Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Landish, Lauren

  So I smile as though I’m grateful. I hand Chunky’s leash over to Sebastian when he holds his hand out and stand back as Sebastian becomes the social media guru I saw on his profile.

  He holds his phone at arm’s length, talking to the camera. “Hey guys, this is Sebastian, your favorite dog trainer. Today, I’m here with a special guy that’s got a problem we can all understand. A few extra ell-bees to drop . . .”

  He goes on to take Chunky and the viewers on a workout regimen that involves a lot of sitting, begging, and lying down and getting up. Thankfully, Chunky does pretty well, even when Sebastian removes the leash so his feet don’t keep getting tangled up in it. “Usually, when training one of my special friends, I’d use a small treat as a reward, but that won’t work for Chunky. So instead, I use a ball as reward, letting him focus and follow it, and only occasionally, get control of it. Once he finds it to be an exciting treat, you can add playing fetch to his daily regimen.”

  Sebastian throws the ball, and Chunky goes running after it as expected. The only problem? Chunky doesn’t play fetch, so when he gets to the ball he desperately wanted, he drops to the grass to play with it. Sebastian growls and lowers his phone. “Seriously?”

  Wow, bro-dude has left the building again. Sebastian’s easygoing until something messes up his shots. Then he’s a quick-tempered dick. I wonder if that had anything to do with Richard Horne’s death? I might not have found out the poison, but some personality traits might be telling.

  “Uh, he doesn’t know fetch. Sorry.”

  Sebastian sighs. “It’s fine. I’ll finish another way.” He blinks twice and lifts the phone again, flipping a mental switch to become friendly and smiling. “Guess we’ll have to add teaching Chunky the return part of fetch.” He laughs and points at Chunky in the frame before rolling his eyes in a charmingly cute ‘whatcha gonna do’ way.

  He lowers the phone, and it’s like that never happened, as though that personality didn’t just pop out of him on command. “All right, dude. Think we got it. Anything else?”

  “No, I think that’s everything.” I wish there were another angle to ask about the smoothie extras, but without outright accusation, there’s no way.

  But there is one other thing . . .

  “I’ll let you get on to whatever you have planned for the day. Hot date?” I guess with a gleam in my eye that begs for details even though I’m terrified at what he’s going to say. I prepare to keep my expression neutral.

  “Nothing big. Hanging with another client. That one comes with fringe benefits, though, if you know what I mean.” He winks, nudging me with his elbow again.

  That is information I can use, especially if he’s talking about Yvette. I smile back, punching him in the shoulder like I’m celebrating with him. “You sly dog. I bet you get all sorts of fringe benefits—clients and followers.”

  Sebastian smirks, nodding. “You know it.” But then he leans in closer. “This one’s different, though.”

  I pretend to be flabbergasted, whispering urgently. “The Dog Whisperer has a lady? Even with all the ‘gram ladies throwing it your way? Don’t tell me you’re getting locked down, dude?”

  “Hell no.” He laughs so hard he snorts. “I got me a Sugar Momma. Blonde cougar who’s hungry for the D.”

  He pats his hips as he brags, so certain that I’ll be . . . jealous? And blonde cougar could describe Yvette Horne.

  Unless Sebastian’s got two clients who fit that profile?

  “Good for you,” I say, playing along. “Going to see my girl too. Not a Sugar Momma, but Zoey’s pretty special.”

  I drop her name, hoping Sebastian will do the same.

  “Sounds like we’re killing it, dude!” Sebastian holds both hands up for high-fives and I slap palms with him. “Hit me up again if the big guy needs another session.”

  “Yeah, will do.” Damn it, no name drop.

  Sebastian throws me a wave and struts off toward the parking lot. I’m literally watching my chance walk away.

  Do something! Anything! What can I do to get more information?

  An idea hits me—a stupid and dangerous idea.

  “Chunky!” I call at the same time I start jogging toward my dog. He doesn’t move from his spot in the grass, only covering the ball protectively so I don’t take it away. “I don’t want your ball, dumbass. Let’s go!” I clip the leash on his collar, but he doesn’t move. I pull gently, and Chunky lets out a whine of disagreement. “Ride? Wanna go for a ride?”

  That’s the magic word, because he hops up and takes off for the gate with fresh energy. I open the car door, but Chunky can’t get in on his own yet, so I pick him up and quickly get him in place with his seatbelt on.

  I’m hurrying, but I won’t forego safety.

  Pulling out of the parking lot, I take off down the road after Sebastian’s truck. I’d love to say I put the pedal to the medal, but I can’t. However, I do go a reasonable five miles an hour over the speed limit.

  There he is!

  I see Sebastian’s truck ahead and slow back down.

  Don’t get spotted.

  I’ve never been more thankful for my nondescript, bland sedan. I follow at a distance, noting that we’re heading out of the city and toward the surrounding areas. In fact, this is the same way I would go to visit Zoey, which supports the idea that Sebastian is heading to Yvette’s again.

  As we get further out, traffic disappears and I have to drop back even more, but I see him turn ahead. I’ve been on this road, not too long ago, in fact. Sebastian’s truck turns into Yvette Horne’s neighborhood. It’s small enough that there’s no way I can follow and not be spotted, so I pull over to the side of the road and turn my hazards on.

  I take some deep breaths and consider my options. Is there any way I can go down that street and verify where Sebastian went without getting caught?

  I can’t walk in because I won’t leave Chunky in the car. I can’t drive in because with the way the neighborhood is, I’ll have to go slow, increasing the odds of being seen.

  “Damn it,” I hiss, and Chunky whines in the backseat, his tongue going crazy as he tries to comfort me from afar with his licking kisses. “It’s okay, Chunkster. I’m not mad at you. I’m frustrated because there’s no way to make this happen and I don’t like giving up without succeeding.”

  He barks in response, and I cut my eyes to the mirror to see his reflection.

  “It’s not a failure,” I argue. “I learned a lot about Sebastian . . . and the smoothies . . . and his relationship with Yvette. I just can’t confirm that’s where he is now, but it’s not likely he has more than one client in that small neighborhood. Right?”

  Chunky licks his lips, Scooby Dooing the better part of his snout. I take that as agreement.

  “Okay, let’s go see Zoey and tell her what we learned.”

  Chapter 19

  Zoey

  I stare at the stainless-steel table in front of me, covered with wrinkled and pressed paper instead of a dead body. It’s honestly more challenging than a body.

  Pull it together, Zoey. Examine the edges and put matching ones together like a puzzle. You like puzzles.

  God, my pep talks haven’t improved in the slightest. It doesn’t help that I’ve been staring at these tiny bits of paper for hours. After Blake, Jacob, and I went through Yvette’s trash, I couldn’t help but think we might’ve missed something.

  There was just so much of it, and though he was helpful, Jacob was being so dramatic about the gross factor that I didn’t feel I’d given it the full breadth of an appropriate examination. So I brought it to work and dug through each stinky, disgusting bit of it again, spreading it out on the tables in the morgue under the bright fluorescent lights.

  As it turns out, I was right. We did miss something.

  This time, I found a handful of torn up paper. It could’ve been junk mail, an old bill, or even scribbled notes. But as I flattened each tiny piece out, trying to figure out what I’d found, I no
ticed a logo in the top corner.

  A quick internet search told me that it’s an internet pharmacy that specializes in folk medicines. And now, I’ve got most of the paper put together. But there are still a few key pieces that don’t fit.

  “One at a time, tackle one piece at a time,” I tell myself.

  “Who are you talking to? There’s not even a dead body.”

  I jump in surprise, used to the quiet and solitude, and find Alver standing in the hallway across from my door. “You scared me!” I exclaim, adding, “What are you doing down here?”

  He might as well be sneering ‘I’m not in your morgue’ like a toddler ‘not touching’ their sibling even though their finger is mere millimeters from contact. Instead, Alver’s face scrunches up and he pinches his nose. “Ugh! What’s that smell? Is that trash?”

  I sniff the air, not smelling anything. I’m used to all sorts of smells in my line of work, but trash is different from decomposition so you’d think I could smell that.

  But nope . . . nothing. Alver’s probably just being dramatic again.

  “I’m working. Can I help you with something?” It’s a clear dismissal, and I think, a solid attempt at avoiding answering his questions.

  “Drop-Dead Gorgeous, you are a sick, strange one. I’m getting Sheriff Barnes.”

  He turns and runs, or as close as he can get to running, though it’s more of a skedaddle than anything, toward the stairs, looking back over his shoulder as though he expects me to chase him.

  Newsflash, this isn’t a horror movie where the cheerleader ends up being the serial killer that lured everyone to the old, abandoned building. Not that I was ever a cheerleader, or that the morgue is abandoned. Oh, and I’m definitely not a serial killer, no matter how much Alver gets on my last nerve. How did I ever think he was a friend?

  I can see now that those offers of dinner were probably his way of being nosy and getting fodder for the gossip grapevine. No telling how many rumors I’ve been subjected to that started on his forked tongue. I roll my eyes in annoyance and call out, “Ask him to bring me a coffee, black as my soul,” I say in a deep, hollow voice and then add an evil, maniacal laugh. “Mwah-ha-ha.”

  Is it wrong? Yeah.

  Is it funny? Absolutely.

  And hell, maybe it will get me a fresh coffee if Jeff’s feeling generous. I planned to call him before the end of the day anyway to share what I found, so this saves me the trouble.

  Thanks, Alver! I think with saccharin sweetness and a pleased-with-myself smile. If he’d seen that, he definitely would’ve shat himself.

  Oddly, that doesn’t make me feel bad like it once did. I am starting to realize that maybe Holly’s been right all along. People who have problems with me . . . they’re the problems.

  It’s not me, it never was me.

  I move the most recent piece of paper that’s driving me crazy around a few more times, turning it clockwise over and over, even flipping it to the other side. It’s solid white, after all. There could be any number of places it’d go in this invoice puzzle.

  There!

  I get it slipped into place and pick up another one. I’m so close I can smell it! Victory, not trash. Still don’t smell that.

  Turn, turn, turn, flip, turn, turn.

  I pull on my magnifying glasses to look at the edge a little closer. On a few pieces, I’ve been able to tell which side is the front by the tear.

  Hmm, it looks like it goes this way. Here? No. Here? No.

  Grr. I’m making such good progress, but it’s not coming together. With the magnification glasses on, I lean down close to scan the pieces I have left to get into place and one catches my eye.

  I pick it up and examine it closely under the light, reading the text printed there.

  This is it!

  I slot the tiny bit of paper into place and read out the name of what Yvette Horne ordered from the online folk remedy pharmacy. I’m not familiar with it offhand, but through the magic of Google, I will be.

  I sense movement beside me and see a blue blob in the doorway out of the corner of my eye. My eyes are fine, but they’re used to the magnifying lenses now so my regular vision, even peripherally, is a bit wonky.

  “Hey, Jeff,” I say, looking up and knowing I must look like Sybill Trelawney, eyes huge behind these glasses.

  “Zoey.” He sounds tired, frustrated, and maybe a teeny-tiny bit amused way down deep under his gruff exterior.

  Way, way down deep.

  “Thanks for coming down. Did you bring my coffee?” I ask casually as I set the magnifiers on the table, careful to not mess up my puzzle work.

  Nothing to see here, just a regular old visit to Zoey’s morgue.

  Jeff’s brows jump together, a sound of confusion grumbling in his throat. I lift my brow and cut my eyes from Jeff to Alver, who’s standing back smugly.

  “You used to bring me dinner,” I remind him. “Is a coffee now and again too much to ask? Especially when you’re creeping around like a creepy creeper.”

  I wiggle my fingers to mimic his stalking about. Okay, so my insults aren’t much better than my pep talks judging by the twitches of Jeff’s lips and mustache and the confused look on Alver’s face.

  “Alver, will you get Zoey a coffee, please?” Jeff asks without turning around. It’s not really a question at all but an order.

  “Make it two, actually. One for me and one for Jeff,” I add.

  Alver huffs and spins on his heel for the stairs. When he’s gone, I whisper, “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want one, but I don’t trust him not to poison me or spit it in. Hopefully, if there’s a chance it’s yours, he won’t risk it.”

  I look around for wood, holding a finger up to Jeff to step closer to my desk. One touch and crossed fingers, but I still don’t feel lucky. I figure I’ll have to judge whether or not to actually drink that coffee by the gleam in Alver’s eyes when he comes back.

  Jeff smiles, shaking his head in amusement. “Okay, Alver came shuffling up to tell me you’re spreading trash everywhere, bitching about health codes.” He holds his hands up high, waving them around urgently in what I can only assume is an impression of Alver’s presentation. “Hate to say it, Zoey, but he might have something on ya this time.” Jeff swirls his finger in a circle, indicating my tables of what is obviously . . . trash. “Whatcha doing?”

  I drag my chair over, warning, “You’ll probably want to sit down for this.”

  “Oh, shit. That bad?” Jeff says, but he’s smiling like I’m being silly as he drops to sit.

  “Yeah.” I look at the trash spread out all over my morgue, not seeing the work it’s going to take to get it clean to my exacting standards, but rather, the smoking gun I’ve found. I feel like Blake should be here to present this since we’ve done so much of it together, but Jeff needs to hear this immediately. “Remember when I told you there were some unanswered questions about the Richard Horne autopsy?”

  Jeff narrows his eyes sharply, drawling out, “Yeah . . . and I remember telling you the case was closed. Heart attack.”

  My shoulders draw up at the reminder of how far outside the lines I’ve gone. Usually, I would never. I don’t want attention, preferring to hide from everyone, but I needed to know the truth. I needed to understand for my own professional excellence.

  And for Blake. Don’t forget that part, my brain whispers.

  “I couldn’t let it go,” I admit.

  Jeff sighs as he leans forward to run his hands through his hair. Putting his elbows on his knees and frowning, he orders, “Out with it.”

  Oh, shit, that’s his Sheriff voice, the one reserved for misbehaving DnDs—drunk and disorderlies.

  So I get professional right back. “There was something bugging me about the second report. Long story short, Yvette Horne poisoned her husband. Here’s the proof of what she bought off the internet to do it.” I point at my mostly reassembled puzzle of paper bits, only now noticing the coffee stains and overall wrinkliness t
hat make it a less than impressive smoking gun. “It’s a supplement known to have high levels of lead, arsenic, and mercury. Trifecta of poison for when you want to make sure they’re really dead.”

  “Mighty serious allegations, Zoey,” Jeff says. “I know you can investigate, but you’ve always kept me in the loop before since I’m the one who would have to snap the cuffs on.”

  I don’t blink under his considerable glare. “I know.”

  Hands on his thighs, he pushes up to stand. “Okay, then, show me what you got.”

  I wave him to the prep table where his eagle eyes take in the work I’ve done. “Here,” I point to the logo in the corner. “This is the online pharmacy, and I use the word loosely. They specialize in folk remedies shipped in from overseas, no FDA approvals or safety checks because they’re ‘supplements’.” I do finger quotes, and Jeff’s brows drop an inch. “Not medicinal.”

  Moving lower, I point to the specific item Yvette bought. “I did some research. Independent lab studies have shown this contains measurable amounts of lead, arsenic, and mercury that all exceed the safety levels mandated by the FDA.”

  As Jeff scans the paper, he hums thoughtfully.

  This is it! He’s going to tell me good job and go arrest Yvette. Richard Horne will get the justice he deserves.

  “What I see is that Yvette Horne ordered something from an online company. No proof she got it, no proof if she used it herself or gave it to Richard or that damn dog, nothing to show she used enough of it to throw two lab tests out of whack. Hell, she could’ve ordered for Richard and he could’ve been dosing himself for all you know. It’s all circumstantial. I don’t like it,” Richard says gently when he sees my jaw getting lower with every word, “but there ain’t nothing illegal about buying shit off the internet. If there were, we’d be arresting every Tom, Dick, and Harry buying those penis-enhancing pills that don’t work.”