Death Warmed Over
Page 15
A lawyer on a mission, Robin walked briskly to the front door of the admin building, and I pulled it open for her, trying to formulate what I could accomplish by seeing Harvey Jekyll face-to-face. Robin didn’t seem to have a plan.
At the foyer reception desk sat a neckless man with a crew cut, business suit, and honest-to-goodness mirrored sunglasses. He looked as if he’d been rejected by the Secret Service Presidential Protection Detail because he was too large and intimidating. I’d seen him before—standing guard at the Chaney & Son warehouse the previous night.
“How may I help you?” The neckless man looked at Robin, then frowned at me. “He’s not welcome here. Human employees and guests only.” He said it in the same tone that, in another time and place, he might have told Robin she wasn’t welcome because of the color of her skin.
“That hurts my feelings,” I said sarcastically.
Robin was more indignant. “That’s an odd stance for a company that gives unnaturals the opportunity to live normal and happy lives.”
“I don’t make the rules. No zombies allowed. No unnaturals of any kind. Security reasons.”
“My partner and I have business with Mr. Jekyll,” Robin said. “I am the attorney representing Mrs. Jekyll in their divorce, and we have some questions for her husband. His attorney may wish to be present.”
With a flustered sigh, the massive receptionist punched an extension on the phone, spoke gruffly, frowned. He hung up. “Wait here.” A moment later, the locked security door buzzed and clicked, then swung open by itself (on hydraulics—nothing to do with ghosts or haunted houses). “End of the hall. Big office. Can’t miss it.”
As we walked down the hall to Jekyll’s office, I could hear a stereo playing sparkly 1970s pop music, either the Carpenters or the Captain and Tennille. In my experience, most villains prefer dramatic classical music or Wagnerian opera. Maybe Harvey Jekyll liked to be in a happy mood.
As soon as we stepped through the door, Jekyll climbed to his feet. “What’s this about you being Miranda’s attorney?”
He was a small, pale-skinned man with a large head, even larger eyes (which reminded me of the zombie puppies in Alvin’s painting), and no hair. All in all, the type of person who might keep a plain gold ring that he liked to call Precious. His scalp wrinkled like a shriveled apple when he raised his eyebrows. Goblin mothers probably warned their teenaged sons that if they masturbated too much, they would end up looking like Harvey Jekyll.
I was afraid Robin had let the cat out of the bag, but she didn’t seem perturbed. “You filed for divorce, Mr. Jekyll, and your wife has retained my services to protect her interests in the settlement. You have been duly informed. I sent repeated inquiries and notices—at least sixteen—to your counsel by registered mail. I have the delivery confirmations.” She looked around the room. “Are you sure you don’t want your attorney present?”
He snorted. “If my lawyer was worth anything, the divorce would already be final.” Ignoring Robin as if scraping gum off his shoe, Jekyll swung his gaze over to me. He leaned forward, noting the repaired bullet hole in my forehead. “You don’t look much the worse for wear after being shot, Mr. Chambeaux.”
“Amazing what morticians can do these days, but I’m still only fit for the scratch-and-dent sale.” I tapped my brow, feeling the putty that Bruno had so skillfully applied. “Maybe you have an idea who shot me? Some personal involvement perhaps?”
The little man’s face screwed itself into a scowl. “You’ve already cost this company enough money—both of you. I wouldn’t squander the price of a bullet. You were a pain in the backside while alive, Mr. Chambeaux, and now you continue to harass me after you’re dead? I don’t take kindly to anyone slinging mud on my family name.”
I shrugged. “I have nothing against your family name. It’s you I don’t like.”
He had had enough banter. “Now, is there some reason you both came here, or were you just trying to ruffle my feathers?” He scratched his bald scalp. “I assure you, I have none to ruffle. And no secrets to hide.”
Robin said, “Why do you refuse to allow unnaturals into your factory, Mr. Jekyll? Your sign out front claims that you’re an Equal Opportunity Employer. How is an unnatural supposed to apply for a job at JLPN if he’s not allowed on the premises?” I noted the glint in her eyes, sure she was weighing the possibilities of a discrimination lawsuit.
Jekyll pinched his lips together. “The statutes governing nondiscriminatory hiring practices define the acceptable labor pool as human. The rules do not cover unnaturals. I don’t have to let them on my property.”
“And yet your product line caters to unnaturals,” I said. “A strange business choice if you dislike them so much.”
He sniffed. “I have nothing against the unnaturals, but I am concerned about corporate espionage. It’s only a matter of time before some monster entrepreneur decides to get into this highly lucrative market, and I have to protect JLPN trade secrets.”
I realized that Jekyll probably did have good reason to fear the competition. A line of necroceutical products manufactured by an unnatural instead of a human would have an obvious advantage among the customer base.
On the office stereo, the Captain and Tennille finished singing “Muskrat Love,” and now the Carpenters were “On Top of the World.” I had a sneaking suspicion Barry Manilow would be up next.
Next to the stereo sat a strange device that looked like a bullhorn mounted on top of a toaster. Since 1970s easy-listening pop did not require special amplification, I wondered what the gadget did. I fiddled with the controls, mainly because I thought that would annoy Jekyll.
It did. “Don’t touch that!”
“Why not?” I turned another knob. “What is this thing?”
“A prototype.” He scuttled over and snatched the device from me and set it on a shelf behind his desk. “A portable ectoplasmic defibrillator, designed to scramble—and hopefully erase—any trespassing ghosts. Ghosts make the most insidious industrial spies, slipping in where they’re not wanted, snooping around.” He narrowed his eyes. “You can’t be too careful. The prototype is still in the testing phase—I’m having trouble finding ghosts who will volunteer for the trials.”
I was glad Sheyenne hadn’t come along with us.
Since Robin didn’t have a plan for this meeting, I threw a curveball in hopes that it would rattle Jekyll. I liked to see where the red herrings would swim. “For one of my investigations, I’ve been monitoring the activities of Brondon Morris. He may be involved in some unsavory activities, possibly even a conspiracy to overthrow JLPN. Thought you’d want to know.”
Jekyll blinked, then chuckled. “Brondon would never do that! He’s a very important person in this company, one of our most talented chemists, and by far the best regional sales manager.”
I watched his expression carefully. “Are you familiar with a defunct company called Chaney and Son? Mr. Morris has been meeting with a secret group inside their boarded-up warehouse.” I was just testing him, stringing him along.
“I know nothing about that,” he said, but the alarmed look on his face said otherwise. “I’ll speak to Brondon about it. If he’s sneaking around with unsavory types, I wouldn’t want his public actions to adversely affect our company image. This is a crucial time for JLPN with the release of our whole new line of products. We can’t afford any bad press.”
I reminded myself that Miranda was our client. Even if Jekyll and his lapdog were doing something illicit, such activities didn’t necessarily affect the divorce settlement. The two men could have been participating in an illegal cockatrice fighting ring, or smuggling body parts to mad scientist laboratories. What mattered to me was finding a way to break the rigid prenuptial agreement.
Sure enough, after the Carpenters finished mellowing their way through a glycemic coma, Barry Manilow started in with “I Write the Songs.”
“We’d better go, Dan,” Robin said. Clearly, we weren’t going to get any more informati
on from Harvey Jekyll, but I think it was the music that made her anxious to leave.
“Say hello to my wife for me,” Jekyll said. “You probably see her more than I do.”
CHAPTER 26
Late the next morning, a pleading arrived by courier from Howard Phillips Publishing—a service copy sent to us with the original filed in court. Not unexpectedly, the publisher’s legal department refuted Robin’s demand for reparations and declined to remove the defective spell book from bookstore shelves.
As Robin read the letter, I watched her expression fall. Her lips pressed together, and then she got that determined look of hers. When I saw her like that, I always thought she could walk into an oncoming tidal wave and the waters would part just to stay out of her way. She handed me the letter so I could read it for myself.
“We at Howard Phillips Publishing categorically deny any culpability in the strange and unfortunate accident that befell Ms. Alma Wannovich. We contend that the plaintiffs, Alma Wannovich and Mavis Wannovich, failed to use our spell book in accordance with the clearly stated guidelines on the copyright page. We assert that all spells published by Howard Phillips are completely harmless. Although Ms. Wannovich’s situation is unquestionably tragic, our good company bears no blame for the aforementioned misfortune. Any public allegation that attempts to cast Howard Phillips Publishing in an unfavorable light will be met with vigorous legal action. We are committed to defending our good name with all the means and financial resources at our disposal.”
I handed the letter back to Robin. “Not good news.”
“It’s just the next step in the dance.” Her fingers tightened on the stationery, wrinkling the paper. “The more strenuously a defendant denies the charges, the more culpable they tend to be.”
“Should I deliver a copy of the letter to Mavis and Alma?” After the tense situation the sisters had experienced on the streets, I didn’t think it was wise to call them away from the safety of their home unless it was absolutely necessary.
Robin set the letter on her desk and flattened the crinkles. “No, I’ll call them. I think it might be time to try an innovative approach—and I’ve got an idea.”
“All right, but if Mavis and Alma need a shoulder to cry on”—I thought of the large sow—“or to nuzzle against, I’ll do my part.”
While Robin talked with the Wannovich sisters on the phone, I decided to check on Mrs. Saldana down at the mission, as well as Sheldon Fennerman, to let them both know about the restraining order against Straight Edge. I grabbed my hat, took my phone and my gun, told Sheyenne where I was going, and headed out.
At the halfway-repaired Hope & Salvation Mission, patrons had returned to take advantage of Mrs. Saldana’s generosity. She made soup and cookies and passed out blood bags donated to the mission by the blood bank (type B positive packs that were near their expiration date; vampires considered it the least flavorful blood type, but Mrs. Saldana liked to reinforce the subliminal message of “be positive”).
Inside the mission, Jerry the zombie was practicing at the piano but not doing very well. A mangy-looking werewolf snoozed on one of the folding chairs. Two bald vampires looked with disdain at the selection of blood bags, obviously not tempted; I wondered if these two had been victims of the garlic-contaminated JLPN shampoo.
A parked truck sat in front of the mission, with large panels that held sheets of window glass. Black Glass, Inc. was stenciled on the passenger door. Out front, Mrs. Saldana spoke with an exceedingly dapper zombie dressed in a black frock coat, a gray checkered vest, and black silk top hat. His eyes were sunk deep in their sockets; long gray hair extended below the brim of the top hat. He looked like the Crypt Keeper in an old horror television show that was experiencing a resurgence in popularity now that it had been repackaged as a slice-of-life comedy. Rather than the usual smell of death one would expect from a zombie in his state of decay, a haze of pungent cologne hung around him. By now, I recognized the distinctive scent of Zom-Be-Fresh.
I walked up to them. “I just came to make sure you’re all right, Mrs. Saldana. No further harassment?”
The old woman brightened. “None whatsoever, Mr. Chambeaux. We’re getting back on our feet now, and I want to thank you for giving me this gentleman’s contact information. He’s doing a fine job.”
The dapper zombie extended his hand. “Franklin Galworthy, owner of Black Glass. I appreciate you recommending us, sir. We’re just a start-up company and can use the customers.”
“Pleased to meet you.” The cologne smell was so strong my eyes began to water. “How’s business?”
Galworthy took off his top hat and wiped an emaciated hand across his forehead. “Quite busy. The brute that did this”—he gestured to where he had framed the smashed windows with new two-by-fours—“has caused a lot of damage across the Quarter. Smashed glass everywhere.” His grin showed off an array of teeth that would have startled even Mr. Sardonicus. “And all those places need replacement windows. At the moment, I’ve got more work than I can handle.”
“I hope you catch that horribly destructive creature,” Mrs. Saldana said, fluttering her hand in front of her face. “You’re the detective, Mr. Chambeaux. Any leads?”
“Not yet—Officer McGoohan is on it. If I learn anything, I’ll let him know.”
“Give me two days and I’ll have the mission fixed up, good as new,” said Galworthy. “And if the brute attacks again, we’ll fix it again! That’s the best way to defeat vandals, I say—take away their fun.”
With a flourish like a circus showman, he twirled his top hat, plopped it back on the straggly gray strands covering his cranium, and returned to measuring the window before he cut the glass.
I informed Mrs. Saldana that, thanks to the restraining order, she could have the Straight Edgers thrown in jail for contempt if they bothered her again. The old woman blessed me and gave me a sweet grandmotherly pat on my shoulder.
My cell phone rang. It was Sheyenne. “Beaux, you better head over to Howard Phillips Publishing—something’s brewing. Robin wants you there to see what she’s got up her sleeve.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “I take it the witches weren’t satisfied with the publisher’s response?”
“Robin has a plan, whatever that means.”
“Now I’m curious. Give me the address.”
Leaving the mission, I tried to hail a taxi and, as is typical when you’re in a hurry, I couldn’t find one. It was the middle of the afternoon, with sunlight filling a crystal-clear sky. Since not many unnaturals wanted to be abroad in bright daylight, they had snatched up all the available cabs.
So I set off on foot, stopping at every corner, holding out my hand, trying to catch a taxi. It took me sixteen blocks, and by the time I slid into the backseat of the cab and told the driver where to go, I was only four blocks from my destination. Still, it saved a little time.
When the taxi pulled up in front of the publisher’s building, I paid the driver, tipped him too much, and bounded out of the backseat. I easily spotted Robin looking professional in her business suit; she stood between the black-skirted Mavis and her sow-sister Alma. A TV news van had already arrived, and two men with cameras recorded the small spectacle. Another camera van pulled up just as I arrived.
The headquarters of Howard Phillips Publishing was a modern rectangular structure of stone blocks and steel with re-flectorized windows. In order to afford a stand-alone building in the city, they must have been doing well with their spell-book reprints and annotated editions of the Necronomicon, which they claimed were authorized by Abdul Alhazred himself.
Two medium-height, middle-aged men with prominent lantern jaws pushed their way through the main revolving door. They wore white short-sleeved shirts and neckties that were identically askew. At a glance, I guessed that this was the publisher and his entire legal department, twins apparently. From Robin’s research on the case, we had learned that the brothers were Howard Phillips and Phillip Phillips, respectively.
The TV cameras turned toward him, and he quailed. The other brother, Howard, grabbed Phillip’s shoulder and pulled him back toward the revolving door, but Robin seized her moment. She raised her voice and spoke for the cameras. “My clients, Mavis and Alma Wannovich”—she pointed to the witch and the sow—“have suffered grievous harm due to errors in spell books published by Howard Phillips. The results are obvious.”
Reporters began scribbling notes. Others held out recorders to capture her words. The news cameras recorded every moment.
In a scorn-filled voice, Robin continued, “However, according to this letter, the publisher insists their books are completely safe.” She waved the letter in the air. “All right, let’s give them the benefit of the doubt.” She patted Alma’s head and flashed the nervous twins a shrewd glance. “If this spell is indeed harmless, as they claim, then we’ll graciously withdraw our complaint.”
Howard and Phillip attempted to retreat, but only succeeded in jamming themselves into the revolving door. “But it is harmless!” the publisher cried.
“Thank you, gentlemen. We accept your assurances, but now for the proof.” Robin gestured, turned her attention back to the cameras. “Mavis will cast this purportedly innocuous spell on Howard and Phillip Phillips. The truth will be obvious to everyone in a minute.” She seemed completely in her element. This was even better than arguing a case in front of a jury. “Be sure to have your cameras tracking this.”
Mavis opened the spell book, turned it so the news crews could capture the cover and its prominent Howard Phillips logo. The sow shifted back and forth, barely able to restrain a joyful squeal. “Summoning the Fairness of Form,” Mavis said and cleared her throat. She fixed her glare on the twins and began to incant the strange words printed in the book.
The reporters held their breath.
“Stop!” cried Howard. “There’s no need for this!”