To Catch Her Death (The Grim Reality Series Book 1) (4 page)

“Actually, I’d love a cup. Thank you.” I needed to tell Vella about my slam dance with the paranormal world without him around. Pasting on my sweetest smile, I said. “Tall mocha, no whip. You’re a treasure.”

He gave an indignant grunt and looked to Vella for support.

“She was just in a robbery, Jonathan. The girl needs coffee.”

His eyes widened. “Really? You were at the Holiday?”

Already he’d heard about the holdup? That was exactly why I wouldn’t discuss my private life around him. “Yes and I’ll give you all the gory details when you get back—with my tall mocha.”

“Oh goodie.” He spun and headed out of the salon, his boot heels clicking across the tile floor.

“What’s going on?” Vella took a drink of her coffee and narrowed her eyes. “I know you like to mess with Jonathan, but I’m sensing there’s something more to this.”

I glanced over my shoulder to make sure he was gone and looked back at my friend. Qualifying my explanation first was more for my benefit than her. Why would she believe me when I barely believed it myself? “Hear me out before you pass judgment on my sanity.”

Both of her perfectly sculpted and clipped eyebrows lifted. “Girl, you know I don’t judge.”

I refrained from commenting on that blatant lie. “After Leroy, the robber, was shot I touched him to see if he was dead.”

“Ick, did you wash your hands?”

I looked at my fingers. There should have been blood on them but there wasn’t. “Yes,” I lied. “Like I was saying, I checked to see if he was dead.”

“Was he?”

“Sort of.” I took a deep breath and plunged forward with my story. “When I stood, his spirit lifted out of his body and went right through me.”

Vella shifted in her chair and crossed her legs, her focus zeroing in on me. “Go on.”

The story rushed out of my like air from a balloon. When I was finished, I took a deep breath. “Nate gave me his card and said we needed to talk.”

She tapped her long nail against the side of her cup. “The Angel of Death has a business card?”

“I know, right? What kind of reaper doesn’t carry a scythe, but has a business card?” I shook my head. “He’s probably some kind of stalker. The guy knew all sorts of shit about me. The whole thing was beyond peculiar.”

“Well, I think it’s safe to say this Nate is a little touched in the head.” She took another drink and seemed to contemplate what I told her. The bubblegum pink nails of her other hand drummed against the arm of the chair and she pursed her lips, squinting at me. “Can I see his card?”

I dug in my pocket and handed it to her.

“Grim Reaper Services. Well that’s just stupid.” She pointed to the lettering at the bottom with her thumb. “There’s an address.”

I tilted my head to get a better look. “4831 B—” I snatched the card from her and stared at the address I knew so well. “That’s where Jeff used to work, but it’s the General Resource Services building not Grim Reaper Services.”

“All right, this is getting weirder than my Uncle Clem’s lingerie collection.”

“I’m not even going to ask.” Vella’s family contained more freaks than a circus sideshow and her supply of stories was endless. “Am I supposed to believe death is renting office space from General Resources?”

“Look, both businesses have GRS as their initials.” Vella leaned back, giving me a look that said she’d formed her opinion. “This guy is bad news, no doubt about it?”

“What about Leroy Badder’s ghost and the elevator to Hell?” How could she not think I was crazy when what I was asking was irrational? “I know what I saw.”

“Maybe it was some of that post dramatic stress syndrome they’re always talking about.”

“You mean
post traumatic
?”

“Whatever.” She jabbed a finger at me. “It hasn’t been that long since Jeff died. Maybe this was your brain’s way of coping with a life and death situation.”

“I guess that’s possible.” I looked at the card again. Something very creepy was going on and I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like whatever this Nate guy had in mind. “But Roger, one of the cashiers, said he thought he saw Leroy’s ghost too.”

“Mass hysteria.” She set her coffee on the counter. “We used to see it all the time when the evangelist healers came to town. Everybody wailing, getting right with Jesus. One time my Aunt Edith said she and a bunch of her churchin’ ladies saw the blessed mother sitting on the altar, eating a burrito.” Vella made a drinking motion with her hand. “I think the old gals imbibed a little too much blood of Christ, if you know what I mean.”

“Mass hysteria, you’re probably right.” I smiled, trying to ignore my gut instinct that what happened, really
had
happened. “Hopefully I’ll never see Nate again.”

Vella sighed. “Too bad he was cute.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“A cute guy gave you his number—I’m just sayin’, too bad the cute ones are crazy.”

“Yeah, just my luck.” Not that I was in the market for a boyfriend or even a booty call. “Do you know he said I didn’t have what it took to be a reaper?” His statement still grated, even if he was a psycho, serial killer.

“That’s because he’s never seen you wield a weed whacker.”

“Exactly.” I harrumphed. “I’d make a freakin’ awesome reaper.”

“Damn straight.” She stood and pulled the scrunchie from my hair and threaded her fingers through my limp locks. “It would be kind of neat, don’t you think?”

She scraped her nails along my scalp and my eyes slid shut. “What would?”

“Being an Angel of Death.” Her hands rested on my shoulders. “Helping people cross over.”

I opened my eyes. “What happened to me didn’t feel neat. It felt violent and sticky.” She continued to massage my head, but the look on her face told me that brain of hers was conjuring up all sorts of scenarios. “What?”

She shrugged. “If you were a reaper, would you have wanted to help Jeff pass?”

“No.” The word popped out of my mouth.

Her hands stopped and rested on top of my hair. “Why not?”

Why wouldn’t I have wanted to help my husband pass? So many people would do anything for a chance to say goodbye. “Because when I found out that Jeff had been in a car accident, he was already dead and there was nothing I could do about it. If I’d known he was going to die and there was still nothing I could do about it—” I paused, my throat tightening at the thought. “I don’t think I could handle that.” I looked at her. “It’s a burden I wouldn’t want to bear.”

She held my gaze in the mirror for a few seconds but didn’t say anything more about death. “So, what are we doing today? Short and sassy? Platinum?”

“Manageable and get rid of the roots.” I made a chopping gesture half way between my shoulder and chin. “Maybe a few inches off to clean it up, but I still want to be able to put it in a ponytail.”

“Come on, let me do something daring.”

I’d had enough of daring for one day. What I needed was safe. “Maybe next time.”

She grumbled under her breath and spun my chair to face the back of the salon. “Your shampoo bowl awaits, Milady.”

Getting a new cut and color would make me feel better, but I had another worry now—like I needed that. Nate knew who I was, which probably meant he knew where I lived. It was one thing to have my safety put in question, but there were my kids to think about. A chill ran through me. Either he had lied to me to make contact, which wasn’t good, or what Nate told me was true, and I was looking at a life-long sentence as the newest Angel of Death at Grim Reaper Services.

CHAPTER THREE

I left the
salon with a slick new do and my scrunchie around my wrist. The change had been subtle, but I definitely felt better. On the drive home my mind replayed the events at the Holiday station. I wasn’t sure I bought Vella’s mass hysteria or post-traumatic stress explanations. In my gut I knew I hadn’t imagined the whole thing. Something had happened. But no matter how hard I tried to cram the incident into a neatly defined compartment, it just didn’t fit—and I
really
needed it to fit.

I turned onto my road. The section of Anchorage where I lived in was what I referred to as
established.
Homes ranged from 1970’s split-levels to newer duplexes and condos. My house was a well-worn, but sturdy, 1979 two-story, located on Resurrection Lane. Though the street was named after Resurrection Bay, the irony that I was trying to resurrect my life, not to mention the whole reaper thing, was not lost on me.

As I pulled into our driveway, I couldn’t help but think all I needed was a few junk cars in the yard and a hound dog on the porch to complete my house’s tired appearance. Home repairs had been low on my list of priorities, because of grief and limited funds. To say I’d been shocked when I found out how small Jeff’s life insurance policy was would be a gross understatement.

I’d yet to deal with the sense of betrayal I harbored about that. I mean, how much of a bitch would that make me to be pissed over money when I’d just lost my husband, and the kids, their father? Plus, I blamed myself for not being more involved in our finances—and a lot of other aspects of our life as a couple. Like I said, my self-esteem hit rock bottom and dwelling on what I could have done better would be like pouring lemon juice into a wound.

A fat raven sat on the railing of my front deck. Anchorage has the biggest ravens in the world. They were well fed from the Dumpsters and tourists, and were roughly the size of a Welsh Corgi. This bird must’ve frequented all the feeding hotspots. The way it stared at me, all harbinger of doomish, sent another wave of foreboding through me.

The grating squeak from my van door opening hadn’t spooked the raven like I’d hoped. It just sat there, peering down at me. Even when I started up the front steps, it didn’t fly away.

“Shoo.” I waved my hand. Besides giving me the heebie-jeebies, I didn’t want bird poop on my deck. Melting bird poo in the spring is beyond gross. I crept a few steps higher. “Go on.”

The raven cocked its head and made a gurgling sound that reminded me of a telephone ringing. Its whole demeanor gave me the impression it was trying to talk to me. Then the bird looked to the sky. I followed its gaze and noticed five more ravens circling like black vultures.

Could things get any weirder?

When I rose to the second to the last step, the raven extended its wings, gurgled again, and took off. The sound of air against its blue-black feathers whooshed with each stroke as it lifted to join the circling murder. I jammed my key into the door and ducked inside before the scene turned into something out of a Hitchcock movie.

After slamming the door and locking it, I peeked out the curtains in my front living room. All six birds had settled in the bare branches of a tree across the street and sat silhouetted against the gray afternoon sky. Maybe it was my imagination, but the birds seemed to be staring at my house. I let the curtain fall into place and stepped back. My purse slid from fingers and dropped to the floor. This day was too weird. Maybe if I ignored the ravens, they’d go away. Then again, maybe they were an omen of things to come.

I needed to get my mind off all the reaper madness and refocused on being productive. More than anything, I wanted a shower. Mainly to wash off the hair from my new cut, but also to scrub the feel of Leroy Badder from my hands—actually, my soul. The incident had left me with a greasy sensation that coated my being.

It took a good fifteen minutes of vigorous scouring with my loofa before deciding I’d cleansed as thoroughly as I could without dousing my body in bleach. Once out of the shower, I slicked my hair into a ponytail and put on my favorite sweatshirt. It had been a gift to my husband on his last birthday.
I’m sick of being my wife’s arm candy
was printed in white letters on the front and Jeff had worn it around the house the day before he’d been killed.

For a long time I slept with the sweatshirt, inhaling the last remnants of his scent. It was the only way I’d been able to get to sleep. Over time his aroma faded and I’d taken to wearing it—every chance I got.

The shower hadn’t completely washed away Leroy’s essence, which made me antsy. Whenever I got like this I cleaned. From the state of my house, I hadn’t been antsy in a very long time.

With the music cranked up, I hauled out my cleaning supplies. Sadly I had to dust those bottles off first. Starting in the bathroom, which was completely disgusting and bordering on a health hazard, I began swamping out the house. How had I not seen what a pigsty we lived in?

The hours passed and layers of dust, stacks of unattended mail, and piles of dirty laundry dwindled. At seven o’clock I stopped and looked around. The place looked great. Then and there I vowed to never let the mess get away from me again. Talk is cheap when you’re high on cleaning fluid fumes.

As I poured a celebratory glass of wine, my doorbell rang. Still reveling in my accomplishment, I didn’t stop to consider who could be at my door. It wasn’t uncommon for Don Burner, my playboy next neighbor, to stop by and see if I needed anything. He was a nice enough guy, but sort of icky in a
hey baby
kind of way.

I opened the door and froze. Nate stood on the other side. Before I could slam and lock the door, he pushed it open.

“Lisa, we have to talk.”

“No, we don’t! I just got my house clean,” I said, as if that was a viable argument. I yanked on the handle, trying to wrench it from his grasp. “Things are finally getting back to normal. We don’t need to talk.”

“Yes, we do.” He palmed my chest below my neck and pushed me backward. “Now.”

I stumbled, which gave him the break he needed. He stepped inside. I liked to think I was tough, but having a strange man barge into my home snuffed out that misconception. I tamped down my panic. Where was nosy Don when I needed him? Once inside, Nate closed the door.

“You can’t just push your way into my home.” I wasn’t sure how I would follow this argument. Though I hated to admit it, I didn’t possess any stunning skills that could physically eject him from my house. If he was a killer, the best I could do were a few well-placed bitch slaps before going down. “I could have you arrested.”

“Yeah, but you won’t.” His gaze scanned the house. “You alone?”

“No.” I fumbled for a lie. “My neighbor, Don, is fixing my bathroom sink.”

“Would that be the same Don I just saw leaving with two young women.”

Crap.

I grunted. “No, that was his twin brother, Jon.”

Nate nodded. “Right.”

Damn, I wish I was a better liar.

“You’re not welcome here.” He took a step forward and I slapped my hand against the wall, blocking his path with my arm. If he was a grim reaper then maybe he couldn’t enter my house until he was invited—like vampires. “Be gone.”

He smirked. “I’m not a vampire.”

“I know you’re not. There’s no such thing.” I rolled my eyes, trying to give the impression I hadn’t totally been thinking that. “What do you want?”

“Give me ten minutes. Then I’ll leave and never bother you again.”

It sounded too good to be true. “Never ever?”

“I promise.”

He didn’t do any kind of scout’s honor hand gesture, so I didn’t know if I could completely trust him. “Ten minutes.”

In that amount of time he could have me sliced up and vacuum sealed, but what choice did I have. I spun and walked into my kitchen. The very idea that he being the grim reaper was the lesser of two evils made me want to laugh. Not in a
ha ha, ironic, isn’t it
way. More like a,
things keep getting weirder
way.

His footsteps followed. I cursed myself. He would probably track dirt all over my sparkling floor. I scooped up my glass of wine and turned to face him. My upbringing forced me to offer him a drink. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

He held up a hand and shook his head. “No, thank you.”

Hmm, very polite—for a killer.
I pulled out the chair and sat, indicating he should do the same. I took a sip of wine, wishing it was something stronger. “Okay, speak.”

He lowered himself into the chair and propped his elbows on the table, leveling a stare at me. “You
are
a grim reaper.”

“So you’ve said.” I took another drink and set down my glass. “Are we done?”

“Hardly.” He eased back and sized me up, his gaze narrowing. “All right then, you explain what happened at the Holiday station this morning.”

I considered giving him Vella’s explanation, but those reasons sounded even more ridiculous than reaping a soul. I decided to changed tactics. “Let me ask you this, why do you think I’m a reaper?”

“We recently lost one of our own and you came on our radar as the next reaper in line.”

“Lost one of your own?” I didn’t like the sound of that. “You mean one of your reapers died?”

He shifted in his chair. “Yes.”

“That’s a bit ironic isn’t it, the Angel of Death dying?”

He shrugged. “We’re mortal, tools for the greater good of mankind.”

I refrained from telling him how much of a tool I thought he was. “Isn’t the grim reaper immortal?”

“You watch too many movies.”

That was true but I didn’t confirm his statement. Our conversation was idiotic and yet a hundred questions demanded to be asked. That’s another problem. I had an unhealthy amount of morbid curiosity. “How did this reaper die?”

He took a deep breath and exhaled, giving me the impression he didn’t want to answer. “He was killed in a car accident.”

“Car accident?” Unease crept through me. Maybe it was the same ability I had to sense the paranormal, but his answer instantly put me on alert. “When?”

He reached up to massage the back of his neck and squinted at me. “A year ago.”

His answer hung in the air. I stared at him, physically feeling the silence pressing down on me. My mind grappled with what he had and hadn’t said. “You’re talking about Jeff…aren’t you?”

Several more seconds passed before he answered. “Yes.”

Whatever humor I’d found in the conversation vanished. “That’s not funny.”

“I know.” He leaned forward and pinned me with a stare. “Jeff was my partner.”

“Jeff didn’t have a partner. He was an accounts manager for General Resource Services. He wore a tie and took his lunch to work.” My voice raised an octave. “He worked late and provided for his family. He didn’t reap souls.”

Nate shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lisa, but that’s not true. General Resource Services is a front for Grim Reaper Services.”

“No.” I slapped my hand on the table. “I’ve been in there. I’ve seen his office and people filling out applications.” I pointed a finger at him. “And never once have I seen you. You were not his partner.” What Nate was saying was asinine and impossible. My husband had been a good provider, a great father, and an okay husband. He sure as hell hadn’t been a grim reaper. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, but I want you to leave.”

Nate reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two cards, tossing them onto the table. He flicked his head toward them. “Our identification cards.”

My hand shook when I reached for them. Nate and Jeff’s faces stared back at me from the laminated cards. GRS was printed in bold, black letters to the left. I flipped them over. A bar code and a bold line of numbers filled the backside. “This doesn’t prove anything.” I pitched the cards onto the table and glared at him. “You could’ve had those made anywhere.”

“But I didn’t.” He slid another card across the table. “This is your temporary pass. It will get you onto the fourth floor.”

I didn’t pick it up, only glanced at it and then back at him. “I don’t need that.”

“You do if you’re coming to GRS on Monday.”

“I’m not going to GRS on Monday or any other day.” I sounded convincing, but I’ll admit my curiosity was trumping my disbelief. “I’m not interested in whatever little show and tell you have planned for me.”

Nate picked up his and Jeff’s identification cards and stood, leaving my temporary pass on the table. “Think about it. If you change your mind, be there at nine o’clock.”

I remained seated. “I won’t.”

“We’ll see.” He headed for the door, stopping at the kitchen entrance. Without turning around he said, “I’m sorry about Jeff. He was a good partner.”

I didn’t reply and it seemed he didn’t expect me to. The thud of the front door sounded and his boots clomped down the stairs outside. With my interest piqued, I walked to the kitchen window to watch him climbed into a black Suburban.

“Figures.” What other color vehicle would a reaper drive?

As he pulled out of the driveway, the murder of ravens, still sitting in the tree across the street, rose and followed his rig down the street. Another chill ran through me. I rubbed my arms and turned. The laminated card glared at me from across the room. Unable to squash my curiosity, I crept toward the table and slid back onto my chair, picking up my glass of wine. Nate’s claim that I was a reaper had been bad enough. To find out Jeff had been his partner—well, that was almost too much to believe. Almost.