He let out a long sigh. “You cannot blame me for trying. Given the uproar about the Unnatural Acts Act, I was hoping to ride on that publicity, smear a little more mud on some bad people who deserve it.”
“I agree they deserve it, but they’ve done enough genuinely despicable things—we don’t need to make up additional ones. You hired me to solve the crime of arson, and I did.” I couldn’t keep the annoyance out of my tone. “I expect our bill to be paid in full.”
“Are you going to turn me in to the police?” he asked. “That would ruin us—and our big comeback performance is in two nights. Please let me explain first.”
“I’m listening, but your words may fall on dead ears.”
“I did it to attract attention to our plight, to generate larger audiences. The real crime, Mr. Chambeaux, is that unnaturals no longer appreciate the works of Shakespeare. Since the fire, though, we’ve received so much sympathy. Patrons have opened their purses, and donations flowed in more than ever before. And with the insurance money—”
I cut him off right there. “There’s not going to be any insurance money. If you burned the stage down yourself, that would be insurance fraud. You’ll withdraw your claim immediately.”
“Oh, you’re absolutely right—I’m forgetting about modern law. But there’s been no fraud committed, yet. I, uh, tarried overlong in filing the insurance claims. Those forms are so complicated, and I’ve been too busy and distracted.” He waved his hands to indicate the stage set. “This effort requires the fullness of my attention, not simply the stage, the wardrobe, and that complicated new sound system, but also the casting, the rehearsals, the temperamental actors. And the show is day after tomorrow! The Tempest is a most intricate play, and it was an immense challenge to write—I had to develop my literary skills to the fullest before I wrote it.”
“I thought The Tempest was Shakespeare’s very first play,” I said.
The ghost seemed even more embarrassed. “We are performing a revised version—the author’s preferred text. Howard Phillips Publishing is going to issue a new edition of the script, complete with critical commentary from the online reviews.” He paused, still worried whether I would have him arrested. “And since my theatrical company owned the original stage, I’m allowed to burn it, aren’t I? Legally? I admit my words were . . . somewhat misleading, but is that an actual crime? Must you turn me in to the authorities?”
“The donors you mentioned—if you actively solicited their donations, then that’s fraud, which is a felony.”
“No! Not at all, they just came forward. I didn’t seek them out.”
“You wasted my time, Mr. Shakespeare. I could have been working on other cases, solving real crimes for real clients.”
“It was for a good cause, truly. Please don’t ruin it now. The Tempest could turn everything around for us. Is there not some kind of detective-client privilege? Our big performance is coming up, and I’ve myriad things to do. All the world’s a stage, but I can’t seem to finish even this little piece of it.”
I was disinclined to be sympathetic, but he seemed sincere. Besides, Sheyenne did love the play. “I might reconsider, if I got two free tickets.”
“Absolutely! Front row seats on opening night. You are my special guests—it’ll be a show you’ll never forget.”
I wasn’t sure about that, but considering how much Sheyenne’s feelings had been hurt—not just by Travis but by me as well—I wanted to make it up to her. I’d take her out on a nice date. Not good enough to heal all wounds, but it was a start.
Chapter 41
The next day, Tiffany and Bill stopped by the office, bubbling with excitement. “Can only stay a minute!” said the vampire. “Bill wanted to share the good news.”
The golem’s clay face was stretched into an absurdly large grin. “Got a job!”
“Congratulations, Bill,” I said. “Doing what?”
“As a security guard. I wasn’t so sure about the job at first, considering my previous work making stupid souvenirs in an underground sweatshop. But I think I’ll be good at it.”
Tiffany smiled, showing her fangs. “Bill, you’re good at whatever you do.”
The golem seemed embarrassed and explained to us, as if we were concerned about his priorities, “And I promise I’ll still have time to keep Tiffany’s house in shape.”
“Sounds like just the right job for you, Bill,” I reassured him. “A security guard spends most of his time standing around like a statue, anyway.”
“I’m good at that,” Bill said.
Robin sounded concerned. “Just be careful. Security guard in the Unnatural Quarter is a high-risk profession.”
“He lives for danger,” Tiffany said, and I could detect no humor in her comment. “We’re off to get him his uniform. He’ll look impressive in dark blue. Also, remember not to make plans for this Saturday night—all of you. That’s when I’m doing my comedy act at the Laughing Skull. Bring your friends. You promised you’d come, and you promised you’d laugh.”
“We didn’t promise to laugh,” I objected.
“But you will.” Tiffany’s comment sounded like a threat. “You will.”
Mountains of papers were stacked on the floor of Robin’s office, legal volumes spread out on the desk, and a brand-new box of yellow legal pads from the office-supply store was already half-empty. I stood in her doorway, admiring—and intimidated by—the sheer volume of work she had tackled.
The direct line rang in her office, and she worked her way around the desk to answer it. I watched her face fall. “Calm down, Mrs. Patterson! Just tell me about it. Slower. Wait a second, I’m going to have my partner get on the line.”
She motioned for me to pick up the other extension, and she continued, trying to sound calm, but her eyes were wide. “At the moment, you’re on solid legal ground, Mr. and Mrs. Patterson. I filed vigorous appeals, and there’s been a stay. You’re allowed to remain in the house during the proceedings. No one can take you out of there.”
“But these people aren’t reading legal documents, Ms. Deyer!” said Walter Patterson on the other line.
His wife continued sobbing. “Balfour’s people are barbarians! They vandalized our house, spray-painted the most horrible slurs on the garage door. They smashed our windows.”
Mr. Patterson picked up the story. “They threw bunches of garlic and wolfsbane through the picture window in our living room! How can we live in the house now? We’ll need to replace the carpeting, fumigate every room. I’ll have to rent a new coffin. My favorite one is ruined.”
“And they scattered garlic all around the house, as well as a circle of salt—as if that’s going to prevent us from leaving!”
“We’re not leaving,” Mr. Patterson said, defiant.