A potbellied ghost drifted among the angry people, glaring at the scrawny punks. “You’re not better than us!”
I brought Sheldon out into the daylight, and he hunched into his loose bathrobe, keeping to the shadows of his front step. I removed my fedora and placed it on the vampire’s head to shield him from the sun. “Sheldon Fennerman, I’d like you to meet Mavis Wannovich and her sister Alma, two other clients of mine.”
“Very satisfied clients.” Mavis smiled. “Mr. Chambeaux and Ms. Deyer solved our problems in a most satisfactory way, and he’s asked me to help.”
“Thank you,” Sheldon said, “for whatever it is you’re going to do.”
“We’re going to protect you.” Mavis leafed through the spell book, found the correct page, cleared her throat, and glared at the Straight Edgers. “It’s only fair to warn you that this is a very powerful protective spell, although you bullies already deserve whatever you’ve got coming to you.”
“You don’t scare me,” said Todd, looking even more scared than when I’d rescued him from the hot-oil hot tub.
“A pity,” Mavis said. “I’m casting this spell over Mr. Fennerman’s domicile and his person. Anyone who harms him, or even threatens to harm him, will regret it.”
“W-what does the spell do?” Patrick asked.
I said to her, “Be specific, Mavis. They’re slow learners.”
The witch grinned at the cringing Straight Edgers. “Anyone who harms, or threatens to harm, Mr. Fennerman will experience severe gastric distress. This spell will transform your last meal into a clump of live cockroaches inside your stomach—cockroaches that will do their best to burrow their way out.”
Meanwhile, the crowd of monsters had started out ugly and was getting uglier.
“Maybe you should hurry up, Mavis,” I whispered.
The witch began reading the incantation, drawing designs in the air and—more for theatrics than magical efficacy—she threw a pinch of smoke powder and set off a tiny bang. Priscilla dropped her sign with a clatter, and the Straight Edgers scattered like crows startled from an old corpse.
Some of the unnaturals glared after them, as if sniffing blood.
“Are they really gone?” Sheldon had tears in his eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Chambeaux! Thank you, madam, and you . . .” He nodded toward the sow, who grunted amiably.
“They won’t bother you again,” Mavis said. “Or if they do, they’ll catch a stomach bug they won’t soon forget.”
I picked up Priscilla’s discarded sign and brought it to Sheldon. “Keep this as a souvenir.” The vampire was beaming with a smile so wide that I could see the full extent of his very small fangs.
“Would you like to come over for dinner, Mr. Chambeaux? Fondue again? Maybe some games?”
“Not right now. Thank you, Sheldon.” I took my hat back. “I have to keep my other clients happy as well.”
The skittish vampire looked crestfallen, then turned to Mavis and Alma. “Perhaps you ladies?”
“I love fondue!” Mavis said. Alma snuffled, sounding delighted. Sheldon opened his front door and ushered the sow and witch inside.
Chapter 29
Now that the Wannovich sisters and Sheldon Fennerman were all satisfied, we’d wrapped up two cases. Cause for celebration.
But I still hadn’t solved my own murder, or Sheyenne’s.
I’d made her a promise on her deathbed that I would find out who poisoned her. Every time I looked at her ghost, that pale image of the vibrant young woman who meant so much to me, I remembered the pain and suffering she’d endured as the deadly toxin destroyed her liver and kidneys, made her sink into a shadow of herself, and then death.
That was one case I didn’t intend to file in the “Unsolved” drawer.
Sheyenne already had copies of her medical report and autopsy, and as a former med student, she was quite interested in the cause of her own demise. Amanita phalloides, the deadliest toadstool in existence. She read up on the toxicology, studied the symptoms, treatment, and prognosis. Back in the office, she was studying the file again.
“I didn’t have a chance, Beaux. Whoever slipped me that poison wanted me dead, but she didn’t care that I would spend days dying. She knew I wouldn’t be able to prove who did it.”
“She?” I asked.
“Ivory. If it was up to me, I’d have you deliver her a special toadstool quiche from me. Just to get even.”
“I don’t think poison works the same on vampires,” I said. “And we need proof before we do anything so rash. Fortunately, thanks to Mavis Wannovich, I’ve got another lead.” I smiled, drawing out the suspense. “She gave me the address of a potion supply shop, the best source for toadstool poison in the city. I’m going to have a chat with the proprietor, see if we can find out who purchased the toxin that killed you. Want to go along? The cases don’t solve themselves.”
I swear I saw a vivid flush of life come back to her cheeks. “Absolutely. I’ll consider it a date.”
“You’re such a romantic.”
Grandma Wong’s Herbal Warehouse, Potion Ingredients, Botanica, Hoodoo Supply, and Other Exotic Items was a dingy hole-in-the-wall shop filled with more clashing odors than Brondon Morris’s sample case. Bunches of dried herbs dangled from the rafters, along with shriveled body parts, both human and animal. Large glass containers held hemlock, deadly nightshade, delicate white flowers of jimsonweed, clumps of graveyard moss. Humanoid mandrake roots were submerged in an oily transparent liquid, twitching as if bored.
Small jars were labeled Eyes of Newt; it looked like caviar. Dark vials in a refrigerated bargain bin were marked Special Today, Virgin’s Blood. Incense smoldered in two small pots, filling the shop with a pungent reek, but a stronger smell of burning weeds came from behind the counter.
The only person inside the shop was definitely not a grandma, and not a Wong, either. The clerk was a young, well-tanned human with a mop of shaggy straw-colored hair, blue eyes, and a vapid smile. His nametag said Jimmy. In an ashtray on the glass countertop smoldered a joint the size of an index finger. Not only did Jimmy sell exotic magical herbs, apparently he wasn’t averse to sampling them either.
He grinned as we entered—me walking, Sheyenne gliding—but made no effort to rise from his chair. “Mellow day, friends.” He drew a long, slow inhalation through his nostrils. “Got everything you need, you know, whatever . . . a revenge spell or a love charm. Even some excellent seasonings if you’re, like, a gourmet cook.”
“We’re interested in toadstools—poisonous ones,” I said. “I understand you’re the best supplier in town.”
Jimmy didn’t exactly recoil (he was far too mellow for that), but he did react with a molasses sort of alarm. “You mean, like death caps?”
“Exactly.”
“Nasty stuff, very negative, friend.” He picked up his joint and savored a slow toke, then exhaled as he centered himself and calmed his thoughts. He saw me eyeing him, then made a good-natured invitation. “Have a hit yourself, if you want.”