Unnatural Acts Page 9

  He seemed embarrassed. “What does it matter now? Look how much has changed. The last time we were together and really close was at Mom and Dad’s funeral. I was younger than you, didn’t understand the seriousness of what was going on—I knew they were dead, but didn’t realize all the other things that were going to change. You did, though—you knew how important it was, and you promised me that we had to stick together, that we would take care of each other. You said it was going to be all right!”

  “Then I guess I lied,” Sheyenne said. “That makes us even . . . oh, wait, you lied more than once.”

  “I’m still your brother, and families should stick together. It’s just you and me with Mom and Dad gone.”

  Sheyenne hovered before him, beautiful and translucent. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m gone, too.”

  Travis’s eyes had that puppy-dog look. “And I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you.”

  Sheyenne laughed, a bitter glissando. “You were never there for me.”

  “I’m here now,” he said, avoiding the money question. “I’d make amends if I could, you know that.”

  “Do I?”

  “I was wondering if . . . all those family keepsakes, the photos and whatever else . . .”

  I saw all the anger go out of her, replaced by chuckling disappointment. “Now it all makes sense. You tracked me down to see if there’s any inheritance.”

  “No, no! But I really don’t have any photos of Mom or Dad, or you. No keepsakes, mementos. I’ve lost everything over the years. You know what a scatterbrain I am.”

  “I know what a con man you are.”

  “I thought you said you were going to bury the hatchet, sis.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t say where.”

  As I awkwardly eavesdropped, I thought of the sour resentment Missy Goodfellow had shown toward her philanthropist brother, and I hoped that Sheyenne’s relationship with Travis hadn’t degenerated so far. Sheyenne flitted back and forth, a restless ghost; the two of them had a far too complicated relationship to fit into simple pigeonholes. Finally, she grumbled, “Well, I don’t have much, just a few boxes in storage. I’ve got a few student loans I could leave to you, though.”

  Travis let out a lame but hopeful chuckle. Sheyenne turned to me. “Beaux, would you come along with us to the storage unit? I’m not sure I want to do this alone.”

  “I’ll be there for you, Spooky.” I pointedly repeated what her brother had said. The difference was, Sheyenne believed me.

  Chambeaux & Deyer kept a small unit in the Final Repose Storage Complex. We stored old case files there, banker’s boxes filled with client records, solved crimes, incriminating photographs, interview transcriptions, expired coupons.

  After Sheyenne’s death, I’d gone to her apartment to retrieve her remaining possessions. At the time, I stored everything even though she had no close relatives. (An understatement, I now realized.) I had been able to put everything she owned into three boxes—a depressingly small encapsulation of an entire life.

  But Travis was her brother, and I supposed the family mementos would mean something to him. If Sheyenne was willing to give them to her brother, it was none of my business. Their relationship was more twisted and complex than most of my cases.

  In its agreement, the Final Repose Storage Complex had a long list of prohibited items, most prominently “No Storing of Bodies Allowed.” Some of the undead had trouble paying the rent for a larger place in the Quarter, so they might be tempted by the cheaper lodgings of a storage unit.

  There were also restrictions against cursed artifacts without proper safety interlocks, and any hazardous objects connected to black magic and necromancy. There had been a recent accident in a different storage complex—an ancient flesh-eating plague was released when a scurrying rat knocked over a clay Sumerian urn. Afterward, the local authorities cracked down and imposed strict regulations on potentially dangerous items placed in storage.

  Previously, we had been allowed to access our unit whenever we liked; now each tenant had to sign in at the front office, and the manager was authorized to (was in fact required to) inspect and maintain a list of specific items stored there. Since Chambeaux & Deyer investigations merely kept boxes of customer and case files, we were probably the most boring tenant in the complex.

  As we drove to the Final Repose, Travis was sunny and smiling, chattering away with childhood reminiscences. Sheyenne allowed herself to participate, gradually warming up to her fond nostalgia.

  We arrived at the front office, which according to a handwritten sign on the door was Under New Management. When we entered the cramped office, I was surprised to see that the new manager was the disgraced former necromancer Maximilian Grubb. He smiled automatically at Sheyenne and Travis, hoping for new business, then recognized me and recoiled in alarm. “Now what have I done? Are you trying to ruin me again? I don’t have any golems working here—this is just me!”

  His frantic reaction raised my suspicions, so I pressed him. (I couldn’t help it; an occupational hazard.) “And have you filed all the proper paperwork? Publicly disseminated a list of every unusual and possibly dangerous item kept in these units?”

  “I th-think so,” Max stammered. He was pale, and the third eye drawn on his forehead seemed cruder than before. A digest-sized booklet of sudoku puzzles sat on his little desk. “What else do I need to do? I’m t-trying to run everything right. I’ve gone straight.”

  “Did you file a specific permit for each type of item?” I asked, making up the requirement out of thin air. “If something goes wrong, the authorities need to know whom to blame.”

  “I’ll do that, right away, I promise!”

  “That isn’t why we’re here, Beaux,” Sheyenne said, and I realized she must be anxious to be done with this obligation. “We need to get into our storage unit.”

  “Oh, you’re tenants!” Maximus Max said. “I only recently acquired this business as an investment. I’m still getting to know my longtime customers.”

  Sheyenne’s brother thrust his hand forward. “Travis Carey, pleased to meet you!” I was afraid they were birds of a feather.

  “You won’t be seeing Mr. Carey again,” I said. “We’re here to access our things.” I signed on the clipboard and marked down our unit’s number, then added an edge in my voice. “But we’ll be watching closely to make sure you follow all rules and regulations.”

  “I plan on it, Mr. Chambeaux. I’ve turned over a new leaf, I promise!”

  Leaving a flustered Max in his office, we went to our unit. I fished the key from the pocket of my sport jacket, opened the padlock, and rolled up the metal door. Inside, the cement-floored unit was dusty, with plenty of cobwebs and spiders (at no extra charge). A black-and-yellow salamander scuttled in its drunken waddling gait along the floor and ducked through a hole into the adjacent unit.

  Sheyenne’s possessions were on a separate shelf from the case files. Travis and I pulled the three boxes into the middle of the unit and lifted off the covers. I stood back while Sheyenne and her brother picked through her clothes and found family documents, old letters from her parents, and a scrapbook full of photos of Sheyenne as a little girl, shots of her mom and dad, family vacations they had taken together. Travis was in a few of them, but not many.

  “This is . . . all?” Travis said.

  “All that remains.” Sheyenne picked up a photo of the two of them dressed up for Halloween.

  It was a somber time, but Travis could not hide his interest in two gold necklaces, an antique cameo pendant, a few rings—the extent of her mother’s remaining jewelry. Travis picked up the necklaces. “This could really help me out, sis. I’ve run up a few gambling debts.”

  “Big surprise.” Sheyenne sounded more disappointed than angry. “Take them. Do whatever you want. I don’t need them anymore.”

  Travis brightened inappropriately. “You’re the best sister in the world!”

  “Yes, I am. I wish you’d figured that out ea
rlier.”

  With a rapid gesture of a man accustomed to magic tricks, Travis pocketed the jewelry, after which he no longer seemed interested in the scrapbooks or photos. “Why don’t we just leave the rest of it here? Since I don’t have a permanent place to stay, better to keep the family photos in storage for safekeeping.”

  CHAPTER 15

  That evening, I went back to the Greenlawn Cemetery alone so I could prod through the charred remains of the Globe Theatre set. The theatrical stage had been built from cheap and flimsy materials: papier-mâché, plywood, colored paper, and dyed fabrics. Now it was a sodden mess of ash and scraps—nothing salvageable whatsoever. The firefighters had been thorough and enthusiastic when they quenched the blaze. A complete and total loss.

  Shakespeare had given me a detailed inventory of the possessions lost in the blaze, including hard-to-find Elizabethan costumes, large Comedy and Tragedy masks for the play, and antique furniture, not to mention the set itself. The ghost had also tallied the performance money they’d previously earned per show, so as to estimate loss of income. It was a dismal amount, however, and I could see that the theatrical company definitely needed those arts grants (or, preferably, bigger audiences). If we could prove malicious arson, the haunted acting company might generate some sympathy and enough donations to keep themselves going—provided they could afford to build another set.

  With my shoe I nudged a blackened piece of sheetrock, hoping that some brilliant revelation would scuttle out. A crime lab would have to run a chemical analysis to determine whether a fuel or accelerant, or a carelessly tossed cigarette butt, had been used to start the blaze. I had little doubt that this was an intentional fire set by someone who wanted to harm the Shakespearean company. But I needed proof.

  The cemetery was a popular place, and I hoped someone or something might have seen a shadowy, sinister figure lurking among the crypts and tombstones after dark. (Although how would a witness be able to tell a sneaky arsonist from the perfectly normal shadowy and sinister figures that lurked in the cemetery?) I needed someone with a sharp eye for detail.

  The dusk shadows were lengthening, but it wasn’t yet dark enough that nocturnal monsters had ventured out to run their everynight errands. I moved from crypt to crypt, looking for broken seals and open doorways, calling out “Hello?” as I peered inside. Cemetery addresses were incomprehensible to me: plot and tombstone numbers, rural crypt delivery.

  I was looking for Edgar Allan, a simpering troll who coopted unoccupied crypts and rented them out on short-term leases, although he had no legal right to do so. He had set up his real estate headquarters office in one of them.

  All the signs outside the stone door were a dead giveaway, each one sporting a logo of the real estate agency, a smiling photo of the troll’s gray and drawn face, and a phone number. Cheerful service—alive or dead!

  The scaly simian creature had moved a pair of office-surplus metal file cabinets and a desk into the crypt, installed a telephone, and set up a metal bookshelf that held three-ring binders marked Recent Listings. Sooner or later he would get his own website.

  The first time I’d blundered into the tomb, hoping to get away from Larry the werewolf hit man, the troll wasn’t overly glad to see me. In fact, Edgar Allan’s burly partner Burt—an evictions specialist—had threatened to throw me back onto the cemetery lawn, flat on my face. Now, though, we were old friends, and Edgar brightened to see me darkening his doorway.

  “Mr. Chambeaux, how can I help you with your real estate needs?” He rubbed his gnarled gray fingers together. When he shook my hand, his palms were dry and dusty. (I had expected slimy.) “Do you need more of my business cards? Have you handed them out to your clients?” He pulled open a desk drawer and yanked out more cards.

  “I’ve still got plenty, Mr. Allan. Just here to ask some questions. For a case.”

  “Happy to cooperate—I help you, and you help me, right? Never underestimate the power of networking.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” I said. “I’ve been hired to investigate the recent fire here.”

  “My, that blaze drew quite a crowd. In fact, if those Shakespeare plays attracted audiences that large, the actors wouldn’t have any financial troubles, if you know what I mean.” The troll raised his lofty, scaly eyebrows.

  “The crime-scene investigators will be doing an analysis, but I think the best chance for solving this case would be to track down a witness. And since you’re usually here, and you always keep your eyes and ears open, I was hoping you might have noticed something or someone.”

  Edgar Allan settled back in his seat and pulled out one of the binders of recent listings. He pretended to distract himself as he pondered, but he turned the binder in my direction, flipping from page to page, showing off properties zoned for private businesses, small offices, even a new business park. He had already suggested that we move Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations to a brightly lit, carpeted office complex, but I thought our dingy old second-floor digs had character.

  “Hmm, let me see. . . .” The troll turned another page while I stood there not moving, patient; zombies are good at that. Finally, Edgar Allan said, “Honestly, I did see a few figures running around, but didn’t pay much attention. By the time the fire started and people came to watch the show, I was too busy handing out business cards. Wouldn’t miss a great promotional opportunity like that.”

  I wasn’t surprised, but I kept my hopes up. “And where’s Burt? Is he wandering the crypts at night?”

  “Burt went to Transfusion to get coffee. When he comes back I’ll ask him—and I’ll also put out the word among my tenants. They always spy and gossip about each other anyway. Hmm, this fire might be the impetus for us to start a neighborhood watch in the cemetery.” The troll’s lamp-like eyes brightened. “Are we in any danger? I thought the fire was a one-time thing.”

  “I have my suspicions of who might be responsible, and I doubt they’re done causing trouble.” I didn’t have any proof, however. I needed to learn more about Senator Rupert Balfour and just how far the man was willing to go to ensure passage of his Unnatural Acts Act.

  CHAPTER 16

  When the madam of a brothel says she needs you right away, it’s usually a sales pitch, maybe a special advertising promotion or an extension of the Very Happy Hour pricing. But I could tell from Neffi’s tone that she was dead serious. Normally the old mummy’s voice sounded like crackling dried papyrus, but on the phone I detected an undertone of fear.

  And she was really pissed.

  “If you don’t find me security soon, Mr. Chambeaux, I’m going to call in the army, or maybe the army of the night, to surround this place with tanks and bazookas. It wouldn’t be good for business, but at least it would keep my girls safe.”

  It was the middle of the night, and I had gone back to the office to get some work done. Sheyenne was there, also working (and, I think, still unsettled by her time with Travis in the storage unit that day). She had forwarded me the phone call. “I’ll have a full protection crew for you tomorrow, Neffi,” I promised. I already planned to attend the Adopt-a-Golem job fair. “What happened?”

  “Better come down here and see for yourself.”

  I headed out the door, telling Sheyenne I was off to the Full Moon brothel. Not the sort of thing you usually say to your girlfriend, but I was distracted.

  The withered old mummy was waiting for me on the front porch with the door wide open. Nightshade and Hemlock, the vampire princesses, stood together, talking intently. They still wore their sexy negligees, but they had removed their makeup in the hour before sunrise; one glance at them au naturel and I shuddered to think of waking up next to them. Cinnamon the werewolf was brushing her face, running a long tongue over her teeth as if she just couldn’t turn off the animal-magnetism sell job. The succubus, wide-eyed and waifish with her tight baby-doll perm, remained inside the shadows of the parlor, trying to keep out of the public eye. Her emerald gaze met mine; I could see she was frightened, and
she looked so vulnerable.

  Indignant and fuming, Neffi strutted back and forth. Her attitude would have made even a harpy cringe. She snapped at me with the sound of a neck bone breaking, “Mr. Chambeaux, we’ve had another threat.” She wrapped her gnarled arm possessively around mine, then lashed out at the vampire women and the two zombie girls who had shuffled out to see what was going on. “Don’t just stand there, ladies—tear down those posters! Make a bonfire and invite all the unnaturals. We’ll have a marshmallow roast and show everyone how we react to intimidation.”

  “But Neffi,” said Hemlock, the strawberry-blond vampire, “I thought you wanted to keep this for evidence.”

  “I want those despicable posters gone. Mr. Chambeaux has already seen them.”

  “Actually, I haven’t seen anything yet,” I pointed out.

  “Then take a look . . . but that’s just the window dressing on the disaster.”

  The two vacant houses on either side of the Full Moon had been plastered with Senator Balfour’s posters decrying brothels in general, unnaturals in general, and unnatural brothels in particular. With my sharp detective’s eye, I noted that the headlines on two of the broadsheets contained typos, but Senator Balfour’s activists more than made up for their lack of literacy with large capital letters in an extra-bold font. Several posters demanded Pass the Unatural Acts Act Now! (complete with misspellings).

  “This wouldn’t be the first place I’d look to rally support for the senator’s bill,” I said. “You’re telling me that his people posted all these when no one was watching? Shows a lot of balls.”

  “If they show their balls again, I’ll cut them off,” Neffi said. “Most people are more interested in what goes on inside the Full Moon than in the rest of the neighborhood.”

  Savannah and Aubrey, the zombie girls, began pulling down the posters, while the vampire princesses wadded them up and made a pile in the front yard, taking Neffi’s bonfire suggestion seriously.