Throw in a loan shark, a nosy neighbor, and a murder attempt, and Izzy will have her work cut out for her. Tuck yourself into your favorite spot and join Izzy on her first adventure today! About what I would be doing.
The honor of protecting someone from harm. I crossed the lobby and entered a waiting elevator. No gun. No Taser. No combat or defense training.
I did have a hard knot of nerves in my stomach though. Would a bad guy be intimidated if I threatened to release the butterflies? Some strands were stuck to my neck, subdued by sweat, but the rest was likely poking in all directions. I watched the golden numbers light up one by one. In typical Los Angeles fashion, even the damn elevator was more glamorous than me. Aunt Alice and her perfect children never had problems getting their hair to behave. They were probably above sweating too. It was insulated and silent, far removed from the heat and bustle of the street below and untouched by my mounting tension.
Ignoring the way anxiety had me projecting my feelings onto an inanimate building, I squinted at my palm. But I could just make out the smudgy figures: I walked until I found the matching plaque and made sure my shaking hand gave a firm, audible knock. Floor-to-ceiling windows filled the space with natural light, all the better for calling attention to the distinct lack of furniture. Despite the generous square footage, it was furnished with only two expensive-looking chairs and a sleek rosewood desk with nothing on it but the token MacBook Pro. He was dauntingly handsome, with none of my insecurity, and dark hair that was cropped far too short to even think of misbehaving.
The no-nonsense style seemed at odds with the swankiness of his office, hinting he might be more practical than the decor suggested. My gaze dropped to his eyes. The clean-shaven square jaw and broad shoulders did not soften his image. For a fleeting second, I wished it was his hands doing the roaming. Then I remembered why I was here. Galen, physician to the Roman emperor, considered it a cushion for the blood vessels around it, with no other purpose.
Honestly, do blood vessels ever need a cushion? Galen probably got that idea from Herophilus, the man who first described the pancreas.
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Herophilus made his discovery through a medical practice he had pioneered: public dissections of human bodies—perhaps even some not yet quite dead. Forbidden from continuing that tradition, Galen made do with pigs. Translation can be such a pesky thing. After the medical profession discarded that cushion idea, doctors considered the pancreas a waste collector: pancreas was to spleen as gall bladder is to liver.
However, a Dutch medical student, who would later discover ovulation, proved the pancreas produced an important fluid. Fortunately, de Graaf began his medical discoveries very young; he was killed by the bubonic plague when he was The year he succumbed to the plague, a Swiss doctor removed the pancreases of several dogs. Most of his research specimens ran away—they had been stolen and ran back to their owners—but those that stayed grew thirstier and thirstier, urinated much, and died within a few months.
So much for the waste collector idea. When I learned my mother had pancreatic cancer, I was insufficiently fazed.
I try now to imagine what I was thinking, before I knew what I should have been thinking. In a New England doctor wrote down the recipe for an anti-tumor balm. Simmer one part rosin beeswax and four parts mutton suet.
Add one ounce lead to a pound of salve. Simmer until lead dissolves.
All, like lead, are deadly poisons. Some doctors tried to starve out cancers by restricting their patients to distilled water; others instructed their patients to swallow dozens upon dozens of skinned, gutted, still-palpitating green lizards. Something inside of her is calling her back to the desert. Why else would be preparing spicy Mexican meatball soup at her cottage in Maine when the menu clearly calls for clam chowder?
But once she arrives home, Mrs.
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Potter is food poisoned—apparently from eating her famous ingredient chili—she knows she must act quickly before the murderer strikes again. The Nantucket Diet Murders. Warm memories and good food greeted Mrs. Was something sinister going on? Share: Share on Facebook. More about Nancy Pickard. About Virginia Rich. More about Virginia Rich.