Grim Reaper 01 - Embrace the Grim Reaper

that.”
    Death leaned against the doorjamb, sucking on a lollipop.
    “And what’s with all the junk food lately?”
    “What? You afraid it’s going to kill me?”
    Casey bit back a reply and pushed through the doorway.
    Death stepped out of her way. “So why don’t you?”
    “Why don’t I what?”
    “Have any pictures?”
    Casey stopped at the top of the stairs. “I don’t need pictures. I have all the images I need.”
    “They can’t be very nice ones.”
    “They’re fine.”
    “If you say so.”
    Casey looked back. “What do you want me to do? Sit around all day and stare at photographs? Wish they were back here, with me?”
    Death pushed off of the doorjamb, meandering down the hallway, looking at the antiques spaced along the wall. “You already wish that.”
    “Of course I do. Having photos would just be worse.”
    “If you say so. Where are you going, Casey?”
    Casey looked at the laundry basket. “Where do you think?”
    Death peered into the pile of dirty clothes. “About time, too. I was beginning to think I’d have to keep my distance because of the smell.”
    Casey started down the stairs. “Why don’t you go bother someone else for a while?”
    “Aw. I’m beginning to think you don’t want me around.”
    “I would’ve gone with you willingly before. But you obviously have other plans in mind. Now you’re just annoying.”
    “Casey?” Lillian’s voice floated up the stairs. “Are you talking to me?”
    Casey looked up toward the second floor. Death gave a small, mocking bow, and walked back into Casey’s room.
    “No,” Casey called down. “Just talking to…the cat.”
    The fat cat stared at her from a bench on the stair’s landing, whiskers twitching, eyes wide.
    Lillian came into view. “Oh, that’s Solomon. He likes to get to know our guests. Don’t you Solly?” She ran a hand over the cat’s head, and he nipped at her hand. “What’s the matter with you, boy?”
    Casey indicated the laundry basket. “Thought I’d get this started, if that’s okay.”
    Lillian left the cat. “Of course. Right through here.”
    She led Casey through the living room—a huge flat-screen TV set incongruously on the far wall, amongst Victorian furniture—into a sunny room at the back of the house. Painted yellow and surrounded by large, uncovered windows, the room pulsed with life and light. A door led to the outside and stood open, letting in the cool afternoon air. Casey blinked at the brightness.
    “Everything you need is above the washer in this cupboard.” Lillian opened a little door to reveal various bottles and jugs. “Use whatever you like.”
    “Thank you.”
    Casey waited for Lillian to leave, but the older woman sat on a small chair in the corner. Casey set her basket on top of the dryer and began tossing her clothes into the washer, the silver HomeMaker symbol on the glossy white finish catching her eye.
    “I’m sorry about earlier,” Lillian said. “With Rosie.”
    Casey stopped, a shirt in her hand. “Like I said before. Nothing to be sorry about.” The shirt joined the rest of the clothes in the washer.
    “This past week has been very difficult for her. For the whole town, of course, but Rosie’s taken it very hard, and she tends to wear her heart on her sleeve.”
    “Were she and Ellen close?”
    Lillian didn’t respond, and Casey turned to see her staring out one of the windows, her hands clenched in her lap. Casey went back to sorting.
    “We offered to keep the children, you know,” Lillian said. “Ellen’s parents aren’t in the best of health, and we have plenty of room. But everyone thought it better if the kids weren’t…if they were with their own family.” Her voice was brittle.
    Casey finished up with the darks, measured out the detergent, and began the cycle. “Eric VanDiepenbos—do you know him?—was pretty close to her.”
    Lillian’s head jerked away from the window. “Oh. Oh, yes, poor boy. He’s had a hard time of it all. We had hopes… But with his family being what it is, there wasn’t much chance of anything happening.”
    Casey opened her mouth to ask what she meant, but Rosemary bustled by the windows of the room and burst in the door with a handful of flowers. “For our table. Aren’t they lovely?”
    Lillian’s face lit up. “They are. Let’s go find a vase.”
    And Casey’s chance for questioning was gone. She followed the women into the kitchen, where Lillian was pulling a vase out of the china