Death Warmed Over

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Most unnaturals, though, had not given up pork. The most devout black sorcerer or vampire kingpin might manage to block the urge to quaff virgin blood, but he couldn’t resist the smell of frying bacon. Or fresh pork on the hoof.

  Trotting down the sidewalk, Alma sniffed nervously from side to side. She let out an alarmed squeal, which only taunted the ever-growing crowd of hungry followers. Her sister struggled to keep up, but I could see they were in trouble.

  I drew the .38 from my shoulder holster. As a private detective, I’d been licensed to carry a concealed weapon for years, and after my death, no one had tried to rescind the permit or request that I turn in my piece (so far). As far as I know, I’m the only undead private investigator who went back to the practice. Robin wasn’t sure the handgun permit was still valid, after my death certificate was on file; she offered to clarify the issue by sending requests to the Bureau for a ruling, or at least a special exemption in my case, but I told her not to bother—in fact, after I saw the fiery glint in her eye, I insisted that she not bother. “Let me apologize later if I get caught,” I’d said.

  For my work in the Quarter, I keep the revolver loaded with silver-jacketed bullets, which are effective on a fair number of creatures. And if I have to fire on a regular human, the bullet part works just fine, silver or no silver.

  The crowd increased as more unnaturals emerged from their lairs, and when the frightened sow squealed again, I pointed the .38 in the air, fired off a loud shot, then a second. The gunshots brought all movement on the street to a halt. I wove my way through the decrepit shamblers, sternly shook a finger at them, and glared at the vampire and werewolf.

  Mavis took one look at me and almost melted with relief. “Mr. Chambeaux, are we glad to see you!”

  “Looks like you could use an escort back home.” I swept my gaze around the hungry faces that had poked out of doorways and converged on the sidewalk.

  “Yes, please!”

  Alma grunted.

  I raised my voice to the crowd and coolly pointed the gun in a slow arc. “If anyone lays a hand or claw on either of my clients, you’ll have to deal with me.”

  Mavis gathered her courage and shouted to the onlookers. “And if that doesn’t work, I’ve got a spell book back home that’ll turn you all into pigs . . . or something even less pleasant.”

  The unnaturals groaned and grumbled, glaring at me because I’d spoiled their snack. The sow snorted loudly, and then, to express her displeasure, she urinated a big puddle on the sidewalk.

  Mavis was scandalized. “Shame on you, Alma!” But the pig seemed perfectly content and waddled forward with her sister and me.

  “You’d both better go directly home,” I said under my breath.

  “I agree,” the witch said, walking close beside me. “Alma and I used to have quite an active social life, but now you see why we rarely go out anymore. My sister isn’t even viewed as human, just a potential smorgasbord of pork loins, ham, bacon, chitlins, and chops. Just look what that spell-book mistake has done! I wish we could make everyone see how terrible Howard Phillips Publishing is.”

  “Ms. Deyer filed a ringing complaint,” I said. “Much more stern than the last one. I read it myself. Very powerful stuff. We’ll see some results.” Eventually.

  The sow nudged into me with enough force to knock me off balance, but I kept my feet. Mavis let out a little laugh. “Alma’s sweet on you. She told me.”

  The pig turned her massive head toward me, blinking her eyes. “She’s a charming person,” I said, “but I have a strict policy of never dating clients.”

  Alma sounded disappointed, but Mavis remained undeterred. “With a little encouragement, a love potion perhaps, maybe you’d change your mind.”

  “Let’s just get you both safely back home,” I said, politely declining their invitation to come inside for tea. “And next time, don’t go outside without your spell books. I won’t always be there to protect you.”

  CHAPTER 22

  After walking the Wannovich sisters straight to their door like a gentleman, I was glad to be away from the tantalizing pork smell—I’m not completely immune either.

  Heading back to the Chambeaux & Deyer offices, I heard the don’t-mess-with-me voice of Officer McGoohan at the next corner as he chewed someone out. McGoo didn’t have any children, but he would have done a good job bellowing “You kids quit roughhousing and give me some peace so I can watch the game!”

  In front of a boarded-up lingerie store that had been empty for years, I saw the unmistakable plaid sport coat that identified Brondon Morris. Four workers clad in dark-blue JLPN company overalls had been busy pasting posters across the storefront.

  “You can’t post those here,” McGoo said. “It’s an eyesore.”

  In a wheedling but cheerful voice, Brondon responded, “It’s just an advertisement, Officer. You can’t prevent us from trying to sell our products. That’s a restraint of free trade.”

  McGoo’s voice rose as he continued to shake his head. “Take it up with a Constitutional lawyer. Meanwhile, let’s pretend I’m a member of the Keep the Unnatural Quarter Beautiful committee. I’m not letting you just plaster that crap wherever you want.”

  The broadsheets advertised the upcoming release of the new line of necroceuticals. Poster after poster showed grinning vampires brushing their teeth, zombies spraying their underarms with aerosol deodorant, beautiful witches shampooing their hair with thick suds that foamed an unsettling shade of green, a husky male werewolf holding a bottle of cologne while two female werewolves, clearly in heat, sniffed his fur. Each poster said: Call Our Toll-Free Number for a Free Sample Kit!

  “We spent a great deal of money printing these posters for the advertising blitz, Officer,” Brondon insisted. “We’re entitled to our right to publicity.”

  I stepped up and caught their attention. “I’ve got a colleague who might listen to your case, Mr. Morris. She’s interested in theoretical and moral issues.” It wasn’t a serious suggestion; I doubted Robin would take Brondon Morris as a client anyway.

  McGoo brightened as he saw me. “Dead Man Walking!”

  Brondon Morris blinked at me, then scowled. “Thank you, Mr. Chambeaux, but I’d consider it a conflict of interest, in light of your firm’s prior work to destroy the reputation of Jekyll Lifestyle Products and Necroceuticals.”

  I shrugged. “Just offering to help.”

  McGoo was not going to back down, I could see it in his eyes. “Look, Mr. Morris, I’m not saying that you can’t advertise your products, only that you can’t put these posters on this building. Did you get permission from the owner?”

  Brondon was flustered. “The owner of this building has been dead for seven years. I checked.”

  “Are you sure he hasn’t come back from the grave? Barring that, find one of his heirs.”

  The JLPN workers stood looking bored, holding stacks of posters and waiting for further instructions.

  Brondon tried a different tack. “It’ll only be for a few days, Officer. I promise, we’ll take every poster down right after the product line is launched. We’ve already had a great financial setback because our first twenty thousand broadsheets had an unfortunate typo.” He pointed toward the nearest one stapled to the boarded-up window. “A proofreader missed it, and the entire first printing came out offering a Free Sample Kid—which generated entirely the wrong kind of excitement among unnaturals! JLPN didn’t notice until after we had distributed hundreds of the posters. We had to pulp them all and start from scratch.”

  McGoo looked sympathetic, but only a little. He turned to me. “What do you think, Shamble?”

  “I’m biased. Our paralegal tried a sample of the Zom-Be-Fresh stuff back when she was still alive,” I said. “It gave her a horrible rash.”

  “Horrible rash? Hmm, you think JLPN products contain a toxic substance?” McGoo asked. “Maybe I should have the department look into that. If the company is distributing dangerous—”

  “We ap
ologized for that!” Brondon said with a sniff. “But we have always made it quite clear that JLPN products are designed for unnaturals only. We’re not responsible for improper use.”

  I was having fun, but I decided I had yanked Brondon’s chain enough. “No need, McGoo. We did a chemical analysis from a lab we trust, but it came back negative. Zom-Be-Fresh contains nothing on the list of toxic or prohibited substances. Sheyenne just had an allergic reaction.”

  “I’m allergic to a few fragrances in toiletry items too,” McGoo confessed. “That’s why I don’t use deodorant.”

  “Oh, that’s why,” I quipped.

  McGoo barked orders to the overall-clad workers. “Tear those posters down and keep this plywood clean and beautiful. You’re welcome to get written permission from other storefront owners, Mr. Morris, but don’t just go poaching any blank wall space you find.”

  Though fuming, Brondon directed the workers to do as they were told.

  As we stepped back to watch the cleanup project, McGoo asked conversationally, “Hey, Shamble, why do zombies pierce their nipples?” From the stupid grin on his face, I knew I didn’t want to hear the answer. “To have a place to hang the air fresheners.”

  Instead of laughing, I decided to change the subject. “Any luck catching the big lummox that wrecked Mrs. Saldana’s mission?”

  “Not yet. And there’ve been three other incidents since then, major smashup jobs, and another dozen storefront windows shattered—meant to look like the work of our big brute, but I’m not so sure.”

  “Why else would somebody be smashing windows? Delinquents?” Maybe the Straight Edgers?

  McGoo shrugged. “So far no suspects and no good leads. I don’t know how such a huge creature can hide. You want to go out monster hunting with me late tonight?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “Suit yourself. You must have other fun things to do.”

  “Just cases, McGoo. Always cases.”

  CHAPTER 23

  At Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations, we consider taking any case that involves human/unnatural relations, and sometimes we’re hired to take the human side.

  Sheyenne ushered in the new clients for their intake meeting. “Dan, Robin, this is Brad and Jackie Dorset, and their children Madison and Joshua.”

  Nice-looking human family: urban (or suburban) professionals, mom, dad, and the requisite two kids, probably a golden retriever at home. However, the Norman Rockwell family portrait stopped there: All of the Dorsets looked gaunt and haggard, their eyes bloodshot, as if they hadn’t gotten sleep or a decent meal in ages. Accompanying them was a freelance medium they’d hired, but I wasn’t impressed; if the medium’s efforts had been successful, they wouldn’t be here.

  Brad automatically extended his hand, not seeming to realize that I was undead. My cold grip startled him.

  Robin stepped up, smiling. “We’re very pleased to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Dorset.”

  “And I’m here in a professional capacity,” said the medium. “Millicent Sanchez.” She was a middle-aged woman with beautiful golden skin, and she wrapped her dark hair in a colorful red-and-green scarf. Silver hoop earrings dangled from her ears, and a crucifix the size of a deck of cards hung at her throat; so many silver bracelets lined each wrist that they looked like Slinkys crawling up her arms.

  I realized that I had seen her previously. How can you forget all those silver bracelets? “We met before, Ms. Sanchez, back when I was alive. The ribbon-cutting ceremony for the new wing of the Metropolitan Museum?”

  She brightened. “Ah, yes, of course! I was there to summon spectral members from the guest list.”

  The two Dorset children, around eight and ten years old, respectively, looked as anxious as their parents. “Could we please get on with it?” Jackie Dorset asked. “We, um, don’t have a lot of time on the parking meter.”

  “We validate for the lot across the street,” Sheyenne offered. “Remember that for next time.”

  We all took seats at the table in the conference room. When Joshua and Madison looked ready to burst into tears, their mother reached into her purse (which was large enough to double as a rucksack). She withdrew two handheld video games, and the children fell into contented, obsessive silence.

  “Now then, what seems to be the problem?” Robin asked.

  Millicent Sanchez took the lead. “The Dorsets are being haunted—and it’s not a pleasant haunting, either.”

  Brad Dorset locked his fingers together and squeezed his hands, like a pumping heart. “He won’t leave us alone! We can’t get any sleep. He ruins every meal. He disrupts any gathering we have. Jackie and I can’t even go out to a restaurant.”

  “We’ll never be able to get a sitter again,” the wife added.

  “We don’t need a baby-sitter,” the two children said in perfect unison.

  “Do you feel you’re in any physical danger from the ghost?” I interrupted.

  Brad and Jackie looked at each other, surprised by the question. Jackie said, “No, of course not—it’s just Uncle Stan.”

  “He was something of a pest in life,” Brad added, “and he’s worse now that he’s dead.”

  Robin jotted down notes on a yellow legal pad. “Tell me about Stan.”

  “We’re his only family.” Jackie sounded more sympathetic than her husband. “He sold used cars, he belonged to the Odd Fellows club. We used to have him over for dinner every Sunday because he didn’t have anyone else.”

  “He was a widower, then?” Robin prompted.

  “No, a lifelong bachelor,” Jackie said.

  “He was gay, I think,” Brad muttered, which earned him a flash of indignation from his wife.

  “He was not! He just never found the right person.”

  “He certainly found us again, didn’t he?”

  I could see this was an argument they’d had before.

  “Stan was my mother’s only brother,” Jackie continued, looking at me. “We felt sorry for him.”

  “Sunday dinner became Sunday and Wednesday,” Brad said. “Then he joined us on Friday evenings too. And then he died.”

  “Was it murder?” I asked. “Anything suspicious?”

  Again, Brad and Jackie Dorset blinked at each other, baffled. Brad answered, “No, he slipped on a patch of ice and split his head open on a brick planter. Just like that.”

  “And he’s been haunting us ever since!” Jackie cried. “At first he thought he could go on as if nothing had changed. He popped in for Sunday dinner, then Monday and Tuesday, and all week long. After his tragic death, we were glad to see him . . . at first. But he’s, um, not a very good dinner companion.”

  “Drank too much,” Brad said. “He always was a little hazy and wobbly.”

  Jackie seemed embarrassed. “The coroner said his blood alcohol level was a little high when he slipped and hit his head.”

  “Very high,” Brad corrected. “Uncle Stan could get insufferable when he was drunk. Then he died drunk—and now he’s a rambunctious and obnoxious drunk ghost.”

  “I’ve tried to communicate,” said the medium. “I summoned his spirit. I spoke with him the last time he appeared uninvited for dinner.”

  “I made lasagna,” Jackie said, “an old family recipe, one of Uncle Stan’s favorites.”

  “We told him to go away,” Brad said. “But he wouldn’t listen. He insisted that we were his family and that he was going to be with us always.”

  The two kids looked up from their video games and groaned. Madison was especially loud. “He’s a creepy old man. I don’t want him popping in and out of our house at night.”

  “I can see how that would be very alarming,” Robin assured her. “We’ve found that in family disputes, the best way to solve things is through frank and open discussion. I’ve seen many cases of ghosts who hang on to their old lives and refuse to move on. Sometimes the families can get along well enough, but other times it’s just tragic for all concerned. The adjustment can be pretty painful.”


  I remembered that Sheyenne had had a terrible first few days after she returned as a ghost. She tried valiantly to adjust, pretended to go on as if nothing had changed, but the loss never stopped tugging at her.

  One day, not long before my own murder, Sheyenne had floated up to me with a troubled expression on her face. “Would you come with me back to my apartment? Just to have another look around, in case we find any clues?”

  “I packed everything up and put it in storage,” I said. “Your landlord’s probably cleaned the place by now.”

  “I know . . . but it’s something I’d like to do.” Her sad expression pulled at my heartstrings. “Would you go with me? Please?”

  “For you, I’d go anywhere,” I said, and it was probably true.

  We returned to the apartment building where she had lived while going to med school and working at Basilisk to pay the bills. She drifted beside me up the steps to the entrance.

  I had an odd déjà vu of the night we’d strolled here after our date, the two of us in light conversation, occasionally and then more frequently bumping against each other as we walked along, finally holding hands. Every unnatural in town had probably smelled the pheromones we exuded....

  “I don’t know if I can convince your landlord to let us in,” I said. I had not made a good impression in my previous encounters with him.

  “I had a spare key,” Sheyenne said. “You can use that.”

  “What if he’s changed the lock by now?”

  “He’s too cheap. Besides, the former tenant is dead—why would he bother?”

  We went up the stairs to the second floor. The third step creaked, and I remembered it from before. We had laughed at it then. Odd how little details like that stick in your memory.

  Her door was 2B (“Or not 2B?” I remembered my Hamlet joke from that night). The hall floor was covered with weathered peel-and-press carpet squares. Sheyenne bent down and lifted the corner of one with a ghostly hand to reveal her spare key. “I knew it’d still be here.” She handed me the key, and I inserted it into the lock. Sheyenne, being a ghost, simply melted through the door, eager to see what she could find.