Deputy Hettie Juno had a dead man and no one to blame. The town's oldest fisherman lay cold in the back room of the doctor's house, and every neighbor she'd asked that morning had shrugged. Nice folks. Too nice. Hettie sipped her cold coffee, wiped a boot on the porch rail of her quarters, and told her rescue mutt the truth. "Somebody in this town is a killer. And they're smiling at me." She needed one lead. Just one. Without a suspect, she couldn't watch anyone, and the next funeral might come fast. So Hettie went to the person who knew what killed people better than the doctor did. Nora Beckett's pharmacy smelled of mint and something sharper underneath. Rows of labeled bottles lined the counter. Nora stood behind them in her spotless white coat, silver hair pinned neat, sorting powders with a small brass scoop. She'd been the last person seen with the fisherman before he died. Hettie knew that. She smiled anyway, and so did Nora. "Deputy! You look tired," Nora said, cheerful as church bells. "Coffee'll do that. I could mix you something gentler." "I'll stick with the poison I know," Hettie said. "You sold the fisherman something last week?" "Cough syrup. Poor man." Nora set down her scoop. "He came in Tuesday. Left happy." Hettie kept her voice friendly and her eyes moving. She'd learned never to let a detail slide. On the counter sat a funeral program, folded twice, from a service last month. Beside it, a second one. Then a third, stacked like a small paper tower. Three funerals. Nora tracked them all. "You go to a lot of these," Hettie said, tapping the programs. "I pay respects." Nora's smile held. But she leaned over the counter and breathed in, slow, the way a person tastes wine. "You know," she murmured, "the doctor called it heart failure. It wasn't. The fisherman's lips were blue. That's foxglove. I smelled it on him at the doctor's house this morning." Hettie went still. "You were at the body." "I'm always at the body," Nora said, pleased. "Somebody in this town has a garden. Foxglove grows tall, pretty, purple. Only a few folks keep it." She named no one. She just watched Hettie's face. Outside the window, a white owl settled on a low branch and stared through the glass. Hettie stared back, thinking hard. Nora had just handed her a poison, a cause of death, and a shape of suspect. It was exactly what she needed. And that was the trouble. The woman who could name the murder weapon by smell was the last person seen with the victim. Her lead and her prime suspect were the same person, standing there in a clean white coat, still smiling. "Thank you, Nora," Hettie said. "You've been a real help." "Anytime, Deputy." Hettie walked out with her first lead. Now she had to prove the woman who gave it to her was the killer.