"An overdose of belladonna can mimic a complete shutdown of the parasympathetic nervous system. Sibyl Adams was blind, but her pupils were dilated from the drug. The bronchioles in her lungs were swollen. Her core body temperature was still high, which is what made me wonder about her blood in the first place." She turned to Jeffrey, answering the question he had asked this morning. "During the post, her skin was still warm to the touch. There were no environmental factors that would cause this. I knew it had to be something in the blood."

She continued. "Belladonna can be broken down for medical applications, but its also used as a recreational drug."

"You think the perp gave it to her?" Jeffrey asked. "Or is this the kind of thing she would take on her own?"

Sara seemed to consider this. "Sibyl Adams was a chemist. She certainly wouldn't take such a volatile drug, then run out for lunch. This is a very strong hallucinogen. It affects the heart, breathing, and circulation."

"Nightshade grows all over town," Frank pointed out.

"It's pretty common," Sara agreed, looking back at her notes. "The plant isn't easy to process. Ingestion is going to be the key component here. According to Nick, the easiest and most popular way to take belladonna is to soak the seeds in hot water. Just this morning I found three recipes on the Internet for preparing belladonna as a tea."

Lena offered, "She liked to drink hot tea."

"There you go," Sara said. "The seeds are highly soluble. I imagine within minutes of drinking it she would have started experiencing elevated blood pressure, heart palpitations, dry mouth, and extreme nervousness. I would also guess this led her to the bathroom, where her rapist was waiting for her."

Frank turned to Jeffrey. "We need to talk to Pete Wayne. He served her lunch. He gave her the tea."

"No way," Matt countered. "Pete's lived in town all his life. This isn't the kind of thing he'd do." Then, as if this was the most important thing in Pete's favor, Matt added, "He's in the lodge."

Murmurs came from the other men. Someone, Jeffrey wasn't sure who, said, "What about Frank's colored man?"

Jeffrey felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. He could see where this was going already. He held his hands up for silence. "Frank and I will talk to Pete. You guys have your assignment. I want reports back at the end of the day."

Matt seemed about to say something, but Jeffrey stopped him. "We're not helping Sibyl Adams by sitting in this room pulling theories out of our asses." He paused, then indicated the packets Brad had handed out. "Knock on every goddamn door in town if you have to, but I want an accounting for every man on those lists."

As Jeffrey and Frank walked to the diner, the words "Frank's colored man" sat in the back of Jeffrey's mind like a piece of hot coal. The vernacular was familiar from his childhood, but he had not heard it used in at least thirty years. It amazed Jeffrey to see that such overt racism still existed. It also scared him that he had heard it in his own squad room. Jeffrey had worked in Grant for ten years, but he was still an outsider. Even his southern roots didn't pay his dues into the good old boy club. Coming from Alabama didn't help matters. A typical prayer among southern states was "Thank God for Alabama," meaning, thank God we're not as bad off as they are. This was part of the reason he was keeping Frank Wallace close at hand. Frank was a part of these men. He was in the club.

Frank shucked off his coat, folding it across his arm as he walked. He was tall and thin like a reed with a face rendered unreadable from years of being a cop.

Frank said, "This black guy, Will Harris. I got called in a few years back on a domestic dispute. He popped his wife."

Jeffrey stopped. "Yeah?"

Frank stopped alongside him. "Yeah," he said. "Beat her pretty bad. Busted her lip. When I got there, she was on the floor. She was wearing this cotton bag-looking kind of dress." He shrugged. "Anyway, it was torn."

"You think he raped her?"

Frank shrugged. "She wouldn't press charges."

Jeffrey started walking again. "Anybody else know about this?"

"Matt," Frank said. "He was my partner then."

Jeffrey felt a sense of dread as he opened the door to the diner.

"We're closed," Pete called from the back.

Jeffrey said, "It's Jeffrey, Pete."

He came out of the storeroom, wiping his hands on his apron. "Hey, Jeffrey," he said, nodding. Then, "Frank."

"We should be finished up in here this afternoon, Pete," Jeffrey said. "You'll be able to open tomorrow."

"Closing for the rest of the week," Pete said as he retied his apron strings. "Don't seem right to be open what with Sibyl and all." He indicated the row of stools in front of the bar. "Get y'all some coffee?"

"That'd be great," Jeffrey said, taking the first stool. Frank followed suit, sitting down beside him.

Jeffrey watched Pete walk around the counter and take out three thick ceramic mugs. The coffee steamed as he poured it into the cups.

Pete asked, "You got anything yet?"

Jeffrey took one of the mugs. "Can you run through what happened yesterday? I mean, from the point Sibyl Adams came into the restaurant?"

Pete leaned back against the grill. "I guess she came in about one-thirty," he said. "She always came in after the lunch rush. I guess she didn't want to be poking around with her cane in front of all those people. I mean, we knew she was blind, sure, but she didn't like drawing attention to it. You could see that. She was kind of nervous in crowds."

Jeffrey took out his notebook, though he didn't really need to take notes. What he did know was that Pete seemed to know a lot about Sibyl Adams. "She come in here a lot?"

"Every Monday like clockwork." He squinted his eyes, thinking. "I guess for the last five years or so. She came in sometimes late at night with other teachers or Nan from the library. I think they rented a house over on Cooper."

Jeffrey nodded.

"But that was only occasionally. Mostly it was Mondays, always by herself. She walked here, ordered her lunch, then was out by around two usually." He rubbed his chin, a sad look coming over his face. "She always left a nice tip. I didn't think anything about it when I saw her table empty. I guess I just thought she had gone while I wasn't looking."

Jeffrey asked, "What'd she order?"

"Same thing as always," Pete said. "The number three."

Jeffrey knew this was the waffle platter with eggs, bacon, and a side of grits.

"Only," Pete clarified, "she didn't eat meat, so I always left off the bacon. And she didn't drink coffee, so I gave her some hot tea."

Jeffrey wrote this down. "What kind of tea?"

He rooted around behind the counter and pulled out a box of generic brand tea bags. "I picked it up for her at the grocery store. She didn't drink caffeine." He gave a small laugh. "I liked to make her comfortable, you know? She didn't get out much. She used to say to me that she liked coming here, that she felt comfortable." He fiddled with the box of tea.

"What about the cup she used?" Jeffrey asked.

"I don't know about that. They all look the same." He walked to the end of the counter and pulled out a large metal drawer. Jeffrey leaned over to look inside. The drawer was actually a large dishwasher filled with cups and plates.

Jeffrey asked, "Those from yesterday?"

Pete nodded. "I can't begin to guess which one was hers. I started the washer before she was-" He stopped, looking down at his hands. "My dad, he always told me to take care of the customers and they'd take care of you." He looked up, tears in his eyes. "She was a nice girl, you know? Why would anybody want to hurt her?"

"I don't know, Pete," Jeffrey said. "Mind if we take this?" He pointed to the box of tea.