“Fine,” I said. “Still fine.”
“How did it go?” Jean grinned. “Did they throw punches? Break any bones?”
“Who?” I walked to my desk and dug through my drawer for some painkillers. The yelling and thrashing were edging toward headache land.
“Death and Crow. Crow made him angry, didn’t he? Crow makes everyone angry.”
“They got along fine, you big ol’ gossip. And even if Crow did make him angry”—I lifted a finger and pointed it at Roy, who gave me wide, innocent eyes—“none of you should be betting money on these things.”
“It wasn’t money,” Jean said. “It was just a bet.”
“Do I want to know?” I sat, took the pills with the cold coffee left over in my mug, and logged on to my computer.
“If Death would punch Crow in the face,” Jean said. “From all the stories Crow tells, Death has been after him for years. Since they are both mortal, I thought a little payback might be on the menu.”
“Crow’s always telling a story about something,” I said. “Only some of it is true, and the true stuff isn’t usually the part you’d think it is.”
Jean walked over to my desk and messed with the pencil cup. “That’s so disappointing.”
“Peacefulness is disappointing?”
She shrugged. “I like it when things get a little stirred up. Speaking of stirred up: how was your night?”
“Well, someone died, and I got knocked out by a god power. So pretty terrific, thanks.”
“Not that part of your night. The before part with Ryder, and the after part. With Ryder.”
“It was fine.”
“No. Nope.” She sat on my desk. “I need to hear a lot more than ‘fine’ when Ryder Bailey is involved.”
I looked away from my computer, sat back. “Where is he?”
“Lunch run.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Spill.”
“Death thinks someone murdered Heim.”
That wiped the gleeful look off her face.
“What?” Myra said. She walked over to stand by my desk too. Roy rolled his chair out into the aisle so he could watch us and the switchboard at the same time.
“I asked him if he knew how Heim died. He said he wasn’t a dime-store prognosticator nor a big fan of murder.”
“Huh,” Jean breathed, surprised. “Whatdoyouknow.”
Myra rubbed a thumb over the inside of her finger. It was a habit she’d had for as long as I could remember. Some kind of fake luck gesture Abban, the tallest leprechaun I’d ever met, taught her when we were in elementary school. “He said it was murder?”
“I asked him point blank if he thought Heim had been murdered, he said yes.”
“Wellshit,” Jean said, running her words together like she did when she was dealing with something over her head. “Fuckhell.”
“All right.” Myra’s voice was calm, professional. “We can work with that. Who would want Heim dead?”
“None of the deities come to mind immediately,” I said.
There were squabbles and grudges between deities that couldn’t be erased just because they were on vacation. But we kept an eye on those sorts of things. Heimdall didn’t seem to have enemies among the gods here. Not enemies who would be willing to kill another deity and risk losing vacation rights permanently.
“Maybe Hera?” Jean suggested, getting some space between her words. “I heard Heim was taking his best fish to Chris’s place for his new cook, and giving the seconds to Hera’s bar and grill.”
