Drop Dead Gorgeous Read online

  Drop Dead Gorgeous

  Lauren Landish

  Edited by

  Valorie Clifton

  Edited by

  Staci Etheridge

  Copyright © 2021 by Lauren Landish

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Also by Lauren Landish

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Excerpt: My Big Fat Fake Wedding

  About the Author

  Also by Lauren Landish

  Big Fat Fake Series:

  My Big Fat Fake Wedding || My Big Fat Fake Engagement

  Standalone:

  The Dare

  Bennett Boys Ranch:

  Buck Wild || Riding Hard || Racing Hearts

  The Tannen Boys:

  Rough Love || Rough Edge || Rough Country

  Dirty Fairy Tales:

  Beauty and the Billionaire || Not So Prince Charming || Happily Never After

  Get Dirty:

  Dirty Talk || Dirty Laundry || Dirty Deeds || Dirty Secrets

  Irresistible Bachelors:

  Anaconda || Mr. Fiance || Heartstopper

  Stud Muffin || Mr. Fixit || Matchmaker

  Motorhead || Baby Daddy || Untamed

  Chapter 1

  Zoey

  I pull up to the one-story brick house, noting the property. Out here in Williamson county, there’s no fancy area of McMansions, but this is probably as close as it gets. Small homesteads of an acre or two, just enough room for residents to have space to breathe. Definitely different from the mobile homes and fixer-uppers that never get fixed that dot the majority of the county.

  I shut off my engine and get out, also noting to myself the four sheriff’s department cruisers out front. Must be a slow day to have that big of a gang here.

  Calling all crooks, calling all crooks in Williamson County. It’s open season on all crime! Everyone’s too busy here to care about your speeding or bank robbing! A rich dude croaked. That’s more important than your piddly shit!

  I go around to the back of my car for my gear bag, noticing there’s one deputy out front wrestling with a large reddish-orange dog as he tries to attach a leash to its collar.

  “Rusty, stop!” he yells, obviously getting frustrated. “Sit! Heel! Goddammit, chill the fuck out!”

  I can’t help but grin at the silly antics as the man and cute beast battle for dominance. Obviously, Rusty never went to obedience school, or he just doesn’t give a shit what some deputy dawg tells him.

  “Looks like he’s handing you your ass,” I say with a laugh, adjusting my bag on my shoulder so I can lend a hand if need be. “You good? Need another pair of hands?”

  Usually, someone getting shown up by a dog that looks like he could be in a dog food commercial would welcome some assistance. Anything to end the shame and limit their chance of becoming a meme. You take help from anyone for that. But not from me, apparently, because the deputy pales as though I’m scarier than the dog and stutters, “Nope, all good, Zoey. You go on inside. I’ll keep Rusty over here, away from you.”

  It sounds like he’s protecting Rusty from me, not the other way around. And he’s practically falling onto his ass backpedaling from me.

  Ugh. Thankfully, my hat covers my eye roll, although I’m pretty sure they could hear it on the other end of the county with as hard as I did it.

  Inside the entryway, I take the time to pull on my gloves before passing by Jeff. He’s the sheriff, so I’ve worked several cases with him, but our paths don’t cross too often. I give him a head nod, just trying to be professionally friendly, one he nervously and grudgingly returns.

  The scene’s deeper in the house, and as I make my way toward it, I notice the officer with Jeff, a young, blond, Ken-doll type guy I haven’t seen before. As I look for a clear space to put my bag, he whistles softly. “Damn, I’d like a piece of that.”

  Jeff snorts and schools the rookie. “No, you don’t. That’s one to stay far, far away from. They call her Drop-Dead Gorgeous, ’cuz she kills ’em and then takes care of the bodies, if you know what I mean.”

  Jeff makes it sound like I’m some evil witch who burns bodies under the light of every full moon. I can feel the newbie’s eyes appraising me, deciding whether I’m worth the risk of my reputation. Honestly, I’m not offended. If anything, Jeff is doing me a favor by directing the newbie away before I have to.

  It’s for his own good. And for mine too.

  I might come in relatively attractive packaging that gets attention, my dark hair silky and shiny even in its functional low bun, my blue eyes sparkling in the interior lighting, and my skin creamy and smooth. I’ve been compared to Snow White once or twice, but people tend to run for the hills as soon as I open my mouth.

  If I even get to a first date, usually blind ones, the initial ‘get to know you’ phase is inevitably my downfall.

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a county coroner.”

  “Uh, does that mean you play with dead bodies all day?”

  “Well, no. But I do work with cadavers.”

  “Same difference.”

  It’s not, at all, but no one ever cares. I’m an investigator, a detective in a way, only all of my cases involve death. I help families find peace after a loved one has passed on, answer the inevitable ‘why’ questions, and act as the final storyteller for my patients’ truths. What I’m not doing is playing dress up with the dead instead of Barbie dolls.

  I’ve gotten used to dates being cut short with an awkward joke about “hope to not see you anytime soon.” That’s fine. I gave up on dating ages ago, anyway. And that’s just the half of it. Too long a story to get into while I’ve got work to do, but let’s just say me and Death became best buds a long, long time ago.

  I can’t help but smile sweetly at the rookie and wave two fingers, though, pretending that I have no idea what Jeff is talking about.

  Rookie uncertainly smiles back, and I switch modes in an instant, my smile morphing into a growl as I bite my teeth together with a clack and my fingers turning into claws. Grr! I’m a tiger that’ll eat you for breakfast, and not in the morning wood-good way. He recoils quickly, stumbling into the mantel above the fireplace and knocking down a figurine that looks like an old-school tin soldier.

  I laugh. That was too easy.

  I see Jeff grimace and mutter, “Told you so. She’s a bit . . .” He doesn’t finish the sentence aloud, instead completing it by circling his finger by his ear to indicate that I’m crazy. “Talks to the stiffs, ya know.”

  Pfft. As if he doesn’t talk to his stiffy too.

  Okay, so his is a bit different, but you can’t tell me Jeff doesn’t talk to his dick every day, because I’ve heard him tell his daily breakfast donut ‘come to Daddy’ more times th
an I can count. And if he’s talking to food, he’s talking to Mr. Woody, and I’m not unpacking that level of crazy for all the money in the world.

  Nope, I’ll just keep talking to the dead bodies, filling in their side of the conversations in my mind, and that does not make me crazy.

  Weird, I’ll admit. But not crazy. I mean, fuck, at least they’ve usually still got their ears. Except for that one time . . .

  Entering the kitchen, I see a guy hunched over the dining table, his breakfast plate of scrambled eggs and toast still sitting in front of him. Actually, make that under him. He’s literally nose-down in eggs. The orange juice glass has been righted, probably to keep it from rolling off the edge, but the spill of liquid is still dripping off the table into his lap, soaking his tie.

  Time for ‘work brain’ to take over.

  Male. Early fifties. No obvious signs of trauma or foul play. He’s just dead at the dining table, eyes staring unblinkingly and unseeingly at now-cold and congealed eggs.

  And they say breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

  Okay, enough jokes. Assess, take pictures, and make notes. It’s all old hat, my hands working by habit, snapping pictures from nearly every angle I can think of. The county buys me a new memory card for every case, so I’ve got plenty of room on here for video and photo.

  As I work, in my mind I’m talking to Mr. Toast-and-Eggs, just like I do with all my bodies.

  “So, how’s your day been?”

  “Pretty shitty, to be honest.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. I’ll do my best to get you out of here quickly and wipe that OJ off.”

  “Not too worried about the OJ being cold. Don’t think shrinkage matters now, but there’s a corner of toast poking me in the cheek.”

  “Oh, I can fix that in just a second.”

  “No rush. Not like I’ve got anything better to do now.”

  Pics and video done, I do more assessing. Toasty was dressed for work, it appears. There’s a slight bulging in his neck veins, possible indications of heart problems. I lift my head to look around for any medications or anything helpful. None, but I’ll check the bathroom cabinet later.

  Through the doorway, my eyes land on a woman sitting on the couch. She looks like this could be a house party, sitting cross-legged and calm as can be while people mill around her. She’s wearing jeans and a low-cut V-neck T-shirt, so not a police officer, not one of my crew, so . . . who is she?

  Her eyes tick from person to person, silent and watchful. Eventually, they land on me and we lock eyes for a moment. She takes a deep breath and begins to cry . . . instantly loud and dramatic wailing.

  Jeff’s rookie sits down beside her, patting her shoulder comfortingly, but she amps up her wailing.

  “My Dickie! He’s gone! Nooooo, Dickie Boo!”

  I lift an eyebrow. “Dickie Boo?”

  Jeff, who’s followed me in, squats down beside me and the body of the dead guy. “Yeah, DB’s name is Richard Horne. His parents must’ve hated him something fierce before he was even born. And then they made it even worse by nicknaming him Dick.” He snorts, covering it with a cough, before explaining, “Dick Horne. Toot, toot, tootle-toot.”

  Out of professionalism, I don’t laugh, but I do agree that this guy’s parents weren’t winning awards for that one. Maybe some people would find it wrong or rude that we’re joking around at a scene, but a macabre sense of humor is shockingly common in our profession. I’m not sure if investigative work attracts morbid people or if our sense of humor is a coping mechanism. Probably both.

  “That’s the wife, Yvette Horne,” Jeff continues, lifting his eyes toward the blubbering woman.

  “Hmm.” She does seem rather upset right now, but the image of her sitting calmly and watchfully hasn’t disappeared from my mind. That didn’t seem like shock but more like a high school drama kid realizing they missed their cue and launching in full bore.

  But she’s not my concern right now. The body of Richard “Dickie” Horne is.

  There isn’t much else to be learned right now, so I finish my assessment, double-checking my list even though it’s an automatic habit after doing this job for so many years. I’m the coroner in the county, so literally every body comes through my morgue.

  It’s a heavy responsibility, one I was taught to take seriously.

  “All right, I’m done for now. Let’s transport.” Jeff nods and waves a hand at the paramedics, who’ve got a body bag and gurney waiting. If we were a full-service unit, we’d hire specialists, but out here, we all do double-duty. Paramedics sometimes hurry live ones to the hospital, and sometimes, they move my DBs to the morgue. They come close, wearing ponchos and full protective gear because you never know what’s going to happen when you move a body. Sometimes it’s clean and easy, and sometimes it's . . . not.

  And that’s all I’ll say about that.

  I stand up, giving them space. “Take him in. I’ll meet you there.”

  The senior paramedic nods. “Sure thing, Boss.”

  Outside, the sun is shining and there’s not a cloud in the sky. Birds are even chirping. It seems like the sort of day where nothing bad could happen. But I think Mr. Horne would disagree with that assessment.

  Maybe Mrs. Horne too. Her overly dramatic wailing echoes in my ears.

  Before I get in my car, I go over to pet Rusty on the head, rewarding him for being calm, cool, and collected now that there’s not a stranger in his yard. “Yeah, I didn’t like that guy, either,” I tell the dog, who’s downright purring like a kitten under my palm.

  At least dogs like me.

  Chapter 2

  Blake

  Traffic. I hate traffic.

  More than 38,000 people die in car accidents in the US each year. And yet, people take it in stride while freaking out over a couple of dozen people choking on gummy bears or something similar. I won’t be one of them—the car accident victims, not the gummy bear chokers—even though I’m running late. But that’s my fault for not expecting an overflow of cars out here on the rural highways surrounding the city.

  Are we stuck behind a tractor with a maximum speed of twenty? Or maybe a big truck hauling a double-wide trailer?

  I mentally cuss my sister out again, wondering if this crazy idea of hers is truly worth driving all the way out here. But I keep my hands at ten and two, radio on low, and eyes on the cars in front of me, alert for brake lights. I creep along, making barely any discernible progress until . . . finally, the roadway opens up and we start moving.

  Pressing down on the gas, I keep my eyes fixed on the Mitsubishi Mirage in front of me, wondering why anyone would drive the number-one most unsafe car on the road. Sure, it’s cute and pink like an adult version of a Barbie car, but no way would I put my wife or daughter behind the wheel of a go-kart on a highway filled with Hummers and monster-truck-sized SUVs.

  Not that I have a wife or daughter, but the point remains the same. The Mirage doesn’t even have the safety features of similarly sized cars in its class.

  Unfortunately for me, I’m so distracted by the bright pink monstrosity, my mind running through all the facts and figures about the Mirage, that for the first time in my life, I somehow miss something vital.

  I forget the fact that while I might be going a safely legal fifty-five, this is a country highway. A highway with turn-ins.

  The dark shape comes out on my right side, and I jam my brakes, but not fast enough. There’s just enough time for my heart to jump into my throat before a sick crunch, and time slows down.

  I’ve read about this, but time really does seem to stretch into slow motion. I can see my passenger door start to cave inward and can feel my car start to skew sideways. I tell myself to let off the brake, allowing the tires to connect to the asphalt and letting me yank the steering wheel into my slide, trying to regain control.

  I feel my seatbelt lock and start to dig into my collarbone, and an instant later, the world goes white as my airbags deploy. My head boun
ces off the side curtain bag, and my body is jostled around for a moment before I come to a stop.

  The bags soften, and I lean back in my seat, groaning. “Shiiiiit.”

  My engine’s still running, by some miracle, and I check that I’m in park before looking around, trying to figure out what happened. We’re at an intersection near a gas station, and I look at the other car, a big black sedan.

  How the fuck did I miss that thing?

  A woman is sitting behind the wheel, her eyes wide and her mouth a huge ‘O’ of shock. Seeing my car, her hands go over her mouth, and I have the odd thought that her hands look delicate, as though her long fingers would be right at home playing the piano.

  Her hands drop to her steering wheel, and I can see her mouthing, “No, no, no, no.”

  I have an instant and strong urge to reassure her that it’s okay, even though I haven’t any idea whether I’m really okay, she’s injured, or if our cars are trashed. Waving my hands, I get her attention, then point to the gas station she’s exiting, a questioning look on my face. She must get my meaning, and she jerkily nods her agreement.

  I find that I can at least put my car into low gear and limp forward, twisting my steering wheel to counter the list I’ve developed. Obviously, something’s twisted in my frame. She does the same, her sedan making an ugly squealing, screeching sound as metal rubs against metal somewhere in her engine compartment.

  Once parked at the edge of the gas station parking lot, I do a quick self-check. My hands curl and uncurl without pain, and while my neck and shoulders are sore, nothing’s grating. I’m gonna need a couple of Advil, a long, hot shower, and maybe a visit to the massage chair in the mall, but I don’t think I need a hospital.