To Catch Her Death (The Grim Reality Series Book 1) (10 page)

“He’s as closed mouth as a mafia hit man.” I plopped a biscuit onto each plate. “But there’s a woman named Willow in payroll. Maybe she knows something.”

“It’s worth a try.”

Despite Vella’s encouraging words, she didn’t seem optimistic. Maybe she was worried I’d learn something I didn’t want to know. What’s that saying? Don’t ask the question if you don’t want the answer. “Kids, time to eat.”

The thunder of at least four feet pounded through the house. Bryce and Breck slid into their chairs at the table like they were stealing second base. I always waited to set their drinks down until they’d settled. Too much spilled milk over the years. Bronte wandered in still connected to iPod support. I pointed to my ears. Getting my message, she yanked on the cord and shoved the headphones into her pocket. I assumed her music continued to play but didn’t point that out to her. I take my wins where I can.

Yummy noises emanated from the table. It wasn’t the healthiest meal in the world but all three ate. Score. Vella and I dished up plates for ourselves, making sure to take all we wanted in the first helping. When the food was good we usually didn’t get a chance for seconds. Like a swarm of locusts, the kids polished off everything but the chicken bones.

I looked at Vella and smiled. “That has to be a new record.”

She laughed. “Maybe I should have bought more.”

The boys scooted from their chairs and started out the door.

“Bus your dishes.” They stopped, appearing confused. It was the first time I’d asked them to do anything in the last year. Obviously, further instructions were needed. “Pick up your plate, scrape it in the garbage, and put it in the dishwasher.”

Simple and to the point. That’s what worked best with eight-year-old boys. Besides Bryce needing to do a double scrap to get the mashed potato residue off, the boys did a great job. Not having to be told, Bronte followed suit. Kids fed in eight point three minutes.

After closing the dishwasher, she leaned in and gave me a kiss on the cheek, and then walked out. I glanced at Vella. She was as surprised as I was at my elusive daughter’s display of affection and dare I hope—approval.

“What was that all about?”

The faintest tingle burned behind my eyes. I inhaled, not wanting to have a gushy mom moment. “I told her I got a job and made her do her homework.”

Vella nodded. “Boundaries. Kids think they don’t want them, but they do.”

“Come on, let’s sit.” I brushed the biscuit crumbs to the center of the table before claiming Breck’s vacated chair. “Thanks for dinner.” I held up my glass. “And the beer.”

“You don’t have to thank me. I need girl time just as much as you do.” She sat in the spot Bronte had vacated. “So what’s going on tomorrow?”

I groaned. “Psychological testing.”

Vella cocked her head to the side. “What, to see if you’re nuts?”

“Ironic, isn’t it?”

“I’d say. Who wouldn’t be a little off kilter after everything you’ve been through?” Her eyebrow arched. “What kind of testing do they do?”

“An oral exam, I think.”

“Normally, I’d look forward to something like that, but I don’t think it’s going to be as good as it sounds.”

It had been a long time since I’d had anything
oral
given to me. Unfortunately I had to agree with Vella. “Me either, but I’ll give you details if it is.”

“Girl, I want details even if it’s not.”

I shoved a forkful of mashed potatoes in my mouth and swallowed. “Not afraid of being smited for knowing too much?”

“Nah.” She downed the last of her beer. “Like Mark Twain said, ‘You go to Heaven for the climate, but you go to Hell for the company.’ I figure I’ll be so busy visiting my relatives and friends I won’t have time to wallow in eternal damnation.”

I laughed. “Good point.”

My day started out with a lot of unknowns and ended with even more. But a few things were certain. My best friend wouldn’t abandon me no matter how nuts things got, and I’d do just about anything to provide for my kids. Even if that meant reaping stupid people.

Jeff’s death still bothered me, but those questions could wait. It wasn’t like knowing exactly what happened to him would change my life more than it already had. I doubted there was some huge conspiracy or nefarious plot that landed him on the pointy end of the reapers scythe. Right?

CHAPTER NINE

Twenty minutes. The
tick-tock from the cuckoo-clock marked the passage of time. Time, by my calculations, that had morphed into an endless stretch of boredom. I shifted on the chaise lounge, trying to get comfortable. Though tempted, I refused to lie down. This was the psychologist’s office and everything in me fought being analyzed. Reclining felt too much like giving into the process.

I glanced at the irritating clock again. Twenty-one minutes. The doctor, or whoever was supposed to administer this test, was late. Either he or she was being completely rude or this was part of the test. My gaze scanned the office for obvious hidden cameras. I didn’t see anything, thus the hidden part. So I waited and refrained from fidgeting.

After another minute the door opened and a man entered. “Mrs. Carron?”

I stood and smiled like I hadn’t been contemplating smashing his cuckoo-clock against the floor. “Yes.”

“James T. Crock. I’m so sorry I’m late.” I bit the inside of my cheek, trying not to laugh at his name. He dumped a stack of files onto his desk and stuck out his hand. “Had an unscheduled meeting.”

His fingers were cold and clammy when I shook his hand. The urge to wipe my palm against the fabric of my jeans was only overridden by my thoughts of conspiracy. Was my every move being scrutinized? “No problem. I was just sitting here admiring your clock.”

A wide smile stretched across his mouth. “It’s German. Got it when I visited the Black Forest.” He glanced at the clock and then back at me. “I find it very soothing. Don’t you?”

Not so much.
But I smiled and nodded, wanting to get on Dr. Crock’s good side.

“Well then, shall we get started?” He pointed at two overstuffed chairs near the window. “The test is rather lengthy so we might as well get comfortable.”

He gathered a leather portfolio and claimed one of the chairs. I sat in the other and crossed my legs, trying to appear at ease. Inside my stomach flip-flopped like a spawning salmon. I attempted small talk. “James T. Crock, like James T. Kirk, huh?”

“No.” He looked up from the stack of papers he’d been thumbing through. “I was named after James T. Cook, the great explorer.”

“Ah.”
Okay, not a Star Trek fan.
“Great man.”

“If by great you mean an actual historical figure, who was instrumental in developing ways to measure longitudinal bearings, then yes, he was quite exceptional.”

“Uh yep, that’s exactly what I meant.” Obviously small talk was not his forte so I decided to let Dr. Crock take the lead.

He leveled a stare at me and I found myself sitting a little straighter. “I will administer the test orally.” I suppressed the urge to giggle. Didn’t matter who said it,
orally
always sounded dirty. “Your reply will be either yes or no. There’s no need to expound on why you’ve answered one way or another. Just a simple yes or no.”

As far as I was concerned the sooner I finished, the sooner I could have lunch. I nodded again. “Fast and to the point, got it.”

He gave me a placating smile, but I don’t think he actually believed I could follow directions. I’d show him.

“Are you ready?” His pen hovered over the question sheet in his portfolio.

“Fire away.”

“Question one, I like mechanics magazines.”

“Excuse me?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly.

“I like mechanics magazines. Yes or no.”

“No.” It was the first answer that popped into my head, mainly because I’d never read a mechanics magazine. Still, I guess if I’d had any interest in that area I would have picked up one up from the store. I answered again. Very firm in my conviction that I indeed did not like mechanic magazines. “No.”

He made a little checkmark on the sheet. “Question two. My sleep is fitful and disturbed.”

Well that was a given considering everything I’d been through the last year. But until Jeff’s accident I’d slept like a baby. “Do you mean before my husband’s death or after?”

No emotion played across Dr. Crock’s face. “My sleep is fitful and disturbed.”

Okay, no help from the help. I was tempted to say no but I’d already given myself away. Damn, I had to stay one step ahead of these questions or he’d think I was a nut case. “Yes.”

“I have a good appetite.”

“Yes.” The answer blurted from my mouth before I had a chance to think about it. “I mean it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

“Yes or no, Mrs. Carron.”

“Yes, definitely yes.”

He added another tick to his paper. “I believe in the afterlife.”

I stared at him for a second. “Are you serious with that question? You realize I’m a grim reaper, right?”

“I don’t write the questions, Mrs. Carron. I only administer the test.”

“Yes, Dr. Crock, I believe in an afterlife. I’ve actually seen what waits on the other side and it didn’t look all that great.” He scribbled a note on the edge of the paper. That couldn’t be good. I inhaled and mentally centered myself again. “Next question.”

“I have never been sorry that I’m a girl.”

For the love of God.
“Seven days out of the month I’m sorry I’m a girl.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Those commercials of women riding bikes and roller skating—all lies.”

“Is that a yes then?”

I held up my hand. “Not necessarily. Other than the cramping and the irrational bouts of rage, I like being a girl.”

He arched a brow. “Yes or no.”

He was trying to trick me. I knew it. “What was the question again?”

“I have never been sorry that I’m a girl.”

After mentally repeating the sentence three times I smiled. “Yes.”

Tick.

“I sometimes tease animals.”

“No, well, my mom put a sweater on our bulldog once and I did make fun of him, but no, I don’t tease animals. That’s just mean.”

He gave a heavy sigh and marked the paper. “I do not like everyone I know.”

My mind raced through my list of people in my life. I didn’t hate anybody but I didn’t necessarily like everybody. Take my neighbor, Clare Goucher. The woman was pushing sixty and insisted on doing yard work in her bikini. Or my mom. I loved her but I didn’t really like her most of the time. “Yes, I do not like everyone I know.” Dr. Crock’s mouth pinched into a tight line. “It’s unrealistic to like everybody, isn’t it?”

“I’m not here to judge, Mrs. Carron.”

I bit back a sarcastic retort, not wanting another side note added to my file. Instead I focused on the damn clock. “Next.”

“I am neither gaining weight nor losing weight.”

“Another fat question, huh?” I drummed my fingers against my ribs. The tight waist of my jeans decided my answer. “No.”

Tick.

Bastard.
I was really starting to
not like
Dr. Crock.

“Once in a while I laugh at a dirty joke.”

“Yes.” I kept my eyes on the clock. The sooner this stupid test was over, the better.

“I sweat very easily on cool days.”

What the hell?
This test seemed to be skewed toward us fluffy gals and I didn’t like it. Most days in Alaska were cool, thankfully. “No.”

“I believe I’m being followed.”

That question gave me pause. Did ravens count? Because I was fairly certain that bird was stalking me. “Yes.”

Dr. Crock’s brows lifted in surprise. I could tell he wanted to ask who I thought was following me, but when I narrowed my eyes at him, he cleared his throat. “Peculiar odors come to me at times.”

I blinked several times. “What?”

“Peculiar odors come to me at times.”

“Dr. Crock, I have two eight year old boys. They produce odors no human should be subjected to.”

“That would be a yes, I assume?”

“Yes.” I’m pretty sure that’s not what the question meant. I’d read accounts where people swore they smelled their dead grandmother’s perfume. Nothing like that had ever happened so I stuck with what I knew. Besides, this test was pissing me off.

“The things that some of my family have done have frightened me.”

“Yes, yes, and yes.” There was a lifetime of therapy wrapped up in having a cop for a dad. Not to mention my brother, who I believe was dropped on his head as a baby. Though my mom denies it. “Definitely, yes.”

“I like or have liked fishing.”

I’m an Alaskan. Fishing is in our blood. “Yes.”

Dr. Crock pinned me with a stare. “I deserve severe punishment for my sins.”

Call me crazy, but the way he looked at me made me wonder if that question was even on the test. “We all sin, but I don’t feel I need to be severely punished for them.” He continued to stare at me, giving me the willies. “Do you?”

“Again, Mrs. Carron, not judging.”

Right.
“How many more questions are there?” I glanced at the clock. We’d only been at it for ten minutes.

“Five hundred total.”

I groaned and let my head fall back on the chair. “Fine. Next.”

“I like to take a bath.”

“Yes.” I said to the ceiling.

“Horses that don’t pull should be beaten or kicked.”

I started to feel like one of those horses. “No.”

“I like mannish women.”

My head popped up. “What do you mean? As in friendship or like—like?”

“You must interpret the question yourself.”

“If I have to interpret the questions myself, what’s the point of this test? I might say I like mannish women because I’m a lesbian and like to feel girly. Or maybe my best friend is mannish and I like her despite the fact that she’s mannish. In each scenario the reasons are completely different.”

“You’re overthinking things. Just a simple yes or no.”

“Then yes, I like mannish women. I like feminine women. I like feminine men if they are a good person.”

He rolled his eyes as he made another checkmark on the paper. Was rolling eyes even allowed if you were a psychologist?

“I think Lincoln was greater than Washington.”

Propping my elbow on the arm of the chair, I stared at Dr. Crock. Did my answers really matter? I was beginning to think it was my reaction to this barrage of idiotic questions that GRS was really gauging. “Yes.”

“I have to urinate no more often than others?”

I kept my expression passive. “Yes.”

On and on the questions went. Did I like to play hopscotch? Was I opposed to every person on earth drinking alcohol? Was I afraid of fire?

Three hours later Dr. Crock looked up from his paper and smiled. “Only three more questions.”

My butt cheeks throbbed from sitting so long. The entire time, he allowed me only one five-minute break to stand and stretch. I straightened my legs and sat up straight, waiting.

“I prefer to wear black clothing.”

Easy. Any woman who struggled with her weight knew black was her best friend. “Yes.”

“I’ve contemplated suicide.”

I was taken aback. Never, not even in my most grief-stricken moment had I thought about killing myself. I had the kids. They needed me. No didn’t seem strong enough. “Never.”

He made his mark and then smiled at me. “Last question.” I saw he was just as happy to be finished with this test as I was. “I have a normal level of interest in death.”

Even though he waited for a yes or no, a lot of other answers came to mind. “I’m a grim reaper, so already my level of interest is higher than non-reapers. So who are we gauging this by? Overall humankind or just GRS workers?” He opened his mouth to give me what I was sure, some bland retort, but I cut him off. “On the other hand, you would think being a grim reaper would amp up my interest, but honestly, if I never ever saw another dead person, I’d be perfectly content.” I stood and picked up my purse. “So you decide, Dr. Crock. Do I have a normal level of interest in death?”

I walked to the door but stopped. When I looked back, the good doc was jotting more than a quick note in my chart. Deciding silence was golden, even though that realization had probably come too late, I walked out. The questions he’d asked had been weird, revealing, and on the rare occasion thought provoking. I’d never contemplated whether dirt frightened me or if my hands and feet were normally warm. Now that he’d asked, I found myself thinking about just how unenlightened I was about myself.

The reality was I’d lost interest in the little things I once found fascinating. As a kid I spent hours watching the worms that surfaced after a rain. Now I didn’t even notice them. My head was filled with to-do lists and the needs of others. Somewhere along the line I ceased being Lisa and turned into somebody’s mom and wife.

In general, I thought the personality profile I’d just suffered though was crap, but I couldn’t deny some of the question sparked a desire to know myself again. Did I prefer mango over guava juice? Had I ever tried guava juice? Being a grim reaper may not have been my first choice of employment, but the fact I was one of the few on Earth gave me a shot of self-respect I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Maybe I’d pick up a mechanics magazine on the way home.