Grace’s step faltered.

Vomit?

She sniffed. Yep. The sour, acrid scent was faint but unmistakable. Thank goodness she hadn’t scarfed down the bagel that had tempted her as she’d dashed out of the kitchen.

Nate paused. “You coming?”

“Uh-huh.” She forced herself to resume walking.

Nate scrutinized her. “You’re a little green around the gills.”

She stopped again. The county sheriff had excellent observation skills. “You know how formalin affects you? I have a similar reaction to vomit. Not as bad as yours, but it’s not my favorite aroma.”

“You sure you want to go in there? The smell’s worse.”

“I’ll be fine. I just had to psych myself up for it. Let’s do this.” She continued toward the back of the house.

The scene was exactly as Nate had described it—as was the smell, which activated her gag reflex.

Hold it together, Grace. You can handle this.

“Morning, Russ.” Somehow she got the greeting out without choking.

“Grace.” He dipped his head and slipped his cell back in his pocket.

“Have either of you spotted anything suspicious?” She moved closer to the woman.

“No.” Nate answered for both of them. “If we hadn’t been looking for similarities to the Fred and Mavis situations, only Russ would be here.”

“Neither of them puked, though.” Russ ambled over.

“That we know of.” Grace knelt beside the woman. “Maybe they made it to the bathroom.”

“Could be.” Russ dropped to his haunches beside her. “But that summer flu bug is going around, and flu can be lethal for older folks.”

“Or it could have been a heart issue again.” Grace squinted at the vomit. Willed her stomach to behave as she bent closer.

Was that a seed?

“Spot something?” Nate dropped down beside her.

She pointed. “Check that out.”

Both men leaned toward the foul-smelling stomach contents.

Nate transferred his attention to her. “It could be a seed.”

“That’s my take.” She shifted toward Russ. “It’s your call, but I’d recommend an autopsy.”

The coroner scratched his bald spot. “I don’t know. There’s nothing here to suggest foul play, and we didn’t find anything out of the ordinary—other than the seeds—in the autopsies for Mavis or Fred.”

Grace swiveled back to Nate, angling her nose as far away as possible from the smell wafting up to her. “Did you tell him about the foxglove theory?”

“Not yet.” He gave her a once-over and stood. “Let’s talk about it in the living room or on the porch.”

She telegraphed him a silent thank-you. “Let me get a sample first.” After retrieving a screw-top bottle from her kit, she scooped up a portion of the vomit that contained the seed, dropped it in, and rose. If Russ didn’t authorize an autopsy, at least she had this sample.

The two men followed her out, all the way to the porch.

Better.

Much better.

“You want me to fill him in?” Nate directed the question to her.

“Please.” She stowed the sample in her kit. “I’ll freeze this in case we need it later, Russ.”