Page 6 of Done Dirty

She beamed with pride. “I think Tom’s a little surprised by the success. Especially in this economy. Any news from the insurance adjuster?”

“Don’t get me started,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Jack and I have talked about buying a separate property just to get things up and running. King George only has one other funeral home.”

Emmy Lu made a face. “And everyone knows they bury people without their underwear. There are a lot of horror stories about Here and Now Funeral Parlor that aren’t meant for public discussion.”

My lips twitched. I’d never been sure if the stories about my competitor were true or not, but it had certainly helped business when times had been tough. “I’ll leave the gossip to the professionals.”

Emmy Lu snorted and said, “Coming from the master herself.”

I grinned and gave her a wink. Small-town communities thrived on gossip. It was my civic duty as a woman and a business owner. She handed over the two to-go cups of coffee.

“If I haven’t told you yet,” I said. “Your recipe for donuts is leaps and bounds better than Lady Jane’s. You’ve really put your mark on this place.”

Emmy Lu leaned forward and lowered her voice. “He still thinks I’m using his dad’s recipe.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” I promised.

She slid the box across the counter. “That one’s on the house. Just make sure you feed that baby something besides fried dough and sugar today. You should be glowing with the promise of motherhood. Not because you’re glazed from the inside out.”

I decided not to take offense. She had my best interest at heart. And the news of the baby was still fresh on everyone’s minds. After Jack and I had almost gotten blown up at the funeral home, it seemed a good time to let everyone know about the pregnancy.

Jack was idling at the curb with his on-duty lights on when I came out. I got in, handed him a coffee, set mine in the cupholder, and gave him the box.

He took a donut and handed the box back without a word.

It was a two-minute drive between the Donut Palace and the sheriff’s office, and his phone buzzed just as he pulled into his spot.

He glanced at the screen and hit the button for the dash speaker.

“Lawson,” he said.

“Sheriff, this is Dispatch. We’ve got a call out of Newcastle. The Windsor Luxury Condos on Westminster Street. Responding officer is requesting coroner on scene. Suspected homicide, unit 403, fourth floor. Officer Plank is on-site. CSI team has already been called.”

“Copy that. We’re en route.” He clicked off and then looked over at me. “How many of those donuts are you planning to eat?”

“Enough for my reflexes to be slow enough for you to deflect when I punch you in the face for asking a question like that.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said. “Even in a hormonal rage you don’t really want to do me harm.”

“I think you’ll know when I’m in a hormonal rage. The donuts are keeping the rage at bay. I only have good thoughts.”

“That’s because you’re headed to see a body instead of sitting inside your new government lab.”

“No reason to be mean about it,” I grumbled.

Newcastle was the southernmost of King George County’s four towns. Bloody Mary and King George Proper ran along the Potomac to the north, Newcastle and Nottingham to the south, and all four towns met in the middle where their corners formed the Towne Square.

Newcastle had figured out what it wanted to be and hadn’t wavered since. Cobblestone streets over original brick, gas streetlamps burning all day because someone decided they looked better that way, iron benches with the town seal worked into the backrest, and a public park at the center with a fountain that gurgled in spring, summer and fall.

The old buildings had been restored instead of knocked down, and the newer ones built to match so well you couldn’t tell the difference unless you knew what you were looking at. Art galleries and independent bookstores and bistros with handwritten menus, wine bars that stayed open late, and more than one place where you could take a pottery or art class and feel like a better person for it. It drew young professionals who wanted character without inconvenience, well-heeled retirees who wanted everything in a walkable distance, and people who described themselves as creatives in a way that just meant they could afford to do it. The farmers market on Saturday mornings was more for social status than buying groceries, and parking was near impossible all the time, which was why locals walked or biked everywhere.

It wasn’t a cheap lifestyle. But you get what you pay for.

The Windsor was at the end of Westminster Street, a four-story converted textile building with exposed brick and original iron window frames painted flat black. The lobby had pine floors worn to silver down the center from a hundred years of use. Thankfully, they hadn’t been covered or painted.

Officer Plank was posted at the entrance in a uniform so crisp it looked like he’d just taken it from the box. He was a few years into the job now, still pink cheeked, still clean cut, and still sporting the single dimple that had earned him the nickname Baby Fresh around the station. The shine had dulled a little since his rookie days, but not much. He’d been living in sin with Officer Wachowski for almost a year now, and she’d finally agreed to marry him. The jury was still out on what his parents thought about the match. Honestly, I didn’t know what I thought of it either. Wachowski was older in physical years and experience, and I had a soft spot for Plank.

“You always get the good ones,” I said to Plank.