In its agreement, the Final Repose Storage Complex had a long list of prohibited items, most prominently “No Storing of Bodies Allowed.” Some of the undead had trouble paying the rent for a larger place in the Quarter, so they might be tempted by the cheaper lodgings of a storage unit.
There were also restrictions against cursed artifacts without proper safety interlocks, and any hazardous objects connected to black magic and necromancy. There had been a recent accident in a different storage complex—an ancient flesh-eating plague was released when a scurrying rat knocked over a clay Sumerian urn. Afterward, the local authorities cracked down and imposed strict regulations on potentially dangerous items placed in storage.
Previously, we had been allowed to access our unit whenever we liked; now each tenant had to sign in at the front office, and the manager was authorized to (was in fact required to) inspect and maintain a list of specific items stored there. Since Chambeaux & Deyer investigations merely kept boxes of customer and case files, we were probably the most boring tenant in the complex.
As we drove to the Final Repose, Travis was sunny and smiling, chattering away with childhood reminiscences. Sheyenne allowed herself to participate, gradually warming up to her fond nostalgia.
We arrived at the front office, which according to a handwritten sign on the door was Under New Management. When we entered the cramped office, I was surprised to see that the new manager was the disgraced former necromancer Maximilian Grubb. He smiled automatically at Sheyenne and Travis, hoping for new business, then recognized me and recoiled in alarm. “Now what have I done? Are you trying to ruin me again? I don’t have any golems working here—this is just me!”
His frantic reaction raised my suspicions, so I pressed him. (I couldn’t help it; an occupational hazard.) “And have you filed all the proper paperwork? Publicly disseminated a list of every unusual and possibly dangerous item kept in these units?”
“I th-think so,” Max stammered. He was pale, and the third eye drawn on his forehead seemed cruder than before. A digest-sized booklet of sudoku puzzles sat on his little desk. “What else do I need to do? I’m t-trying to run everything right. I’ve gone straight.”
“Did you file a specific permit for each type of item?” I asked, making up the requirement out of thin air. “If something goes wrong, the authorities need to know whom to blame.”
“I’ll do that, right away, I promise!”
“That isn’t why we’re here, Beaux,” Sheyenne said, and I realized she must be anxious to be done with this obligation. “We need to get into our storage unit.”
“Oh, you’re tenants!” Maximus Max said. “I only recently acquired this business as an investment. I’m still getting to know my longtime customers.”
Sheyenne’s brother thrust his hand forward. “Travis Carey, pleased to meet you!” I was afraid they were birds of a feather.
“You won’t be seeing Mr. Carey again,” I said. “We’re here to access our things.” I signed on the clipboard and marked down our unit’s number, then added an edge in my voice. “But we’ll be watching closely to make sure you follow all rules and regulations.”
“I plan on it, Mr. Chambeaux. I’ve turned over a new leaf, I promise!”
Leaving a flustered Max in his office, we went to our unit. I fished the key from the pocket of my sport jacket, opened the padlock, and rolled up the metal door. Inside, the cement-floored unit was dusty, with plenty of cobwebs and spiders (at no extra charge). A black-and-yellow salamander scuttled in its drunken waddling gait along the floor and ducked through a hole into the adjacent unit.
Sheyenne’s possessions were on a separate shelf from the case files. Travis and I pulled the three boxes into the middle of the unit and lifted off the covers. I stood back while Sheyenne and her brother picked through her clothes and found family documents, old letters from her parents, and a scrapbook full of photos of Sheyenne as a little girl, shots of her mom and dad, family vacations they had taken together. Travis was in a few of them, but not many.
“This is . . . all?” Travis said.
“All that remains.” Sheyenne picked up a photo of the two of them dressed up for Halloween.
It was a somber time, but Travis could not hide his interest in two gold necklaces, an antique cameo pendant, a few rings—the extent of her mother’s remaining jewelry. Travis picked up the necklaces. “This could really help me out, sis. I’ve run up a few gambling debts.”
“Big surprise.” Sheyenne sounded more disappointed than angry. “Take them. Do whatever you want. I don’t need them anymore.”
Travis brightened inappropriately. “You’re the best sister in the world!”
“Yes, I am. I wish you’d figured that out earlier.”
With a rapid gesture of a man accustomed to magic tricks, Travis pocketed the jewelry, after which he no longer seemed interested in the scrapbooks or photos. “Why don’t we just leave the rest of it here? Since I don’t have a permanent place to stay, better to keep the family photos in storage for safekeeping.”
Chapter 15
That evening, I went back to the Greenlawn Cemetery alone so I could prod through the charred remains of the Globe Theatre set. The theatrical stage had been built from cheap and flimsy materials: papier-mâché, plywood, colored paper, and dyed fabrics. Now it was a sodden mess of ash and scraps—nothing salvageable whatsoever. The firefighters had been thorough and enthusiastic when they quenched the blaze. A complete and total loss.
Shakespeare had given me a detailed inventory of the possessions lost in the blaze, including hard-to-find Elizabethan costumes, large Comedy and Tragedy masks for the play, and antique furniture, not to mention the set itself. The ghost had also tallied the performance money they’d previously earned per show, so as to estimate loss of income. It was a dismal amount, however, and I could see that the theatrical company definitely needed those arts grants (or, preferably, bigger audiences). If we could prove malicious arson, the haunted acting company might generate some sympathy and enough donations to keep themselves going—provided they could afford to build another set.
With my shoe I nudged a blackened piece of sheetrock, hoping that some brilliant revelation would scuttle out. A crime lab would have to run a chemical analysis to determine whether a fuel or accelerant, or a carelessly tossed cigarette butt, had been used to start the blaze. I had little doubt that this was an intentional fire set by someone who wanted to harm the Shakespearean company. But I needed proof.