Grim Tempest
An Aisling Grimlock Mystery Book 8
Amanda M. Lee
WinchesterShaw Publications
Copyright © 2018 by Amanda M. Lee
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Prologue
1. One
2. Two
3. Three
4. Four
5. Five
6. Six
7. Seven
8. Eight
9. Nine
10. Ten
11. Eleven
12. Twelve
13. Thirteen
14. Fourteen
15. Fifteen
16. Sixteen
17. Seventeen
18. Eighteen
19. Nineteen
20. Twenty
21. Twenty-One
22. Twenty-Two
23. Twenty-Three
24. Twenty-Four
25. Twenty-Five
26. Twenty-Six
27. Twenty-Seven
28. Twenty-Eight
29. Twenty-Nine
30. Thirty
Mailing List
About the Author
Books by Amanda M. Lee
Prologue
11 years ago
The minister’s words whipped past me faster than the wind. He kept speaking even though I was positive everyone in the crowd had stopped listening minutes before.
He talked about Lily Grimlock’s zest for life, her love of children and family. He talked about her giving spirit and how she donated time to charity. He talked about how she had a firm hand with her children, rambunctious monsters who he was convinced would one day grow up to be marvelous members of society.
That was his word, not mine. Marvelous. There was no way I would ever call my four brothers marvelous, and as awesome as I fancied myself I wasn’t feeling very marvelous because Lily Grimlock, my mother, was gone long before her time.
The minister didn’t care. He kept rambling even though each word was like a dagger through the heart. I thought I might fall over due to the wind and rain. A storm was brewing, had been since the moment we found out Mom died in a fire, and it wouldn’t weaken in the foreseeable future. I knew that without hesitation.
He talked about a romance for the ages, which caused a sob to wrench from my father’s chest before he regained control of himself and squared his shoulders. My poor father was absolutely wrecked, yet he felt the need to stay strong for his five children, all of whom could barely put one foot in front of the other as we marched through endless days of numbness and tears.
It was weird. We saw death regularly – we were reapers, after all – but the loss of our mother threatened to tear apart everything we knew.
We would no longer return home after school (or whatever it was my older brothers did now that they’d graduated) and find her waiting with healthy snacks and a big smile, eager to hear about our day even if we didn’t want to share the information. My father was the one who liked to get us hopped up on sugar and then set us loose on the neighborhood. My mother was more measured in her approach.
Not any longer.
She wouldn’t be there when school was out. She wouldn’t be there when I was upset with one of my brothers. She most certainly wouldn’t be there when Dad blew a gasket because I snuck out of the house or had a date.
It was just us now.
Without thinking, I slipped my hand into my father’s, leaning closer to him in an effort to ignore the wind and rain.
He glanced down at me, his purple eyes filled with pain and repressed tears, and took me by surprise when he leaned over and kissed my forehead. “It’s okay, kid,” he whispered. “We’ll be out of here in a few minutes.”
“Then where will we go?”
“Home.”
Home. Was it still home? I had my doubts. The house was as big as a castle and it never struck me as overwhelming until Mom died. Now I felt as if I could get lost in the numerous rooms and hallways and never be found because people would forget to look for me. I hated that.
Dad squeezed my hand as the minister wrapped things up, keeping me close as he waded through the sea of well-wishers and nodded in turn at co-workers and neighbors as they offered condolences.
He glanced over his shoulder every few seconds to make sure my brothers followed, that they were close. He had no intention of leaving anyone behind, and even though he understood the intricacies of death and how people reacted I could tell he wanted to be away from the crowd. He wanted his family – now and forever one member down – to huddle and regroup. That’s all he could see. That was the end of his current road and as far as he was concerned there was nothing past it.
I held it together as we moved between people, allowing Dad to handle most of the talking as I stared into nothing. It wasn’t until we were almost through the crowd – I could actually see the limo Dad rented only twenty feet away – when I realized the last people Dad would have to talk to were the worst of all.
Carol Davenport, all sneer and glare, pasted a fake look of sympathy on her face as she rested her hand on Dad’s arm. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Cormack.”
Dad was no fan of Carol Davenport, but he’d interacted with her more than anyone could possibly want because I was constantly fighting with her daughter Angelina, who was my age but nowhere near as lovely and endearing. Angelina and I had made a habit of going at each other with words – the occasional punches and hair yanks thrown in for good measure – and I realized after a moment that the idea of fighting with her now held some appeal.
I was wiped from mourning and I hadn’t slept in what felt like weeks. It was really days, but perception is a funny thing. My mother hadn’t been gone for more than eighty-four hours, yet I seemingly couldn’t remember a time before we started mourning her. Intellectually I knew it existed. I remembered a life where she wasn’t gone, and it wasn’t all that long ago. It felt far away and mired in cloudiness. Those memories were hazy.
More than anything I wanted things to return to normal. They never would – I knew that – but I wanted it all the same. I desperately needed to feel like myself again, if only for a moment and even if I regretted it after the fact. What better way to feel like myself again than to fight with Angelina?
I lifted my chin and offered her a haughty look, searching through my weakened mind to get an insult rolling, but she spoke before I could … and ruined everything.
“I’m sorry about your mom.”
Angelina’s voice was soft and she almost sounded sincere, which caused me to trip over my tongue as I narrowed my eyes.
“What?”
“I’m sorry about your mom,” Angelina repeated, smoothing the front of her black dress as she shifted from one foot to the other. “You must be really sad. I know I would be. It’s just so … terrible. I don’t know what to say to you.”
I knew what I wanted her to say. I wanted her to insult me, maybe even kick my shin so I could chase her down and justifiably rip out her hair without causing a stir. I most certainly didn’t want sympathy from Angelina freaking Davenport. I hated her. That was not going to change. If she felt bad for me – enough to come to my mother’s funeral – that meant the world really was changing into something I couldn’t recognize.
“Say ‘thank you,’ Aisling,” Dad prompted, squeezing my hand.
He had to be kidding, right? Now, on top of everything else, I was supposed to thank Angelina. I didn’t want to thank her. I wanted
to punish her. I wanted to rip out her stupid flat-ironed hair and make her eat it.
Dad wouldn’t look kindly on that, though. He was barely holding it together. If I melted down I had no doubt he’d do the same.
“Thank you,” I murmured, cringing when Carol leaned closer and smiled at me. It was more of a grimace than a smile, but because she’d only ever screamed bloody murder in my direction I wasn’t sure what to make of her change in attitude.
“You poor dear.” Carol made a clucking sound with her tongue. “This is going to be hardest on you, isn’t it?”
“She’ll be fine.” Dad protectively wrapped his arm around my back. “She has me. She has her brothers.”
“Yes, but she no longer has her mother,” Carol noted. “She’s the only girl. It’s like she’s an outsider in her own house. Girls her age need a mother and now she doesn’t have one.”
Dad’s cool control snapped. “She’s not an outsider. She’ll be perfectly fine. Now … if you’ll excuse me.” Dad moved to edge his way around Carol, but she remained where she was and cut off his avenue of escape.
“I just want you to know that I’ll be around if you need anything,” she purred. The way she touched Dad’s arm made me realize she was flirting with him – or at least she thought she was – and Dad obviously recognized the effort because he shrank back and pulled me in front of him, as if I were a human shield that could ward off the Devil’s finest assassin.
“I have everything under control.” Dad was firm as he rested his hands on my shoulders. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get my children home. I think we need a quiet night together.”
“Of course.” Carol backed away, although she clearly wasn’t happy about Dad’s brazen rebuff. “Just keep me in mind if you need anything.”
“Of course.” Dad’s tone told me he would rather hire the murderous doll from the Chucky movies to help him instead of spending time with Carol, but he managed to maintain at least a modicum of dignity. “Come along. It’s time to go home.”
I fell into step with him, stopping long enough to meet Angelina’s gaze one last time. The moment Dad moved past Carol her veneer of sympathy slipped. Angelina’s remained in place.
“I really am sorry,” Angelina said. “I know it doesn’t mean anything coming from me – and nothing will change down the line because we hate each other and that will never change – but I’m sorry about your mother. She didn’t deserve what happened.”
“No, she didn’t.”
I let Dad pull me away and waited until we were all settled in the back of the limo to speak. “I don’t like Angelina being nice to me.”
Dad cast me a sidelong look. “I wouldn’t worry about that. She’ll be back to her horrible self tomorrow. Even the Devil can’t be mean at a funeral.”
That was an interesting take on the situation. “Does that mean I can punch her tomorrow?”
Dad nodded. “Sure. Try to do it in the yard so we can watch. I think we all need a pick-me-up.”
I brightened, although only marginally. “That’s something to look forward to, huh?”
Dad leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. “You don’t believe it now, but things will get better. You’ll be able to look forward to living life again and not feel guilty because you’re leaving Mom behind. I promise.”
I rested my head against his shoulder. “I’m not sure that’s true, but I’ll take your word for it.”
“Good.”
“I’m also going to find a way to beat the crap out of Angelina tomorrow, so if the cops show up don’t act surprised.”
Dad’s lips curved. “We all do what we can for the team.”
“Yeah. I think my part is going to be loud.”
Dad patted my knee. “I would expect nothing less.”
1
One
Present Day
“It’s going to storm. I can feel it.”
I peered out the front window of the non-descript Royal Oak bungalow and stared at the darkening sky.
“I like storms … but only when I’m home,” I added. “I like watching horror movies, climbing under a blanket with one of my guys and totally rooting for the blond bimbo to get it. What I don’t like is being stuck outside in a storm, because it makes my hair frizz and I don’t enjoy walking around in wet jeans. Do you know what I mean?”
I turned to find Harry Turner, the esteemed chief of the Royal Oak Police Department, eyeing me with what could only be described as disdain. Essentially, if I were the ant encroaching on the family picnic, I would be under someone’s boot right about now.
“What?”
Harry made a face no one could love. I’m talking deranged clowns, creepy dudes in white vans and those douches who stand on street corners and call out “Hey, baby, do you want to zoom and boom” to multiple women in the hope one of them will respond. Even those guys wouldn’t enjoy the look on Harry’s face.
“What did you say your name was again?” Harry asked, his tone clipped.
“Aisling Grimlock.” I shifted so I could look over the stack of paperwork sitting on the small table near the window. “Do you have anything good in here? I mean … do you have any reports on window peepers or drunk folk caught urinating on park benches?”
Harry was flummoxed. “Why would you possibly ask that?”
I shrugged, noncommittal. “I don’t know. It was just something I was thinking about.”
“You were thinking about public urination?” Harry narrowed his eyes to dangerous slits. “I think that says a little something about you.”
I was in no position to argue so I decided to change the subject. It wasn’t as if I was in a hurry – Harry was dead, after all, and only his spirit remained to judge me – and I wanted to wait out the storm that looked to be brewing. A cheery conversation seemed the way to go. Of course, Harry was anything but cheery.
“Did you ever consider changing your name?” I had no idea what made me ask the question. As a grim reaper, I’d been trained by my family (also grim reapers, for the curious) to suck souls first and ask questions never, but I was looking to kill time. That meant I could ask a series of stupid questions if I felt like it.
Harry planted his hands on his hips, his beer gut protruding at an angle that made him look pregnant rather than manly. “Why would I want to change my name? Harold is a perfectly acceptable name.”
“Yeah, but it says here that everyone calls you Harry,” I pointed out. “To me that’s an unfortunate moniker to have. Don’t get me wrong, it would be worse if you were a woman, but didn’t people walk around teasing you about your hairy butt and back when you were a kid?”
Harry was clearly affronted. “Excuse me? I don’t have a hairy butt or back.”
I stared at him for a long beat. I didn’t believe that for a second. “Take off your shirt.”
Harry’s eyes widened even further, even though I wasn’t sure that was possible. “What?” He was agog. “You can’t be serious.”
I could tell the spirit wasn’t keen to play the game, so I strolled across the room, stopping close to the couch, and knelt next to the body resting in the middle of the aged rug. Harry had done his best to ignore his own corpse since I showed up to collect his soul – he’d made a few comments about dying too young and called me several names, something I was used to – but he watched me now with overt dislike, and I could tell he was about to blow a gasket.
“Don’t touch me!” Harry strode in my direction and lashed out with an ethereal hand that went completely through my arm. “Hey!”
I ignored his outrage and carefully grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulling it so I could expose the upper quadrant of his beefy back. Yup, exactly what I thought. “You have enough back hair to create wigs for a fleet of dolls. Heck, you could make wigs for kids with cancer. Why didn’t you ever shave this?”
“I’m Italian.” Harry stubbornly folded his arms across his chest. “That’s normal when you’re Italian.”
>
I took in his pale and waxy features and wrinkled my nose. “You don’t look Italian.”
“Well, I am.”
“Your last name is Turner. That’s not an Italian name.”
“I’m Italian!” Harry barked the words so loudly most people would’ve backed down just to shut him up. I’m not most people.
“Really? Let me check your file.” I pulled out my iPad and touched the screen, scrolling past the incidentals of Harry’s life and focusing on his genealogy. “It says here you’re German, Polish, Jewish and Austrian. There’s nothing about being Italian here.”
“You’re making that up.” Harry squared his shoulders. “I’m president of the Royal Oak Italian League of Great Americans. You can’t be president if you’re not Italian.”
“Is the Italian League of Great Americans like the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen?” I was quickly losing interest in the Italian debate. Potential superhero shenanigans were much more entertaining. “Can you turn into a literary character at the drop of a hat?”
Harry worked his jaw but no sound came out.
“I guess it doesn’t matter.” I let go of the shirt and stood. “I’m not going to check for the butt hair, by the way. I’m convinced I’m right, and even I have my limits. I’m pretty sure that checking a corpse’s butt for hair is over a line even I won’t cross.”
“Well, as long as you’re going to finally embrace good manners,” Harry drawled, rolling his eyes. “I can’t believe this is happening. I’m too young to die. I keep hoping this is a dream and I’ll wake up.”
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