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

smiled. “To the right of Genghis Khan.”
    They both laughed, remembering Harry’s mother.
    “You’re not taking me home in my own car?”
    “You didn’t eat breakfast. I’m taking you to the club,” Susan said.
    As they tackled waffles drenched in Vermont maple syrup, grits swimming in butter, and a thin slice of early melon, they didn’t avoid the pressing subject. Until the results came in, though, there wasn’t much to say.
    Back in the wagon, Harry now driving, Susan asked, “Will you swing by Charlottesville Press?”
    “Sure.”
    Charlottesville Press on Harris Street stayed afloat, even with home printers. You couldn’t get married without them. Well, a Virginian couldpay for the invitations to be printed by Tiffany. But Tiffany now used Crane papers more than their own, so no Tiffany watermark. What was the point? Then again, the bride’s parents, trying to save money, could print them themselves or go to someone using a laser printer. While it saved bundles, one slipped precipitously on the social scale. Much as such things shouldn’t matter, they did.
    Is there a Southerner, male or female, who doesn’t hold paper up to the light to see the watermark? Probably, but neither Harry nor Susan nor their husbands fell into that lot. All of their mothers would be turning over in their graves if things were not properly done.
    Susan—with two children of marriageable age, one male, one female—had so far been spared the expense of a blowout wedding. She was, however, in charge of the gold invitational banquet for the Multiple Sclerosis Foundation. The invitations had to be perfect. Perfect. The fees for the feast proved rather steep. Hence Charlottesville Press. The invitation had to match the elegance of the event held at Keswick Hall.
    As they turned onto Harris Street, billows of black smoke curled upward. Even with the car windows closed, the smell of fire crept in.
    Harry and Susan counted many friends among the business owners on Harris Street. Their worry was immediate.
    Fire trucks blocked the way to Charlottesville Press.
    “Oh, God, hope it’s not the pet store or Chuck Grossman’s business. Or Rodney,” Susan exclaimed.
    Rodney was Rodney Thomas, owner of Charlottesville Press.
    “Harry, we’ve got to turn around.”
    “I know, but hold on one skinny minute.” Harry hit the brakes, pressed the flashing-light button, stepped out of her Volvo, and ran up to Luke Anson, an officer with the Charlottesville police whom she recognized.
    “Luke.”
    “Harry, turn round.”
    “What’s burning?”
    “Pinnacle Records. Go on, Harry. Everyone’s out of the building, even the dog.”
    “Okay.” Back in the Volvo, Harry informed Susan.
    Pinnacle Records housed hard copy, some of those records goingback to 1919. They also had sliding metal trays in temperature-controlled vaults for CDs, floppy disks, even removed hard drives. Two years ago, Pinnacle had developed another temperature-controlled small vault for the tiny thumb drives now coming into use.
    Even though technology surged ahead, with files and backup becoming ever smaller, huge companies soon ran out of storage room, no matter how carefully they’d planned. The proliferation of materials was overwhelming. Pinnacle provided a much-needed service to many organizations. Of particular concern to some of their clients were their old papers, particularly if the paper was cheap, such as newsprint. Such articles disintegrated rapidly. Pinnacle worked with various libraries’ special collections, most notably the University of Virginia, keeping abreast of the latest developments in preserving historical documents. The old inks remained as long as the paper could hold them. Experts could pinpoint the chemicals in various inks, too. It was historically vital to preserve the actual paper document. Fortunately, many companies realized this.
    Pinnacle carried insurance and was supposed to be fireproof.
    “Pinnacle has so much sensitive, really