Chapter 3
I intended to celebrate by going on a genuine, long-postponed date with Sheyenne. Unfortunately, Robin overheard me ask her. “Oh, I love Shakespeare in the Park!” Robin flashed me that big bright smile that could always soften my heart, even if it wasn’t beating anymore.
“It’s Shakespeare in the Dark,” I corrected her, but the detail didn’t matter to her. “The theater troupe is composed mostly of ghosts, with other unnaturals as guest stars.”
“They’re doing Macbeth!” The troupe had originally announced a performance of the comedies Taming of the Shrew and The Merchant of Venice, but the bloody and murderous tragedies were bigger crowd pleasers in the Unnatural Quarter.
Robin’s excitement continued to grow. “Would it be all right if I tagged along? I’ll pay for my own ticket, and I’ll be no trouble—I promise.”
So much for the quiet, romantic date with my ghost girlfriend....
I saw the flicker of disappointment on Sheyenne’s face, knowing she would have preferred a semi-normal evening with me, but she smiled. “Sure, Robin. We wouldn’t expect you to go by yourself, especially at night, to the Greenlawn Cemetery.”
Robin looked as happy as I’d seen her in a long time, and I appreciated Sheyenne for being so flexible. Robin is a partner and a friend, and all-around good company—not your typical fifth wheel. Besides, it wasn’t as if she would put a damper on any hanky-panky, since Sheyenne and I could have no physical contact anyway. It would just be a nice night out for the three of us.
Sheyenne showed her genius at innovation, adding spice to our date. Although I couldn’t touch her, and she couldn’t touch me, she could touch inanimate objects. (Don’t think about it too much—I didn’t make up the rules.) As we passed through the cemetery gates, she slipped a tan polyester glove over one spectral hand and reached out to me. “It takes a fair amount of poltergeist concentration to do this, Beaux, and it won’t feel exactly the same, but at least we can hold hands. Sort of.”
When I slipped my hand around the fingers of the glove and squeezed, I felt a firm hand inside. It was Sheyenne! “We’re like a couple of teenagers.”
She batted her spectral eyelashes. “Holding hands isn’t enough, but at least it’s contact.”
“Best I’ve had in a long time,” I said. “This may be a good date after all.” She squeezed her fingers, lacing them in mine, and I squeezed back.
Hand in hand, we walked through the wrought-iron cemetery gates, which had a welcome mat on either side.
We arrived just before midnight, still hoping to get good seats. It proved easier than expected, since only a small crowd had gathered for the show. Previously, the Shakespeare troupe had held a matinee performance at 10:00 P.M. for families and children, but they discontinued it due to lack of attendance.
Every time I returned to Greenlawn Cemetery, I had mixed feelings—how could I not? There’s no place like home. This was where I’d been buried after my murder, where Robin, McGoo, kindly old Mrs. Saldana—and not many others—had come to pay their last respects. Private detectives had clients, but few friends; some unsuccessful PIs didn’t have many clients, either.
After the Big Uneasy, one in seventy-five dead people came back as a zombie, while one in thirty returned as a ghost. Even from six feet under, I had beaten the odds. It was one of the first lucky breaks I’d had in my life; I just wish it’d happened in my life.
I’d come out of the ground nicely embalmed but caked with dirt, my funereal suit ruined. (I almost never wore it anyway.) One other guy had risen up the same evening, Steve something-or-other. As I’d stood there on the dew-damp grass, trying to gain my bearings, I heard the sound of sod tearing from a nearby grave, seen the dirt move and a questing hand reach up and out, fingers crooked. By now, you’d think gravediggers would have figured out a quick-release exit from the plot. I lurched over like a drunk arthritic, still trying to loosen up my own joints. I reached down to grab my undead comrade by the hand and helped him clamber out of the ground.
We brushed each other off as best we could until we were somewhat presentable. I looked around at all the tombstones and crypts, saw the wrought-iron gates, and pointed. “I think that’s the way out.”
Still disoriented, we shambled out of the cemetery, getting our bearings. I even gave him my business card, which somebody had placed in the pocket of my burial suit (now, that’s planning ahead). Steve and I shook hands, wished each other better luck the second time around, and I made my way back to the offices of Chambeaux & Deyer to a still-grieving Robin and the ghost of Sheyenne. . . .
Greenlawn Cemetery had changed quite a lot in the months since. As Robin went off to buy her own ticket for the evening’s Shakespeare performance, Sheyenne and I followed other theater fans into the graveyard. Just inside the gate, we passed a small card table manned by a plump woman with cat’s-eye glasses. Her fangs were so small it took me a moment to realize she was a vampire. She greeted everyone coming in: “Hello, welcome to the cemetery. Hello, I hope you have a good time.”
With all the zombies, ghosts, vampires, and whatnot coming back from the dead, well-meaning volunteers had established a Welcome Back Wagon. I stopped to take a look at their packets and complimented the plump vampire. “Thanks for doing this. I sure could have used a friendly face after I came out of the grave.”
The vampire volunteer made a tsking sound. “So sorry you had to face that yourself, dear. You didn’t get a welcome packet, then?”
“Afraid not.”
“Here you go, dear. You deserve one. It’s been hard to find sponsors, so the goodie bag has an eclectic mix of useful and, well, interesting items. But we’re growing every day.”
I accepted the packet and thanked her. Drifting beside me, Sheyenne thought aloud. “Maybe we should include Chambeaux and Deyer refrigerator magnets—to let the newcomers know about the services we offer.” She was always looking for new business. “New unnaturals often come back with mysteries to solve, or probate and legal issues.”
“But refrigerator magnets?” I didn’t want to dismiss Sheyenne’s suggestion outright, but the recent raid on the golem sweatshop and all those ridiculous black-market souvenirs had given me a jaded view toward commercialization. “Let’s think about it. Maybe we can find something classy.”