The cemetery was a popular place, and I hoped someone or something might have seen a shadowy, sinister figure lurking among the crypts and tombstones after dark. (Although how would a witness be able to tell a sneaky arsonist from the perfectly normal shadowy and sinister figures that lurked in the cemetery?) I needed someone with a sharp eye for detail.
The dusk shadows were lengthening, but it wasn’t yet dark enough that nocturnal monsters had ventured out to run their everynight errands. I moved from crypt to crypt, looking for broken seals and open doorways, calling out “Hello?” as I peered inside. Cemetery addresses were incomprehensible to me: plot and tombstone numbers, rural crypt delivery.
I was looking for Edgar Allan, a simpering troll who coopted unoccupied crypts and rented them out on short-term leases, although he had no legal right to do so. He had set up his real estate headquarters office in one of them.
All the signs outside the stone door were a dead giveaway, each one sporting a logo of the real estate agency, a smiling photo of the troll’s gray and drawn face, and a phone number. Cheerful service—alive or dead!
The scaly simian creature had moved a pair of office-surplus metal file cabinets and a desk into the crypt, installed a telephone, and set up a metal bookshelf that held three-ring binders marked Recent Listings. Sooner or later he would get his own website.
The first time I’d blundered into the tomb, hoping to get away from Larry the werewolf hit man, the troll wasn’t overly glad to see me. In fact, Edgar Allan’s burly partner Burt—an evictions specialist—had threatened to throw me back onto the cemetery lawn, flat on my face. Now, though, we were old friends, and Edgar brightened to see me darkening his doorway.
“Mr. Chambeaux, how can I help you with your real estate needs?” He rubbed his gnarled gray fingers together. When he shook my hand, his palms were dry and dusty. (I had expected slimy.) “Do you need more of my business cards? Have you handed them out to your clients?” He pulled open a desk drawer and yanked out more cards.
“I’ve still got plenty, Mr. Allan. Just here to ask some questions. For a case.”
“Happy to cooperate—I help you, and you help me, right? Never underestimate the power of networking.”
“I’ll do what I can,” I said. “I’ve been hired to investigate the recent fire here.”
“My, that blaze drew quite a crowd. In fact, if those Shakespeare plays attracted audiences that large, the actors wouldn’t have any financial troubles, if you know what I mean.” The troll raised his lofty, scaly eyebrows.
“The crime-scene investigators will be doing an analysis, but I think the best chance for solving this case would be to track down a witness. And since you’re usually here, and you always keep your eyes and ears open, I was hoping you might have noticed something or someone.”
Edgar Allan settled back in his seat and pulled out one of the binders of recent listings. He pretended to distract himself as he pondered, but he turned the binder in my direction, flipping from page to page, showing off properties zoned for private businesses, small offices, even a new business park. He had already suggested that we move Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations to a brightly lit, carpeted office complex, but I thought our dingy old second-floor digs had character.
“Hmm, let me see. . . .” The troll turned another page while I stood there not moving, patient; zombies are good at that. Finally, Edgar Allan said, “Honestly, I did see a few figures running around, but didn’t pay much attention. By the time the fire started and people came to watch the show, I was too busy handing out business cards. Wouldn’t miss a great promotional opportunity like that.”
I wasn’t surprised, but I kept my hopes up. “And where’s Burt? Is he wandering the crypts at night?”
“Burt went to Transfusion to get coffee. When he comes back I’ll ask him—and I’ll also put out the word among my tenants. They always spy and gossip about each other anyway. Hmm, this fire might be the impetus for us to start a neighborhood watch in the cemetery.” The troll’s lamp-like eyes brightened. “Are we in any danger? I thought the fire was a one-time thing.”
“I have my suspicions of who might be responsible, and I doubt they’re done causing trouble.” I didn’t have any proof, however. I needed to learn more about Senator Rupert Balfour and just how far the man was willing to go to ensure passage of his Unnatural Acts Act.
Chapter 16
When the madam of a brothel says she needs you right away, it’s usually a sales pitch, maybe a special advertising promotion or an extension of the Very Happy Hour pricing. But I could tell from Neffi’s tone that she was dead serious. Normally the old mummy’s voice sounded like crackling dried papyrus, but on the phone I detected an undertone of fear.
And she was really pissed.
“If you don’t find me security soon, Mr. Chambeaux, I’m going to call in the army, or maybe the army of the night, to surround this place with tanks and bazookas. It wouldn’t be good for business, but at least it would keep my girls safe.”
It was the middle of the night, and I had gone back to the office to get some work done. Sheyenne was there, also working (and, I think, still unsettled by her time with Travis in the storage unit that day). She had forwarded me the phone call. “I’ll have a full protection crew for you tomorrow, Neffi,” I promised. I already planned to attend the Adopt-a-Golem job fair. “What happened?”
“Better come down here and see for yourself.”
I headed out the door, telling Sheyenne I was off to the Full Moon brothel. Not the sort of thing you usually say to your girlfriend, but I was distracted.
The withered old mummy was waiting for me on the front porch with the door wide open. Nightshade and Hemlock, the vampire princesses, stood together, talking intently. They still wore their sexy negligees, but they had removed their makeup in the hour before sunrise; one glance at them au naturel and I shuddered to think of waking up next to them. Cinnamon the werewolf was brushing her face, running a long tongue over her teeth as if she just couldn’t turn off the animal-magnetism sell job. The succubus, wide-eyed and waifish with her tight baby-doll perm, remained inside the shadows of the parlor, trying to keep out of the public eye. Her emerald gaze met mine; I could see she was frightened, and she looked so vulnerable.
Indignant and fuming, Neffi strutted back and forth. Her attitude would have made even a harpy cringe. She snapped at me with the sound of a neck bone breaking, “Mr. Chambeaux, we’ve had another threat.” She wrapped her gnarled arm possessively around mine, then lashed out at the vampire women and the two zombie girls who had shuffled out to see what was going on. “Don’t just stand there, ladies—tear down those posters! Make a bonfire and invite all the unnaturals. We’ll have a marshmallow roast and show everyone how we react to intimidation.”
“But Neffi,” said Hemlock, the strawberry-blond vampire, “I thought you wanted to keep this for evidence.”
“I want those despicable posters gone. Mr. Chambeaux has already seen them.”