Unnatural Acts Page 6

  After Robin explained, Goodfellow shook his head in deep concern. “It’s a damn shame, that’s what it is. Let me think about how I can apply my money and resources, but I’m a man who acts quickly. I won’t drag my feet, and there won’t be any bureaucratic problems. We’ll help those golems, I promise.”

  I lowered my voice and got serious. “I’m sorry to mention this, Mr. Goodfellow, but you might have a conflict of interest. Those slave golems were manufacturing souvenirs for the Smile Syndicate’s new line of gift shops.”

  Goodfellow looked deeply troubled. “Smile Syndicate work is all Missy’s doing. She’s my sister, and I have to love her, but sometimes I’m ashamed of how my family wastes its wealth on selfish gain. Missy and I used to be close, but when I had my epiphany and decided to devote my life to kindness and charity, we had a . . . falling out. She calls me Goody-Two-Shoes, as if it’s an insult! She just doesn’t understand the joy that fills the heart and soul simply from being a good person.”

  As the reception continued, Goodfellow excused himself to continue his duty dance, talking with other rich investors or industrialists. Envelopes containing donation checks piled up in offering trays around the hall.

  When we were summoned to the banquet by a loud gong, Robin and I found our assigned table, which we shared with two loquacious witches who knew far too much about celebrity gossip, two brothers—full-moon-only werewolves—who bickered and snarled at each other throughout the meal, and an uncomfortable-looking human businessman who said barely a word.

  Robin did her best to maintain the conversation through the salad, main course, and dessert. I didn’t have much appetite, but I politely moved my food around on the plate. In the back of my mind, I pondered whom I might recruit as private security for the Full Moon, and I also worried about Francine being let go from the Goblin Tavern.

  At the end of the meal, we were all treated (if that was the proper word) to a musical performance by a banshee solo artist who had recently had a top-forty single. As she sang, numerous glasses shattered, and audience members squeezed their eyes shut and covered their ears; at least a dozen lost the meals they had just consumed. Then everyone applauded, the banshee took a bow, and the award ceremony began.

  Mrs. Saldana looked confident as she stepped up to the microphone, adjusted it to her height, and thumped it with her finger to gain everyone’s attention. “Ladies, gentlemen, and others, tonight we are pleased to present an award to a most deserving individual, a man who has selflessly given his time, energy, and, most importantly, his wealth”—she paused for a quick chuckle from the audience—“to help underprivileged unnaturals. He founded the Monster Legal Defense Workers Society, of which I am now the proud chairperson of the board. He gave a generous donation to my Hope and Salvation Mission. He instituted numerous rehabilitation programs and sponsored clothing drives for those newly risen from the grave.

  “Not only has Irwyn Goodfellow done many good things, he is also a wonderful human being—and I hope you unnaturals won’t hold that against him!” She paused for another chuckle. “One of these days, we’ll name a street after him in the Quarter, but for tonight, I am proud to present this plaque.”

  She lifted a small polished marble slab, like a miniature tombstone, on which Goodfellow’s name had been engraved. The audience applauded as the big man rose from his seat. Bowing and nodding to the people at his banquet table, grinning benevolently, he sauntered up to the podium.

  “Thank you, thank you all. I don’t do this for the awards or the recognition.” He lifted the marble slab to admire it. “I am grateful to receive this wonderful plaque, but I see no reason to stop there. Tonight, when talking with the Unnatural Quarter’s own private investigator, Dan Chambeaux, I learned of the terrible plight being faced by one hundred formerly enslaved golems. Whenever I hear about monsters or people in need, I just have to do something about it. I was touched by their situation, and I hope you will be, too.”

  He leaned forward on the podium. “We each have to make at least one small improvement so that the world can be a better place for everyone. I have decided to create an Adopt-a-Golem program with the goal of finding gainful employment for those clay souls. It’ll be a charitable and tax-exempt program, and we’ll start accepting donations tonight. Ms. Deyer?” He looked around the audience until he spotted Robin. “Would you be willing to do the legal paperwork to set up the project?”

  “Of course I would,” she said. “Pro bono, of course.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Some news was just too good for a phone call.

  On the morning after the charity banquet, I drove Robin’s car to the residential area of town, where I found Tiffany’s house, a fixer-upper that would always be a fixer-upper no matter how much work she put into it. The shingles were bright and black, recently replaced; Tiffany had probably done the work herself (at night).

  The garage door was open, and Tiffany stood inside out of direct sunlight as she balanced sheets of dark wood paneling on two sawhorses. Using a circular saw, she cut the sheets to the proper length. She wore overalls and a tool belt. Bill stood next to her with a stack of two-by-fours balanced on his clay shoulder and a dozen nails in his mouth. Tiffany plucked one of the nails from his lips, snatched a hammer from her tool belt, and with swift sure strokes pounded the paneling onto a support beam.

  Because the Pro Bono Mobile’s muffler was so loud, they heard me arrive (probably from miles away). As I shuffled up the driveway, Bill grinned at me and two of the nails fell out of his mouth. While the two-by-fours teetered on his shoulder, he bent down to pick up the nails.

  I made my announcement. “Good news for you and your golem friends, Bill—we found you all a benefactor.”

  Bill looked giddy as I described the Adopt-a-Golem program and how Irwyn Goodfellow had promised to help. “And Maximus Max has been slapped with a mountain of permit violations and fines. He’ll have to find a new line of work, and he won’t bother you anymore.”

  “Need to find someone to rewrite all those animation spells, Chambeaux,” Tiffany said. “Old mimeograph paper fades fast, and I don’t want my friend Bill here to crumble into a pile of dirt in the middle of my garage.”

  “I apologize in advance for the mess,” Bill said.

  “Not the point, Bill. What did I tell you before?”

  The golem was sheepish. “That I’m a person, just like everyone else.”

  I could see they were getting along well. “Thanks for taking care of him, Tiffany.”

  “Goodfellow’s not the only one who can do good deeds,” she said. “Besides, Bill’s the perfect houseguest, kind of useful in his own way. He insists on doing the laundry, he cooks, he cleans—and he doesn’t get in the way. He puts the toilet seat down, he doesn’t make a mess, doesn’t play loud music of a kind that I don’t like, and he even makes himself useful with my home-improvement projects.”

  Bill beamed at the compliment. “She calls it a win-win situation. I’ve never won anything before.” He kept smiling, and this time he managed to keep the nails in his mouth when he talked. “Doing a few chores for room and board is a lot better than slaving to make souvenirs. I hope my comrades can find a good situation, too.”

  “Glad to hear it’s working out for both of you. Still, we’ll find him a real job and get him out of your hair as soon as possible.”

  “No hurry on that, Chambeaux. You’ve got a hundred other golems to worry about. Meanwhile, happy to have him here.”

  “Tiffany, I’d like to return the favor,” I said. “I’ve got a client, the madam of the Full Moon. She’s been having some trouble, needs to hire private security, and I thought of you.”

  “Rowdy clients?” she asked.

  “Outside troublemakers, although I doubt she’d turn down the services of a good bouncer. You’d be a natural for it.” I eyed her solid build. “If you’re interested, I’ll introduce you to Neffi.”

  As a private investigator, I knew plenty of unsavory types—b
oth monsters and humans with a natural knack for being unpleasant and intimidating. In other words, good candidates to work private security. But if I recommended someone to work the brothel, I was putting my own reputation on the line. I couldn’t suggest just any scumbag who liked to growl at suspicious customers; Neffi wouldn’t want to scare away potential clients. Tiffany seemed a good choice.

  She looked down at the paneling and circular saw. “Although nobody enjoys knocking heads together more than I do, I’m in the middle of remodeling the basement to make it a nice lightproof den. And once I finish that, I’ve been wanting to take up gourd crafting, unlock my inner creative spirit. I read an informational brochure at the gym, and it sounded interesting to me.”

  “Could I be a security guard?” Bill asked.

  I eyed his big frame. “I bet you’d be good at it.”

  “Would I get to wear a uniform?”

  Tiffany said, “I thought you wanted to make sure your friends got situated first. Besides, I could use your help on some handyman projects.”

  Bill looked embarrassed. “Yes, my friends should come first. And I will help in any way necessary, Tiffany.”

  “No pressure,” I said. “You know how to find me if you change your mind.”

  I stopped at the Transfusion coffee shop to pick up a bitter coffee for myself and a cappuccino for Robin. She usually drank tea, but she enjoyed a special treat now and then. Considering our caseload, it never hurt to have a caffeinated partner.

  As always, the guy ahead of me in line was rattling off an incredibly complex frou-frou order of something no sane person would drink. What’s wrong with just plain coffee? He was a big, bristling werewolf with hunched shoulders and powerful muscles, and in his clawed hands he held a piece of scrap paper; someone with a spidery hand had written down a long and involved order that made the poor teenaged barista’s head spin. I rolled my eyes (gently, so they stayed firmly in their sockets).

  After he finished his order and paid, the furry guy turned around, and I was startled to recognize Larry, the werewolf hit man who had hunted me during a stolen-painting case not long ago.

  “Shamble,” Larry growled. “Good to see ya.”

  “Hello, Larry. I’d shake your hand, but I’m afraid you’d rip my arm off.”

  I’d recently lost an arm, and though it had been successfully reattached, I had no desire to go through that ordeal again.

  “No hard feelings,” said the werewolf hit man. “It was business. You were obligated to serve your client to the best of your abilities, and so was I.” Larry did not look like the sort of person who would voluntarily drink the high-maintenance concoction he had just ordered, but I made no comment about it.

  I put in my order for Robin’s cappuccino and my coffee, and the barista looked relieved that I had asked for something comprehensible. While we stood at the bar waiting for our drinks, I considered Larry and said impulsively, “Say, have you ever considered working private security? I’ve got a client who needs a little muscle, somebody to keep the peace.”

  Larry’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Who is it?”

  “The Full Moon brothel. They’re being harassed.”

  The werewolf let out a low howl. “Been there. Nice place, nice ladies. Would be a plum of a job.” He shook his muzzle. “But I’m already working as a personal bodyguard.”

  “For whom?” I asked.

  He didn’t sound proud of it. “Harvey Jekyll.”

  My heart sank. Jekyll was the most hated man in the Quarter, and I could imagine he’d need a bodyguard to walk across his own kitchen. But . . . Larry? “I’m disappointed in you. That’s the best you can do?”

  The big werewolf shrugged. “A paycheck is a paycheck.”

  The barista called his name, and Larry picked up the tall foamy, half-caff, extra-hot, single pump of vanilla, skim milk, dash of nutmeg, one pack of sweetener, double-sleeved coffee beverage. “This is for him,” Larry said.

  I was tempted to spit in it, but I doubted the werewolf would let me, even if I asked nicely.

  CHAPTER 10

  Whether in the Quarter or in the outside world, it’s never a good sign when you hear fire engines and wailing sirens roaring across town.

  Fires have many mundane causes—cigarettes left burning, kids playing with lighters, or an electric space heater running too close to a stack of those annoying coupon newspapers the mail carrier keeps cramming into your box, even though nobody wants them. In the Unnatural Quarter, though, the cause of a fire is more likely an amateur incineration spell gone wrong, or a pissed-off fire demon who had caught his wife cheating.

  At Chambeaux & Deyer we’re not ambulance or morgue-wagon chasers, but the fire trucks were making such a ruckus late at night that Robin and I went out to investigate. We could see the orange flames from the windows of our second-story offices. After flitting ahead, Sheyenne returned with a report. “Big blaze over at the Greenlawn Cemetery.”

  “Was somebody trying to do a Viking funeral again?” Robin asked. “They need permits for that, and most of the time they’re disallowed.”

  We hurried through the wrought-iron gates and saw that the elaborate theater stage for the Shakespeare in the Dark festival was an inferno. The faux half-timbered walls and the artificial thatched roof crackled as tall flames rose into the air. Curls of smoke wafted toward us with an acrid stench, like the fumes of unkind theater critics getting what they deserved. Humans and unnaturals had gathered to watch the big stage burn.

  In case of a demonic fire, the firefighters wore special protective gear—hex-painted clothing and rescue packs—but this turned out to be a perfectly normal blaze. Due to city ordinances to beautify Greenlawn, all fire hydrants had been painted tombstone color and disguised to blend in with the landscape . . . which meant the firefighters had trouble finding them, and by the time they engaged the blaze, the Shakespearean stage was unsalvageable.

  Some sluggish zombies shambled into the cemetery, attracted to the bright light and commotion like moths to a flame, but the blaze was extinguished by the time they arrived, so the crowds began to disperse.

  “Shakespeare’s original Globe Theatre burned down,” Robin pointed out. “I can see the irony.”

  “It’s not irony—it’s arson,” I said, unable to swallow any other explanation. I suspected Senator Balfour’s minions were both upset and violent enough to light a match or two, just to make a point.

  Next morning, Sheyenne went to make a fresh pot of coffee in the office, even though I couldn’t taste the difference between the new gourmet stuff and the tarry residue at the bottom of yesterday’s pot. Nevertheless, Sheyenne claimed that brewing coffee made our office smell fresh and homey. I suspected that she did certain things just to remind herself of what she’d once had in life, clinging to a few routine details—making coffee, going out to lunch, taking a walk in the fresh rain. I did the same thing; that was half the reason why I spent so much time at the Goblin Tavern. Since death had left us behind, we clung to the few anchors we had.

  Sheyenne was rinsing the pot in our little kitchenette when a young man entered the office. He wore a slightly scruffy camel-colored suit and had rakishly tousled blond hair, a handsome face, and a disarming smile: good-looking in a way that made him seem a natural-born salesman, or a con man. If he was a client, we would help him in any way we could. If he was a salesman, I doubted we were buying.

  Sheyenne flitted back out to welcome the visitor, and I heard the coffeepot crash to the floor, spilling water everywhere. The young man grinned at her. “Sorry I missed your funeral, sis.”

  “Travis!” There was definite shock and alarm in Sheyenne’s voice; I couldn’t tell whether she was delightfully surprised or angry. She had never mentioned a brother before, but from the similarity in features, it was obvious that they were siblings.

  Robin came out of her office, shocked to see the broken coffee urn and the mess on the floor. “I’m Travis.” The young man extended a hand to Robin while he
looked at me with a hint of intimidation, sizing me up. “Travis Carey.”

  I had met Sheyenne at the Basilisk nightclub, where she was a singer, and I thought of her by her stage name, although I knew her real name was Anne. “Shy Anne.” I sometimes call her Spooky, because that was the first song I ever heard her sing, but I never knew her last name, never asked. Even while she was lying in a hospital bed, in the last throes of the toadstool poison that had killed her, Sheyenne told me she didn’t have any family, no living relatives, no one I should contact.

  Something fishy was going on here.

  I stepped closer to Travis and did my best to loom, just in case she needed backup. “I’m Dan Chambeaux, Sheyenne’s employer. . . and very close friend.”

  Sheyenne hovered there, wrestling with her reaction. I watched a catalog of emotions skim across her face. I wanted to hold her—she needed some support right now—but we didn’t have a full-body glove close at hand.

  Sheyenne had already told us how she had lost her parents: They were killed by a businessman talking on his car phone—and back then I mean an actual car phone installed in his Mercedes with a handset and stretchy cord pulled out. He’d been having an argument about a Chinese to-go order, not watching where he was driving, and the crash had killed Sheyenne’s parents on impact.

  She’d been just a teenager, forced to take care of herself. She went through a succession of jobs, holding on by her fingernails, learning whatever she could, and never giving up on the chance to make something of herself. I’d always admired her spunk and determination.

  She’d worked in the business world before deciding to change careers and go to med school. Money was tight. While working at a nightclub for monsters, she barely scraped by in a tiny apartment in the Quarter, late on the rent, unable to pay her phone bill. All of this she had shared with us.

  But she had never mentioned Travis.