Mrs. Everly blinked. "What good night?"

Timmie sighed. Didn't anybody in this town study literature anymore? "It's a poem," she said. "By Dylan Thomas? About death. You know, 'rage, rage against the dying of the light'?"

Mrs. Everly thought for a moment. Nodded. "Ah. I see."

No, Timmie bet she didn't. "Let's get down to the bottom line here, Mrs. Everly. You might be able to find a bed for my father if we can cough up the cash. Is that right?"

Mrs. Everly went dangerously red. "We have the premier facility in the state here, Mrs. Leary-Parker—"

"And you could take really good care of my father. I know that. I just need to know if I can afford it, and I don't think I can. So I need straight answers."

There was an uncomfortable pause during which Timmie could see Mrs. Everly trying hard to find another way to sidestep. It must be hell to have to face a person with no use for euphemisms.

"A deposit of five thousand dollars," she finally admitted as if the words had been squeezed out of her. "One hundred ten dollars a day with the understanding that barring extraordinary situations, Restcrest is capable of providing permanent care for your father no matter his health. And understanding also that as one of the reasons we can provide such progressive care is the research we do, you agree to participate, and that after your father... passes, his remains be donated to the Price University Medical Center for the sole purpose of Alzheimer's research. You wouldn't have to worry about his being used for, say, med school."

"You only want his brain." Timmie nodded. "I understand perfectly well."

Conrad T. Jones, she wrote and smiled.

What a good idea. Conrad was a nearby medical examiner with a passion for pharmacology. He was also at least as suspicious as Timmie and far, far more knowledgeable about poison. Maybe Timmie would call him when she got out of this hothouse. Have lunch. Talk dead people. It'd sure as hell be more fun than this.

"Is there anything else I can explain?" Mrs. Everly asked, laying down her pen.

Timmie finally looked up. Smiled. "Yes. Where I can get the money. I don't have it."

"You don't have anyone else to help you?" the woman asked.

Timmie found herself going very still. When she smiled, she knew it looked forced. "I doubt it."

"In that case," Mrs. Everly said, closing Joe's file, "maybe one of the other social workers can help you find placement for your father at another fine facility."

"Just don't call Golden Grove," Timmie suggested, getting to her feet. "I don't think filthy and abusive is what I'm after, either."

And with little more ado, she was shuffled off the good furniture and sent back to the cheap seats.

* * *

"Poison," Conrad T. Jones sang over the phone line with unbridled delight half an hour later. "Favorite murder weapon of the passive-aggressive. Neat, sneaky, tough to spot. What do you think you have?"

Timmie leaned a bit outside the lounge door to make sure no one could overhear. "You tell me. Gastrointestinal symptoms for a month. Transient numbness in the extremities, rash, no real test anomalies. He came in complaining of the flu and went out plastic-wrapped."

"Symptoms for a month, huh? How about liver failure? Hair loss?"

"No real cirrhosis, even for a man fond of the bottle. He did look kinda yellow as I remember it, though. I guess I should have been surprised his enzymes weren't higher. As for anything else, I don't know. History didn't include it, nobody thought to ask."

He considered the problem a moment and then snorted. "Arsenic goes to the top of the class. A perennial favorite, arsenic. Romantic yet effective, creating just the right touch of suffering to make it all worthwhile. A favorite also of medical examiners and historians everywhere, because you can still catch it in the hair and nails forever afterward."

Which was probably what had made Timmie itch in the first place.

"Not if the official in question okayed cremation, you can't."

"Ah. So the call is merely academic."

Timmie sighed. "I guess so. I just wanted to know I was right."

"You're right. I'd stake my considerable reputation on it. So, bella donna, when are you coming back to town to visit?"

Bella donna being Conrad's favorite feminine form of address, his little forensic pharmacologist's inside joke, since belladonna was also one of the deadliest and most popular historical poisons.

"I have come back," Timmie admitted without noticeable enthusiasm. "I'm living in Puckett now."

She'd first met Conrad three years earlier when she was doing her initial death-investigation training at St. Louis University. A forensic pathologist with a minor in pharmacology and an obsession for all things Italian, Conrad had taught the course on poisoning and overdoses. He'd been fifty-five and randy as a goat, and Timmie had found herself adopted on the spot. She loved Conrad to death. It didn't mean she'd let herself be left alone with him for ten minutes. Not only did he look like Truman Capote on a bad-hair day, he considered the tongue an integral part of any kiss.

"Puckett?" he echoed with growing disbelief. "You're within spitting distance and you haven't called yet?"

"I am calling."

"Puckett... Puckett. Madre mia, Timothy Ann, don't tell me the official you're talking about is none other than the infamous Tucker Van Adder."

"How'd you know?"

"I think I just used the word infamous, didn't I? Good God. Over a hundred counties in Missouri and you have to pick the one with the worst coroner in the country. Come to St. Charles. Have lunch. I'll tell you all the details." He laughed. "And then I'll talk you into helping change it."

"No thank you, sweetheart. I have a full enough plate at this picnic as it is. I'll call you."

Hanging up, Timmie checked her watch. Ten minutes left in her lunch break. It was too late to use them to call another bank. The first three she'd contacted to inquire about a second mortgage on the house had been polite but very cautious. Not that Timmie blamed them. Not only had they never seen the inside of the house, they hadn't scanned Timmie's credit report. Once they did, they wouldn't hesitate. They'd just laugh themselves silly.

If she really needed to, she had a last option before throwing her father to Golden Grove. Like the craven coward she was, though, she preferred putting off the inevitable as long as she earthly could. So she sat back instead, propped her feet on the couch, and closed her eyes to think forensics.

Poison. Billy Mayfield had probably been poisoned.

Fine. Now what?

She couldn't prove it. Not without tissue. Besides, nobody wanted to know about it. Heck, nobody wanted to know about anything in this town. And to top it off, if she pursued this, not only would she seriously displease her friends, but a certain caller would be back on the line, her boss would fire her, and the coroner would probably have her run out of town on a rail.

If this had happened in L.A., her choice would have been easy. In L.A., she'd still had a certain sense of her accomplishments. She'd been crystal clear about her mission. She'd been Wonder Woman. Trauma Queen. The Forensics Fairy.

But she was in Puckett now, where nobody believed in fairies except the little girl and old man who looked to her for support. And she couldn't think of a single area of her life that would be improved by her walking out onto the work lane and announcing that somebody somewhere had poisoned Billy Mayfield for reasons unknown, and that since the coroner was too busy bumping boots with the deceased's ex-wife to do anything about it, she, Timothy Ann Leary-Parker, would prove it.