1 Grim Tidings

by Amanda M. Lee

  “Is he gay?” Cillian asked.

  “No,” Aidan shook his head. “He was much more interested in Aisling, despite the fact that she was wearing zombie Converse. I think those tight jeans were a little bit of a distraction from the shoes.”

  “My jeans aren’t tight,” I shot back.

  “Honey, if you bend over in those things the wrong way you’re going to split a seam.”

  “Stop talking about that,” Dad ordered.

  “I agree,” Redmond chimed in. “I don’t want to picture that. Only a freak would want to picture that.”

  “I’m not a freak.”

  “You’re close enough,” Cillian said. “Pick another subject.”

  “Anyway, I don’t think that Detective Taylor is going to keep the scepter,” Aidan said. “Just send a lawyer down with the proper paperwork and he’ll hand it over.”

  It seemed simple to Aidan, but my father didn’t seem to agree. “The proper paperwork? Where do you suggest we get that?”

  Redmond is always the pragmatic one. “This can’t be the first time this has happened. We’ve got all those fake templates in the system. Print one out and I’ll go get it.”

  “That doesn’t fix our other problem,” my father pointed out.

  “And what problem would that be?” Cillian asked, snatching his hand away from the mushroom plate when Aidan smacked it in an effort to protect his bounty.

  “The part where Aidan and Aisling are murder suspects,” Dad reminded them. “That’s going to make doing their job a little difficult if they’re under constant surveillance.”

  “We’re not under surveillance,” I argued. “We’re just persons of interest.”

  “That’s better?”

  “Than being named as actual suspects? I should think so.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if you’re my children,” Dad grumbled.

  Redmond sighed and pushed himself off the couch. He hauled himself over to the desk my father was pouting behind and pushed his chair out of the way. “Stop freaking out,” he ordered. “We’ll have this fixed in no time.”

  Since my father showed no signs of relinquishing his chair, Redmond dropped to his knees and began navigating through the computer system. With only the sounds of Redmond’s fingers on the keyboard and Aidan’s mushroom chewing breaking up the dismal ambiance, the room got uncomfortable pretty quickly.

  “What’s for dinner?” I finally broke the silence.

  “Prime rib,” Braden rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Garlic mashed potatoes and corn, too.”

  I guess I could stay for prime rib, even though my fight-or-flight response was tilting in flight’s direction.

  “So what was the dead guy’s name?” Cillian asked.

  “Mitch Johnson.”

  “No, not that guy,” Cillian shook his head. “The guy you found in the alley.”

  “Oh, um, I think his name was Brian Harper.” I wasn’t sure why Cillian was asking, but he seemed lost in thought. “Why do you ask?”

  Cillian screwed up his face in a “well duh” expression. “Really? Don’t you think that we should have had prior knowledge of Brian Harper passing? You know, since we’re the designated reapers for the surrounding five counties.”

  Oh, wow, I hadn’t even thought of that. “He wasn’t on any of your lists today?”

  Everyone shook their heads.

  “Is that possible? To not have a soul on the list?” I turned to my dad expectantly.

  “It’s not supposed to be,” he said. “I can’t remember the last time a mistake like that occurred. With computers now, it should never happen.”

  “Could another reaper be on our turf?” Cillian asked.

  Turf? Really? What is this, West Side Story?

  “Not without the council notifying us,” Dad replied.

  “Could someone be freelancing?”

  Freelancing is frowned upon – but not unheard of – in our line of work. There are a handful of well-known reapers who have disavowed affiliation with the council but who still take individual jobs for certain interested parties as long as there is some form of monetary remuneration. This usually happens when someone is coveted by two religious groups – with the winning freelancer getting payment on delivery. It’s a competitive field.

  It’s more likely for a freelancer to be engaged, though, when Hell has a bead on someone and thinks they might run. Timothy McVeigh, for example, had three freelancers hired to make sure he couldn’t escape and his soul capture turned ugly. The same with Osama bin Laden. Brian Harper, though? That didn’t sound like a typical freelancing assignment.

  “What do we know about this Brian Harper?” Braden asked.

  Aidan took a break from shoveling food into his face to pull his iPad from the coffee table. He was engrossed in his work for a few minutes, so the rest of us just watched and waited. I had no idea what he was doing, but he was the most technologically savvy member of our little clan so we let him do his thing.

  The room had gone so silent that everyone jumped when the printer on the desk came to life and started spitting out pages.

  “Sorry,” Redmond said. “I need to get this paperwork in order so I can get Aisling’s scepter back.”

  Everyone turned back to Aidan and waited. It was as though we were in a horror movie and the killer was about to make an appearance -- or something less obnoxious. I’m not great at making comparisons when hunger and stress collide.

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Uh-oh what?” The suspense was killing me. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. The suspense is starting to wear on me, though. I tend to drift toward the dramatic sometimes.

  “Brian Harper is on the list.”

  “Whose?” Dad asked, his face instantly reddening.

  “Redmond’s.”

  “He is not.” Redmond jumped to the middle of the room with his list in hand to prove that he hadn’t been shirking his duties before I could blink.

  “He’s not on your list today,” Aidan clarified.

  “I don’t understand,” Redmond faltered.

  “He’s on your list for next week.”

  “How is that possible … oh.” Realization bloomed in the corner of my mind usually reserved for serious books and cliffhanger Friday on General Hospital. “Someone killed him early to steal his soul.”

  “You’re smarter than you look,” Aidan said, patting my hand affectionately. His words were full of mirth but his eyes were full of dread. I was new at this, but even I knew this couldn’t be good.

  “So, who would do that?” Displaying ignorance in front of my father wasn’t my first choice, but someone had to ask the question.

  “We shouldn’t jump to any conclusions,” Redmond said, exchanging a wary glance with Dad.

  “What conclusions are we jumping to?”

  “Nothing,” my dad said, rising from his desk chair. “Nothing.”

  “What aren’t you guys telling me?”

  “I want to check something,” Dad said. “You all go into the dining room and start your dinner. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  “But … .”

  Aidan grabbed my arm, shaking his head as he dragged me out of the room. “Just let him do his thing,” he whispered. “You’re going to make things worse if you press him right now.”

  I didn’t see how things could get much worse. I turned to Redmond for support but he was obviously on Aidan’s side. “He’s right, kid. Just let it go for now.”

  I still didn’t understand, but I did what I was told. They would tell me what was going on as soon as it was confirmed. I was almost sure of it.

  Eight

  Someone was performing construction at an ungodly hour. That’s what that pounding in my head had to be, because I hadn’t imbibed enough alcohol last night to blame it on a hangover. I’m Irish; it takes a fifth – or a keg – to make me regret a bender.

  After a few minutes, I realized that drifting back to dreamland was out of the question so I
grudgingly climbed out of bed and made my way to the condo’s cozy kitchen. I smelled fresh muffins and coffee before I rounded the corner, which meant Jerry was already up.

  “I can’t believe you’re up at the crack of dawn,” I mumbled. “Do you have an appointment or something?”

  “It’s after ten.”

  I froze when I heard the voice. It didn’t belong to Jerry, but I did recognize it. “Detective Taylor?”

  I rubbed the sleep from my eyes to find Jerry’s handsome face at the counter before I turned my attention to Griffin Taylor, who was sitting at our small kitchen table eating a muffin and drinking from a coffee mug.

  This had to be a dream.

  “Good morning, Bug. Did you sleep well?”

  I glanced down at my plaid, cotton boxer shorts and knit tank top – I don’t sleep in a bra so my nipples were just kind of sitting there for everyone to see – and I felt awkwardly naked in front of Detective Taylor. Jerry is gay; he doesn’t look at my girl parts. And, if he does, he doesn’t really care about them. Detective Taylor, though, couldn’t look away.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Detective Taylor dragged his gaze from my chest and focused on my face. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass cabinet doors and cringed. I need to remember to start putting my hair in a braid before I go to sleep to cut down on the bedhead. It was too late now.

  “I have a few more questions.”

  “You didn’t get your answers after four hours yesterday? There’s nothing new to add.”

  “Four hours of what?” Jerry looked intrigued.

  “Not what you’re thinking.”

  Detective Taylor smiled at our banter. “What is he thinking?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I was thinking you spent four hours doing the horizontal tango.”

  “Jerry!”

  Detective Taylor coughed around a mouthful of coffee. “The horizontal tango?”

  “You know, sex.” Jerry is blunt, which I usually love about him. Now, though? I’m wishing for a sinkhole to open up in our kitchen.

  “We didn’t have sex,” I hissed.

  “How am I supposed to know?” Jerry asked. “You didn’t come home until after I was already in bed. I have trouble believing you spent that much time with your family without blood being shed.”

  “We had some things to talk about,” I grumbled.

  “Like being taken in for questioning?” Detective Taylor asked.

  “Are you a police officer?” Jerry looked intrigued.

  “You just let him in without knowing he was a cop? He could have been a strangler or something.”

  Jerry shrugged. “He said he had to talk to you. I thought maybe he was looking for a morning quickie. He’s too hot to be a strangler.”

  Detective Taylor chuckled as he popped another bit of muffin into his mouth. “Obviously you two aren’t an item.”

  “She’s not my type,” Jerry said, sliding into the open chair next to our guest.

  “No kidding. I don’t have enough chest hair.”

  “Sarcasm isn’t becoming, Bug,” Jerry said, keeping his gaze on Detective Taylor’s face. “And you know I don’t like chest hair. He’s never going to sleep with you if you keep acting like this. Now sit down and have a muffin.”

  “I don’t want a muffin.” And I most certainly don’t want to have sex with Detective Taylor. What? I don’t.

  “Then have some coffee and make our guest feel welcome.”

  I was starting to rethink my lifelong friendship with Jerry. The coffee did smell good, though. And, as much as I wanted to retreat to my bedroom to change into something that didn’t make me look like a teenage girl at a sleepover, I refused to cede my own home turf. Crap. Now I’m using the word “turf.”

  I grudgingly sat down in the chair next to Jerry and poured a cup of coffee – wishing just for a second that I could throw it in my eyes to wake myself up faster – and reluctantly sipped from it. “So, Detective Taylor, what can I do for you?”

  “Why don’t you call me Griffin.”

  “That doesn’t seem very professional.”

  “Call him Griffin,” Jerry said. “It’s a nice name. Detective Taylor makes me think of Mayberry.”

  “Andy Taylor wasn’t a detective,” I countered.

  “Don’t be difficult.”

  I rolled my eyes, a move that wasn’t lost on Griffin. “Fine. Griffin, what can I do for you?”

  “I have a few more questions about the body you found yesterday.”

  “You found a body?” Jerry’s eyes were wide as he hung on Griffin’s every word.

  “Aidan and I found one in an alley,” I said. “Actually, I tripped over it.”

  “Of course,” Jerry laughed.

  “Griffin here thought that Aidan and I should spend the rest of the afternoon answering inane questions because we had the bad fortune of walking down an alley.”

  Griffin leaned back in his chair, studying me with unreadable cop eyes. “You don’t think that coming upon the two of you talking about fleeing from a murder scene is a good reason to take you in for questioning?”

  “You were going to leave the scene?” Jerry tsked. “That’s not very smart.”

  “No, it’s not,” Griffin agreed.

  I sipped from my coffee again before adding to the conversation. I didn’t get a chance, though.

  “I bet it was Aidan’s idea to leave – you were with Aidan, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many brothers do you have?” Griffin asked, as though he was making random conversation when I knew he was trying to catch me in a lie.

  “Four.”

  “Older? Younger?”

  “All older.”

  “Isn’t Aidan your twin?”

  I knew it. He was trying to trip me up. He had run a background check on me. “Yes,” I nodded. “He is still six minutes older than me, though. So, while he’s barely older, he is still older.”

  “He treats her like he’s five years older, though,” Jerry offered.

  “I think that’s a brother thing,” Griffin replied, gracing Jerry with a friendly smile. “I have two younger sisters and I feel the same way about both of them.”

  “Aidan is still better than Redmond,” Jerry explained. “Redmond acts like her father. It’s a little disconcerting.”

  “He doesn’t need an explanation of my family tree,” I snapped.

  Jerry looked momentarily taken aback. “You seem tense, Bug.”

  “Why do you call her Bug?” Griffin looked genuinely curious.

  “Oh, that’s a great story,” Jerry said.

  “No, it’s not.”

  Jerry ignored me. “When we were in kindergarten, my mom let me ride home on the bus to their house for the first time. I was really excited. You should see Grimlock Manor; it’s like a castle.”

  “Grimlock Manor?”

  “That’s where her family lives.”

  “They still all live there together? Everyone? Everyone except Aisling?”

  “Yes,” Jerry nodded. “It’s tragically codependent, but what can you do?”

  Griffin winked when he saw my perpetual scowl. “It’s interesting,” he said. “Continue your story, though.”

  “Oh, right.” Jerry was clearly warming to his topic. If this were his life story he was rehashing, he would be equally effusive. It’s just his nature. “Anyway, so we get off the bus and I’m all in awe of the house. It has actual turrets – I’m not exaggerating – and I had all these dreams of being a princess held prisoner in a turret and being rescued by a big, strong prince.”

  I couldn’t hide my smile. Griffin seemed entertained, too.

  “All of a sudden I hear her screaming. So, when I look over, she’s fighting with four other boys – some of them a lot bigger than us – and she’s pulling hair and kicking and swearing up a storm.”

  “You swore in kindergarten?” Griffin asked.

  “My dad taught me.�
��

  “He also taught her how to beat a DVD player with a golf club when it won’t work. That’s why she’s not allowed to fix any household items,” Jerry continued. “So, when we get over there we find that Redmond, Cillian, Braden and Aidan are all burning ants with a magnifying glass.”

  Griffin nodded knowingly. “I did the same thing when I was a kid.”

  Jerry frowned at Griffin’s admission, suddenly suspicious of our guest. “Anyway, Aisling started trying to round up the ants to save them and I thought she was a bug superhero, so I started calling her Bug.”

  “That’s a cute story.”

  “It’s a long story,” I corrected him.

  “That doesn’t mean it’s not cute.”

  This conversation was quickly veering into the uncomfortable. “So, what did you want to ask me?”

  “I wanted to know if you saw anyone in the alley before you and your brother discovered Mr. Harper.”

  “I told you we didn’t. There was no one there. It was just us.”

  “And you’re sure? You weren’t distracted by anything?”

  Only deep conversations about my father’s intentions and my constant feelings of inadequacy. “We were just talking.”

  “About what?”

  “Lunch.”

  “At Giuseppe’s?”

  “Right.”

  “Giuseppe’s? You went to Giuseppe’s without me?” Jerry whined.

  “We never made it.”

  “Karma,” Jerry shot back knowingly.

  “Whatever.”

  Griffin ignored our sparring. “We canvassed the area after the body was discovered,” he continued. “We found two witnesses.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “What?”

  “Well, your witnesses couldn’t have possibly implicated Aidan and me, so why are you here?”

  “Because what the witnesses described sounds like something out of a horror movie,” Griffin replied, his face grim.

  Uh-oh. “What did they describe?”

  “Honestly? They said they saw a tall man – like seven feet tall – in a black robe with a face like a demon.”

  “A demon?” Jerry looked amused. “Was this a rough part of town? Were these witnesses all drugged up?”