Death Warmed Over

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “Yes, miss,” Wendy said in a rattling voice. The young woman lurched into the parlor.

  Though I had seen many horrific examples of creatures restored to life, this one would have won numerous prizes, and Wendy wasn’t exactly a testimonial to the quality of Miss Eccles’s work. I could see why the girl didn’t like to go out in public.

  “This is my Patchwork Princess. I put her back together when no one else would.”

  Sheyenne said nothing, but her eyes held deep pity. Robin, on the other hand, was ashen beneath her dark skin; she looked away and then seemed embarrassed for having done so.

  “The poor girl was a wreck when I got to her—literally a wreck,” Miss Eccles said. “She threw herself in front of an oncoming train, and the damage was atrocious.”

  “Sorry,” Wendy said.

  “The dear thing was miserable, wanted to end her life. She never expected to come back, but then suicides have a greater chance of resurrection. So there she was, even more miserable than she’d been before. I couldn’t let someone suffer like that! So I went back to the train tracks with two empty bushel baskets, picked up every piece I could find, and brought her back here.”

  “Thank you, miss,” Wendy said. Her arms weren’t attached right. Her head seemed askew, and she was a crazy quilt of tiny stitches. Triangular pieces of tan Naugahyde had been sewn in places where the skin was gone. “She did the best job she could. I’m grateful.”

  “I took her under my wing. The poor dear’s been a great help to me, and now she realizes that life isn’t so bad.”

  The Patchwork Princess tottered off into the adjoining room and returned with a carpetbag, which she set on the end table atop a doily. Miss Eccles opened it and withdrew spools of sewing thread, darning needles, a crochet hook, and flesh-colored thread as well as thicker twine.

  “I’d like to assist, if I can,” Sheyenne offered as Miss Eccles probed the tears in my skin. The plump woman nodded. “Boar bristle paintbrush.” Sheyenne placed the brush in the taxidermy-surgeon’s outstretched hand. Humming to herself, concentrating on her work, Miss Eccles used the brush to clean the bullet holes. “Knitting needle.” Sheyenne handed her the implement, which Miss Eccles gently eased through the wound and out my back to clean the channel.

  Wendy fetched a pot full of gummy packing mixture. While Sheyenne helped Miss Eccles fix my shattered ribs and stitch together the major muscles, the Patchwork Princess hunched in a chair next to the Tiffany lamp. She spread my shirt and sport jacket in her lap, and with clumsy but determined strokes used a needle and thread to sew up the bullet holes.

  While Robin watched with fascination, Sheyenne gave her the details about what we’d learned at Grandma Wong’s. “I’m sure this has to do with whoever poisoned me. We were snooping around, trying to find out who bought the death cap extract—and then Dan was shot.”

  “I’ll tell Officer McGoohan,” Robin said. “We need the police force working on this too!”

  I groaned. “No, let me talk to McGoo. He’s got his hands full as it is. Besides, I’m supposed to be a hotshot private investigator. If I can’t solve this, who can?”

  Miss Eccles packed the body cavity with the biofiller, topped it off with cotton, then used almost invisible stitches to close the bullet holes, front and back. Wendy’s stitchery wasn’t nearly as neat or accurate as the other woman’s taxidermy work, but both finished at the same time. Wendy shyly handed me my shirt and jacket.

  As I shrugged back into the shirt, my arms seemed to be working well enough. The marks on my chest weren’t unnoticeable by any means, but not nearly as bad as I’d feared. Robin fussed over my buttons (even under the best of circumstances, my fingers didn’t have their previous dexterity). When I put the sport jacket back on, I decided that the stitched-up bullet holes added character, like a badge of honor.

  I made a point of acknowledging the Patchwork Princess to boost her self-esteem. “Thank you very much, Wendy. Looks like I won’t need a new jacket after all.”

  Her smile was crooked, but as bright as sunshine. Miss Eccles said, “You know where to come for a quick fix when the inevitable happens.” Sheyenne paid the woman and thanked her.

  “The inevitable’s not going to happen anytime soon, Dan,” Robin vowed as the two escorted me out of the Patchup Parlor.

  Sheyenne added, “And let’s not make a habit of this bullet thing.”

  CHAPTER 31

  The next day Sheyenne went on the ghostly warpath. She returned to the scene of the shooting before dawn, found three of the six bullets that had gone through my chest, and delivered them straight to Officer McGoohan. Robin had already given him an indignant report of what happened to me the previous night. It was immediately apparent that this latest batch of bullets did not come from the same .32 caliber weapon as the one that had shot me in the head. These bullets were from a .38, like my own gun.

  Great—two people were shooting at me, or the same person using two different guns.

  First thing in the morning, McGoo submitted the slugs for testing and came to our offices. He tried to act casual, but I could tell by his red face that he had hurried over. “What’s the matter, Shamble—getting shot once wasn’t enough for you?”

  “I can tell you, it doesn’t get better with practice.”

  He did not manage to hide his concern. “So, you all right? Bullets aren’t such a big deal for you, are they?”

  I gave him the “Are you kidding me?” look. “I’m patched up, and you can hardly see the bullet wounds. Cosmetic repairs have come a long way since the Big Uneasy. Want to see?”

  “I’ll take your word for it. No need to strip,” McGoo said, then he got serious. “Who the hell did you rile up now?”

  “I wish I knew. I’m still trying to figure out who murdered me the first time.”

  He snorted. “Some private eye.”

  “The suspect list is getting longer by the minute. We were trying to track down the source of the toadstool poison that killed Sheyenne, and Harvey Jekyll knows that I’m breathing down his neck, and I delivered a restraining order to the Straight Edgers, and the Ricketts family is mad because I recovered the stolen painting that just sold at auction. Enough? I’ve also got half a dozen other cases if we want to cast a wider net.”

  “If you worked on one case at a time, the suspect pool would be more limited.”

  “Great idea, McGoo.”

  “After what happened last night, you’d have been safer with me chasing down a giant monster.”

  “How did the hunt go?”

  He blew a sigh out through his lips. “Didn’t see the big brute, but I checked out all the vandalism sites. A lot of them have broken windows, but not the additional extreme damage we found at the Hope and Salvation Mission. Funny thing . . . most of the smashed windows are being repaired by a new company called Black Glass.”

  I remembered the dapper, perfume-drenched zombie with frock coat and top hat. “I’ve met him—Franklin Galworthy. He’s fixing the Hope and Salvation Mission too . . . but Black Glass doesn’t have much competition in the Quarter. Who you gonna call?” Then I understood the implication. “You think he’s taking advantage of the situation, smashing windows to drum up extra business for himself?”

  “Could very well be. I don’t think that guy could crush bricks with his bare hands or rip apart door frames . . . but the rest of the damage could have been done by a copycat.”

  He shuffled his feet, not sure what else to say. I could see the deep concern on his face, so I let him off the hook. “I’ll take care of myself, McGoo—don’t worry. Let me know if the ballistics lab comes up with any match on the bullets.”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  Robin was tense and preoccupied, pacing around the office lobby as if rehearsing a closing argument for a jury. Then I remembered that this was the day when she and Ramen Ho-Tep would meet with the Metropolitan Museum staff to negotiate a possible solution. The fact that I’d been gunned down didn’t have any effe
ct on the other appointments on our calendar.

  In the conference room, she had spread out her folders and documents next to her yellow legal pad. Piled casebooks formed a small pyramid, and the mummy’s rolled-up hieroglyphic papyrus sat adjacent to the law books. She had set a glass of water at each place, with a pitcher in the middle of the table.

  Robin bit her lip, and I could see she needed some encouragement. “You’ll do fine.”

  She gave me a hesitant smile. “I’ll bring my A game, Dan. I always do. Will you be in there with me?”

  “If both parties allow it. You know I’ve always got your back.”

  Ramen Ho-Tep shuffled in early, step-step-draaaag, step-step- draaaag. He had given himself plenty of time to get across town from the museum. The mummy coughed nervously, and a moth came out of his throat.

  At precisely 10:00 A.M., the museum curator entered our offices with two members of his legal counsel, the director of the museum board, and a young man whose purpose I couldn’t ascertain, probably an intern. They swooped into our main reception area like a murder of business-suited crows.

  Robin greeted them professionally. “Welcome, gentlemen. Our aim today is to reach a satisfactory and mutually beneficial resolution on this matter so that my client and I don’t need to pursue further legal action.”

  “We have prepared a lawsuit of our own,” said Bram Steffords, the curator, “and we have the full financial and legal resources of the museum at our disposal.”

  Ramen Ho-Tep lurched forward. “And I was Pharaoh of all Egypt! I have the wealth of my entire land, much of which you have on display in your museum. That’s stolen property! I am the rightful owner! I—”

  Robin held up a hand. “Shall we sit down and begin our discussions?” She turned to the curator and gave him a hard look. “Just so you know, Chambeaux and Deyer is taking Mr. Ho-Tep’s case on a pro bono basis, and I intend to pursue it vigorously, for as long as necessary. He has no financial concerns in this matter.”

  From behind the receptionist’s desk, Sheyenne let out a groan that she almost, but not quite, managed to cover up.

  The guys-in-ties from the museum took their places in the conference room, sitting motionless as if they were on exhibit themselves. Sheyenne did not offer them coffee or tea; roomtemperature water would have to do. I sat next to Robin, slightly more limber than Ramen Ho-Tep, who also settled into his seat.

  Robin laid out the facts of the case, most of which the museum’s legal representative disputed. Growing impatient, she said, “Should this matter go to trial, I’ll have Mr. Ho-Tep take the stand, and every member of the jury will acknowledge that he is a sentient individual who should be free, while the museum considers him mere property. He can speak for himself very well. And with a British accent.”

  Steffords’s legal counsel said, “And we have bills of sale along with exchange agreements with the Egyptian Department of Antiquities, which grant us the right to retain Mr. Ho-Tep and other ancient artifacts for display in the museum. He is a primary draw for our patrons.”

  The curator added, “However, the Necronomicon exhibit is our most popular attraction right now.”

  “You must let me go!” the mummy insisted. “I will accept nothing less than the freedom that is my due.”

  “And where exactly will you go if you leave the museum, Mr. Ho-Tep?” Steffords snapped. “Find a little apartment? Get yourself dry-cleaned?”

  Indignant, the mummy balled his fists, his bony fingers crackling like tiny pieces of broken bamboo rolled into a ball. “Beware, lest I unleash the Pharaoh’s Curse upon you!”

  The curator chuckled. “There’s no such thing as the Pharaoh’s Curse.”

  Leaning across the table, the mummy said, “Can you really be certain about that, since the Big Uneasy? Are you bloody idiots prepared to wager your lives on that assumption? I’ve nothing to lose.”

  The entire coterie from the museum blanched.

  Robin intervened. “Please, let’s not go down that path. Wouldn’t you rather examine this problem and try to find an amicable solution?”

  Ramen Ho-Tep and Bram Steffords made disbelieving sounds in unison, as if they were part of the same choir.

  I had seen this type of enmity in custody or divorce cases, when the two sides are so bitter, so filled with animosity toward each other, that they won’t consider any solution unless the opposing party loses entirely. They don’t care whether possessions or children or common decency are thrown under the bus, so long as the other side doesn’t win. It looked as if the mummy and museum representatives were reaching that point. Robin might need to redefine win for each side in order for this to work.

  She looked down at the notes on her legal pad and laid out her argument. “Let’s consider for a moment: What exactly does the museum require from Mr. Ho-Tep? And what specifically does Mr. Ho-Tep want out of his situation?”

  “We want him on display for all of our museum patrons,” said the curator. “That is nonnegotiable.”

  “And I want respect. When I was Pharaoh, the population of the Nile Valley bowed to me. I lived in glorious times, times that have been forgotten, and the world needs to be reeducated! Egyptian society formed the basis of all human civilization.”

  Robin’s eyes sparkled. “That settles it, then! The solution is obvious.”

  Steffords frowned. “Not to me.”

  She said, “Mr. Ho-Tep is your prized Egyptian artifact, but you’re not using him to full advantage.”

  The mummy crossed his bandaged arms over his bandaged chest. “I feel quite sufficiently used, thank you.”

  “I mean, what better ambassador for teaching museum patrons about daily life in Egypt than Mr. Ho-Tep? Instead of keeping him sealed in a display case and away from the public, wouldn’t it be better to have him act as the docent in your Ancient Egypt wing? You could have story hour. Let him tell all the listeners about his reign and his culture.”

  The curator looked at his legal counsel, who shrugged. Steffords said, “He’s never volunteered to do anything like that.”

  “You never asked!” the mummy retorted, then looked over at Robin. Because his lips were so desiccated and stiff, I couldn’t tell whether he was smiling or not. (I should have taken the sample of emBalm that Brondon Morris had offered me.) “Yes . . . I could tell museum visitors about Egypt. The real Egypt. In fact, I’d bring it to life, tell them about my home, my family, my mates. ‘Real Housewives of the Nile.’ I could make quite a show of it. Brilliant!”

  Robin said encouragingly to the curator, “Mr. Ho-Tep could be the star of your museum, sir, not just part of an exhibit.”

  “But only twice a week,” Ramen Ho-Tep interjected. “And I need to be treated with proper respect.”

  “What does that mean?” Steffords sounded exasperated.

  “He gets a salary,” Robin said, “and an actual job title.”

  Ho-Tep piped up. “And a name tag, just like one of yours, to pin right here.” He tapped the bandages on the left side of his chest.

  The museum men huddled together, whispering. Steffords said, “Mr. Ho-Tep must cooperate fully with our educational objectives. It goes without saying that he’ll have to follow appropriate standards of behavior.”

  “I was Pharaoh of all Egypt!”

  Bram Steffords yawned. “Yes, yes, we know.”

  “And I will need slaves,” the mummy continued. “Armies of them, like the ones who built my pyramid.”

  “We can’t offer that many, but we might find you an assistant or two.”

  “We could assign an intern for that purpose,” the museum board member suggested.

  When the conversation fell into a lull, and no one made any further demands or protests, Robin closed her folder. She distilled the copious notes on her legal pad into a basic agreement on a clean sheet of paper, which she passed around for signatures. “This will do for now. I’ll have our paralegal type up a more detailed memorandum of understanding to summarize this meeting, and
we’ll draft a contract outlining the specific terms to which both the Metropolitan Museum and my client will be bound. I don’t believe we need to pursue any further legal action, if we are agreed on the general principles?”

  She looked at the business-suited men, who all nodded slightly, then, seeing their fellows do the same, nodded with more vigor. Ramen Ho-Tep leaned back in his chair, looking pleased. He nodded as well. I had to smile: Robin made it seem so easy.

  She ushered the men out, cool and professional, and as soon as they were gone, she threw her arms around the ambulatory mummy, giving him a hug. He squawked, “Do be careful! I just heard something snap!”

  She backed away, brushing dust off her business suit. “Sorry, I’m just so pleased.”

  Sheyenne drifted close to the mummy. “You understand that when Ms. Deyer told the museum representatives this was a pro bono case, it was merely a bluffing tactic? If you have any spare treasures of ancient Egypt, we still expect to be paid for our services—provided you’re happy with the results of our work.”

  Ramen Ho-Tep sounded pleased. “Indeed, I am absolutely delighted! I’ve no doubt I can slip a golden ankh or scarab from a display case to donate to your finances.”

  Robin seemed embarrassed that Sheyenne would bring up money at such a celebratory time, but I added, “Our fees allow us to keep our offices open, Mr. Ho-Tep, so we can help other unnaturals in similar situations.” After our cut from the Ricketts art auction, we were definitely going to have a good month, for a change. A solid payment from the emancipated mummy would keep us in business for some time to come.

  “I understand completely. I was a benevolent pharaoh. I shall meet my obligation to you.” When the mummy left, I noticed he no longer dragged his foot.

  Robin threw her arms around me. Sheyenne said in a longing tone, “I wish I could do the same, Beaux.” I settled for giving her an air-hug instead.