Death & Stilettos

by Jason Krumbine

  "We'll see," Brooke replies and eases herself on top of him. Her breath catches as he enters her, her eyes fluttering as a collection of pleasurable sensations roll through her body.

  It takes a moment to find their rhythm. She pushes down on top of him and he thrusts himself upwards to her. They fall into a silent beat known only to them.

  It’s slow tonight, a simmering passion that burns them through the evening.

  There's no anger tonight. There are no debts to be paid. No drunken stupors for them to fall into.

  Just two lost souls, finding comfort in each other.

  thirty

  Avery’s parked across the street from a small coffee shop called Barney’s. She feels icky and gross. It’s been one stop after another for her since dropping off Brian and Cindy, and none of those stops have been home. Her clothes are more or less dry at this point, although her blouse feels kind of crunchy. Between the rain and running around, her hair’s become a mess of tangled knots. She flinches as she runs the brush through quickly, transforming the rat’s nest back into something acceptable looking. Avery tosses the button down blouse into the back seat, leaving her with just the sparkly tank top, and grabs the pink sweater from the trunk. Avery’s zipping the sweater up halfway as she’s stepping into Barney’s.

  The coffee shop isn’t very busy, only a handful of people are present.

  “Ms. Graves? Avery Graves?”

  Avery turns at the voice.

  It belongs to a man in his late forties with short, salt and pepper hair. He’s dressed in jeans and a casual button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. There’s a hardworking-look to him, as though he spends time working with his hands. He’s in good shape, with strong arms and broad shoulders. Dark brown eyes watch her intently as she makes her way over to his table.

  “Bryce Arnold?” Avery asks.

  He gets to his feet, offering his hand to her. “At your service.”

  They shake hands and sit down.

  Bryce gestures towards the barista. “Can I get you something?”

  “That’s okay,” Avery says, shaking her head. “If I have coffee this late I’ll be up all night. Thank you for meeting me on such short notice.”

  Bryce gives a humble shrug. “I have plenty of time on my hands these days. Besides, I like to stay in touch with people from the business.”

  “The business,” Avery echoes. “I never heard anyone quite call it that.”

  He cups his hands around his coffee. “I have to admit, you’re not at all what I thought you would be.”

  “Oh?”

  “You sounded much older on the phone,” Bryce explains. “In New York, we didn’t have many pretty young reapers.”

  Avery blushes, avoiding his gaze. “Thank you. I don’t mean to be rude...,” she starts.

  “But you’d like to get to the point of this visit,” Bryce finishes.

  Avery makes a face. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Bryce waves it off.

  “I’m just supposed to meet my boyfriend and I’m already running late,” Avery says, not sure why she felt the need to mention Jack.

  “It’s fine,” Bryce says. “It’s my fault. I forget that not everybody is independently wealthy these days.”

  “Independently wealthy?” Avery asks.

  “Yeah.” Bryce takes a sip from his coffee. “I came into a large sum of money after I retired in New York.”

  “You’ll forgive me,” Avery says. “But I heard it wasn’t as simple as retiring.”

  Bryce nods. “You’re speaking of when Messor & Decessus expanded their operations into New York.”

  “I was told you were run out of town,” Avery says.

  “That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” Bryce replies.

  “How much of one?”

  “A pretty big one.” Bryce pauses. “Look, I won’t lie. When Messor and Decessus came into New York, it was a dust up. A lot of people had problems with them. They’re basically the grim reaping version of corporate America, and everyone’s afraid they’re gonna go around and eat up all the little guys. But they’re not. They’ve got the support and structure to help reapers that the Council just can’t offer from their ivory tower. Messor and Decessus came into New York and offered some very competitive and appealing employment packages. They ended up making life a lot easier for some of us stuck on the fringe.”

  “You’re not in New York anymore,” Avery points out.

  “Not because I was run out,” Bryce says. “Look, you’re young. When I got into the business, I was probably your age or a little younger. You do this long enough; you get very disillusioned with life. With Messor and Decessus coming in, they offered me a way out without making me feel like I was abandoning my responsibilities. So I took it.”

  Avery frowns. “This isn’t exactly the same story I was told.”

  “You’re friends with Adam Harris, right?” Bryce asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Very enthusiastic guy,” Bryce says. “But he’s not really in the business. I might have hedged my bets a bit when talking with him, let him fill in some of the blanks for himself.”

  “Oh?”

  “You get an email from a kid asking about how and why you left your last job,” Bryce shrugs by way of an explanation. “So I wasn’t a chatty Cathy. I didn’t lie. I just, you know, left out the pertinent details.”

  Avery nods. “So you weren’t run out?”

  “Not at all.”

  “And you’re completely out of the game?”

  “Retirement is what they call it.” Bryce nods. “Haven’t so much as talked to a dead person in years.”

  “Did Messor and Decessus offer you a position back in New York?” Avery asks.

  “They did,” Bryce answers.

  “Why didn’t you take it?”

  “More money in retiring.”

  “Your independent wealth.”

  “I might have been exaggerating a little,” Bryce admits. “But I live comfortably without having to do a lot.”

  “I’m jealous,” Avery smiles and says, “Are you seeing anyone?”

  Bryce smiles back. “No, but I’m pretty sure you had a boyfriend at the beginning of this conversation.”

  Avery blushes again. “You’re right,” she says. “And he’s a doctor. So, you know, he’s a pretty good catch.” She watches him for a second. “Do you miss it?” she asks.

  “Being a grim reaper?” He shrugs. “A little, but not enough to get back in the game.”

  “What are you doing now?”

  “Little bit of this, a little bit of that,” Bryce replies. “I sleep in a lot and work out more than I thought I ever would.”

  “Being independently wealthy sounds like a pretty good gig.”

  Bryce smiles. “I highly recommend it.”

  “Well,” Avery places her hands on the table and starts to get up. “I’m sorry for dragging you out here all last-minute like.”

  “Not at all,” Bryce replies. “I hope I answered all of your questions.”

  “I hope so too,” Avery says.

  Bryce gets to his feet. “Look, Avery, I can’t speak for everybody obviously, but Messor and Decessus, they aren’t who you want them to be.”

  Avery pauses. “And who do I want them to be?”

  “The bad guys, of course.”

  thirty-one

  James Decessus is relaxing in his office enjoying a late night brandy. He likes to stay after everyone’s left. There’s something about the empty building that makes him feel...powerful? He shakes his head. No, that’s not the right word.

  Beethoven is playing over the speakers. Moonlight Sonata. Not Decessus’ favorite, but appropriate for that particular evening. In the dim lighting of his office Decessus permits himself to relax and he loosens his tie.

  He takes another sip of his brandy and gives a contended sigh.

  The phone on his desk rings. It’s the call he’s been waiting for.

  “Hello?�
� Decessus answers.

  “She just left,” the male voice on the other end says.

  “And?”

  “I don’t know,” the man on the other end says. “I told her what you wanted me to say. Whether she believed it or not...”

  “Fortunately,” Decessus says, “it’s not your job to determine whether or not Ms. Graves believed anything you said. Your job was to say it. Your money will be in your account, Mr. Arnold. Thank you.”

  “Wait a minute,” Bryce says before Decessus can hang up. “What about this Harris kid?”

  “Adam Harris?” Decessus mulls over for a moment. “Don’t worry about him.”

  “And if he comes around again?”

  “Simply tell him exactly what you told Ms. Graves.”

  “And this squares us?” Bryce asks.

  “Mr. Arnold,” Decessus says. “Don’t worry about such trivial things. You’re helping a force for the greater good. Feel honored that you’ve been included in the process. Good evening.” Decessus hangs up and settles back in his chair.

  Decessus finishes his brandy. He feels good. Everything is on track and everyone is on pace.

  He smiles to himself and turns up the volume. Moonlight Sonata fills his office.

  It was a good night

  Book Three

  A Grave Full of Stilettos

  one

  Lori Stanford settles in to her chair with a hot cup of tea and good book in hand, preparing herself for a quiet night at home.

  Wisps of steam drift off her tea and swirling around, filling her nose with the scent of chamomile. The purple mug reminds her of times past when she graduated from college. Her mother had stood there so proud and clapping so loud as Lori accepted her diploma. The purple mug was waiting for Lori when she got back to her dorm that night. “Word’s Smartest Daughter” is emblazoned on it in thick gold letters.

  The memory makes her sad.

  It’s only been a few months but the wounds are still raw and not for the first time, Lori wonders if she shouldn’t have just sold her mother’s house, rather than moving in.

  It’s a big house, filled with nooks, crannies and ghosts of memories.

  Lori shakes her head. No, she did the right thing. It was bad enough to lose her mother. But her childhood home? Lori wasn’t ready to part with everything just yet.

  She gently blows on the hot tea, trying to cool it down to a bearable temperature. Hot tea before bed with her mother is a fond memory.

  Lori sighs and gives in to the sadness. She misses her mom.

  She sets the book aside, there wouldn’t be any reading tonight. No, tonight she is going to let her memories keep her company. Maybe she’d rediscover a forgotten nugget of wisdom her mother had passed down her to her.

  Lori smiles. Maybe she’d figure out how to boil water for her tea without burning the roof of her mouth. She’s pretty sure her mother told her once or twice how to get that right.

  The noise startles her immediately. At first she thinks it’s a bird flying into one of the upstairs windows.

  But then it happens again.

  Lori sets her “Word’s Smartest Daughter” mug and gets to her feet.

  It’s a pounding noise. A heavy noise, as though someone was dropping a bag of bricks against the floor above her.

  Lori walks carefully to the entrance of her living room. She hears whispers now.

  Whispers?

  “Hello?” Lori calls out. “Is anybody there?”

  She feels immediately silly. Of course there’s no one there. Its just Lori. All alone in the empty house.

  Except the pounding noise isn’t coming from outside.

  And the whispers aren’t in her head.

  “Hello?” Lori says again, stepping into the hallway.

  She catches sight of it for a second out of the corner of her eye. It’s a fleeting image, flickering away like a broken movie reel. She forgets about it almost immediately.

  The blood dripping from her walls has Lori’s complete attention.

  After that, the night is a blur of screams and nightmares.

  two

  The lady shrieks, “You can’t have him!” and then she slams the door in Brooke Graves’ face.

  Brooke is standing about half an inch in the doorway and the heavy wood door actually does smash against her poor nose.

  “Ow!” she snaps, stumbling back. She kicks at the door with her boot heel. “Open the damn door, lady!”

  The door suddenly swings open again and there is a large man dressed in a sharp business suit. The suit’s stretched across his wide frame, looking like the tailor’s measurements were off just a few inches. His face is flat and his arms are about the size of tree trunks. He’s either world’s toughest butler or special house security.

  “Please do not bang on the door,” he says, his lips hardly moving as he speaks. “It disturbs Mrs. Withers.”

  “Oh, well, we wouldn't want to do that, now would we," Brooke says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "God forbid we disturb Mrs. Withers."

  The flat-faced man doesn't respond.

  "Hey, you know what? If Mrs. Withers hadn’t slammed the door in my face like a crazy lady,” Brooke says, rubbing her bruised nose, “I wouldn’t have to bang on your stupid door. Now get out of my way.”

  The man doesn’t move.

  “Hello? Did you hear me? I said move it.” Brooke pokes him in the chest. It’s like poking a concrete block. “We’re here on official business.”

  He exhales through his nose. “Mrs. Withers does not recognize your official status. Please leave.”

  He closes the door, far more gently than Mrs. Withers had.

  From somewhere inside the house there’s a shrieking wail of a moan.

  “Nooooo!” the lady howls from inside. “You can’t have him!”

  “Oh, my-" Brooke starts.

  Avery cuts her off. “Come on, cut her some slack.”

  Brooke whirls around to face her older sister. “Excuse me? Cut her some slack?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  They’re standing in the driveway of a eleven thousand square-foot mansion. It’s home to the recently deceased Daniel Withers, the man who made billions from inventing a cooler sleeve for hot drinks so you didn’t burn yourself when you picked them up. He passed away this morning at the ripe old age of ninety-three and a net worth of one point three billion.

  Daniel’s wife, Lori Withers, is fifty years his junior. Daniel’s her fifth marriage. Her four previous marriages ended in financially beneficial divorces, for her.

  This time, with Daniel, though, it had been for love. Or, at least, that’s what she would have the Graves sisters believe she as she shrieks at them from her palatial estate.

  Brooke steps down to her sister who’s waiting by their pink sedan. She’s taller than Avery with black hair that could use a good brushing, but is instead pulled up in a sloppy bun. Her eyes are dark brown and she’s got a smile that never ceases to bend men to her will. Today she’s wearing a rock band t-shirt turned inside out and a pair of professional tattered jeans. The outfit flatters her slender figure, hugging to her curves tightly. The brown coat that covers her used to belong to their father, William Graves. It’s one of Brooke’s few prized possessions.

  Brooke points to her bruised nose. “She could have broken my nose and did you see the size of her thug? The man has hands that would crush my head like a tomato. So, no, I’m not going to cut her some slack. You know what happens if I get a broken nose?”

  “No,” Avery replies. “but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

  “Of course I’m going to tell you,” Brooke says. “If my nose gets broken, I get ugly.”

  “You’re assuming you’re not already ugly.”

  “I’m laughing on the inside,” Brooke replies dryly. She waves at her face. “My nose is what ties this all together. It’s the lynchpin of my face.”

  “I’m pretty sure I’ve heard a few men describe your
mouth as the lynchpin of your face,” Avery replies with a smirk.

  Brooke folds her arms. “Okay, I see what you’re doing there. But you know what? I’m going to own that.”

  “I bet you will,” Avery mutters.

  “I am known in some parts for my exceptional oral skills,” Brooke continues. “But no guy is going to want a blowjob from a woman that looks like a survivor from a meat grinder accident.”

  “I told you to not go up to the door until I was ready,” Avery says.

  “Well, you were taking, like, two thousand years,” Brooke replies.

  Avery looks at her sister, “Really? A Thousand years?”

  "Two thousand years," Brooke corrects her.

  "Because it's the extra thousand that makes a difference." Avery rolls her eyes.

  Brooke simply folds her arms. “Well, that’s what it felt like.”

  “I hope you’re not going to be the one responsible for teaching your kids how to tell time,” Avery says.

  “I don’t plan on ever having kids.”

  “And the entire world breathes a sigh of relief,” Avery replies.

  Avery gazes up at the mansion, raising a hand to block out the noonday sun. The curtains on the second floor ruffle from the inside. Somebody’s watching them.

  “Hello? Earth to Avery?” Brooke waves her hands around, trying to get her sister’s attention.

  Avery’s wearing a dark button down shirt, with the sleeves rolled up. Her jeans are faded and worn. It’s been a few months since her last haircut and her tips are starting to fray a bit. Her light blue eyes are from their mom and an athletic build that’s rarely shown off.

  Avery opens the trunk of the pink sedan. “Guess what I picked up this morning.”

  "A hangover?" Brooke asks.

  Avery pauses. "What?"

  "You were hitting the open bar pretty heavily last night," Brooke says.

  Avery frowns at her sister. “I think you have me confused with yourself. I had one glass of champagne.”

  “Yeah, if you count an entire bottle as one glass,” Brooke says. “And then you planted your skinny little butt at the bar for the rest of the night.”