If Headless Guy’s head had been kidnapped from his apartment, then that was the obvious first place to look for clues. The scene of the crime―it was in Chapter One of every detective’s handbook.
Headless Guy followed me with CD on his shoulders providing mostly helpful directions, making sure he didn’t bump into too many obstacles on the way. Guy looked dapper in his black turtleneck and dark jacket, but he wasn’t much of a conversationalist.
In the companionable silence, I mulled over possibilities, using him as a (silent) sounding board as we climbed the stairs to his third-floor apartment in a rent-controlled complex for unnaturals of modest means. If the head had been kidnapped, then why would anyone want it? Obviously, Guy was not a wealthy man, so he could never afford a large ransom. I had forgotten to ask him what he, or his head, did for a living, and maybe that was relevant. Was it for blackmail? Did the head possess any special, valuable, or dangerous knowledge? Had the head witnessed a terrible crime, perhaps? Something so awful he hadn’t dared tell his body?
Or maybe the head was an accountant helping to launder money in illicit operations. If so, the head might have many important facts and figures in his memory. The head might be held hostage.
Headless Guy wasn’t saying. His empty turtleneck didn’t speak a word.
We reached the door at the end of a dimly lit hall. Loud, thrumming music came from the next-door neighbors. Shrieking banshee children howled as they played and wrestled, and even the muffled noise was loud enough to crack glass.
“We’re here,” CD said, bouncing up and down on Headless Guy’s shoulder. “Get out your key. We’ll find the ransom note in there.”
“We don’t know what we’ll find, but we should be prepared.” I reached into the pocket of my sport jacket, making sure I carried my .38 for protection, though I preferred to use harsh language, unless a situation got really extreme.
Guy fumbled in the left pocket of his trousers and pulled out a keyring, trying to find the right one by feel. But he couldn’t accurately hit the keyhole, so he dropped the chain to the floor. He bent over and fumbled around, but I quickly snatched the keys and unlocked the door, which swung open with a creak on old hinges.
I could sense a tension in the air, and I cautiously entered the dim apartment. No lights were on, but then I didn’t suppose Headless Guy had much use for lamps. Maybe I should have brought McGoo along, or even Sheyenne because a ghost could scout ahead by passing through walls.
“Hello! Anybody here?” the feisty imp called, startling me.
“So much for our element of surprise,” I said.
“Ah, but that was unpredictable, right?” asked CD. “It’s good to be unpredictable.” I didn’t argue the point.
We heard no sound from within, and I entered, doing a quick assessment, especially trying to spot any signs of a struggle—overturned furniture, ransacked drawers, smashed lamps. But no, Headless Guy’s apartment looked comfortable, just like any other place set up for a man with no head, and a head with discriminating taste in interior decorating. A sofa, a kitchenette table, a television set, a coffee table, an end table, bookshelves, and a small stand for propping up a book adjacent to a pedestal where presumably the head would be propped when it wanted to read.
And hats, a great many hats, arrayed on a separate set of shelves, hung on a hat stand near the corner, dangling from pegs on the wall. Dapper top hats, porkpies, bowlers, numerous baseball caps with sports team logos, even a colorful propeller beanie, apparently for when the head felt facetious.
“Your head really enjoyed stylish hats,” I said. “There must be one here for every day of the month.”
When Headless Guy didn’t respond, the conscience demon leaned over and shouted down into the empty hole of the turtleneck. “He said it looks like your head really likes hats!”
Seeming dejected, Guy let his shoulders slump. He walked through the apartment easily navigating the hazards of furniture, not bumping into any table corners or chairs. He made his way over to the bed up against one wall and sagged down on the creaking mattress. He sat dejected and leaned forward, putting the empty space where his head would have been into his hands.
CD shook his head, waving his little pitchfork. “Man, this Guy is miserable.”
Still looking for the ransom note, I circled the shelves, poked at the hats in their hat boxes or hooks, even picked up the propeller beanie and spun it in my fingers. I went into the kitchen, where several dishes had been washed and stacked in the sink. The small kitchenette table had one chair for Guy to sit, and a little stand for his head so the two could have dinner together.
I found the note in the middle of the table lying in plain sight. Anyone with a head, or at least eyes, would have seen it right away.
“This is it!” I grabbed the paper.
“The ransom note?” asked CD.
Guy lurched to his feet and stumbled into the kitchen. I read the note, expecting to find threats and terms, dollar amounts, secret instructions … but it wasn’t that at all. This letter was devastating in a completely different way.
“It’s a Dear John letter.”
“His name is Guy, not John,” said the conscience demon.
I cleared my throat, because that seemed to be an appropriate thing to do, and read the words out loud, not sure whether Headless Guy could hear me.
“‘Guy, I’m sorry but the time has come. I’m leaving you. I just can’t keep sticking out my neck for you anymore.’” I swallowed hard. Guy stood stiff as a tree, stunned. But my client deserved to have all the answers.
I continued, “‘You’re boring, sluggish, lethargic, and a terrible conversationalist. You never want to have fun. You don’t stimulate my intellect.’” I swallowed hard and muttered apologetically, “Sorry, that’s what the words say.”
Guy’s shoulders slumped even further, knocking the conscience demon off balance, but he jammed his tiny pitchfork into the fabric of the jacket and held on.
“‘I’ve found someone else, someone who shares my passions. I’m going to the Angry Hatter, a man who appreciates me for what I am. Don’t try to change my mind. This is the only way I can get ahead in life.’”
Headless Guy collapsed onto the lone chair by the kitchen table. His body shuddered, wracked with unexpressed sobs.
“It’s not the answer you wanted, but at least your head is safe,” I said. “This isn’t over yet. Let’s go talk with him.”
Headless Guy couldn’t move on with his life until at least he faced his faithless head, but I knew that domestic disputes and inflamed passions rarely turned out well. Solving a kidnapping might have been easier.
Although I’m a crack private investigator and very good at what I do, sometimes I’m a clumsy oaf when it comes to delicate emotional matters. Both Sheyenne and Robin have told me that enough times, so I take them at their word, even though I’ve personally seen no evidence of tactlessness. Who was I to say? The bullet hole in the middle of my forehead is clear evidence that I don’t always get along with people.
Returning to our building with Headless Guy and the conscience demon riding on his shoulder, somewhat subdued now, I decided not to go straight to the Angry Hatter’s haberdashery. I needed to bring out the big guns, the emotional and relationship experts. I wanted Robin and Sheyenne there as moral and emotional support—and to help me pull my foot out of my mouth if I happened to say the wrong thing.
With a stern-looking Robin on my left and Headless Guy on my right, I marched down the hall from our offices. Sheyenne drifted ahead of us, her luminous form glowing with anger. She was indignant on Guy’s behalf, although I knew that painful breakups usually had two sides to the story.
As we converged on the Angry Hatter’s shop with shades drawn and the door closed, the haberdashery seemed to willfully disinvite customers. Sheyenne forgot herself and pounded on the door, but her ghostly hand simply slipped through without making a noise. Then she concentrated on her poltergeist abilities and knocked
more successfully.
Since it was during normal business hours, I didn’t feel we had to knock. “Let’s surprise them. Better to keep them off-balance.”
We all entered a hat shop that was filled with countless colorful hats, women’s fashions, gaudy Easter bonnets, and spring flowers. Gentlemen’s hats were lovingly arranged on another shelf. The air smelled of simmering potpourri.
At a little table in the middle of the shop, the Angry Hatter sat holding a china cup with a teapot in front of him. Across the table, a disembodied head sat on an ornate brass stand. A china cup of tea was close enough to the mouth that the head could drink through a properly positioned straw. The head wore a gaudy, frilly, lavender spring hat adorned with ribbons and fake flowers, like something Queen Elizabeth II might have worn on one of her more hallucinogenic days.
Startled by our abrupt entry, Guy’s Head spat out the straw and sputtered his tea. I saw a little dribble of hot liquid run out the bottom of his neck into a catch basin beneath the stand, thereby solving the inconvenience of a head drinking tea without an attached body.
The Angry Hatter lunged to his feet, his face florid, his long mustache sticking out like a sharp weapon on each side. He blurted out the standard line of all guilty persons caught in the act. “What is the meaning of this?”
“It’s about time you found my note,” Guy’s Head sneered.
Headless Guy lumbered forward, raised both hands in a beseeching gesture.
“We found it all right,” I said. “He hired Chambeaux & Deyer, and we always solve our cases.”
“Well, I did leave the note right out on the table,” said Guy’s Head. “It couldn’t have been too much of a challenge.”
The Angry Hatter stood fuming, balling his fists. Though he was barely five feet tall, he could swing a roundhouse punch and strike Headless Guy directly in the crotch. Even though he was missing everything from his shoulders on up, I assumed Guy was fully equipped down there in his second male brain.
“You have no business here!” said the hatter.
“How do you know we’re not customers?” I asked. “I was thinking of buying a propeller beanie for myself.”
Robin said in a stern voice, “You put our client through a great deal of emotional pain and suffering.”
“Breakups happen,” said Guy’s Head, not sounding at all apologetic.
Sheyenne looked soulful as she opened wide her beautiful blue eyes. “How could you hurt the poor Guy like that? Why don’t you two try going to counseling?”
“Because I don’t want counseling!” snapped Guy’s Head. “I want a better partner.”
The fuming haberdasher stomped around to the other side of the tea table and gently removed the ridiculous lavender hat so he could stroke the wavy hair on Guy’s Head. “We’re a perfect match, and don’t you try to convince us otherwise! Don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”
“I don’t like you right now,” I said.
Headless Guy waved his hands, gesturing plaintively. He placed his palms together in a prayerful gesture, but Guy’s Head merely sniffed.
On his shoulder, the conscience demon harrumphed. “That head doesn’t deserve you, Guy. You’re better off without it. Think of how much fun we could have, just you and me, right? I got your back.”
The head struggled, somehow managed to swivel itself about an inch to the left so he could look directly at Robin. “I demand a legal separation.”
Robin’s expression was hard. “In this particular case, it’s called a legal decapitation.” She gave an apologetic look to Headless Guy, who couldn’t see her anyway. “And I’m afraid one party can request it. Your head is within his rights.”
Still stroking the wavy hair, the Angry Hatter turned the head to one side so he no longer needed to look at his forlorn former body.
CD was having none of it. “I promise I’ll show you great fun. I won’t steer you wrong. We’ll have a good time, and you’ll never once regret that cheating head, right? Just look at the Angry Hatter. He’s one argument away from a blood pressure stroke, and then what’s your head going to do? Come crawling back? No way—it’s just you and me now.”
Headless Guy squared his shoulders, drawing his resolve.
Suddenly, on his opposite shoulder a bright glow appeared in the air and a white angelic figure formed—another conscience demon, this one sporting stubby little wings and a tiny gold halo that hovered above the blond locks of its head. The angelic conscience demon gave a beautiful smile. “We’ll both guide you. We’ll provide you with the balance and the happiness you need in your life.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” CD demanded, waving his tiny pitchfork. “I strangled you! I got rid of you for good.”
“Then why aren’t you in jail?” asked the angelic conscience demon in a voice of beatific calm.
“Because there wasn’t a body and nobody could pin the crime on me!”
“Even though he blabs it to anyone within earshot,” Robin said with a sigh.
The angelic imp smiled. “And there you are, my friend. You can’t keep a good man down, and I am definitely, completely good. I was just taking time to meditate, and now I’ve manifested myself again. You need me, and Headless Guy needs both of us.”
I looked at the two opposing conscience demons and said to Robin. “I guess we don’t need to defend CD against murder charges now. He didn’t really kill his partner.”
“I did! I know I did!” CD stomped his little hooves on Headless Guy’s shoulder, but Guy reached up to put a hand on each shoulder, gently tapping the two conscience demons as if to reassure them.
“I think we’re done here,” I said. “Case closed. There’s nothing more we can do. Domestic disputes never end with anyone satisfied.” I turned to the Angry Hatter. “I’ll get my propeller beanie from a different store. Although those fedoras do look nice …”
“I’ll do the separation paperwork,” Robin said, resigned, “though it’s not the happy ending I would have hoped for.”
“It’s a happy ending for us,” said Guy’s Head with a sniff.
The Angry Hatter selected a pale-yellow hat with a wide floppy brim and dangling ribbons. He placed it on the head. “We’ll have so much fun together.”
Guy lurched out of the haberdashery, gathering his pride as he walked away with the two conscience demons giving him directions.
As we left the haberdashery and headed back to our offices, Sheyenne slipped her spectral hand into my undead one. “Not everyone can have a relationship as perfect as ours, Beaux.”
I thought of our times together, how she’d been poisoned to death after we first started dating and then came back as a ghost … and then I was shot in the head while investigating her murder. But we still had each other.
“Not everyone can be as perfect as us, Spooky,” I agreed, and we went back to work on our more solvable cases.
Gunfire rang out in the Unnatural Quarter—one loud shot, then five more in quick succession.
The audience, both humans and monsters, applauded and whistled. The ghost of the Old West gunslinger, Deadeye One-Eye, had nailed all six target playing cards that hung by clothespins on a wire, right through the Ace of Spades. He shifted his eyepatch in triumph; depth perception did not seem to be necessary for his aim.
“Golly!” said Mild Bill, twirling his spectral handlebar mustache. “And he was only listed as a mid-range gunslinger ghost.” He stood with a bowlegged stance, putting his hands on his spectral hips as if he imagined holsters there.
“All right, I’m impressed,” I said, standing next to him at the edge of the performance area in the fake western town erected for the show. I couldn’t shoot that well with my .38—not when I was alive, and not now that I’m undead. As a zombie detective I might be stiffer, but that didn’t mean my aim was steadier.
While the spectators continued to cheer, the ghost of the outlaw gunslinger twirled his pearl-handled ghost Colt revolver and slid it
into a shimmering translucent holster. Maybe intangible firearms were easier to twirl than real ones.
Since it was the weekend and late in the evening, I took time off from Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations so we could go see Mild Bill’s Wild West Show, an extravagant, if kitschy, affair that the ghost saloon owner had sponsored. And since Robin Deyer, my human lawyer partner, had worked with Mild Bill to take care of all the necessary contracts and waivers, she insisted that attending the show was part of our job. Half the population of the Unnatural Quarter had decided to come out as well.
“It’s bound to be a financial success, Beaux,” said Sheyenne, my ghost girlfriend, as she intangibly snuggled up to me. “The Wild West show could become a regular thing in the Quarter.”
“Why yes, Miss Sheyenne,” I said in a long drawl and tipped my fedora as if it were a cowboy hat, sliding it down to cover the bullet hole in the center of my forehead, from where I’d been killed a few years back.
I’d been a reasonably successful human detective in the Unnatural Quarter, solving the usual run of oddball and mundane cases for the humans and monsters that lived there. After I was killed on a case and then rose from the grave—thereby changing my job title from human detective to zombie detective—business had really picked up.
The Wild West show continued. Deadeye One-Eye took a break to reload his six-shooter with ghost bullets, and the dance hall girls came out—vampire girls from the Full Moon Brothel. The ladies of the night (but weren’t all vampire women ladies of the night?) enjoyed dressing up in flouncy old-fashioned Western dresses. A female werewolf capped each side of the line, and they bounced out kicking and stepping high in an untrained version of the can-can—which I wasn’t sure was historically accurate … but what do I know? My knowledge of the Old West came from TV reruns, and mid-twentieth century television programming wasn’t known for its veracity.
“Whoo hoo, go dance hall girls!” shouted McGoo—Officer Toby McGoohan, my Best Human Friend. As a beat cop, he had been transferred from a human precinct for telling non-politically correct jokes. We helped each other out on cases.
Services Rendered: The Cases of Dan Shamble, Zombie Page 5