Death Warmed Over

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “And I trust you to do what’s best for me, sweetheart. Don’t worry, I have an alibi with plenty of witnesses! I may stop by the factory later, but some friends and I are at a pre-moonrise party.”

  The music swelled, and Miranda hung up.

  CHAPTER 40

  Regardless of how much hard detective work I invest in a case, now and then a major lead miraculously falls into place—as if the cases really do solve themselves. That’s terrific when it happens, but sometimes the timing sucks.

  We were heading out the door to go after Harvey Jekyll when the phone rang: Fletcher Knowles from Basilisk—and his voice sounded uncertain. “Hello, Mr. Chambeaux? I found something . . . something you should be aware of.”

  “I’m busy right now, Fletcher. We’re just about to close a very large—”

  He interrupted me. “I had to call you now, before she wakes up. I think I found the gun that was used to murder you.”

  That stopped me in my tracks, just like the original bullet did.

  He continued, “A big antique revolver—Smith and Wesson. That’s what the ballistics report said, right?”

  My voice was a low growl. “Damn right.”

  “I found the gun in Ivory’s dressing room. She’s been hiding it in one of her vanity drawers. But you need to get over here right away. It’s sunset, and she’ll be rising soon—you don’t have much time.”

  I swallowed hard, thought about McGoo and the big arrest at JLPN, but I knew the choice I had to make. “I’ll be right there, Fletcher.” I hung up and turned to Sheyenne. “The gun that shot me is at Basilisk. Ivory’s been hiding it.”

  “That bitch! If I wasn’t a ghost, I’d rip her fangs out, then move on to other body parts. I was going be a surgeon, you know. Hmmm, maybe if I used pliers . . .”

  I looked at Robin and McGoo. “You guys have to take care of Jekyll. I need to do this—it could wrap up my own murder case, and Sheyenne’s.”

  “We’ve got it, Shamble,” McGoo said. “Scout’s honor.”

  “I’ll be there in spirit,” I said.

  “I’ll be there in spirit,” Sheyenne said. “I’m going with you, Beaux. That vamp poisoned me and probably shot you to keep you from snooping around.”

  “Happy to have you along.” I wasn’t going to prevent her from joining me anyway.

  We all left in a rush. I don’t know which of us was in the greatest hurry.

  Basilisk was closed for business until well after full dark; the neon sign was switched off. Dusk thickened into downright gloom as Sheyenne and I arrived, and Fletcher opened the door to hurry us into the dim nightclub. “I wasn’t sure what else to do, Mr. Chambeaux.” Nervous, he locked the door behind us. I gave my .38 a reassuring pat.

  Fletcher spoke in a hushed voice as he led us toward Ivory’s dressing room in the back, a place to which I’d been invited many times, though I had studiously avoided it. “Ivory’s my biggest star, the best vamp singer I’ve ever heard, and it’s going to ruin business if we have to get rid of her. But if she did kill you . . .” He shook his head. His face looked as pale as his bleached goatee.

  “Why would you help us?” Sheyenne asked.

  He shrugged. “It’s one way to get you to come back and sing.”

  Her translucent face clouded with anger. “Fletcher, if you help put away the vampire bitch that killed both of us, then I’ll come back and sing every Saturday night for free.”

  “I hoped you would say something like that.” The manager led us down the hall behind the stage. “And you did me a good turn, too, Mr. Chambeaux, even though you didn’t mean to.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Remember Harry Talbot, the blood-bar owner who hired you to shut down my under-the-table blood sales? He’s actually a cool guy. Likes progressive-rock music, same as me. He turned me on to some excellent obscure bands.”

  “So you’re not trying to drive each other out of business anymore?” I asked. Talbot had paid his fee to Chambeaux & Deyer and closed the case; I’d never heard anything more from him.

  “Just the opposite! We’re in business together, my nightclub, his blood bar. We’re opening up another place or two. There’s certainly a market for it.”

  We fell into a hush as we reached the closed door to Ivory’s dressing room. Fletcher turned the knob and the three of us entered. The vamp singer had a small makeup table and a chair, a ring of bright makeup lights, but no mirror (which wouldn’t have done her any good). The table was covered with small jars, brushes, facial primer, foundation, powder, pencils, a rainbow of eye shadows and blushes, and her signature glossy red lipstick. A vase held a dozen long-stemmed red roses. The walls were covered with photographs of Ivory nuzzling famous people.

  Her double-wide mahogany coffin rested on a riser on the other side of the room. Ivory had spared no expense: This was the best coffin offered in any funeral parlor catalog, about ten times more expensive than the one Robin had bought for me.

  Though the sun had gone down a full hour ago, the big vamp remained in her coffin. Nothing stirred in the dressing room.

  Fletcher said in a whisper, “She likes to sleep late. I usually come in here just before dark to help her put on her face. Since she can’t use a mirror, it’s my job to prepare Ivory for her public. It sometimes takes an hour, and I have to tell her a dozen times how beautiful she looks, since she can’t see her reflection.”

  “Where’s the gun?” I asked.

  Fletcher slid open one of the vanity drawers to reveal a Smith & Wesson revolver, a big gleaming thing that could have been in a vampire’s collection since the Civil War. Ballistics would prove whether or not this was the gun that had shot me, but it was too much of a coincidence to swallow.

  Sheyenne nudged the makeup jars and bottles. “And if I find a vial of toadstool poison, that would be the cherry on top of the sundae.”

  Hearing the unmistakable sound of a creaking coffin lid, the three of us turned like startled rabbits facing the same rattlesnake. The big-breasted vampire extended her hands into the air, stretching, then sat up, yawning and rubbing the fuzz of sleep from her eyes.

  When she saw us standing there, she recoiled as if she were the rabbit and we the rattlesnakes. “What are you all doing here? This is my private dressing room. Get out!” She quickly covered her face. “You can’t see me like this!”

  Ivory did look a lot different without her makeup. She turned her gaze on the manager. Vampires are able to manipulate people with a seductive hypnotic glamour, but what she gave Fletcher was exactly the opposite. He shivered under the glare.

  “We found the gun, Ivory.” I took a step forward to intervene. “What did I ever do to you? What made you upset enough to kill me?”

  The vamp looked baffled. “Kill you, sugar? What are you talking about?”

  Sheyenne pulled the Smith & Wesson from the drawer. “I’ve always known you poisoned me, and this is the gun that shot Dan, right here in your dressing room. Did you kill him because he was investigating my murder? Were you worried he’d catch you?”

  I pulled my own .38 from the shoulder holster. The silver-jacketed slugs would do the trick.

  More annoyed than afraid, the vampire diva climbed out, indignant but embarrassed by her fresh-out-of-the-coffin appearance. “I didn’t even have that gun when Dan was murdered, sugar. I just bought it two weeks ago.”

  “What do you need a gun for?” I asked.

  “For protection! In case you haven’t noticed, I’m the star here, and I’ve got my share of obsessive fans . . . though not as many as I’d like. Sometimes they don’t take no for an answer, so I decided to get a gun for peace of mind.” She turned her sultry gaze on me. “Although you never learned how to take yes for an answer, sugar.”

  I tried to stay on point. “Then where did you get the gun?”

  “I wanted something big, sturdy, reliable. It was a private sale. Cash. Very anonymous.”

  “Ivory, if that’s the gun that murdered me, I deserve t
o know who owned it.”

  The vamp considered that and agreed. “All right, but don’t tell him I told you. He might cut off my supplies, and I can’t have that.”

  “Who?” Sheyenne demanded.

  “Brondon Morris. He sold me the gun.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Leaving Basilisk, we rushed to the factory of Jekyll Lifestyle Products & Necroceuticals. McGoo would already be there with Robin, but he didn’t know that Harvey Jekyll wasn’t acting alone. Brondon Morris did some of Jekyll’s dirty work; apparently, he carried more than product samples in his case.

  When we arrived after dark, the company was locked up tight, and a thick chain secured the fence gate and sally port. I was stuck outside.

  The separate administrative building was dark and quiet, but I could see lights and hear nighttime generators humming inside the industrial complex. Perfumey vapors wafted from the smokestacks, venting the chemical operations on the process floor.

  Sheyenne rattled, tugged, and twisted the padlocks and chain with her poltergeist hands, then drifted back, dismayed. “I can only do so much, Beaux. How did Robin and Officer McGoohan get in? Do you think he called for backup?”

  “I’m guessing McGoo won’t want to share credit for the big arrest—he needs every brownie point for his personnel file.” I looked around, but saw no sign of them. I pulled out my phone and called Robin’s number. No answer. Maybe they had gone back to the offices in defeat, so I punched in that number, but the phone rang and rang until the voice mail kicked in. I tried one last call, to McGoo’s private phone. Again, no answer.

  “We’ve got to get in there,” I said, very worried now. “Spooky, go scope the place out. Check the offices. I want to know where Robin and McGoo are—and if there’s anybody else inside.”

  “Leave you here? I won’t be much good in a fight if I can’t touch Jekyll or Brondon—”

  “Right now I’ll settle for recon.” She blew me a kiss, then flitted off through the fence and into the dark compound.

  The bright lights from the factory windows told me something was going on in the main building. I regarded the fence, the razor wire on top. If my friends were in trouble, I wasn’t going to stay stuck out here in the cheap seats.

  Bracing myself, I grabbed the chain links with stiff fingers, poked the toes of my shoes into the gaps, and hauled myself up. This was not my favorite thing to do. When I lurched over the curled razor wire, the sharp metal barbs tore the fabric of my shirt and pants, and I didn’t want to think what it was doing to my skin. I’d be seeing Miss Lujean Eccles for another patchup as soon as this was over. But if Robin and McGoo were in there and in trouble, I didn’t care how battered I got trying to save them. As I let myself drop, I heard a ripping sound, then I fell free. I got to my feet, brushed myself off, and staggered toward the factory and the open loading dock door.

  From my earlier infiltration of JLPN during the garlic-laced shampoo case, I was already familiar with the big chemical vats on the process floor, the tanks of fragrances, base chemicals, active agents, dyes, and fillers. Mammoth horizontal stirrers churned the huge cauldrons, and the mixtures were piped off to bottling lines that filled containers, pasted on labels, sealed caps, and boxed up the necroceuticals for distribution.

  During daylight hours, the factory was a synchronized, bustling place, filled with workers. Now most of the machinery was turned off, but I could still hear the sighing, burbling sounds of fermenting mixtures and chemical reactions.

  I also heard voices, a man and a woman.

  Brondon Morris, wearing a green plaid sport coat, had forced Robin up the metal steps and onto a catwalk on top of a huge vat. I saw no sign of McGoo or Jekyll, and I felt cold inside, fearing that McGoo might already be dead somewhere. What if Brondon had simply shot him in the back of the head, as he’d done to me, then coerced Robin in here?

  Her hands were tied behind her back, and that got me angry. Brondon jabbed a gun directly in her face, forcing her to take another step along the catwalk. His broad grin was just like the one he had worn when flirting with the three zombie cougars. He was going to make her jump into the vat.

  He brandished his gun, which looked like a .38, the type of weapon that had gunned me down in the street after Sheyenne and I left Grandma Wong’s shop. If that was the same gun, then this guy must really like to shoot me.

  I drew my own revolver and lurched to the metal stairs before he could shove Robin over the edge. “I wouldn’t do that, Brondon!”

  He swung his head around, startled, and looked down at me from atop the giant cauldron. “Dan Chambeaux!” He let out a mocking laugh to cover his surprise. “You really do keep rising from the grave.”

  While he was momentarily distracted, Robin kicked him in the shin. It was the best she could do with her hands tied.

  Brondon yelped, hopped on one foot, and swung the pistol back to her. “Stop that!” As fast as I could, I started running up the narrow steps along the side of the vat, although I knew I wouldn’t get there in time. Brondon didn’t know where to point the gun. He swung it back and forth. “I suggest you stop, Chambeaux! I’ve got plenty of bullets, and even if they don’t hurt you, imagine what they’ll do to your pretty little partner.”

  I had made it halfway up the stairs, but I stopped, held up my handgun. “Don’t hurt her, Brondon.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Of course I’m going to hurt her! Haven’t you been following the program? Toss your weapon across the floor.”

  “Why in the world would I do that?” I decided to see how far I could push it. Moving slower now, I climbed two steps higher and kept my gaze fixed on his.

  “Because I’ll shoot her right now if you don’t.” He pressed the barrel against her head, pushed hard, and Robin flinched back. “You’ve already seen what a bullet did to your skull. You choose—think fast! Three . . . two . . .”

  “All right! Stop, I’ll do it.” I tossed my revolver over the metal stairs and onto the floor. It was the only advantage I’d had, but Brondon could easily kill Robin in an instant. Maybe if I could get him to soliloquize, as movie villains do, I could figure out something. I glared up at him. “I’ve unraveled your plot, Brondon. We know you sold your antique Smith and Wesson to Ivory after you killed me.” I pointed to the pistol in his hand, using that as an excuse to advance another step higher. “Did you use that .38 to shoot me down in the street a few nights ago?”

  “It’s my new gun,” he said, admiring the weapon. “I wanted something lighter and more stylish.”

  Robin’s dark eyes widened as she put the pieces together. She hadn’t known what Sheyenne and I learned from Ivory. “You’re the one who shot Dan?” She had real, heartwarming murder in her glare. “Why?”

  I had been just about to ask the same question.

  Brondon looked at Robin, annoyed, but she kept her back straight and refused to be pushed around. “He was closing in on me. I had to cover my tracks before he unraveled JLPN’s overall plan.”

  Under other circumstances it might have been funny. “I never liked you, Brondon, but I was never after you—in fact, I had no idea you were involved in anything until tonight. Harvey Jekyll was the one in my sights. I followed him out to the dump with his hazardous chemicals, and we found the silver Straight Edge ring in his study. We know he’s the Grand Wizard.”

  Brondon looked like a gorilla with indigestion. “I’m the Grand Wizard. I created Straight Edge. Harvey’s just a second banana, a wannabe with money.”

  Now I was even more confused. “What are you talking about?”

  Brondon wore a strange expression, then smiled. “Oh yes, I forgot—I never did get a chance to go over all the details before I shot you from behind. I decided it was better not to gloat, not to explain everything.”

  “I wish you had. It would have made solving my murder a heck of a lot easier.”

  “I didn’t know what you had discovered, but I couldn’t risk having you blow the whistle. Our new line of necroceutica
ls was being released in the Quarter, and I had to take you out of the picture.”

  “Sorry to pee on your parade, Brondon, but I wasn’t looking into the new product line at all. I don’t even use the stuff.”

  Brondon blinked. “But you were following me! I saw you.”

  “Miranda Jekyll hired me to do covert surveillance on her husband. She wanted to catch Harvey having an affair so she’d have leverage for her divorce settlement. I was following you just to get to him.”

  Robin said, “The cat’s out of the bag now, Brondon—you might as well explain it. Isn’t that what villains do?”

  “I’m not the villain—I’m trying to save humanity.”

  “Strange way of showing it,” I said. “With all those people dissolving horribly in the last couple of days.”

  “Do you still have graveyard dirt in your ears? I said I’m saving humanity, not unnaturals. The whole line of necroceuticals was designed for this purpose, and this purpose alone.” Finally, the villain’s soliloquy! I used the distraction of his ranting to advance another two steps toward the catwalk.

  “JLPN is the most popular toiletry line for unnaturals. All the monsters use our body washes, shampoos, deodorants, skin creams, perfumes and colognes, toothpaste, hair gel . . . and every single product is impregnated with a seemingly innocuous Compound X.”

  “What an original name,” I said. “Compound W and Preparation H were both taken?”

  Brondon sneered. “After prolonged use, Compound X saturates unnatural tissue. They don’t even know it. It raises no red flags on any chemical analysis. But now . . .” He spread his arms wide to indicate the factory floor and the bubbling cauldrons. Then he caught himself in the middle of his overly grandiose gesture, looked embarrassed, and trained the gun back on Robin to stop her from kicking him again. “With all of our advertising, the unnaturals will have to try the new and improved Fresh Loam line. And each new product contains a different, very special trace chemical.”