Drop Dead Sexy

An incredulous chorus of “Murdered?” came from me, Mama, and Pease.

“Yes, ma’ams. It does appear that way.”

I swallowed hard, trying to suppress the rising anxiety that tightened my chest. Taylorsville hadn’t had a murder since the seventies, and that was back when Dwayne Bassey pulled double duty as the chief of police and coroner. Now it was all on my shoulders.

Mama swept a hand over her heart. “That sweet man. Who could possibly want to kill him?”

“Some disgruntled Medicare customer who was pissed they couldn’t afford their medicine anymore?” Pease suggested.

Randall “Randy” Dickinson owned the only drug store in town. He’d been the kindly pharmacist my mother consulted whenever Allen and I were sick. He also sang bass in the First Baptist choir. Although he was seen from time to time having dinner with some of the widows in town, he’d always been a confirmed bachelor, which was surprising since he wasn’t a bad looking guy. If you put him and nine other men in town in a lineup, he would have been the last one I would have ever imagined being murdered.

After downing the rest of my coffee for fortification, I drew my shoulders back and got in the coroner zone. “You guys called the GBI?”

Brandon frowned and shifted on his feet. “Um, not that I know of.”

“Seriously? You guys should know as well as I do that whenever there is a suspicious death the G-men are called in.”

“Ralph coulda called it in while I was on the way here.”

“Whatever. You can double-check on the way back to the crime scene.” I turned to Mama and Pease. “Can you guys hold down the fort with Mrs. Laughton? Her family should be back at noon for today’s viewing.”

“As a proud member of PAM, I’m happy to serve,” Pease replied with a grin.

I snorted. PAM stood for Professional Association of Mourners. It was an unofficial club that Allen had come up with for Pease’s group of silver-haired ladies who considered it a good time to hang out at the funeral home. It didn’t matter if they knew the deceased well or not. They still came and paid their respects as well as swiping some of the food that churches or family friends had provided. While it had started out as a joke, Pease’s group had embraced it so much they had T-shirts made with PAM on the front and their names on the back.

I laughed. “I’m glad to hear it. Brandon, let me grab my bag, and we’ll go.”





Randy Dickinson lived on five wooded acres on the outskirts of town. He had a beautiful cape cod with a wrap-around front porch. One side of his property met the banks of the Etowah River. As we made our way down the long drive, Brandon informed me that Randy was known to lodge a few complaints from time to time about people trespassing on his land to fish. I filed that comment away for future reference when it came to potential suspects.

When we pulled up in front of the house, I found Ralph Murphy, our local sheriff, and two of his deputies standing on the front porch waiting for us. Since I had called the GBI in the car, I hadn’t expected to see any agents yet.

As I started up the front walk, Ralph came to meet me. He was the epitome of the stereotype of a small-town sheriff—kinda like Jackie Gleason’s character in Smokey and the Bandit. Instead of thrusting out his hand, he pulled me into a bear hug. It was the kind of greeting you got when you lived in a town like Taylorsville, which was basically a modern-day Mayberry. “Morning, Olivia.”

“Morning, Ralph. What happened?”

After spitting out a stream of shit-colored tobacco juice, Ralph shifted his chaw to his left cheek. “Well, around nine this morning, Blondine Cook, Randy’s cleaning lady, arrived. Although she could see his car in the garage, the front door was locked. So, she used her key to get in. She went back to the bedroom to start cleaning, and she found him in the bed deader than a doornail. Gunshot to the chest.”

“Got any idea of what kind of weapon we’re looking for?”

“We were waiting on you to do measurements. But from the looks of the wound, it’s a relatively clean shot in close range. Clearly it’s not a shotgun. I’d guess a pistol. We haven’t moved him yet to see if the bullet got lodged or exited the body.”

I nodded. “Any idea how the suspect got in?”

“I had Frank and George checking the points of entrance and exit, and all doors and windows are locked up nice and tight.”

“Hmm, the ol’ locked room mystery rears its head.”

“Huh?” Ralph questioned, his bushy brows creasing.

“Oh, you know how in old detective stories there was always a room locked from the inside, so how could the murderer or thief gotten in? The craziest one was in Poe’s Murders in the Rue Morgue where he had an orangutan be the killer that got in through a window.” When Ralph continued to stare at me, I waved my hand dismissively. “Never mind.”

“It appears the security system was disarmed, too.”

“So we’re looking for somewhat of a professional.”

“It would appear so.”