Page 43 of Done Dirty

“You don’t have to be. The house would be yours for the funeral home. Any other businesses on the property would have a manager. With the rate the county is growing, I think we can recoup our money in five years.”

I was quiet for a moment. “You’ve been thinking about this for a while.”

“About a week,” he said. “I got early word that the historical society has decided to sell. It’s not public knowledge yet.”

“What about my funeral home?” I asked. “The old one, I mean.”

“I’ve not shown you this to make you sad,” he said. “If you want to keep the old funeral home and rebuild you should. But I know you’re wanting to get back in your own space, and this is the quickest way to do it. All the other is the business side of me making sure we have an inheritance to leave to our kids.”

This was a good thing, I knew. Jack had a head for business. I still had no clue of the scope of not only his family wealth, but what he’d done to expand it over the years. But I also knew that if anyone could turn this place into a success, it was him.

I just wasn’t as keen on the other businesses. I liked my funeral home. And I liked being coroner. It just so happened the two collided in a compatible way. Mostly I didn’t care for people. At least the living ones.

“Maybe the delay on the insurance money is a sign,” I said. “I’ve been thinking more about legacy and what that means now that the baby is coming.

“Your family has an incredible legacy. Not just the land and the farm and the businesses. But your family—your parents and uncles and aunts and cousins. You come from a good family that knows how to love and nurture and protect. And I love that our children will inherit that legacy. But what do I have to contribute?”

“Jaye,” he interrupted.

“No, let me finish,” I said. “I always thought that the funeral home would be my legacy. Something to pass down that came from my family. And then after the explosion destroyed it, I had this grief over something that was nothing but an empty shell that held secrets and darkness and lies. Why would I want to pass that on to our children? That’s not a legacy I’d ever want them to have to carry.”

I stared at the Greek Revival that looked like something out of Gone with the Wind, and something clicked into place.

“So maybe it’s time to let it go,” I said. “And start something fresh. The insurance can play out and then we can sell it and cut our losses.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, looking me over closely.

“Can we afford this place?” I asked.

He grinned. “Yeah, we can afford it. Though the baby might have to go to a state school instead of the Ivy Leagues.”

I laughed and felt the relief travel through me. “I guess it worked out okay for the two of us.” Then I paused and said, “But seriously. I am not having anything to do with weddings. I’ll take the dead and the grieving all day long. Keep those people out of my funeral home.”

Jack laughed and pulled out his phone. “I’ll call the Realtor and get the ball rolling. I’ll get her to open it up for us so you can go through and get an idea of what you need.”

“After doing that autopsy yesterday, what I need is ventilation and drains.”

“Good thing you married me for my money,” Jack said.

“Don’t forget the sex.”

Sheri Downs lived in the Boleyn Court condos on the Towne Square, which put her about a two-minute walk from the sheriff’s office. Jack parked in his designated spot and we crossed the square on foot.

It was already busy for a July morning—courthouse workers cutting across the grass, a line out the door of Lady Jane’s, a couple of attorneys in suits walking fast with coffee cups. The courthouse itself rose up in the center of everything, three stories of carved Gothic stone gone dark with age, gargoyles crouched at every corner like they were waiting for something to go wrong. Jack nodded at a deputy he knew on the steps without breaking stride.

Boleyn Court Condos occupied the corner above Lady Jane’s—dark timber framing against cream stucco, steeply pitched rooflines, leaded glass in the upper windows. Tudor in style. The residential entrance was around back through a gated courtyard. A woman in scrubs was on her way out and held the gate without being asked. The courtyard was small and tidy, red geraniums going leggy in the July heat. A gray cat sat on the second stair and didn’t move when we came through.

We went up to the second floor and rang the bell. The cat had followed us and sat on the banister, its yellow eyes focused on Jack.

“Creepy,” I said and the cat hissed and ran away.

The door opened and a good-looking man in his mid-thirties answered. He had the muscles of a bodybuilder and he’d managed to shove them into a dress shirt and gray slacks.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

Jack showed his badge. “I’m Sheriff Lawson and this is Dr. Graves. We’re looking for Sheri Downs. Is she here?”

“Sure,” the guy said. “She’s getting ready to go to work. Come on in. Is everything okay? No one died, did they? Do I need to call into work?”