“Call me if I can do a grocery or pharmacy run.”

“I will. Talk to you soon.”

He ended the call and staggered to the bathroom. Barely got there in time.

Once he finished upchucking, he sat on the toilet seat and dropped his head into his hands.

Aspirin, clear soda, and rest. Those were his priorities.

Thank goodness he was off duty this weekend and the fraud/murder case was quiet at the moment. Since Mullins hadn’t yet been instructed to sign up any new “customers,” none of the county’s older residents should be in imminent danger.

But the minute he was feeling halfway normal, he’d be back on this—regardless of the foxglove test results.

Because Grace was right.

Despite the manner noted on the official death certificates for the six people Mullins had identified as fraud victims, their demises were anything but natural. Every one of them had been murdered.

And he wasn’t going to rest until he did everything in his power to identify the person who was targeting gullible seniors in desperate need of extra income, then sucking them into a scheme that promised to solve all their monetary problems.

Which it did.

After all, money problems vanished once you were dead.

Grace Reilly had to go. Soon. While the window of opportunity remained open.

There had been too many autopsies.

BK knocked back a shot of scotch on the rocks and slammed the empty glass on the counter.

How to get rid of her wasn’t an issue. That would be a piece of cake. And the flu epidemic provided the perfect cover.

The big question was when to do it.

A niggle of guilt raised its ugly head, but BK quashed it at once. Remorse had no place in this scheme. Yes, it was a shame the pathologist had to be stopped. Unlike the older folks who’d been targeted, who contributed nothing and were a drain on society, Grace Reilly had decades of productive life ahead of her.

But what other choice was there? The woman hadn’t paid any attention to the warnings, and she kept raising red flags about unremarkable deaths that should have slipped under the radar of law enforcement.

It would be helpful to know what had aroused her suspicions . . . and it might still be possible to glean that information.

Not that it should matter much going forward. Without her in the picture, stirring the pot—and lacking any proof of foul play—the sheriff’s hands would be tied and the coroner would be content with taking future deaths at face value.

That’s why the pathologist had to be dealt with soon. Before it was time to enlist Dave to contact another candidate about his once-in-a-lifetime investment opportunity.

Before heart issues claimed the next victim.

BK rinsed out the glass, stashed the half-empty bottle of scotch under the sink, and strolled down the hall, pausing to straighten a nighttime photo of the illuminated Eiffel Tower. A bucket-list item that had already been crossed off. But there were others, and with the funding scheme in place, the rest were within reach.