I think about that for a moment. “If a person were to mix pokeweed with dandelions or some other green, would it still be toxic?”

“Toxic as hell but a lot more tasty.”

“What kind of symptoms would the victim have?”

“The patient would initially experience esophageal irritation. Within an hour he would develop severe abdominal pain and vomiting, followed by prolific bloody diarrhea. Later, he would suffer tachycardia. Elevated respiration. Once he was taken to the ER, the attending physician would note that the patient was hypotensive—”

“Low blood pressure?” I ask.

“Correct,” he replies. “Due to the vasoconstriction of the large vessels, the physician would more than likely introduce pressor drugs to elevate blood pressure. If the patient was in respiratory failure, a ventilator would be introduced.”

“What’s the typical cause of death? I mean, even with medical attention?”

“A combination of maladies, any one of which could be catastrophic or fatal. Hypotension, cardiac arrhythmia, ventricular fibrillation, and severe respiratory depression.”

“In the course of an autopsy and in terms of a toxicity screen, what specifically would the coroner need to look for?”

“That’s beyond my realm of knowledge, Kate, but if I were to venture a guess, I’d say a general organic screen would pick up the toxins. In terms of the autopsy, bleeding and ulceration of the stomach and intestines would be found. Liver damage would be present.” He pauses. “It sounds like you have another interesting case on your hands.”

“If the tox or autopsy comes back with proof that my victim ingested pokeweed, how do I tell if the weed was picked inadvertently or purposefully included with the intent to poison?”

“As a fan of the classic mystery, I’d say it all boils down, so to speak, to motive.”

Chapter 24

CHAPTER 24

It’s nearly midnight by the time I arrive home. As I pull around to the rear of the house, I notice that Tomasetti left the back porch light on for me, and something wistful and soft unfurls in my belly. I’ve missed him, I realize. I’ve missed the simple happiness of being with him. Of just loving him. Easy Sunday afternoons. Saturday mornings in bed. I’m midway down the sidewalk when the kitchen light flicks on and the door opens. Tomasetti, dressed in faded jeans and a Cleveland Division of Police T-shirt, steps onto the porch.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he tells me.

I take the steps to the porch and stop a foot away from him. “You, too.”

I expect him to pull me into his arms or maybe lay a kiss on me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he steps back and opens the door to usher me inside. “Tired?”