"That's what the FBI said, but I'm telling you that no one couldhave been poisoning Bill. I would have known about it. I was with him every day."

"Just you? Your husband was very ill before he died. Did you have any help? Anyone who came by? Any medication that he took?"

"Yes. And the FBI took it all to analyze and found nothing. I ate the same food, drank the same water. And I'm fine."

King sat back and sighed. "Someone impersonated you at the funeral home."

"So I heard. Well, I look good in black; it goes well with my new hair color." She looked at King's half-empty glass. "Would you like another?" He shook his head. She said, "Bill was a Scotch man too, right up to the end. It was one of the few pleasures he had left. Kept his own stash of twenty-five-year-old Macallan's." She chuckled. "He had some every night. I'd just pour a shot in his feeding tube using a big syringe. Eating he could have cared less about, but he looked forward to his Scotch even through his belly, and the man made it to eighty, not bad."

"I bet you keep a good supply on hand."

She smiled. "At our age, what's left?"

King looked down at his glass. "How about you? Ever drink Scotch?"

"Never touch the stuff. Like I said, gin is my game. Scotch is too much like paint thinner. If you want to clear your sinuses out, by all means drink the stuff."

"Well, thanks again. We'll be in touch. Enjoy your evening." King rose and started to turn away. He looked over at Joan, her drink and cigarette in hand, and he froze.

Paint thinner?

He whirled back around. "Millie, can you show me Bill's special stash of Scotch?"