“What’s this?” She indicated the cup.

“Your mocha.”

“Today’s not Monday.”

“It’s a thank-you for this.” He rested his fingers on the piece of Tupperware.

“That wasn’t necessary.”

“I disagree. I think your soup expedited my recovery. And my taste buds appreciated it too.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” She picked up the empty container and moved it to the top of the filing cabinet behind her desk. “I have to say you do look more like yourself today.”

“I’m feeling more like myself. Anything I should know before I plunge back in?”

“Nothing critical. Russ stopped in yesterday to see you, but as far as I know there haven’t been any deaths that required him to wear his coroner’s hat since Lorraine Meyers passed. Do you really think there was foul play involved in that one?”

“Yes.”

“My.” She expelled a breath. “Such goings-on can make a body paranoid. I’ve been watching over my shoulder ever since I heard about Fred and Mavis.” She glanced around, leaned closer, and lowered her voice. “Not to be nosey, but how on earth did you figure out their deaths weren’t natural?”

“I didn’t. Dr. Reilly gets all the credit.”

The woman gave a knowing nod. “I knew the first time I met her she was smart. Did she spot something suspicious during the autopsies?”

“Yep. Sunflower seeds.”

Eleanor did a double take. “Sunflower seeds? You mean like the kind you plant in the garden?”

“Or eat.”

“They aren’t dangerous, are they? I’ve seen them on the shelf at the grocery store.”

“Not that I know of, but—” His cell began to vibrate and he pulled it out. Skimmed the screen. “Speaking of the good doctor . . .” He lifted the phone. “After I take this call, I’ll be playing catch-up in my office.”

She waved him down the hall. “I’ll try to divert anyone who comes by until your head’s above water.”

“Thanks.” He put the phone to his ear and continued toward his office. “Morning. I was going to call you in an hour or two to talk about Saturday.”

“You’re never going to believe this.”

He frowned as he entered his office and shut the door behind him. “What’s wrong? You don’t sound like yourself.”

“I don’t feel like myself. More like one of the zombies in Night of the Living Dead.”

He halted. “You’ve got the flu.”

“Bingo.”

He expelled a breath and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m really sorry. When did it hit?”

“About two o’clock yesterday afternoon, as I was finishing my second autopsy. I barely made it home.”

“Tell me what I can do.”

“Nothing. You know the drill. It has to run its course. I’ve got aspirin and fluids on hand. Did you go to work?”

“Yes.” He dropped into his swivel chair and surveyed the stacks of documents waiting for his attention. Sighed. “And the state of my desk would suggest it’s going to be a long day.”

“Don’t push yourself. Whatever you don’t get to will be there tomorrow.”