Drop Dead Gorgeous(73)

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 noticed 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.