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  I also knew that Alvin Ricketts had no interest whatsoever in owning this crypt.

  “What kind of suggestion?” the real estate troll said. “I can make a deal. Nobody beats my deals.”

  “What if I could get the legal owner of this property to sign over the deed to you, free and clear, completely aboveboard—in exchange for the painting?” (Which was rightfully Alvin’s property anyway, but I didn’t want to tangle up the conversation.)

  Edgar Allan seemed interested, but narrowed his big yellow eyes. “If we handed over the painting, we’d never hear from you again.”

  “I won’t take it now. You deliver the painting to my office tomorrow,” I said. “Bring Burt for protection if you like.” I nodded toward the huge troll. “I’ll see to it that the crypt owner signs all the right documents. We have an attorney and a notary right there in our offices.” I reached into my jacket and pulled out one of my business cards.

  After making sure that I took one of his cards, the troll shone his little flashlight on mine. “Chambeaux and Deyer Investigations. What’s the catch?”

  “No catch. Just be careful. That’s a beautiful painting—I’d hate to have it damaged.”

  The troll glanced back at the large-eyed zombie puppies. “You think so? I was wondering if it might be too bit kitschy, myself.”

  “I’m not an art critic. Tomorrow, in my office at noon.”

  “We don’t usually go out at that hour . . . but I’ll make an exception.”

  I slipped out of the crypt and back into the shadows, ducking behind a tall stone angel, then moving to a big flat grave marker. I intended to circle around as quietly as I could on my way to the wrought-iron cemetery gate.

  Before I made it to the third tombstone, a furry mass of growling energy slammed into me and knocked me to the ground. The werewolf hit man grabbed me by the collar and yanked me back to my feet. He was a smelly, hairy, muscular guy, half-wolf and half-human. His claws dug into the fabric of my sport jacket.

  “Careful, this is my only jacket.”

  The werewolf pushed his long snout close to my face. “I caught you, Shamble.” I could see he was having trouble forming words with all those teeth in the way.

  “Chambeaux,” I corrected him. “Can’t a guy take a peaceful stroll in a cemetery at night?”

  He patted me down, poking with his claws. “Where’s the painting?”

  “Which painting?” Not the cleverest response, but werewolves aren’t the cleverest of creatures, especially the full-time lycanthropes.

  “You know which painting. I’ve been watching you.”

  “I know you were hired by the Ricketts heirs,” I admitted, “and I’m sure your employers think they’re very important, but I have plenty of other cases. As a private detective who specializes in unnatural clientele, believe me, I’ve got more than enough reasons to come to a cemetery.”

  Growling, the werewolf searched me again, though I don’t know where he suspected I might hide a large rolled-up painting. My chest pocket?

  I heard heavy footfalls and looked up to see the scaly form of Burt the troll. “There a problem here?” Burt was sufficiently intimidating that even the werewolf didn’t want to mess with him.

  I pulled myself away from the claws and straightened my jacket in an attempt to regain some dignity. “I was just leaving,” I said, and looked pointedly at the werewolf.

  “I was escorting him out,” the hairy guy growled. “Name’s Larry.”

  Burt loomed there, watching as the two of us left the cemetery.

  After we both passed through the gate, I sized up the werewolf. Since Chambeaux & Deyer had accepted the Alvin Ricketts case only a month and a half before my murder, maybe it was connected to my own case somehow. “Say, Larry, you wouldn’t happen to be the guy who shot me, would you?” No harm in asking.

  “Yeah, I heard about that.” The hairy hit man growled deep in his throat. “Do I look like the kind of guy who sneaks up behind someone in a dark alley and shoots him in the back of the head?”

  “That wouldn’t be my guess.”

  “Have you ever seen a werewolf victim? Look at you, Shamble. You could pass for human, if somebody doesn’t look too close.” He flexed his claws. “If I killed you, you’d have been a pile of shredded meat.”

  “I’ll count my blessings, then,” I said. “See you around.” I touched a finger to the brim of my fedora in a brief salute and headed away from the cemetery.

  CHAPTER 2

  Sitting stiffly at my desk—these days I’m usually stiff, no matter what I do; the aftereffects of rigor mortis are a bitch—I pondered the loose threads of investigations under way, figuring out how the evidence tied together. I like the bustle and little distracting noises around the office: the ringing phone, the slam of file-cabinet drawers, the clacking of a keyboard as Sheyenne’s ghost types up reports.

  She floated into the office carrying two manila case files. “Caught you daydreaming again, Beaux.” Sheyenne dropped the files on my desktop. “Did you solve my murder yet?”

  “I’m working on it, Spooky,” I said, and it was the truth. “Aren’t you the one who tells me to focus on paying cases first?”

  “Somebody has to—Robin sure doesn’t.” She shook her head. “You need to have a talk with her. She might as well walk around with the words Ask me about pro-bono work tattooed on her forehead.”

  “It’s refreshing to work with someone who still has a heart.”

  I’m seven years older than Robin, and throughout our friendship I’ve thought of my partner as a sweet kid sister. Sheyenne, on the other hand, is much more than that. My girlfriend, or former girlfriend—but former in the sense that she’s no longer alive, not former in the sense that I don’t care for her anymore—was the same age as Robin, but I definitely didn’t think of Sheyenne as a kid sister.

  I look pretty good for a dead guy, or so I’ve been told: well-trimmed dark hair, striking eyes accentuated by bold eyebrows, just the right amount of “rugged.” I used to wonder how I would deal with turning forty, but now it isn’t an issue. Since I was killed a couple of months shy of my fortieth birthday, I can claim to be thirty-nine for the rest of my existence and not even have to lie about it.

  Sheyenne sighed, a conscious gesture since she hadn’t drawn a living breath in almost two months. She was semitransparent as she hovered in front of me, her face a little emaciated, her eyes hollow from her lingering death, but she was still gorgeous with those big blue eyes, great figure (though too ethereal now), full lips, and an easy smile that gave the impression she was just cheesecake—a part she had played well as a cocktail waitress and nightclub singer. But I saw right through that, and I knew she was smarter than me and my imagination put together.

  After working ten years at various jobs in the business world, Sheyenne had gone back to college and was in her second year of medical school, working part-time at a nightclub to pay the tuition, when I met her . . . not long before somebody killed her with toadstool poison. Horrible stuff.

  As a ghost of the poltergeist variety, Sheyenne can touch inanimate objects when she focuses her attention, so she does just fine as our receptionist, office manager, and paralegal. General office work doesn’t strain her brain too much. So Robin and I let her write her own job description—Sheyenne shows up for work on time and has no intention of moving on.

  The biggest drawback is that, although she can touch most physical objects, the screwy supernatural rules prevent her from touching humans. Apparently that definition includes me, a former human. Something about auras that surrounded living, or once-living, beings.

  So although Sheyenne and I can see and talk to each other, we can’t have any physical contact. The best we can do is sit around and reminisce about what might have been, remembering the one night we had together while we were both still alive—a hot and steamy lovemaking session that gets better and better with each retelling, and with each week of missing it. Talk about unresolved sexual tension!<
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  I slid the files she had delivered next to the other stacks of paper, including my own autopsy report. Sheyenne still hovered there. “I’ve been combing through your cases just to get myself up to speed.” She tapped a ghostly fingernail on top of the stack. “The answer’s in there somewhere. You pissed somebody off enough to make them kill you.”

  “I piss a lot of people off. One of my many talents.” I shrugged. “Half of these cases aren’t even wrapped up yet.” I picked up the files. Revisiting the numerous cases would mean burning the midnight oil, but these days I had all the time in the world.

  “You want me to get you some coffee? I just brewed a fresh pot—it makes the offices smell good for prospective clients,” she said. “Alvin Ricketts and the trolls are due to come in soon.”

  “Sure, bring me a cup. It’ll make my desk feel more homey.” And a coffee-mug stain left on a file showed that I’d actually been working on the case. You could always tell how much time I spent on a client by the number of coffee stains on the paperwork.

  Just before noon, the artist’s ghost manifested himself in our second-floor offices, wearing his preferred form: long ponytail, tie-dyed shirt, and paint-stained jeans. Because he’d died from a sleeping-pill overdose, his eyes always looked droopy, as if he were on the verge of dozing off. But he was wide awake, especially since we were close to resolving the case. Without hesitation, Alvin had agreed to sign over ownership of his crypt, and Robin had spent the morning preparing the deed and supplemental documentation.

  Sheyenne greeted him; she particularly appreciated our spectral clients because at least she could shake hands with a ghost. Alvin looked around the offices, a broad smile on his face.

  A few minutes later, Edgar Allan and Burt entered the offices, a study in contrasts: the little simian real estate agent and the burly eviction enforcer. Burt carried the rolled-up painting under his arm.

  “We’re here to do business,” said the little troll.

  Robin, who had been on the phone in her office for the better part of an hour, now hung up and stepped out, her face filled with joy. I knew she must have won whatever she was arguing about—and Robin usually does win, because her sheer optimistic persistence makes her as formidable as any shambling undead legion. Noticing the trolls and the ghost, she brightened even further. “Hello! Thank you for coming.”

  Robin’s the kind of person you simply cannot dislike—a spunky thirty-two-year-old African American, slender and pretty, with brown eyes straight out of a classic anime. She was raised in a nice house in the suburbs, with two white-collar, six-figure-salary professionals for parents. A perfectly normal upbringing, good schools, a scholarship. After getting her law degree, she discovered her purpose in life and became a fiery activist determined to help the downtrodden. And the Big Uneasy had created a whole new class of downtrodden that needed help.

  Five years ago, when I learned she was hanging out her shingle in the Unnatural Quarter, I decided to watch out for her. Robin is enthusiastic and as determined as a bulldog on a letter carrier’s ankle, but despite all the cases she has studied, she can be a bit tone-deaf to reality, since her worldview is more aligned with Sesame Street than Lord of the Flies.

  Quite honestly, that’s one of the things I like best about her. Robin believes in the power of the Law the way a little girl believes in Santa Claus, and I’ve decided to do my damndest to keep her that way, because if she ever loses that sparkle, some key part of her is going to die inside. That would be worse than when I died for real....

  Robin is frugal, too. She doesn’t believe in wasting money on fancy cars or jewelry or decorations—not when there are people who need our help. Sheyenne had done her best in the past couple of months to give the offices a more comfortable but still businesslike feel. It had taken most of her powers of persuasion to get Robin to agree to a fresh coat of paint on the walls, but Sheyenne had kept costs down by doing the work herself. I’m not sure if our clients have noticed the clean walls yet.

  Getting down to business, Robin took the painting from the big troll enforcer and unrolled it on the nearby desk so we could look at the mournful zombie puppies. Alvin Ricketts let out a long, happy sigh. “Ah, just look at the pathos, the myriad levels! Doesn’t it just speak to you . . . right here?” He touched a fist to his ghostly sternum.

  “It’s cute,” Sheyenne said.

  Robin spread out the legal forms on the signing table. “I have the property deed to the real estate in Greenlawn Cemetery, the plat marking the location of the crypt, and the ownership-transfer documents for Mr. Ricketts to sign.”

  “Can you prove clear title?” asked Edgar Allan.

  “Right here.” Robin handed over the title documents, which the troll studied meticulously. “I don’t specialize in real estate law, but the cemetery forwarded the proper paperwork this morning. I’d still advise you to buy title insurance.”

  “Seems to be in order.” The little troll looked up at me, blinking his yellow eyes. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

  After the signatures were duly notarized, Edgar Allan handed out business cards. “In case you’re ever in the market, I’ve got some underground deals that aren’t in the regular listings.”

  Alvin’s ghost rolled up the painting. “Now that I have my masterpiece back, I can start the auction tonight! No more waiting around. I want the world to see my work.”

  “Spoken like a true artist,” Sheyenne said, then adopted a brisk tone. “However, we are running a business here. Remember that our contingency fee is one-third of the auction realization, plus expenses.”

  “Of course! I can’t thank you enough!” Alvin bobbed out of the office with his treasure.

  Robin was happy to see justice done, and I was glad to have another case solved. Now I could get back to investigating my own murder.

  Unlike most people in real-world offices with real-world desks, I don’t have vacation photos on the walls or framed certificates of completion from the Acme Detective School or the Crime-Solving Award (Honorable Mention). After Sheyenne painted the office, I just didn’t see the point in putting that stuff back on the walls. That part of my life ended when my life ended. I did keep a novelty coffee mug Robin had given me years ago with The cases don’t solve themselves printed on it.

  I sorted through the pending and recently closed case folders. I started to read the first case summary, an investigation of black-market blood sales from Basilisk, the nightclub where Sheyenne had worked.

  If Sheyenne was right and something in one of those files had gotten me killed, the pieces would come together if I just had enough time to ponder them. Who had wanted me dead? Sure, I had some unhappy clients—every business does—but dissatisfied customers usually just file a complaint with the Better Business Bureau. And had killing me been enough to satisfy the vengeful person, or was that just the start? It really tied my guts in knots, metaphorically, that Robin might be in danger too. As the token living human in our offices, she’s the only one who still has everything to lose.

  I needed to solve this.

  The main door burst open, and a terrified-looking man ran in. He whipped his head from side to side. He wore a dark overcoat, gloves, a black floppy-brimmed hat, and oversized wraparound sunglasses like the ones old ladies wear after cataract surgery. He had parchment-pale skin. I didn’t need to see the pointed tips of fangs that extended past his lips to determine that he was a vampire. (I am a detective, you know.)

  Once inside the office, he yanked off the big sunglasses, blinking furiously, as jittery as a rabbit trying to climb an electric fence. “You’ve got to help me! I need protection!” He reached into the pocket of his overcoat and hauled out a sharpened wooden stake. “I found this—somebody’s trying to kill me!”

  CHAPTER 3

  “You’ll be safe here.” I came out of my office and extended my hand to reassure the skittish vampire. “I’m Dan Chambeaux. Come in and tell me more about what happened.”

  Humans
tend to shrink away from a zombie, but unnaturals aren’t so prejudiced. The vampire clutched my hand and shook it. (The rest of him was already shaking.)

  You know the type: bald with black horn-rimmed glasses; intense but not threatening. He looked like the illegitimate love child of a bunny and a hamster, but without the fur. The sort of man who held a long, lit cigarette as an affectation, but never took a drag; he probably practiced the gesture at home with a pack of pristine cigarettes. I could imagine him in a bar ordering martinis—the fruity kind, not the manly kind.

  He glanced over his shoulder, stepped farther into the protection of the lobby. I closed the door behind him so he’d feel secure. “I’m sure we can help you, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Sheldon Fennerman.” He removed his hat and gloves. “Fennerman with one n. Actually three n’s, but only one at the end. Would you like me to write it down for you?”

  “I can figure it out,” Sheyenne said, drifting up to him. “How about some coffee? I’m making a fresh pot.”

  Fennerman’s expression melted into one of pure wistfulness. “Ah, I used to love coffee. Caramel macchiato, extra foam . . . sometimes when I was really in need of a pick-me-up I’d add another shot of espresso.” He heaved a deep breath, let it out. “But now it just upsets my stomach.”

  “How about some water, then, Sheldon,” she said in a soothing voice. “May we call you Sheldon? We like to consider each of our clients a personal friend.”

  He brightened a little. “I knew this was the right place to come. I’ll take sparkling water, no ice, with a twist of lime.” Jittery and restless, the vampire paced around the office, adjusted a potted ficus, straightened our only framed picture on the wall (a sunny scene of whitewashed houses on a Greek island—the landlord had given it to us when we rented the office space). “You have very minimalist offices, might even call them austere. I could help you with that. I’m an interior designer.”