Death Warmed Over (Dan Shamble, Zombie PI #1)

I remembered the dapper, perfume-drenched zombie with frock coat and top hat. “I’ve met him—Franklin Galworthy. He’s fixing the Hope and Salvation Mission too . . . but Black Glass doesn’t have much competition in the Quarter. Who you gonna call?” Then I understood the implication. “You think he’s taking advantage of the situation, smashing windows to drum up extra business for himself?”


“Could very well be. I don’t think that guy could crush bricks with his bare hands or rip apart door frames . . . but the rest of the damage could have been done by a copycat.”

He shuffled his feet, not sure what else to say. I could see the deep concern on his face, so I let him off the hook. “I’ll take care of myself, McGoo—don’t worry. Let me know if the ballistics lab comes up with any match on the bullets.”

“Scout’s honor.”



Robin was tense and preoccupied, pacing around the office lobby as if rehearsing a closing argument for a jury. Then I remembered that this was the day when she and Ramen Ho-Tep would meet with the Metropolitan Museum staff to negotiate a possible solution. The fact that I’d been gunned down didn’t have any effect on the other appointments on our calendar.

In the conference room, she had spread out her folders and documents next to her yellow legal pad. Piled casebooks formed a small pyramid, and the mummy’s rolled-up hieroglyphic papyrus sat adjacent to the law books. She had set a glass of water at each place, with a pitcher in the middle of the table.

Robin bit her lip, and I could see she needed some encouragement. “You’ll do fine.”

She gave me a hesitant smile. “I’ll bring my A game, Dan. I always do. Will you be in there with me?”

“If both parties allow it. You know I’ve always got your back.”

Ramen Ho-Tep shuffled in early, step-step-draaaag, step-step- draaaag. He had given himself plenty of time to get across town from the museum. The mummy coughed nervously, and a moth came out of his throat.

At precisely 10:00 A.M., the museum curator entered our offices with two members of his legal counsel, the director of the museum board, and a young man whose purpose I couldn’t ascertain, probably an intern. They swooped into our main reception area like a murder of business-suited crows.

Robin greeted them professionally. “Welcome, gentlemen. Our aim today is to reach a satisfactory and mutually beneficial resolution on this matter so that my client and I don’t need to pursue further legal action.”

“We have prepared a lawsuit of our own,” said Bram Steffords, the curator, “and we have the full financial and legal resources of the museum at our disposal.”

Ramen Ho-Tep lurched forward. “And I was Pharaoh of all Egypt! I have the wealth of my entire land, much of which you have on display in your museum. That’s stolen property! I am the rightful owner! I—”

Robin held up a hand. “Shall we sit down and begin our discussions?” She turned to the curator and gave him a hard look. “Just so you know, Chambeaux and Deyer is taking Mr. Ho-Tep’s case on a pro bono basis, and I intend to pursue it vigorously, for as long as necessary. He has no financial concerns in this matter.”

From behind the receptionist’s desk, Sheyenne let out a groan that she almost, but not quite, managed to cover up.

The guys-in-ties from the museum took their places in the conference room, sitting motionless as if they were on exhibit themselves. Sheyenne did not offer them coffee or tea; roomtemperature water would have to do. I sat next to Robin, slightly more limber than Ramen Ho-Tep, who also settled into his seat.

Robin laid out the facts of the case, most of which the museum’s legal representative disputed. Growing impatient, she said, “Should this matter go to trial, I’ll have Mr. Ho-Tep take the stand, and every member of the jury will acknowledge that he is a sentient individual who should be free, while the museum considers him mere property. He can speak for himself very well. And with a British accent.”

Steffords’s legal counsel said, “And we have bills of sale along with exchange agreements with the Egyptian Department of Antiquities, which grant us the right to retain Mr. Ho-Tep and other ancient artifacts for display in the museum. He is a primary draw for our patrons.”

The curator added, “However, the Necronomicon exhibit is our most popular attraction right now.”

“You must let me go!” the mummy insisted. “I will accept nothing less than the freedom that is my due.”

“And where exactly will you go if you leave the museum, Mr. Ho-Tep?” Steffords snapped. “Find a little apartment? Get yourself dry-cleaned?”

Indignant, the mummy balled his fists, his bony fingers crackling like tiny pieces of broken bamboo rolled into a ball. “Beware, lest I unleash the Pharaoh’s Curse upon you!”

The curator chuckled. “There’s no such thing as the Pharaoh’s Curse.”

Leaning across the table, the mummy said, “Can you really be certain about that, since the Big Uneasy? Are you bloody idiots prepared to wager your lives on that assumption? I’ve nothing to lose.”

The entire coterie from the museum blanched.

Robin intervened. “Please, let’s not go down that path. Wouldn’t you rather examine this problem and try to find an amicable solution?”

Ramen Ho-Tep and Bram Steffords made disbelieving sounds in unison, as if they were part of the same choir.

I had seen this type of enmity in custody or divorce cases, when the two sides are so bitter, so filled with animosity toward each other, that they won’t consider any solution unless the opposing party loses entirely. They don’t care whether possessions or children or common decency are thrown under the bus, so long as the other side doesn’t win. It looked as if the mummy and museum representatives were reaching that point. Robin might need to redefine win for each side in order for this to work.

She looked down at the notes on her legal pad and laid out her argument. “Let’s consider for a moment: What exactly does the museum require from Mr. Ho-Tep? And what specifically does Mr. Ho-Tep want out of his situation?”

“We want him on display for all of our museum patrons,” said the curator. “That is nonnegotiable.”

“And I want respect. When I was Pharaoh, the population of the Nile Valley bowed to me. I lived in glorious times, times that have been forgotten, and the world needs to be reeducated! Egyptian society formed the basis of all human civilization.”

Robin’s eyes sparkled. “That settles it, then! The solution is obvious.”

Steffords frowned. “Not to me.”

She said, “Mr. Ho-Tep is your prized Egyptian artifact, but you’re not using him to full advantage.”

The mummy crossed his bandaged arms over his bandaged chest. “I feel quite sufficiently used, thank you.”

“I mean, what better ambassador for teaching museum patrons about daily life in Egypt than Mr. Ho-Tep? Instead of keeping him sealed in a display case and away from the public, wouldn’t it be better to have him act as the docent in your Ancient Egypt wing? You could have story hour. Let him tell all the listeners about his reign and his culture.”

Kevin J. Anderson's books