God bless the woman for getting to the sample before the end of the week. Now she and Nate wouldn’t have to wonder all weekend about the results.

Fingers trembling, Grace pushed the bowl of soup aside.

This was it.

Bracing, she clicked on the email. All it said was “See attached report.”

Grace opened the attachment and skimmed the clinical, botanical analysis.

Sucked in a breath as her suspicions were confirmed.

BK’s victims had been poisoned—with Taxus baccata. Otherwise known as English yew. A beautiful conifer that happened to be toxic in very small doses.

Grace exhaled slowly, even as her pulse continued to hammer.

It was a near-perfect murder weapon. Unless a person was looking for the exact toxin contained in the plant material—or had taken a leap, as she had, and sought the help of a forensic botanist—the true cause of death would never be found.

Grace did a quick Google search. The yew was chock-full of taxine alkaloids—especially taxine B—that were potent cardiotoxins. The poison was absorbed through the digestive tract rapidly, with symptoms appearing in as little as thirty minutes. Nausea, vomiting, breathing difficulties, and irregular heart rate were among them, all leading to cardiac arrest. Ingesting as few as fifty grams of crushed needles or seeds, or drinking liquid in which that amount of plant material had been cooked, was fatal. There was no known antidote. Death often occurred within two hours of consumption.

Grace slowly let out a breath and leaned back in her chair.

Of course they’d test tissue samples from the autopsies to verify the presence of taxine B, but there was no question about how the deed had been done.

Wait until Nate heard this.

She picked up her cell and punched in his number. After four rings, it rolled to voicemail.

Drat.

At the message beep, she hesitated. This was news to be shared live, not left on a recorded line.

“Nate, it’s Grace. I have an important update for you. Call me as soon as you can.”

Setting the cell aside, she eyed the soup. Tasty as it was, her appetite had vanished. But she ought to begin reintroducing food to her stomach, and she had nothing else to do while she waited for Nate to return her call.

She picked up her spoon, pulled the bowl back in front of her, and ate a mouthful. Made a face. While she’d read the botanist’s report and googled more information, it had grown tepid.

Sighing, she picked up the bowl, rose, and trekked over to the microwave. Perhaps while she was enjoying the rest of Eleanor’s thoughtful delivery, Nate would call and she could share the news.

Now all they had to do was figure out who was responsible for the diabolically ingenious method of murder.

27

AFTER THREE AND A HALF TENSE HOURS, the guy had finally released his wife, laid down the hunting rifle he’d been brandishing, and surrendered.

No doubt intimidated by the sizable law enforcement presence.