That will help.”
    “There isn’t going to be any numbing cream at the back of my boob. It’s going to hurt like hell.”
    Susan put both hands around her beautiful bone china cup. One’s chinaware, silver, and crystal still counted in these parts. Susan had inherited delicate china from her paternal line going back to 1720.
    “Harry, I’m sorry. You have to do it.”
    “Will you go with me?”
    “Of course I will. Tell me when.”
    “I’ll know tomorrow. Dr. MacCormack is making the appointment. She says she just won’t know anything until we have tissue. A mammogram can miss a lot or sometimes just get it wrong. Obviously, she’s worried, or I wouldn’t have to do this.”
    Susan took a deep breath, stared straight into Harry’s light brown eyes. “Okay. What if it is cancer? You