The Wannovich sisters, Mavis and Alma, were both witches, pleasant and generous ladies, a little lonely. According to Mavis, her sister had a soft spot for me—call it a weekend crush. I try not to fraternize with my clients, and I had no romantic interest in Alma, and not just because she had been transformed into an enormous sow.
The Wannoviches were one of our gold-star cases; from a legal perspective, Robin had achieved exactly what the clients hoped for. The witches had suffered disastrous consequences from an attraction spell gone awry, caused by a misprint in a spell book. Alma—who hadn’t been all that attractive in the first place, judging by the photos Mavis showed us—was turned into a pig. The sisters had sued Howard Phillips Publishing, and the parties eventually reached an unusual settlement. Although Alma was not (yet) restored to human form, the two women accepted positions with the publisher. Mavis was now a senior editor there, while Alma spent her days rooting through the slush pile.
The two dropped in for a visit in the late afternoon. Mavis, a hefty woman who wore a black witch’s dress and pointed hat over a mop of black hair like steel wool, extended a paper plate covered with cellophane wrap. “I brought cookies.” She looked at me with a smile. “Especially for you, Mr. Chambeaux.”
The plate of flattened patties looked unappetizing. The witches might be good at making exotic potions and casting unusual spells, but they weren’t proficient in the kitchen. I also suspected that they might have added a few special ingredients from the magical pantry to soften me up—or harden me up—for amorous intentions. I didn’t need zombie Viagra, nor did I have any intention of becoming the Wannoviches’ zombie plaything. I wanted to keep our relationship on a professional level.
“We’ve come with good news,” Mavis said as she passed around the plate of cookies; Sheyenne carried it into the office kitchenette. “We’re introducing a new line at Howard Phillips Publishing, calling them Penny Dreadfuls, at a special price of only $5.99. Adventures for the unnatural audience, although we’ll distribute them widely across the country.”
Alma snorted with excitement and paced around the front offices. Mavis grinned at me, and I saw that her teeth, although still crooked, had recently been whitened. “You inspired our very first release, Mr. Chambeaux. It’s going to be a detective series about a zombie private investigator and his bleeding-heart human lawyer partner, who solve cases and defend the rights of monsters everywhere.”
“Sounds . . . familiar,” I said.
“We’re calling it Shamble and Die Investigations. Do you get it?” She giggled. “A play on your names.”
“Yes, we get it,” Robin said. “I’m not sure . . .”
“Oh, it’s only loosely based on your exploits, but we’d still like to have your permission? And Mr. Chambeaux, of course, is the heroic main character, a brave detective who won’t let even death stop him from solving crimes. We expect it to be a best seller.”
I couldn’t imagine who would want to read such a thing. “Are you pulling my leg, Mavis?”
“Oh, my, that would be dangerous, Mr. Chambeaux. Speaking of which, how is your arm? I hear it was detached during the fight against Harvey Jekyll.”
“All pieces are back in place.” I raised and lowered my arms to demonstrate, flexing my wrist and forearm.
Mavis continued. “I assure you, it’s no joke—well, there will be humor in the stories. The Penny Dreadfuls are entertaining stories, not dreary, socially meaningful tracts targeted toward women’s book clubs.”
“Glad to hear it,” Robin said, still uncertain. “I suppose.”
Sheyenne drifted closer. “And who’s going to write it?”
“We already have a ghostwriter,” Mavis said, still delighted. “And that’s why we’re here.”
I raised my eyebrows. “A ghost writer? Really?”
“Actually, she’s a vampire,” Mavis said. “An aspiring writer who’s thrilled to be part of the project. We can’t put her name on the cover because it’s going to be told in first person, and the readers have to think it’s truly written by ‘Dan Shamble.’ But we’d like the ghostwriter to speak with you, shadow you on a few cases, listen to the way you talk, pick up details. It’s the best way to get a sense of realism.”
“That wouldn’t be appropriate,” I said, although I couldn’t give an actual reason why.
Robin, with her legal expertise, did that for me. “Our cases are confidential, Mavis. Our clients remain anonymous unless they choose to go public. Having an observer would breach the attorney-client privilege.”
“And there is an element of danger in our investigations.” I plucked at my sport jacket to show the stitched-up holes. “I’ve been shot and disassembled myself.”
The sow sat down on the carpet with a loud snort, and Mavis was obviously disappointed.
Sheyenne, always business oriented, looked on the bright side. “We think it’s a delightful idea, Mavis, but if Howard Phillips Publishing is going to sell our stories, Chambeaux and Deyer will have to receive some sort of compensation.”
“Compensation?” Mavis said. “Well . . . of course. But these novels are merely inspired by the work of Mr. Chambeaux and Ms. Deyer.”
“And without that inspiration you wouldn’t have much of a book series.”
“No, I don’t suppose so.”
Sheyenne looked over at me with an appreciative smile. “I’m not suggesting a cut of the royalties, because your books could well generate additional business for us. . . . I was thinking of your own special skills. What if you were to perform a regular restorative spell on Dan? Once a month or so, just to freshen him up, keep him in good shape. And emergency fixes, as needed.”
I rolled my shoulders, bent my reattached arm. “I wouldn’t mind that.”
“Restorative spells are rather difficult, and they require a great deal of preparation. They take a lot out of us.” Mavis looked down at her sister, who snorted a lengthy sentence. “Oh, but if we need to do an emergency fix, I suppose that means something exciting must have happened.” She ran her eyes up and down my form. “We would like to keep Mr. Chambeaux fully functional.”
“If I stay fit and mobile, then I can keep working on new cases,” I pointed out.
“Or, as we call them, sequels,” Mavis mused. “Very well, it’s a deal. If you can find time for us, and our ghostwriter, in your schedule, then we’ll agree to perform regular restorative spells. Just to keep you limber and intact.”
“All right, but work comes first,” I said. “The cases don’t solve themselves.”
Alma snorted, and her sister jotted down notes. “Ooh, that’s a good line.”
Chapter 20