Unless the two of them were part of the millionaire-next-door crowd, neither appeared to have amassed great wealth. There were no tantalizing fortunes that could make them targets for someone with nefarious purposes.

She sighed and set down her pen.

Bottom line, the dissimilarities between the two of them were more pronounced than their commonalities. Frank appeared to have been hermit-like, while Mavis was friendly and outgoing—though by her own admission, her arthritis had slowed down her socializing and kept her closer to home. They lived in two different counties, separated by dozens of miles, making it unlikely they’d ever met, shared the same acquaintances, or frequented the same stores or restaurants.

Yet they’d both had gastric wall abnormalities and odd, seedlike objects in their stomachs.

It shouldn’t be difficult to identify the seeds. A botanist at the state university ought to be able to help her with that.

But was it worth the effort?

Grace rose and wandered over to the fridge. Poked through the sparse contents. An omelet and fruit would have to suffice, since her weekly trek to the grocery store had been bumped off her schedule by back-to-back, miles-apart autopsies at the end of the week.

During the drive home tomorrow, after the lunch and gabfest with her sisters, she’d stock up.

Until then, she’d noodle on whether sending one of the seed samples from yesterday’s autopsy to a botanist was due diligence or overkill.

After all, what were the odds that the deaths of two older residents of rural Missouri who didn’t appear linked in any way and who had no fortune worth stealing could be anything but natural?

4

MORNING, YOU TWO. Your regular table’s ready and waiting. You’re lookin’ mighty fine today, Becky.”

As the woman beside him exchanged pleasantries with Jolene, Nate surveyed the diner. All the usual suspects were here, all in their usual seats. The table he and Becky always sat at in the corner was set as usual—two mugs, with a Lipton tea bag beside Becky’s, and a pitcher of syrup for the Belgian waffles they ordered every Sunday. The usual clatter came from the kitchen as the two cooks on duty hustled to satisfy the palates of the after-church crowd.

Everything was the same as usual.

A wave of discontent swept over him, and he exhaled.

Why did the predictable routine he’d once found comforting suddenly feel confining—and boring?

A vision of Grace Reilly flashed across his mind, and he frowned. It was the same image that had kept him tossing most of the night. The one in which her wavy hair was blowing in the breeze, the gold flecks in her hazel eyes glinting with humor while her oh-so-appealing lips were—

“. . . think we lost him.”

At the slight chuckle from Jolene, he tuned back into reality.

The two women were watching him, the waitress’s expression indulgent, Becky’s not so much. His companion appeared to be more pensive than amused.

No wonder, after their stilted conversation last night at her place during their usual Saturday dinner and the quick, simple kiss that had ended their evening.