The cloying scent of gladioli permeated the air as April passed the open parlor doors. Clarence Deeds was laid out in his best blue suit, awaiting services in the morning.

      It was sure to be a big funeral.

      Clarence had been town mayor, and friends and business associates from neighboring communities would turn out in droves to pay their final respects.

      Proceeding to the side porch, she found Riley sitting in his rocking chair, staring off into space. He’d been sitting like that when she left the house early this morning, and she was starting to get concerned. It wasn’t like him to just sit and stare at nothing.

      “Grandpa?” When he didn’t respond, she pushed open the screen door. “Are you all right?”

      “Right enough,” he said.

      “Supper’s ready.”

      Riley got slowly to his feet and followed April to the dining room table, which was set with fresh flowers and white china. Taking his place at the head, he reached for the butter, silent as a mouse.

      Shaking out her napkin, April noticed his hand was trembling as he buttered a piece of cornbread. Perusing his pale features, she frowned. He hadn’t had a spell with his heart for weeks now. Was he ill again and not telling her?

      Picking up a dish of Datha’s watermelon pickles, she offered it to him. “You’re awfully quiet today. Don’t you feel well?”

      He was bad about not telling her when he felt poorly, thinking to spare her unnecessary worry. But she worried anyway. Grandpa wasn’t young anymore, though the way he worked like a harvest hand around the mortuary, lifting bodies and moving heavy pine caskets, you’d never guess it.

      “I feel fine, thank you.” Riley’s face flushed with color as he snapped open his napkin.

      “You look odd. Is the heat bothering you?”

      It was insufferably hot for fall. Muggy, as if a storm was waiting just off the coast. A good rain to settle the dust and cool dispositions would be appreciated.

      “Nothing wrong that a little dinner won’t take care of. Pass the preserves, please.”

      They waited in silence for Datha to bring the main course.

      “Clarence looks nice. I’m sure Edith is pleased.”

      “Hmm,” Riley muttered, taking a sip of coffee.

      Datha carried in a large platter of roast beef, boiled potatoes and carrots. Dishes of cooked cabbage, brown beans, plump ears of corn, festive red beets and thick brown gravy followed.

      April’s distraught gaze swept the heavily laden table and she sighed. Datha cooked enough to feed an army of foot soldiers, but April had given up complaining. It didn’t matter what she said. Having learned at her grandmother’s side, Datha couldn’t seem to cook meals for fewer than twelve people.

      Now the two of them just let her cook to her heart’s content, resigned to share leftovers with neighboring shutins.

      Serving herself potatoes and meat, April smiled. “This looks delicious.”

      “Thank you, April girl.” Smiling back, Datha returned to the kitchen.

      The two of them ate in silence, until Riley suddenly cleared his throat and laid the butter knife aside.

      April, knowing some kind of pronouncement was forthcoming, put down her fork.

      “April Delane, I’ve mulled this over all afternoon.”

      Her pulse jumped. Grandpa never used her middle name unless he was upset with her. By the thundercloud forming on his face, he was more than upset. He was furious….

      Oh, no! He knew she was working with Lydia Pinkham. Someone—some blabbermouth doctor—had told him! Dr. Fuller had recognized her, after all!

      Dabbing the corners of her mouth with her napkin, she steeled herself. Riley Ogden was a patient man, but when he was angry, he was just like Great-grandfather Owen. Impossible to reason with.

      Managing to keep her tone light, she asked, “Is something wrong?”

      “April.” Riley’s voice held a rare hint of authority as his faded blue eyes pinned her to the chair.

      Swallowing, she feigned unusual interest in the bowl of potatoes. “Yes, Grandpa?”

      “Young lady, you’re old enough to do what you want, but how can you think of selling that Pinkham woman’s poison?”

      April’s knife clattered to her plate. “Who told you?”

      “Never mind who told me!”

      “I know who it was! That snoopy doctor told you, didn’t he! That interfering, sanctimonious—”

      “Never mind who told me!” Riley thundered. “Doctoring’s best left to doctors! No silly brew concocted by that Pinkham woman is going to fix women’s ills. No vegetable compound is going to cure what ails them. People get sick and die, April. Living in a mortuary, you should know this. Mrs. Grimes died in childbirth. Mrs. Wazinski from influenza. Bertha Dickens from a burst appendix. Why, I’ve buried a half dozen women just this year—”

      “Not from taking the compound!” April interrupted. “And if Ginny Grimes, Mary Wazinski and Bertha Dickens hadn’t listened to some overzealous doctor, but tried to find other ways to treat their problems, they just might be alive today!”

      “Hogwash! Not one of those women died from a doctor’s neglect!” Riley’s face was as red as the bowl of beets he was holding. “Young lady, you are to resign from the Pinkham ‘circus’ first thing tomorrow morning! Do you hear me?”

      “Grandpa—”

      “Tomorrow morning, April Delane!” A vein in his temple throbbed.

      She knew better than to argue with him; it would be like barking at a knothole. He was such a stubborn old man!

      Shoving her chair back, she pitched her napkin on the table and stormed out of the room.

      Riley got to his feet, his hand automatically going to the left side of his chest.

      “April Delane Truitt! You come back here, young lady! I’m not through talking to you!”