by Boone Brux
Dead Jolly
By
Boone Brux
Dead Jolly
© 2018 by Boone Brux
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the author.
All characters, places, and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
9781626228696
P.O. Box 211752
Anchorage, AK. 99504
Visit her website at www.boonebrux.com
Other Books in the Grim Reality Series
To Catch Her Death
Styx & Stoned
Fireweed and Brimstone
Dead Spooky
Hellbound in Vegas (Grim Reality Spinoff)
Other Books By Boone
Suddenly Beautiful
Spellbound in Sleepy Hollow
Bridesmaid Blues
Random Acts of Marriage
Properly Groomed
Shield of Fire – Book One Bringer and the Bane
Kiss of the Betrayer – Book Two Bringer and the Bane
Chain of Illusions – Book Three Bringer and the Bane
Echoes of Ice – Book Four Bringer and the Bane
Chapter One
Nothing takes a dump on Christmas cheer like reaping a mall Santa.
“This sucks.” I bit off the end of the peppermint candy cane I’d found in my purse and chewed. “Fred is the Santa of all Santa’s. He’s like the rock star of the holidays. He even stays in character all year in case kids recognize him. He’s practically Alaskan royalty.”
“Sucks,” my partner Nate said blandly, not bothering to look at me.
“And completely unfair. Why do I always get these assignments?”
He grunted his response.
I knew why, but it didn’t stop me from complaining about it. Being a grim reaper sounded cool unless you were me. Then it was just one idiotic death after another. Why? Because the Powers That Be—every ethereal bureaucrat running the afterlife—in all their wisdom thought designating a grim reaper to deal with people who die in stupid ways was an awesome idea. Then they gave that stunningly moronic position to me, Lisa Carron, newest grim reaper at GRS, Grim Reaper Services. The job has been a blessing and a curse. Today it was sliding heavily toward the cursed end of the spectrum.
Nate lowered his binoculars and gave me a sardonic grin. “How does he die?”
“All it says is Death by Jingle Bells.” I returned a mocking smile. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
“Yep,” he said, raising the binoculars back to his baby blues. “But I just wanted to hear you say it.”
I chomped off another hunk of candy cane and chewed, giving him the stink eye. He ignored me. Nate had been my partner from the first day I’d become a grim reaper. I’d accidentally collared one of his reaps, a violent guy robbing my favorite convenience store, and the rest is history. We hadn’t hit it off at first, him thinking I wasn’t up to the challenge of being a reaper, me sure he was a complete jackass. To be honest, both of us might have been a tad correct in our assumptions.
Things were good now—very good. As reapers, we worked well together. I helped him reap violent criminals and he kept me from getting myself sent to one of the Circles of Hell. Then there was our off-duty relationship. It had taken a turn toward the romantic side, but just barely. Those waters needed to be forged slowly. After all, he had been my dead husband’s partner, which made things a little awkward at times.
“Maybe decorations fall and hit him.” I scanned the ceiling soaring above us. Red ribbons and giant gold bows hung in billowing drapes from the metal beams, but I didn’t think any of them were heavy enough to kill a man if they dropped. “Or he chokes on a jingle bell cookie.”
Lowering the binoculars again, Nate eased back against the metal chair and smirked. “You always do this.”
“What?” I snapped off another piece of candy.
“Try to figure out how they die. Why don’t you just relax and let it happen? You can’t change the outcome.”
“I can’t help it. These cryptic descriptions drive me nuts. I think they do it on purpose.”
“Yes, I’m sure the head honchos of GRS sit around trying to figure out ways to pox you?”
“Well, it sounds stupid when you say it like that.” I twisted in my chair and rested my arms on the table, leaning toward him. “But ya know, maybe they do. I’m kind of a big deal.” I shoved the rest of the candy cane in my mouth and chewed. “I mean, my grandpa was the original Death and they don’t particularly like him.”
His smile vanished. “Don’t remind me.”
“Scaredy Cat,” I mumbled.
“Doesn’t faze me. Everybody’s afraid of Hal.”
“I’m not.”
He grunted again and went back to watching Santa and the parade of kids waiting to tell him their deepest desires.
It was true that I wasn’t afraid of Hal, but I was still cautious around him. Though he was an amazing porter for my souls, he had a tendency to skirt ethereal rules. Sometimes he got the souls there with no problem, but sometimes they took a detour through one of Hell’s particularly nasty neighborhoods. Ya just never knew with that guy.
Truth be told, I might have inherited a little of that trait. Before I became a reaper, I’d been a depressed, frumpy widowed mother of three. Who knew a bad ass Angel of Death lurked inside me. My lineage went back to Nyx herself? Talk about scary. That woman, if you could call her that, could literally kill with a look…and she was my grandmother. Sure, it was like a kagillion times removed, but that still didn’t negate the fact that I had a primordial being at the top of my family tree. Funny the little twists fate throws at you.
“Uh oh,” Nate said, “I think I know how this guy bites it.”
“Really?” I straightened and raised my tiny pair of binoculars. “How?”
He pointed. “Look over there.”
The clip-clop of hooves reached me at the same time my gaze zeroed in on a guy leading a caribou into the lobby. Over the animal’s body hung a blanket with Jingle Bells printed on the side. “Eesh. This is not going to be pretty.”
“Never is,” Nate agreed.
Not wanting to watch, I turned my back, resting it against the glass panel that ran along the balcony. I’d gotten good at making sure I didn’t see the actual moment of death. Most of the time I was successful, but sometimes it was impossible to miss. Since there was a ninety-nine-point-nine percent chance that Santa would meet his demise by being impaled by the massive rack sprawling across Jingle Bell’s head or a swift kick from those long legs and wide hooves, I chose the coward’s path.
“Tell me when it’s over.”
“Oh man, I hope it doesn’t happen in front of all these kids,” Nate said.
My face scrunched in disgust. “Talk about spoiling Christmas memories for the rest of their lives.”
“Seriously.”
We sat in silence for another fifteen minutes. Being a reaper meant a lot of downtime waiting, but when the time of departure came, we had to move. And so, went the chain of events. At the first sound of screams, Nate and I rose and headed for the escalator. Once on the ground floor, we skirted the crowd hovering around what I assumed was Santa’s body, dodged crying children who were being rushed away by their parents, and circled the perimeter of Santa’s Village. I overheard one mother reassuring her son that Santa was really tired from making toys and was just taking
a nap. Quick thinking. Maybe her kid wouldn’t have horrific nightmares or need therapy for the rest of his life.
Spirits of the deceased usually hung back, a little confused by everything that was happening. That was the easiest time to nab—I mean—gently escort them to the afterlife.
I spotted my client standing a few yards from Santa’s throne. His plump hand stroked his long white beard and a smile played around his mouth. “There he is,” I said, pointing. “Is it just me, or does he have a merry twinkle in his eye, like he’s enjoying this?”
“Yeah.” Nate stopped behind me and rested his hand on my waist. “That’s weird. Take it slow. Don’t spook him.”
A laugh snorted from me. “Spook him. Funny.” He rolled his eyes. “Hey, it was your joke,” I mumbled, edging away from him and closer to Fred. Nate had two speeds. One was fun and relaxed. The other was what I called his business face mode. Lips pulled thin, eyes narrowed in concentration, total focus on the job. He was a master reaper. Man, he really got the short-end of the stick when he got me as his partner. I squared my shoulders. “Fine, I’m going.”
Fred didn’t move as I crept closer. At first, I thought he hadn’t noticed me. Then he said, “I knew bringing that animal in was a bad idea.” Shaking his head, he gave a jolly laugh. “Killed by Jingle Bells, fitting, don’t you think?”
Unable to resist the pun pushing to get out, I replied, “It does have a nice ring to it.”
Another belly-shaking laugh erupted from him. “Good one.” He turned and faced me. “So now, who might you be?”
Wow, even in death this guy didn’t break character. “My name is Lisa.” I waved a hand toward Nate. “And this is my partner Nate. We’re here to help you cross.”
“A personal escort? I’m flattered.” He stroked his beard again, the twinkle in his eyes shifting to a suspicious stare. “Would that be to help guide me through this confusing transition or is it to make sure I cross?”
“A little of both.” Nate's voice took on an edge of caution. He stepped toward Santa. “We’re here to make sure everything goes smoothly.”
“I see.” Fred rested his crossed arms on his belly and cocked his head. “And what happens if I don’t want to go?”
“Hal,” I said in an even voice, calling my porter. Hopefully, he’d show up pronto and not pull any of his crap.
“Hal? No, sorry, dear,” Fred said, “my name is Santa.”
“Right.” From the way he maintained a good ten feet between us, I suspected he was getting ready to bolt. Damn it. I’d really hoped this reap would be an easy handoff. I still had Christmas shopping to do, and I’d promised the kids we’d decorate the tree. “Santa,” I repeated. A thin pink line formed at the bottom of the dais behind Fred, signaling Hal’s arrival. Relief washed through me. Trying to keep Fred’s attention, I asked, “But why wouldn’t you want to cross? It’s beautiful on the other side.”
“It doesn’t matter how wonderful it is, I have unfinished business here.”
“What kind of unfinished business?” I pointed at the dispersing crowd. “Is it the children? Because, news flash, you’re dead. No more sitting on your lap and telling Santa what they want for Christmas.” A shudder rippled through me. “You wouldn’t do that, right? I mean, that would be really messed up.”
“No, it’s not the kids I want sitting on my lap.” He wiggled his eyebrows.
“Mmmkay, that’s creepy.”
He shrugged.
“So, if it’s not the kids, do you mean the moms?” Being a mother myself, the thought of being seduced by a spirit skeeved me out.
He hitched his thumb upward. “You’re getting warmer.”
“Uhhh, grandmothers?” My eyebrows lifted in surprise as realization dawned. “Are you romancing the female geriatric population of Anchorage?”
“Widows, to be exact.” He slipped his hand into the pocket at his right hip and pulled out a little black book—the little black book to be exact, the iconic symbol of a playboy. Rocking heel to toe, he leafed through the pages. “I’ve got a list of who’s naughty and who’s nice.” He stopped and scanned one of the pages. “There are several ladies who have been particularly nice, and a few naughty ones I would like to check on as well.”
“But…” I grimaced and shook my head. “You’re dead.”
“Don’t underestimate the power of Christmas magic.” He slipped the book back into his pocket. “It’s my job to spread holiday cheer and dole out a Christmas miracle or two.”
“And it’s my job to get you to the other side,” I countered.
Giving me a placating smile, he said, “It seems we’re at an impasse.”
The pink light widened, morphing into an elevator door, and then opened. Out stepped Hal Lee Lewya, in all his glory. Today he sported a set of red satin pajamas trimmed in white, a jaunty white top hat with a red satin band, and bright green oval sunglasses. On his feet, he wore shiny black boots with gigantic silver buckles on the sides. Even though he looked like he was ready to Emcee the porn industry’s annual Christmas party, there was no denying my grandfather had style.
“Liiiisa.” Every time he greeted me, he drew out the e-sound of my name. It sounded slightly patronizing, but I kind of liked it. Not that I would ever tell him that. “Who do you have for me today? Someone more exciting than that accountant who botched his auto-erotic asphyxiation, I hope.”
Fred swung around toward Hal, his eyes rounding. “Well, if it isn’t another Kris Kringle enthusiast.”
“Did he just call Hal a Santa wannabe?” Nate muttered.
“I think so,” I whispered. I doubted a single person had ever confused Hal with being anything other than what he was, a dangerous paranormal being born from the original primordial gods. “Not a Santa enthusiast,” I piped up, hoping Hal didn’t do something to Fred like extinguish his soul with a snap of his fingers. “That’s Hal.” I waved toward the elevator and gave Fred my best cruise director smile. “He’s here to transport you to where you need to go.”
“And where might that be?” Fred asked, his gaze never leaving Hal.
“To a better place,” Hal said, lacing his answer with no small amount of sarcasm.
“But there is no better place than here when love is in the air.” Fred held out his arms wide and leveled a stare at Nate and me. “Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a lovely widow on the south side of Anchorage that is in dire need of my attention.”
“No! Wait!” I lunged for him, but he laid his finger along side his nose and levitated to the second level before dematerializing. “Well, crap.” I stared at the empty space above my head. “That is one slippery Santa.” I spun toward Nate. “We need to get his little black book before they take his body away.”
“How?” Nate gestured toward the crowd. “The EMT’s are with him now. No way will they let anybody near him.”
“As exciting as this is, I think I’ll go,” Hal said, stepping inside the elevator. “Let me know when you catch Santa. I look forward to taking him for a ride.”
“Thanks, Hal.” I gave him a dismissing wave. “Happy holidays.”
A low growl rumbled from him as the door slid shut.
“Jeez, the guy has no holiday spirit,” I said.
“We’ve got bigger problems than Hal being a Scrooge.” Nate gripped my upper arm and moved us toward the crowd. “How do you propose we get that book?”
I pursed my lips and narrowed my gaze. “Follow my lead.”
“The first words to every epic fail in history,” he muttered.
“Don’t be a doubter.” Sometimes my plans worked, but usually not. This time was fifty-fifty, but I had to go for it. “It will work.”
“Right.”
“No!” I pawed at the wall of bodies, letting the tears flow. “It can’t be. Daddy.” At that parental pronouncement, the crowd split down the middle, letting me walk—or stumble—my way to Fred’s body. “Daddy,” I cried again for good measure. Though my fondness for dead bodies ranked u
p there with eating live Madagascar Hissing Beetles, I needed to take one for the team or we’d be chasing Fred blind. “Please, no, no, no.” Making sure I was situated next to his right pocket, I dropped to my knees and threw myself across Fred’s covered body. “Daddy,” I whimpered for the paramedic’s benefit.
Surprised by my sudden prostrated grieving, the EMT canted away from me. “Is this your father, ma’am?”
Keeping my forehead pressed against Fred’s ample stomach, I nodded. “He was filling in this morning for Fred.” My hand slipped under the sheet and into his pocket. The notebook was the only thing inside. I snagged the spiral binder with my index finger and dragged it free, slipping it into my coat pocket.
“I think there’s been a mistake, ma’am.” He laid his hand on my back. “This man is Fred Lawson.”
With a quick push, I snapped upright and sniffed. “Really?”
“Yeah, several people confirmed his identification, but if you’d like to have a look to make sure…” He left the rest of the sentence hanging.
“Okay.” I blinked several times and sniffed again. “Just to be sure.”
He gestured toward the top of the sheet with a reassuring nod. As I leaned left toward Fred’s head, I shoved the notebook deeper into my pocket. No need to prolong this now that I had his address book, so I gave the sheet a quick flick, not really seeing much beyond Fred’s beard, and let it drop.
“Is that him?” the guy asked.
Turning a wide-eyed stare at the paramedic, I shook my head. “Nope. Not him.” I pushed to my feet and shrugged. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” His sympathetic smile sent an annoying pang of guilt through me. “I’m just happy that it wasn’t your dad.”
“Thanks. Me too.” Backing away from the body, I waved in Fred’s general direction. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it.” Not waiting for his reply, I spun and strode to where Nate stood, my hand protectively covering my pocket.
“Well?” His hand leveled onto my lower back and he firmly guided me toward the exit. “Did you get it?”
“Of course, I got it.” I pulled out the address book and waved it at him. “I don’t know why you doubt me.”