“I haven’t even asked my questions yet.”
“I wasn’t going to encourage you, due to my complete lack of interest.”
“We could talk about it over lunch,” I said. Looking at her pristine, spotless white pantsuit, I suggested, “I know a place that serves all-you-can-eat barbecue ribs.”
“No, thank you, Mr. Chambeaux. I don’t eat red meat. And I don’t dine with corpses.”
Time to make her more uncomfortable. “It’s about purchases made at the Timeworn Treasures pawnshop. The sales records indicate that your assistant used Smile Syndicate money to buy numerous heart-and-soul bundle packs, including one that belongs to a zombie named Jerry, who is my client.”
Now Missy looked disturbed. “I’m quite certain you have no proof of that.”
Not exactly the outright denial I had expected from her. “I’m quite certain I do. Angela acquired one set of the pawnshop books during the liquidation auction, but I’ve obtained the second set—the accurate one.”
A dark cloud crossed Missy’s expression. The phone rang again, and the receptionist was so intent on listening to our discussion that she didn’t think to answer it for three rings. Missy glared at her, and she scrabbled for the phone.
“I should have known that gremlin would keep two sets of books. It’s standard business practice, after all.”
“Not in my business,” I said.
Missy gave me a withering look. No sunshine there. “Any serious business, Mr. Chambeaux. But as I said previously and repeatedly, I’m afraid I cannot help you. I don’t have the hearts and souls you’re after.”
I put a light tone into my voice. “Then I’ll just have to keep digging.”
“Be careful it doesn’t turn out to be your own grave.”
“Been there, done that,” I said.
“I have nothing to hide, Mr. Chambeaux,” Missy insisted. “Now I have to get back to work.” She turned back to the door that led to the inner sanctum of offices. At the last moment, she remembered to add, “I hope your day is a sunny one.”
Chapter 40
Since I hadn’t gotten anywhere with the Smile Syndicate, I headed back to the Unnatural Quarter to track down the ghost who called himself Shakespeare. On the way, I received a call from the real estate offices at the Greenlawn Cemetery. “While you’re out and around, Mr. Chambeaux, could you please stop by the crypt? I’d like to show you something.”
I envisioned a binder filled with snapshots of rental properties, attractive alternative offices for Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations. Edgar Allan the troll didn’t seem to understand that we liked our somewhat seedy digs in the somewhat seedy part of town. Location, location, location.
“We’re not in the market for acquiring property right now, Mr. Allan.”
“I’m not always about work, you know,” said the troll in his thin voice. “You asked me to contact you if I had any further information about the arson here in the cemetery.”
Well, better late than never! “You said you didn’t see anything.”
“I didn’t, but Burt did. He often roams the grounds late at night.”
“I was already on my way over,” I said. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Before I confronted Shakespeare, I wanted to gather as much information as possible.
Inside the vacant stone crypt, the troll and his burly assistant were waiting for me. Burt had a stack of For Rent and For Sale signs, along with the logo of the real estate agency. “Cheerful service—alive or dead!”
“Ah, there you are! Perfect timing.” The real estate agent rubbed his hands together as he stood up from his desk. “Burt was just about to go out and mark a few properties. Would you like to join him? You could chat on the way . . . and have a look at the options while you’re at it. It wouldn’t hurt to see what’s available. No obligation.”
“Maybe some other time—I have another appointment here in the cemetery,” I said. “What exactly did you see on the night of the fire, Burt?”
With a voice as thick as hardening epoxy, Burt the evictions specialist said, “I like to walk the cemetery grounds at night. Clears my head.”
I didn’t know how much Burt had in his head that needed clearing. “You mean, like a security guard? Does Greenlawn pay you for that?” Maybe I could get a job application for Bill the golem.
“Neighborhood watch,” Burt said as we stepped outside the office crypt. “I like fire, and I wasn’t far from the theater stage when I noticed the first flames. I saw who lit it, but he vanished before I could catch him.”
“Burt doesn’t usually let people get away,” said Edgar Allan. “Special circumstances.”
“Can you tell me what he looked like?”
“He was a ghost,” Burt said, then proceeded to describe William Shakespeare in perfect detail.
On the other side of the Greenlawn Cemetery—in a large expansion area marked as the site of future graves, complete with a sign saying DON’T WAIT! GET YOURS NOW!—I saw the mostly rebuilt theater stage, with construction teams, a couple of golems and zombies with work belts and hammers, hauling two-by-fours or sheets of plywood while ghostly actors directed the operations. A large new sound system boasting tall speakers added a more modern touch to the mockup of the Globe Theatre.
Burt pointed. “There’s the guy right now. Don’t know why he’s rebuilding the whole stage when he burned it down in the first place.”
I was sad but not surprised, since all the clues had been pointing to that answer, but I still didn’t understand why. “Thanks, Burt. I needed to have a talk with him anyway.”
Edgar Allan scuttled out from the crypt door and gave me something. “Could you hand him my card, if you find a way to slip it into the conversation?”
Shakespeare didn’t see me coming. When two of the spectral actors called him over, and he saw the look on my face, he knew, but by that time he couldn’t avoid me without fleeing in panic. He probably guessed what I was going to say before I spoke a word. The ghost paled, turned more translucent, but at least he didn’t vanish out of existence, though he plainly wanted to.
For the time being, I kept my voice down so the other actors didn’t hear. “I know you’re responsible for the arson, Mr. Shakespeare. A witness saw you light the fire, and I have pawnshop records showing that you sold the theatrical props that you claimed were lost in the blaze.”
“Oh.” He sounded embarrassed. “Are you sure we can’t pin this on some of Senator Balfour’s crazies? Or even leftovers from the Straight Edge movement?”
“No, Mr. Shakespeare. It was you.”