I watched his expression carefully. “Are you familiar with a defunct company called Chaney and Son? Mr. Morris has been meeting with a secret group inside their boarded-up warehouse.” I was just testing him, stringing him along.
“I know nothing about that,” he said, but the alarmed look on his face said otherwise. “I’ll speak to Brondon about it. If he’s sneaking around with unsavory types, I wouldn’t want his public actions to adversely affect our company image. This is a crucial time for JLPN with the release of our whole new line of products. We can’t afford any bad press.”
I reminded myself that Miranda was our client. Even if Jekyll and his lapdog were doing something illicit, such activities didn’t necessarily affect the divorce settlement. The two men could have been participating in an illegal cockatrice fighting ring, or smuggling body parts to mad scientist laboratories. What mattered to me was finding a way to break the rigid prenuptial agreement.
Sure enough, after the Carpenters finished mellowing their way through a glycemic coma, Barry Manilow started in with “I Write the Songs.”
“We’d better go, Dan,” Robin said. Clearly, we weren’t going to get any more information from Harvey Jekyll, but I think it was the music that made her anxious to leave.
“Say hello to my wife for me,” Jekyll said. “You probably see her more than I do.”
Chapter 26
Late the next morning, a pleading arrived by courier from Howard Phillips Publishing—a service copy sent to us with the original filed in court. Not unexpectedly, the publisher’s legal department refuted Robin’s demand for reparations and declined to remove the defective spell book from bookstore shelves.
As Robin read the letter, I watched her expression fall. Her lips pressed together, and then she got that determined look of hers. When I saw her like that, I always thought she could walk into an oncoming tidal wave and the waters would part just to stay out of her way. She handed me the letter so I could read it for myself.
“We at Howard Phillips Publishing categorically deny any culpability in the strange and unfortunate accident that befell Ms. Alma Wannovich. We contend that the plaintiffs, Alma Wannovich and Mavis Wannovich, failed to use our spell book in accordance with the clearly stated guidelines on the copyright page. We assert that all spells published by Howard Phillips are completely harmless. Although Ms. Wannovich’s situation is unquestionably tragic, our good company bears no blame for the aforementioned misfortune. Any public allegation that attempts to cast Howard Phillips Publishing in an unfavorable light will be met with vigorous legal action. We are committed to defending our good name with all the means and financial resources at our disposal.”
I handed the letter back to Robin. “Not good news.”
“It’s just the next step in the dance.” Her fingers tightened on the stationery, wrinkling the paper. “The more strenuously a defendant denies the charges, the more culpable they tend to be.”
“Should I deliver a copy of the letter to Mavis and Alma?” After the tense situation the sisters had experienced on the streets, I didn’t think it was wise to call them away from the safety of their home unless it was absolutely necessary.
Robin set the letter on her desk and flattened the crinkles. “No, I’ll call them. I think it might be time to try an innovative approach—and I’ve got an idea.”
“All right, but if Mavis and Alma need a shoulder to cry on”—I thought of the large sow—“or to nuzzle against, I’ll do my part.”
While Robin talked with the Wannovich sisters on the phone, I decided to check on Mrs. Saldana down at the mission, as well as Sheldon Fennerman, to let them both know about the restraining order against Straight Edge. I grabbed my hat, took my phone and my gun, told Sheyenne where I was going, and headed out.
At the halfway-repaired Hope & Salvation Mission, patrons had returned to take advantage of Mrs. Saldana’s generosity. She made soup and cookies and passed out blood bags donated to the mission by the blood bank (type B positive packs that were near their expiration date; vampires considered it the least flavorful blood type, but Mrs. Saldana liked to reinforce the subliminal message of “be positive”).
Inside the mission, Jerry the zombie was practicing at the piano but not doing very well. A mangy-looking werewolf snoozed on one of the folding chairs. Two bald vampires looked with disdain at the selection of blood bags, obviously not tempted; I wondered if these two had been victims of the garlic-contaminated JLPN shampoo.
A parked truck sat in front of the mission, with large panels that held sheets of window glass. Black Glass, Inc. was stenciled on the passenger door. Out front, Mrs. Saldana spoke with an exceedingly dapper zombie dressed in a black frock coat, a gray checkered vest, and black silk top hat. His eyes were sunk deep in their sockets; long gray hair extended below the brim of the top hat. He looked like the Crypt Keeper in an old horror television show that was experiencing a resurgence in popularity now that it had been repackaged as a slice-of-life comedy. Rather than the usual smell of death one would expect from a zombie in his state of decay, a haze of pungent cologne hung around him. By now, I recognized the distinctive scent of Zom-Be-Fresh.
I walked up to them. “I just came to make sure you’re all right, Mrs. Saldana. No further harassment?”
The old woman brightened. “None whatsoever, Mr. Chambeaux. We’re getting back on our feet now, and I want to thank you for giving me this gentleman’s contact information. He’s doing a fine job.”
The dapper zombie extended his hand. “Franklin Galworthy, owner of Black Glass. I appreciate you recommending us, sir. We’re just a start-up company and can use the customers.”
“Pleased to meet you.” The cologne smell was so strong my eyes began to water. “How’s business?”
Galworthy took off his top hat and wiped an emaciated hand across his forehead. “Quite busy. The brute that did this”—he gestured to where he had framed the smashed windows with new two-by-fours—“has caused a lot of damage across the Quarter. Smashed glass everywhere.” His grin showed off an array of teeth that would have startled even Mr. Sardonicus. “And all those places need replacement windows. At the moment, I’ve got more work than I can handle.”
“I hope you catch that horribly destructive creature,” Mrs. Saldana said, fluttering her hand in front of her face. “You’re the detective, Mr. Chambeaux. Any leads?”
“Not yet—Officer McGoohan is on it. If I learn anything, I’ll let him know.”
“Give me two days and I’ll have the mission fixed up, good as new,” said Galworthy. “And if the brute attacks again, we’ll fix it again! That’s the best way to defeat vandals, I say—take away their fun.”