Sheyenne, meanwhile, reviewed the new black ledger book from Timeworn Treasures. Using a wooden ruler, she went down the columns of entries, sales figures, and names. McGoo hadn’t found any relevant listing in the “public” copy of the accounts, but I felt the right information might be in this book.
When Sheyenne looked up, she wore a strange expression on her translucent face. “You’ll want to see this, Beaux. Just found the notation for the Shakespeare theatrical props.”
“Maybe we can wrap up that case,” I said. “Who’s the thief?”
“We can’t guarantee he’s a ‘thief,’ ” Sheyenne said, “but he is the person who pawned all the props.” She touched the line. I leaned over to see the printed entry:
Wm. Shakespeare (Ghost)
“He pawned his own props?” I said. “Well, that raises a few suspicions.”
“Look at the date. Not only did he pawn the masks, wardrobe, and props—he did it the day after the fire.”
Since other cases had been popping lately, I hadn’t been giving Shakespeare daily progress reports, but he wasn’t exactly pestering me for results, either. In fact, he’d dodged my last attempts to contact him. I had assumed the troupe was busy preparing for the Tempest production.
The ghostly actors rehearsed their lines daily, and Shakespeare had advertised widely for an unnatural guest actor to play the part of Caliban. From what I’d heard, he had plenty of auditions—too many—but he finally settled on an appropriately large thespian ogre. Thanks to publicity generated by the fire that burned down their stage, the troupe would have a large crowd for their comeback performance, including many supportive ghosts.
Now, however, I knew Shakespeare had been far from honest with me, and that pissed me off. Being a private investigator was enough of a challenge under normal circumstances; I didn’t need my own clients to make a job more difficult. It happened all too often.
Fuming, I grabbed my fedora and jacket. “I’m going to have a few words with Mr. Shakespeare out at the Greenlawn Cemetery.” Then I turned back to Sheyenne. “Good catch, Spooky. Thanks for finding that.”
She had flipped to a different page in the ledger book, and she had a glow of excitement about her. “Oh, you don’t want to leave just yet—this may be even more important.”
She had discovered the entry for Jerry the zombie’s heart and soul, with a special asterisk by it. Then other lines, similarly starred, on previous pages. “Heart-and-soul combo packs were a hot item at Timeworn Treasures, just as Snazz said. More than twenty bundles sold.” She paused. “And all of them purchased by the same person.”
Sheyenne closed the black ledger book with finality, making her announcement as if she were a cinematic detective announcing the solution to a case. “It was Angela Drake—using Smile Syndicate funds.”
Chapter 39
Shakespeare’s ghost could wait—I knew where to find him and his acting troupe, and I could pose my questions later. Instead, I was off to Smile HQ to have a few words with Missy Goodfellow’s assistant.
The headquarters building was clean, modern, and professional-looking, completely aboveboard and respectable; it looked like any other office complex. No doubt, Missy’s accountants filed the proper (or at least proper-looking) tax forms, permits, and annual reports.
I might have thought Angela was buying up hearts and souls for her own private collection—a strange hobby, but who am I to judge? However, Snazz had deliberately indicated that they were purchased with Smile Syndicate funds. I intended to get some answers.
Admittedly, I didn’t present the most professional appearance when I passed through the sparkling glass and metal doors. I’d had a rough few days: My jacket was rumpled, and I was due for another freshening-up at the embalming parlor. Before Missy’s assistant could throw me out, I intended to hit her with my discovery—and then we’d have an entirely different type of conversation.
But Angela Drake wasn’t at the front reception desk.
Instead, I saw a harried-looking older woman with short curly hair, large out-of-style glasses, and a timid attitude toward her computer that made me think she still considered it a “newfangled thing.” She flinched as I came forward. I don’t know if she was overwhelmed by the job or reacting to my undead status.
The phone rang and she seized it, hunted and pecked around the switchboard buttons until she found a blinking light to poke, and said, “Smile Syndicate, how may I make your day a sunny one?” At least she had memorized the right greeting. “No, I’m afraid our lightbulb supply is in perfect order, but I will leave a message for Ms. Goodfellow in case we desire to upgrade.”
After she hung up, the receptionist turned to me and forced a smile, but she seemed out of practice. “How may I help you . . . sir?”
“Where’s Angela Drake? I’d like to speak with her.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Ms. Drake is . . . no longer with us.”
Since Alphonse Wheeler had warned us about the nefarious activities of the Smile Syndicate, I suddenly imagined that Angela had been murdered, her body hidden, the evidence covered up so she couldn’t reveal the information she knew. “What happened to her? Is she dead?”
The older woman flushed. “No, sir! She simply left the company. I’m just a temp, filling in for the interim.”
The phone rang again, and she grabbed it as if it were the cavalry coming to her rescue. “Smile Syndicate, how may I make your day a sunny one?”
I stood there, unmoving—looming, you might say. It made the receptionist nervous, but that wasn’t a bad thing. I waited as she made clumsy chitchat with the unsolicited caller until finally the person on the other end hung up. She turned back to me. I hadn’t moved, but now I leaned closer. She tried admirably not to wince or draw back, clearly afraid that her nostrils might be assaulted by a wave of stench from the grave, but I had taken care of my basic hygiene duties. If anything, I smelled like fresh-as-spring soap.
“I need to talk with Angela,” I repeated. “Where can I find her?”
“I . . . I wouldn’t know, sir. And I’m not allowed to give out former employee information.”
“Then I’d like to see Missy Goodfellow.”
The temp stammered, and a voice interrupted me from a side doorway I hadn’t even heard open. “There’s nothing we can help you with, Mr. Chambeaux.” If anything, Missy’s hair was even more shockingly yellow than the first time I’d seen her. Her pantsuit was so dazzlingly white it reminded me of a toothpaste ad.
“I need to ask Angela a few questions. It’s for an interesting case.”
“All of your cases are interesting to you, I’m sure, but Angela is unavailable. She’s been transferred to Tasmania and is quite out of touch. She has gone to work in a wilderness sanctuary for the devils.”
“Convenient,” I said.
“It was her life’s dream.” Missy’s smile was so brittle that it would have broken into a thousand pieces if she’d sneezed.
“Not a very traditional dream,” I said.
“Angela was not a traditional woman. And I’m afraid I cannot help you, either.”