“My body was found in an alley a block away,” I said. “Not at Basilisk.”
Still, my death might have had some connection with the nightclub and the under-the-table blood-bank sales I had exposed. I’d been avoiding the place . . . because of Sheyenne. “Anyway, I do work on more than one case at a time, ladies. Many clients to satisfy. Have you heard about threats being made against vampires? Wooden stakes left on doorsteps, anything like that?”
Cindy said, “Vampires . . . not my sort of undead.”
“I’ll try anything,” Sharon said. “I may be dead, but I’m not that dead.”
“Any thing is right,” Victoria cackled. “We’ve seen some of the creatures you’ve gone home with.”
Heinrich gave a worried frown. “Vampires are some of our best clients during the night shift. They’re so particular about their hair. And we do a brisk business in fang whitening.”
“Not much for the tanning beds, though,” Bruno said as he hooked up the heavy-gauge trocar to the cannula and started the pump to fill my vessels with fresh embalming fluid. He used a makeup brush to fuss over my face. He flipped my hair back and forth while he tsk-tsked at the entrance and exit wounds in my skull. “This really needs to be repaired, sir. If you will allow me? I can do wonders, both for your appearance and your self-esteem. That bullet hole is a distraction.”
Previously, I had resisted doing much to cover it up other than wearing my hat lower. “Every time I look in the mirror, it reminds me that I still have to find the person who killed me.”
“You don’t need a hole in the head for that, sir. Tell the truth—how often do you look in the mirror?”
“Hardly ever.”
“That settles it, then. Let me do my work. I am a professional.”
Bruno opened jars of makeup and mortician’s putty, then packed the front of my forehead, reconstructing the damage to my skull. I could feel the flow of fresh embalming fluid invigorating me.
“I could help you with your caseload, Dan,” said Cindy, then added in a sultry, rasping voice, “as long as it’s a hard case.” The zombie cougars tittered.
Now, I don’t mind flirting, especially when it helps people relax and answer my questions in an investigation, but that’s where I draw the line. Ghost or not, Sheyenne is my girlfriend, so I smiled and said, “Thanks for the offer, ladies, but my caseload is already spoken for.”
Taking my comment as a rebuff, Sharon said, “I don’t think he can do anything, girls. Talk about dead wood!” They all laughed at that.
This time I didn’t bother blushing. It didn’t matter what they assumed. I was capable enough in the sexual department, but I wasn’t in the market for a ZILF—especially those three.
Heinrich chatted about Alvin Ricketts and the art auction that night, which did interest me, but the ladies were unimpressed. They turned their predatory gazes as the parlor door jangled open.
A boisterous man in a loud plaid sport jacket entered with his dark hair brushed back, a fine gold chain hanging at his neck just above a line of conspicuously woolly chest hair. “Ah, what beautiful ladies!” he said. “Could there be any better job than this?”
Brondon Morris was the representative of Jekyll Lifestyle Products and Necroceuticals, a profuse and avuncular snake-oil salesman who seemed to believe that everyone adored him, though no one did. He circulated among Unnatural Quarter businesses, supermarkets, parlors, and clubs, hawking JLPN products and distributing the toiletries that no unnatural should be without.
The zombie cougars cooed and fawned over the visitor. “Did you bring us any samples this time, Brondon?”
“Of course I did, ladies.” He glanced up, recognized me in the embalming chair, and froze for an uncomfortable fraction of a second. I knew who he was, and he knew me; there was no love lost between us. He pointedly ignored me.
Humming loudly to emphasize how much he enjoyed his work, Brondon opened his case and pulled out tubes, bottles, and spritzers, handing them to the three zombie women. “Now, these samples are just for your personal use, ladies—skin creams, face masks, wrinkle reducers. I can’t make a living if I give away all our products, and Bruno and Heinrich wouldn’t be too pleased with me! I hope you’ll tell all your friends about the quality of our line.”
“We’re dedicated customers,” said Sharon. “You know we are.”
Meanwhile, Bruno continued working on me, and Heinrich came back with a clipboard and a JLPN order form. Brondon continued, “We have a lovely new perfume that we’re test-marketing right now.”
“Is it from the new Zom-Be-Fresh line?” Victoria asked. “Fresh Loam?”
“Those products aren’t ready for market just yet, I’m afraid. Two more weeks until the wide release. They’re still undergoing laboratory testing.”
“I’ll help you test it,” Cindy offered. “In fact, I’ll help test any of your . . . equipment.”
Brondon gave her a wide, sincere smile. “What a beautiful offer! I may take you up on that someday.” He handed out shiny packets of nail cleaner, held up a small curved brush. “This is a useful new item, specially designed to scrub dirt from the fingernails of anyone who’s just clawed her way out of the grave.”
“Brondon, sweetie, do we look like we’re fresh out of the grave?”
Wisely leaving the question unanswered, Brondon put the brush back into his satchel. Heinrich saved him by handing over the completed order form. “We’re all very satisfied with JLPN products, Mr. Morris. And when your new Fresh Loam line comes out, we’ll add it to our order. Your ads are generating a lot of customer interest.”
“We’re very proud of Fresh Loam, a whole new spin on our entire product line. One of the largest marketing campaigns in our company history.”
So far, Brondon had kept his back to me, but now he looked in my direction, bent down to his sample case, and withdrew a small spray can. “It’s a fact of life, Mr. Chambeaux, that zombies need deodorant more than the usual person. You’re relatively new to the condition, but you’ll realize it sooner or later. Our line ranks very high in customer satisfaction.”
He came close and spritzed it in the air, but I flinched back. “No, thank you—I am who I am, and I prefer to smell that way.”
“It’s not about you, my friend. Because of my work among the unnaturals, I’ve gotten used to the smell, but you should be considerate to others who may be standing downwind.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, but I’m not interested.”
“He’s not interested in anything,” Sharon said.
“How about this? You’re going to love emBalm!” He tried to hand me a small tube of lip balm. “No zombie wants chapped lips.”