One Stiletto in the Grave

by Jason Krumbine

  “About it not being a suicide?”

  “Yep.”

  “Ben certainly gave some weight to that theory,” Avery agrees.

  “What was that bit about not being loyal to family?” Brooke asks.

  “I noticed that,” Avery says. “It was odd.”

  “Very odd,” Brooke agrees. “The whole thing was odd.” She pauses. “Maybe big brother was so pissed off at baby brother that he killed him and his new sister-in-law?”

  “It’s a thought,” Avery says. “But what’s the point of killing your baby brother?”

  “Does it really matter?” Brooke counters. “We don’t have to solve their death. We just need to find their souls.”

  Avery glances up at the sky. The sun’s setting. “The day’s almost over.”

  “You got some place to be?”

  “Actually, I do,” Avery says. “Jack’s got a thing tonight and I’m supposed to be his arm candy.”

  “A thing?” Brooke asks.

  “A doctor thing.”

  “A doctor thing?”

  Avery looks at her sister. “What is this? A bit?”

  “I'm just trying to figure out what's going on,” Brooke says.

  “Jack's got a fancy doctor thing tonight and I told him I'd be there,” Avery answers.

  Brooke throws her hands up. “What the hell?”

  “Hey,” Avery says. “Come on.”

  “We have a dead guy back at the office,” Brooke reminds her.

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Avery says.

  “And a missing dead couple,” Brooke adds.

  “I’m familiar with both cases.”

  “But you want to blow off the night to be your boyfriend’s arm candy?”

  “That’s pretty much the case,” Avery says.

  Brooke frowns. “You said we were going to drop off Danny the Dead Guy today.”

  “And it's probably going to be tomorrow,” Avery admits.

  Brooke shakes her head and looks disapprovingly at her sister.

  “You know, it’s not like I’m blowing you off to have a one night stand with a bartender who happens to have a magical tongue,” Avery says. “I’m in a committed relationship with my boyfriend. This is what you do when you’re in a committed relationship.”

  “At this point it’s hardly a one night stand with Steven the bartender,” Brooke says. “I prefer to think of it as a series of no-strings-attached sexual encounters.”

  Avery shakes her head, getting into the car. “The fact you think about these things is disturbing.”

  “There's, like, legitimate reasons for why this is a bad idea,” Brooke says, sliding into the passenger seat. “We've hung onto Danny the Dead Guy for one day too long. If Russell finds out we've got him...”

  Avery starts the car, pulling them out of the parking lot. “Russell's not going to find out and stop calling him Danny the Dead Guy.”

  “Well, I suppose I can start calling him a Bad Idea,” Brooke muses. “But that doesn't roll off the tongue the same way.”

  “And you would know all about rolling off the tongue,” Avery says.

  “I would,” Brooke agrees. She sighs, giving in. “Well, what am I supposed to do while you're doing the fancy thing tonight?”

  Avery shrugs. “Don't know. Don't really care. I'm not your event coordinator.”

  “No, but you're leaving me high and dry and more than a little light on cash,” Brooke says. “Also, Steven the bartender is working tonight.”

  “My heart bleeds for you.”

  “I suppose I could find someone else to amuse me,” Brooke says, tapping a finger against her lips. She smiles. “It is Tuesday.”

  “And?”

  “And Tuesday night there's that art class across the street from Clark's,” Brooke replies. “You know, the one with the nude male models?”

  Avery rolls her eyes. “I'll drop you off.”

  Brooke's grinning from ear to ear. “Thanks!”

  twelve

  “Hey,” Jack Ellis gives Avery a hurried kiss on the check. “You’re late.” He’s dressed in a tuxedo. It fits him perfectly, showing off his broad shoulders. Jack’s tall with fairly ordinary features, though he has some light acne scaring on the left cheek. His dark hair is starting to thin out in the back, so he’s taken to keeping it closely cropped, almost buzz cut-like. Nervous brown eyes watch Avery from behind wire rim glasses and his thin lips are pressed together so tightly, they almost merge into a single line.

  “Sorry,” Avery replies. She’s putting on her earrings as they walk into the hotel. “I’ve been driving all over town today.”

  “This thing started an hour ago,” Jack says, holding the door open for her. “I’ve been looking like Mr. Awkward in there. Thomas is here tonight. He likes to see his doctors in well-adjusted relationships. He seems to think they’ll be less likely to walk out on him.”

  “I said I was sorry,” Avery replies evenly. “The nice thing to do would be to accept my apology and let it go.”

  She’s dressed in a black, full-length gown that clings to the curves of her body in the most flattering way possible. The dress shimmers when the light hits it. Avery has three nice dresses. This is the only one that doesn’t have blood on it. The black heels add about another two inches to her height, putting her almost eye level with her boyfriend. Her hair is pinned up on her right side and there’s a hint of makeup across her face that gives her an almost glowing appearance.

  “Sorry,” Jack says. “I’m just nervous.”

  Avery stops them in the hallway. “I know, sweetie.” She cups his cheek and kisses him on the lips. The nervous energy seems to melt away from Jack. “That’s why I’m giving you a kiss and not shoving my heel up your butt.”

  Jack gives her a crooked smile. “I guess I deserved that.”

  Avery nods, checking her reflection in the hallway mirror. “Yes you did. Now, compliment me on my dress.”

  He takes her by the waist and pulls her towards him. “You look gorgeous.”

  Avery frowns. “You’re not even looking at me.”

  “I’m gazing into your eyes,” Jack replies. “That’s where all the good stuff is.”

  “A woman likes to know that her outside is appealing, too,” Avery reminds him.

  Jack tears his gaze away from her eyes and lets it wander down her body, drinking in her curves. “Well, in that case,” he says, bringing eyes back up to her face. “You’re smoking hot.”

  Avery smiles, blushing slightly. “Thank you.”

  Jack grips her waist tighter. “No, thank you. This means a lot.”

  “It’s just a dinner.”

  “It’s more than that,” Jack replies. “And you know that. Thank you.”

  “Hey,” Avery replies, giving him a cute smile. “What are gorgeous girlfriends for?”

  Sparkling chandeliers and elegant drapes adorn the banquet hall. Generically soft and pleasant music is played over discreetly placed speakers. Waiters roam the hall dressed in full tuxedos. The only way you can distinguish the wait staff from the guests, is the color of their hair. All the guests are well over forty. There’s more grey hair here tonight than Sunday afternoon bingo.

  Avery frowns as they enter the hall. “I feel there’s a kiddie table for me somewhere.”

  “You’re perfect,” Jack assures her.

  “You do realize we’re probably the two youngest people here, right?” Avery asks him.

  “Now you know why I’ve been Mr. Awkward for the last the hour,” Jacks says, adjusting his bowtie. “Doctor Spielbern’s tried to set me up with her daughter three times so far.”

  Avery pauses, trying to remember if she’s met Doctor Spielbern. “Which one is she?”

  Jack points to a large woman in a bright blue dress. “Debra Spielbern of the plastic surgery department.”

  Avery makes a face. “There’s some irony for you.”

  The special event is a banquet held for the staff and board members of Saint
Mercy’s. It’s an annual event organized by the director of the hospital, Randolph Thomas. Thomas likes to show off for his board members. That usually includes trotting out the top doctors like they were in a Best of Show style competition and handing out a few awards throughout the night. It’s always a popular event, mostly due to the open bar.

  With Avery there Jack’s able to fend off all the marriage proposals from his co-workers. Avery’s her usual charming and polite self. Laughing at the silly jokes the old doctors make, flirting with the even older board members and acting appropriately shocked whenever she heard a bit of scandalous news that wasn’t really all that scandalous.

  This was hardly her first time at the rodeo.

  The night wears on and after an hour or two Avery finds herself in a delightful conversation with Robert Rivera and Philip Derow.

  “But you see, Avery that is what I find so fascinating,” Rivera says. He’s a large man with a bushy beard and a heavy sweet tooth.

  “It’s really not that fascinating,” Avery insists.

  “Oh, but it is,” Rivera continues, stroking his bead. “You and Jack have diametrically opposed purposes. You are responsible for guiding poor souls to their afterlives and Jack’s essentially taken oath to keep them alive. And yet, the two of find each other and engage in this relationship? It boggles the mind.”

  Avery offers a polite smile and takes a sip from her strawberry flavored drink. “It’s not that mind boggling.”

  Rivera shakes his head. “Poor girl, you’ve become desensitized to the wonder of your life.”

  Avery laughs. “Oh, is that it? I was wondering why I was feeling so bored this morning.”

  “I have to agree with my colleague,” Derow says. He’s a tiny man in his late fifties, with a distinguished air about him. “I have known other grim reapers, not one of them has been able to maintain any kind of long term personal relationship. That you should not only stand out from the crowd, but do so with a doctor whose very job it is to keep you from doing your job…” He gives a confounded shrug.

  “It’s possible,” Avery suggests. “That those other grim reapers were just losers.”

  Derow gives the thought a moment’s consideration. “It’s possible,” he says. “The only other two grim reapers I’ve met are my brother’s grandchildren and they are absolute bums as the kids say these days.”

  Avery smiles. “I don’t think that’s something the kids are saying these days. And we don’t really have any say in when it’s our time to go. When it’s up, it’s up.”

  Rivera nods, listening to her words. “There’s an interesting thought. You mean to say that Dr. Ellis is predestined to save or not save a life on his table?”

  “Something like that,” Avery replies.

  “Well, that doesn’t leave much room for free will,” Derow says, “now does it?”

  “I think you could subscribe to both lines of thought without either of them conflicting with each other,” Avery says carefully.

  Rivera gives her a harrumph. “Nonsense. You either have free will or you don’t.”

  “That doesn’t mean free will is connected to your death,” Avery replies. “If you get hit by a car tomorrow and the doctors aren’t able to save you, is that anyone’s fault?”

  “Of course it is,” Rivera replies. “The doctors failed to save me.”

  “Did they fail or were you beyond saving?” Avery asks.

  Rivera frowns. “This isn’t philosophy class, young lady.”

  “No, but you have to agree,” Avery continues. “There’s a lot of a grey area. I don’t have any kind of special insight as to who’s going to die and who’s not, but I can’t help but wonder if there’s somebody out there who does.”

  “That’s what I like about you, Ms. Graves. You are constantly thinking outside the box.”

  Avery turns around at the sound of the new voice. Behind her stands James Decessus of Messor and Decessus. Decessus is in his late sixties and has a grandfatherly appeal to him. His hair is gray with flecks of white sprinkled throughout and he’s dressed in a standard tuxedo. In his left hand is a shrimp cocktail. He raises his glass to Avery in a gentle salute.

  Avery maintains her composure. “I didn’t know you were affiliated with Saint Mercy’s.”

  Decessus sips his cocktail. “Yes, well, it’s a recent development. We’re looking to establish roots in the community, as it were.”

  Avery raises an eyebrow. “That’s an odd root for a grim reaping firm, isn’t it?”

  Decessus nods in agreement, savoring the taste of his drink. “It is.” He smiles at her. “But we didn’t get where we are today by not thinking outside the box.”

  “And where are you exactly today?” Avery asks him.

  “The same place as everyone else,” Decessus replies. “We’re simply here.”

  “Is that all?”

  He shrugs. “Can you ask for anything more in this day and age?”

  “I don’t know,” Avery says. “Maybe I should check with the grim reapers you’ve run out of town.”

  Decessus laughs softly. “Ms. Graves, I thought better of you.”

  “Maybe you need to learn to lower your expectations,” Avery suggests.

  “Maybe.” Decessus plucks one of the shrimp from his drink and pops it in his mouth. “I hope you’re not just automatically believing every little thing you hear, Ms. Graves. You and your sister are two very smart ladies. There are always two sides to every story.”

  “Care to tell me your side?” Avery asks.

  “I don’t have to,” Decessus replies.

  “You don’t?”

  “Of course,” he says. “History is written by the winners. I’ve already won.”

  “That’s a little arrogant.”

  “Nonsense. It’s extremely arrogant,” Decessus corrects her. “But I’ve already won, so I think I’ve earned a little arrogance, don’t you?”

  “Pride goeth before a fall,” Avery reminds him.

  Decessus brushes her words aside. “Please, Ms. Graves, we’re not here to exchange platitudes and outdated sayings.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s a saying that still carries some weight,” Avery says. “So if I’m not supposed to get your side of the story, whose side am I supposed to get?”

  “Obviously, the other side.”

  “I thought I had that already.”

  Decessus shrugs. “Clearly you didn’t.”

  Avery pauses. “Are you here for an answer to your offer?”

  “No,” Decessus replies. “I’m here because Randolph Thomas wanted to show off his doctors. I told you and your sister to take your time and I stand by that.” He smiles. “Go. Get the other side of the story. Then make your decision.”

  “What if I don’t like what I hear?”

  “Only you can say,” Decessus says. “I can’t see the future or read your mind.” He finishes the last of the shrimp on his drink. “I think I need a refill.”

  “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a shrimp cocktail kind of man,” Avery says.

  “One of life’s guilty pleasures as it were,” Decessus replies, looking forlornly at the empty cup. “My wife is horribly allergic to seafood. It’s only at functions like this that I get to indulge myself.”

  “Where’s your wife?” Avery asks.

  “Why, not here of course,” Decessus replies, smiling. “I’ll be seeing you around, Ms. Graves.”

  Avery watches Decessus make his way over to the bar. A strong arm wraps itself around her waist and a pair of lips caress her neck.

  “Hey,” Jack says.

  Avery nuzzles back against him. “Where have you been?”

  “Talking shop. Who was the old guy? Should I be jealous?”

  “No, he’s married,” Avery replies, she twists around in his embrace. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. How much longer do we have to hang around?”

  “Funny you should ask,” Jack says, glancing around. “Thomas has been tied up with Mrs. B
enson for the last hour. I’m pretty sure we could sneak out of here and no one would be the wiser.”

  “Excellent,” Avery replies. “Have I told you about my thing for men in tuxedos?”

  Jack raises a bemused eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “It’s a sexual thing,” Avery says. “In that I like to have sex with men in tuxedos. Especially, when they’re my boyfriend.”

  “I’ll go get the car.”

  thirteen

  Clark’s is a quiet little restaurant that has all the charm and ambience of an upscale place, but the prices of a more down-to-Earth diner.

  Brooke’s seated at her favorite spot at the bar. It gives her the perfect vantage point to watch the front door. The art studio let out almost thirty minutes ago. Since then it’s been a steady stream of frumpy, awkward looking artistic types with bulky clothing and bizarre hair colors. She spots the three male models immediately, of course. Chiseled good looks, square jaws and shiny blonde hair. Brooke feels herself getting excited at the sight of them. She watches them a little longer while she nurses a strawberry daiquiri. She’s careful, the night’s still young and she doesn’t want to waste it on a man who’s not up to satisfying her voracious appetite. She also wants to make sure none of them are gay, because it’s always a little awkward and very depressing to hit on a hot gay guy.

  Brooke’s suddenly overwhelmed with the scent of cheap cologne.

  “‘Ello, luv.”

  Brooke slowly turns around on her stool. There’s a lanky Brit sitting beside her dressed in a pair of neatly pressed slacks and a slightly oversized light blue polo shirt. His head is shaved and his lips are curled back in a smile that’s universally accepted as creepy. His name is Stanley Morris and not only is he Brooke’s ex, but he’s also a loan shark who she owes several thousands of dollars to. Buying shoes is an expensive addiction.

  “Stanley,” Brooke says, wrinkling her nose at his scent.

  He leans in for a kiss, but she turns her head sideways. Stanley settles for brushing her hair out of her face. “Yor lookin’ quite lovely this evening.”

  “That’s high praise coming from a man whose idea of romance is a back alley behind a liquor shop,” Brooke replies.