Working Stiff

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Officer McGoohan would be concerned much sooner than that, but he wouldn’t know where to look either. He’d file a missing monsters report, and he’d worry about me far more than he would like to admit—but that didn’t mean Sheyenne and I were getting out of there any time soon.

  For a while, Sheyenne let herself enjoy the quiet solace of the two of us together. We had all the makings of a romance to last throughout eternity, though I had never pictured our epic would all take place in a single room.

  “Somehow I thought I’d have a more spectacular end than this, Spooky,” I said as we sat together on the slab. “My first death was kind of embarrassing, getting shot in the back of the head in a dark alley, while trying to solve your murder.” I had no reason to wear a fedora inside a sealed tomb, so I took it off, set it in my lap. “Now here we are, stuck, with no place to go, not even solving a case.”

  “You’ll figure out something, Beaux.”

  “I suppose we can hope that Elspeth gives up the ghost soon, so they’ll have to open up the crypt. But that’s not the way I’d like to wrap up a case. After all my detective work, I never thought I’d be stumped by a locked-room mystery.”

  Sheyenne snuggled close to me so that her ectoplasmic body blended into mine. I wished I could feel something solid, but we took comfort in each other’s presence nevertheless. Although death was no piece of cake, her afterlife hadn’t been too bad. We had a good thing.

  We reminisced about the times we had together, but I could tell she was growing agitated. Finally, Sheyenne flung herself at the film-coated walls and ceiling, again and again, becoming panicked. She smashed against the barrier, distorted her spectral body, then flew off to strike a different wall, trying to find some weakness in the protective film. She was like a moth, battering herself against a lamp.

  I lurched to my feet and tried to catch her, but of course she slipped right through my grasp. I tried to calm her. “Hey, Spooky—let me think. I know you have faith in me, so let’s work this through. Calm down.”

  “I don’t want to be stuck in here anymore! I just want to get back to normal.” Sheyenne slumped back on the slab and sat shuddering.

  “Normal?” I said, cocking my eyebrow. “We have to break out of a sealed tomb that was built for a harpy by a minotaur, and then go back to work for a detective agency in a city full of monsters. Yes, let’s get back to normal.”

  I worked my way around the sealed door again, looking at the corners, looking at the wall. Maybe I would notice a clue after all.

  Sheyenne said in a depressed voice, “Looks like this tomb will stand the test of time, like the pyramids—just like that arrogant minotaur said.”

  “He’s talented, I’ll give Percy that. He did exactly what Esther hired him to do,” I said. “But I didn’t really see him as arrogant—just proud of his work. He intended for this crypt to be his masterpiece.” Which was saying something, I realized, because we had looked at his architectural portfolio, all the great works he had already created. His masterpiece …

  I sat up straighter, turned slowly around. An architect like Percy the minotaur took so much pride in his work—he would never leave a masterpiece unsigned. Esther wouldn’t have let him make a big flourish, since she owned the crypt, had commissioned it for her own purposes. But Percy … I was sure he would have found some way.

  “Let’s look for initials,” I said. “Comb every block. If that architect is the artist I think he is …”

  Sheyenne didn’t let herself show too much hope, not yet, but she flitted to the ceiling and scrutinized the stone crown molding, while I methodically—or as is fitting for a zombie, relentlessly—went from block to stone block, studying each one, looking for a signature or initials, hoping I’d find what I needed.

  Finally, on a floor tile in the corner, back behind the coffin slab designed to hold the harpy’s body, I discovered it. “Found it!”

  The ghost swooped over, hovering next to me so that her lambent glow illuminated the initials: PMS.

  “Percy Minotaur, Senior,” I said.

  “PMS,” Sheyenne said, “could well be Esther’s initials. But what good does that do us?”

  I ran my fingers over the initials and felt the roughness. If my heart had been beating much, my pulse would’ve sped up. “Percy chiseled his initials in here at the last minute. He must have slipped in, pounded the letters, and then left before Esther could spot him.”

  With a fingernail, I tapped the chiseled letters, found a noticeable nick. “And he carved them right through the ectoplasmic protective film. The barrier is broken here, a chink in the armor.” I smiled up at Sheyenne. “I’ve seen you slip through a keyhole when you needed to. Can you get through this crack now?”

  She brightened—literally. “Even if there’s only a little slit, I’ll make it work.”

  Sheyenne bent over, concentrated, and extended her finger, sliding it through the tiny chisel mark of PMS. The rest of the crypt was sealed to her with the anti-ecto film, but she managed to push her spectral form into that tiny crack.

  Her finger went first, elongating, then her entire hand plunged after it. She was gathering speed. “I can do this, Beaux.” She flashed me one of those beautiful grins until she spun down and dove entirely into the chiseled letters. She disappeared through the floor tile with a faint pop, and her spectral light went out in the crypt, leaving me all alone in darkness.

  Until she used her poltergeist powers to throw open the heavy bolt that sealed the door, cracking open the entrance to the crypt. I pushed as hard as I could, shoving open the stone barricade. I worked my way out into the humid miasma of the cemetery night.

  Sheyenne was there waiting for me, smiling in triumph. I inhaled a deep breath, and it smelled like roses.

  6

  Proud and satisfied, Sheyenne accompanied me as we presented our bill to Esther the harpy for services rendered. Sheyenne insisted on carrying the paperwork herself. Somehow, I don’t think she liked the harpy much.…

  Esther was meeting with Percy the minotaur inside his offices, going over landscaping concepts and shrubbery arrangements for the exterior of Elspeth’s tomb. Esther was never in a good mood, but right now she was particularly unhappy to see us. Instead of welcoming us back, instead of graciously accepting defeat, her bird-bright eyes flashed like black lasers. She whirled to the minotaur, shrieking. “You miserable failure!”

  “Now there’s no need for that, Esther,” I said. “You hired us to test the tomb. I’m sure he can make modifications.” I wasn’t sure I wanted to suggest improvements, though; no matter how awful Elspeth was—and harpies had their own separate category for “awful”—no one deserved to be sealed away like that for eternity.

  “No! I want him to start from scratch and do it right next time—and I’m not paying you until it’s perfect.”

  Percy snorted so loudly that the gold ring in his nose flapped and jangled. “This is bull!”

  Sheyenne slapped our bill down in front of the harpy. “We, however, expect to get paid. We did exactly what we were contracted to do.”

  Esther shrieked, “You’ll get paid when—”

  “We’ll get paid now, thank you,” Sheyenne said. “You can take it out of your tips at the Ghoul’s Diner.”

  Esther always provided abominably bad service, but she was so intimidating that customers were afraid not to leave a tip.

  With a huff and a squawk, the harpy found a purse somewhere among her plumage and paid us. “This has been a lousy day. My sister suffered a relapse.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” I said. “Is she getting worse?”

  “No, a relapse of health! Looks like she might last after all.… This is the worst day of my life. And they keep getting worse and worse.”

  “There’s always tomorrow,” Sheyenne said in a flippant voice, and she drifted out of the minotaur architect’s offices, with me following her.

  As I closed the door, the harpy was launching into a long succession of nagging i
nstructions, but this was no longer my case. “We should make it a general practice not to take harpies as clients.”

  “Sure, there were problems, Beaux,” Sheyenne said as we headed through the bustling, colorful, and unnatural streets of the Quarter, “but I did get to spend time with you, and I like cases like that.”

  I stuck out my elbow, and she slipped her ghostly arm through mine. It was a charade, but we were good at it now. As we strolled along, other naturals and unnaturals saw how we were both positively glowing. They smiled at us, and we smiled back.

  It was a good day to be alive, but, barring that, it was a good day for us to be together.

  ***

  The Writing on the Wall

  1

  “That zombie wrote FU right there on the side of my store!” said Howard Snark, the human proprietor of Stakes ’n Spades, the only full-service hardware store in the Unnatural Quarter. He put his hands on his hips and fumed as he stared at the dripping spray paint.

  Howard was normally a pleasant, soft-spoken man with salt-and-pepper hair, a full salt-and-pepper beard, and a salt-and-pepper personality. Standing there, I adjusted my fedora and inspected the graffiti. I could understand why he was upset, since his store had been defaced, but I thought he was misinterpreting.

  “Actually, I think it says FA, Howard,” I said. As a zombie detective, I have to pay close attention to details.

  Beside me, my partner Robin leaned closer and nodded. “Dan’s right. It’s FA. Zombies don’t have the best penmanship.” She sounded apologetic.

  We all stood together outside Stakes ’n Spades responding to the complaint, along with Officer Toby McGoohan, or McGoo. While walking his beat, he had apprehended the zombie tagger right as he was scrawling the letters with a can of lime green spray paint.

  “It’s still a violation,” said McGoo, “regardless of the spelling.”

  The zombie graffiti artist looked dazed and confused, staring perplexed at the spray paint can in his grayish hands, as if he couldn’t remember what he’d been doing.

  Howard snatched the can away. “What were you thinking, Eddie? You’re one of my regular customers. What did I ever do to you? I’m just trying to make a living here.”

  Howard had opened Stakes ’n Spades in the Unnatural Quarter because he saw an unfulfilled need. After all, monsters needed plumbing equipment, tools, lumber, nails, duct tape, and other building supplies as much as anyone else did. He had once lived in Silicon Valley, where many of his friends and colleagues became successful millionaires by working in software. Howard, on the other hand, had a vision that his own fortune lay in hardware.

  When a rich, old aunt died and left him a modest inheritance, Howard built his store in the Quarter. Then, after he’d spent the entire inheritance, the rich, old aunt came back as a ghost and demanded some of the funds back. It could have been an inter-family argument with many consequences—legally speaking, the undead could sometimes reclaim their material wealth, depending on the amount of vagueness in the deceased’s last will and testament—but, Howard and his aunt reached an amicable settlement. He gave her enough money to go on a retirement cruise with other ghosts, and he downsized his store slightly, but made it more profitable. Howard Snark had faithfully served the Unnatural Quarter for years, even becoming chairman of the Chamber of Commerce for a two-year stretch.

  Now, McGoo stood with his report pad out, frowning at the zombie graffiti artist, ready to write a citation or make an arrest, whichever was necessary. “Well, Eddie, what have you got to say for yourself? You were caught red-handed.”

  Eddie looked down at his hands where some of the messy spray paint had covered his fingers in a neon-lime color. “I don’t know.”

  He wasn’t as well-preserved a zombie as I am, but he wasn’t a horribly decaying shambler, either. His pants were slung low so that his waistband encircled the bottoms of his hips, while the waistband of his plaid boxer shorts was pulled high up on his back. Apparently, his demographic considers that sort of dress “stylish.”

  “What were you trying to write?” asked Robin. “FA … what else?”

  “I don’t know.”

  McGoo took off his policeman’s cap and wiped a hand across his freckled forehead. His reddish hair was rumpled. “I don’t know why these deadbeats can’t just take an art class.” He looked up at me. “Maybe you can solve this one for me, Shamble. There’s been a rash of incomprehensible graffiti in the last day or two. None of it makes any sense. You’re the detective—can you figure out what goes through a teenager’s mind when he does stupid things?”

  “That’s beyond the skills of the most talented zombie detective,” I replied. “And I am the most talented zombie detective—or so I’ve been told.”

  “That’s what you tell yourself, at least,” McGoo muttered.

  “Did the other graffiti writing make sense?” asked Robin. When she decides to work on something, Robin is intense and dedicated. When she’d gotten her law degree, she decided to help the unnaturals who needed legal representation. She and I have been partners for a long time, both when I was a human detective, and now that I’m a zombie detective. When you have a good working relationship, you keep it.

  McGoo flipped back through his pad. “First time, two days ago, some zombie just wrote HE—and then never went further.” He looked at me with teasing scorn. “You zombies don’t have a lot of follow-through.”

  “Some of us have ADDD. Attention deficit disorder of the dead.”

  McGoo looked down at his pad, turned the page. “Another zombie scrawled I’VE on a brick alley wall. Another one just wrote LP, whatever that means.”

  “I don’t know,” said Eddie again, even though we hadn’t asked him the question.

  “Maybe he was inspired.” On the street corner in front of the Stakes ’n Spades hardware store sat a long-limbed zombie artist with a set of multicolored spray-paint cans and a stack of shiny hubcaps. Goch was a marginally popular street artist who specialized in painting designs on hubcaps, then selling them to curious human tourists who came into the Quarter to see everyday monsters in their natural habitat. Goch claimed that he “found” the hubcaps, although more likely, they had been stolen from parked cars. He had very long arms and legs that he folded up like a spider’s, and long hair that made him look like an aging post-mortem heavy metal rock star.

  Now, Goch held a spray can in his hand as he swirled a jet of color around on the hubcap. “When the muse takes you, you gotta paint.”

  “Well, he doesn’t gotta paint my store!” said Howard.

  Eddie slouched his head and his shoulders as much as his pants slouched. “I’m sorry, Mr. Snark … I don’t know what came over me.”

  Howard let out an exasperated sigh. “Eddie, you’re a good kid. All right, if you sweep up in the back, break down some boxes, and help run the store for a day or two, we’ll call it even. I won’t press charges—this time. I’ve got work to do. An entire new shipment of mallets and stakes came in, so we’re having a special sale in honor of Bram Stoker’s birthday.”

  Howard was always good at marketing.

  McGoo put away his pad. “Doesn’t bother me not to make an arrest. Less paperwork that way.” He looked at me with gratitude. “I guess you didn’t need to come out here after all, Shamble.”

  “We didn’t come here for you,” I said as Robin and I turned to go. “We’re working on a case. We’ve been hired to see Angina, Mistress of Fright.”

  2

  Despite her worldwide fame before the Big Uneasy, few people had seen Angina, Mistress of Fright since she’d retired from show business and become a recluse in the Unnatural Quarter.

  She was a much beloved screamfest hostess, who had become quite a star on Nightmares in the Daytime, a monster movie double feature that had played first on a cable channel out of Chicago on Saturday afternoons before it caught on and spread around numerous syndicated channels.

  With her scanty outfit, large breasts, and campy, as wel
l as vampy, personality, Angina had become a cultural icon. Few people actually watched the bad black-and-white horror flicks she hosted; the audience was much more interested in her goofball comments, and her cleavage, during the breaks.

  But when the breasts started sagging and crows’ feet appeared around her eyes, Angina—whose vanity was legendary—retired from public life, preferring to be remembered as she was in her femme-fatale heyday.

  Nowadays, though, with real monsters setting up shop and interacting with normal society, the demand for old horror flicks dwindled, so Angina had picked the perfect time to retire. And she found the right neighborhood for her retirement home.

  Even though she chose the Quarter as her “unnatural habitat,” Angina built high fences, barricaded herself in her house, and became a total recluse. She interacted with no one, had groceries and supplies delivered by golems who were sworn to secrecy. And she never left.

  But recently an admirer, a dedicated fan, had engaged Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations to make contact with Angina. It was our job to make our client happy.

  The Angina house was a rickety, bent-over affair (designed that way on purpose) with peeling wood siding, slatted shutters that hung askew on the windows, black shingles on the roof, a belfry complete with bats, seven gables close together. The house was surrounded by a brick wall topped by fierce-looking wrought-iron spikes and a dash of barbed wire (probably electrified). The rusty gate was padlocked shut. At the cornerstone of the brick wall, I saw the engraved notation, “Chas. Addams, Architect.”

  Everything about the Angina house looked rundown and dangerous—which was perfectly acceptable décor in the Unnatural Quarter, in accordance with the neighborhood homeowners’ association covenants.

  Just outside the padlocked gate I found a speaker and an intercom button. “Would you like to do the honors, Robin?”

  I could see she was barely suppressing a giggle. “I confess, I’m a little nervous, Dan.”

  Robin had faced horrific monsters, fierce demons, and powerful black magic, but now she had butterflies in her stomach because she was actually a big fan of Angina, Mistress of Fright. She pushed the intercom button. “Hello?”