Unnatural Acts

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “You must have been . . . out of the picture?” I prompted, raising my eyebrows.

  “My sister and I had a parting of the ways, but that’s all water under the bridge now.” Travis kept his attention entirely on Sheyenne. “I would have been here if I could. You know you mean the world to me.”

  “I know a lot of things, Travis. Do you expect me to forget what you did? I may be dead, but I don’t have amnesia.” She turned to us, explaining in a huff, “I worked my fingers to the bone to survive after our parents died, trying to make something of myself, but Travis went the opposite direction.”

  “We had the same goals,” he said. “I wanted to make something of myself, too.”

  “You wanted a shortcut,” Sheyenne said, clearly furious. “You looked for the easy way out, and I paid the price for it.”

  Travis tried his disarming grin, spread his hands. “So I was a little unlucky. I was an entrepreneur, and Fate wasn’t on my side.”

  Sheyenne said to Robin and me, as if her brother weren’t there, “His schemes crashed and burned. He lost all of his money, and then he lost other people’s money.” Her blue eyes were flashing, intense. “I tried to help you.”

  “Please, let’s not rehash this, sis. You should have loaned me the money I needed. I had a line on a big score, and we both could’ve had a villa in Cancun right now if it had paid off . . . if you’d given me that investment I needed.”

  Sheyenne huffed. “I was saving to go to med school. I couldn’t spare a dime.” Robin and I stood there awkwardly, not wanting to be in the middle of a family feud, but I wasn’t averse to taking sides. Sheyenne spun to face me. “He stole my money, Beaux. He cleaned out my accounts and then disappeared. I haven’t seen him since, until today.”

  Travis looked flustered. “I was earning your money back, trying to make it up to you. I swear I would have repaid you every cent, but now you’re . . . dead. So what’s the point?”

  Realization hit me, and I said to Sheyenne, “That’s why you had to move into that little apartment and take the job at Basilisk? Because your brother stole your savings?”

  Sheyenne pressed her pale lips together and nodded.

  Travis talked fast and frantic. “I didn’t hear about your death until recently, I swear.” The term douchebag came immediately to mind. “And when I found out you were a ghost, I just had to make amends. I came by to say I’m sorry. You’re my sister—we’re flesh and blood.”

  “I’m not flesh and blood anymore,” Sheyenne said. “And whatever happened to the big score? Since you took the money I didn’t lend you, show me my villa in Cancun, and I’ll rethink my opinion of you.”

  Self-consciously, he tugged down the front of his jacket. “That investment didn’t pan out due to political turmoil on Easter Island. Nothing I could have predicted.”

  Sheyenne sniffed. “You stole my money, then you lost it.”

  “Come on, Anne—I’m your brother, I’m family! We’re stuck with each other.” He looked so earnest, so pleading. “Look, I mean to make it up to you. I came back, didn’t I? I’ve turned over a new leaf. Give me another chance.”

  I was ready to give Travis the bum’s rush out the door, if that was what she decided. But it was Sheyenne’s choice.

  She looked uncertain, then seemed to deflate. “I don’t want to be one of those vengeful ghosts. I’ll bury the hatchet—so long as you know that you really did me wrong.”

  “I am sorry, I truly am,” Travis wheedled. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay, even being dead and all.”

  “I’m fine. I’ve learned how to deal with it.”

  “And . . . I wanted to spend a little personal time in the Unnatural Quarter. Do you think I could stay at your place, just long enough to get my bearings?”

  Sheyenne floated in the air in front of him. “I’m a ghost, Travis. Why would I pay rent for an apartment?”

  “I guess I didn’t think that through.” He chuckled nervously and looked at me. “How about—?”

  I had a small room upstairs, but it was more claustrophobic than cozy, cluttered with boxes and old furniture. On the rare occasions when I did go up to take a nap, I usually just leaned against a wall for a while. Robin’s place, next to mine, wasn’t much bigger. She had made it her home, even though she spent little time there, and I had no intention of suggesting that this guy could use it.

  “Sorry, Travis, no room at the inn.”

  Again with the disarming smile, Travis pretended not to be disappointed. “No problem. I’ll find someplace else.”

  Sheyenne rummaged in her desk and pulled out a sheet of paper that we offered for our out-of-town clients. “Here’s a list of places you might try. Some of them are dirt cheap.”

  “Good, I’m sort of living on a budget.” Travis smiled at Robin and me again, as if we hadn’t just heard all of the ugly details about his character. “It was a pleasure meeting you.” He turned to Sheyenne. “And I really want to make amends, Anne.” With a final wave, he left.

  Sheyenne muttered, “Sometimes family ties are a noose.” With great intensity, she busied herself cleaning up the mess of the broken coffeepot.

  CHAPTER 11

  In spite of her unending, exhausting work at the Hope & Salvation Mission, Mrs. Saldana maintained a sunny disposition. Whenever I went to check on her, I felt rejuvenated by the dose of good cheer that rubbed off from the old woman’s halo. Maybe she put special additives in those cookies she made for the unfortunate unnaturals in her congregation, or maybe optimism and good cheer just came naturally to her. She drew genuine heartwarming pleasure from helping those less fortunate; that was the only pick-me-up she needed.

  Mrs. Saldana rarely visited our offices, and so when she walked in, accompanied by her more-lethargic-than-usual zombie helper, Jerry, I couldn’t help but notice her deeply troubled expression. “Mrs. Saldana, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m looking for help, and I don’t know where else to turn.”

  I tried to sound brave and reassuring. “Of course you know where to turn—how can we help?” Sheyenne flitted off to make Mrs. Saldana a cup of tea in the microwave, since our coffeepot was broken.

  “It’s Jerry.” She turned her frown toward the listless zombie. “My poor, dear Jerry. Bless his heart and bless his soul—unfortunately, he doesn’t have either anymore.”

  The zombie just stood there, showing very little reaction. He straightened as if recalling where he was, then he seemed to run out of steam.

  Robin joined us. “What happened to him? How can you lose your heart and soul?”

  It was a matter of some theological, or maybe nonsensical, debate as to whether unnaturals had souls at all. Zombies did have hearts, though, no matter how withered or nonfunctional they might be.

  “He didn’t exactly lose them,” Mrs. Saldana explained. “He pawned them to get money for the mission. We had a rough patch, and I didn’t know how we would pay the bills. Dear Jerry managed to get enough cash so we could stay open for business. The pawnbroker paid him extra for an outright sale rather than a loan.”

  The zombie slurred, “There’s good money for a heart-and-soul combo pack.”

  Deeply troubled, Mrs. Saldana patted Jerry’s grimy shirt sleeve. “I didn’t realize what he had done—I just thought he was being more sluggish than usual, maybe because of the damp weather. But now that Mr. Goodfellow has given us such generous patronage, the Hope and Salvation Mission has all the money we need. Jerry wants to restore his heart and soul.”

  “If they’re in a pawnshop, you should be able to buy them back,” I said.

  “We’ve tried, Mr. Chambeaux, but the gremlin proprietor—a very unpleasant fellow, I must say, and I rarely speak ill of people—has already sold the bundle to another customer. Too late.”

  I could feel her urgency, but I had to shake my head. “Sorry to say, Mrs. Saldana, but that’s the way pawnshops work.”

  “Then I want to find the customer and offer to buy back the heart and
soul, at a premium if necessary. Jerry’s worth it to me.” She patted his arm again. “But the pawnbroker won’t tell us who bought them.” Jerry let out a low, phlegmy moan, as decrepit zombies often do. “You can see he’s just miserable.”

  Now I understood why she had come to us. “So you want me to track down who really purchased Jerry’s heart and soul and see if I can get them back?”

  Mrs. Saldana nodded, but Robin was troubled. “If Jerry pawned the items and understood the terms of the agreement, and if another customer legitimately purchased them, we don’t have any legal recourse.”

  “I’ll have a little talk with the gremlin pawnbroker anyway,” I said. “That’s the best place to start.”

  Don’t get me wrong, I like Shakespeare well enough. I’d read Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet in high school, got passing grades, but never felt any need to go beyond the “to be or not to be” stage. The main reason I enjoyed Macbeth the other night was for the opportunity to be close to Sheyenne, and thanks to the nice glove, we actually got to hold hands. I know that sounds like something a pimply teenager would say, but when it’s all you’ve got, it makes an impression. Apart from that, I wasn’t all starstruck by the Bard.

  So, to me, Shakespeare’s ghost was just another potential client when he came in for a consultation. The ghost stood there in his full ridiculous outfit, complete with stockings, poofy pants, and silly hairstyle. “I am William Shakespeare,” he said in the stentorian voice he had demonstrated during the play, enunciating clearly and projecting his words out into the crowd.

  “No, you’re not,” I said.

  That startled him. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you’re not William Shakespeare.”

  He lifted his chin. “Very well. I am the ghost of William Shakespeare.” He seemed to think I would be impressed.

  “No, you’re not,” I said again. “The Big Uneasy happened only ten years ago. We don’t have ghosts from medieval times running around the Unnatural Quarter.”

  “Not medieval times. It was the Elizabethan Era, the Golden Age,” Shakespeare insisted. “And how do you know I wasn’t a natural ghost before that? Surely they existed. Vampires and werewolves did.”

  “Because your performance isn’t convincing. A person who lived in the Elizabethan Era or the Golden Age wouldn’t ever call it that.”

  “Perchance I learned the term afterward, Mr. Chambeaux.” He sounded defensive. “Why are you treating me like a criminal? I want to be your client.”

  “The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” I said. “Look, you are not the actual ghost of William Shakespeare, and if you don’t start telling me the truth, how do you expect me to help you?”

  He seemed flustered, then discouraged. “Oh, very well. It’s just a stage name, I admit, but I did have my name legally changed. I am William Shakespeare. It says so on my driver’s license.”

  “You have a driver’s license?”

  Robin joined us for the consultation. “Let’s just take him at his word, Dan. How can we help you, Mr. Shakespeare?”

  “Someone burned down our stage last night. A very expensive set.”

  “We saw the fire,” I said. “Somebody meant business.”

  “We’re just entertainers, Mr. Chambeaux. My troupe tries to put on a good play for a good cause, bringing culture to the Unnatural Quarter. Shakespeare’s plays are eternal. All the more reason for us to bring them to an undead segment of the public. With our Shakespeare in the Dark program, we are doing exactly what the Bard wanted, delivering his works to a much larger audience.

  “Our company has applied for grants, cultural subsidies, local sponsors. Alas, the arts foundations tell us they don’t have enough money to fund living actors and flesh-and-blood theater companies, let alone ours. Their goal, one of them said, is to keep starving artists from genuinely starving and becoming destitute ghost performers like us.” Shakespeare frowned in disgust. “But that was nothing compared to the vandals, the arsonists. How could anyone burn down our set, destroy all our props and costumes? We lost everything! That stage was a remarkable replica of the Globe Theatre!”

  Robin said, “We enjoyed the performance of the Scottish Play very much.”

  Shakespeare beamed. “Why, thank you, fair lady. I knew I came to the right place to seek restitution. I’m glad to be in the presence of such a perceptive attorney.”

  “Wasn’t Shakespeare the one who wrote ‘First, kill all the lawyers . . .’?” I asked.

  “Dan enjoyed the performance as much as I did,” Robin interjected. “And that Shakespeare quote is always taken out of context. He never actually advocated killing lawyers.”

  The ghost smiled. “Thank you—a reader who pays attention!”

  “I presume you want help tracking down whoever set fire to your stage?” I asked. “We saw the heckler from Senator Balfour’s organization—I wouldn’t put it past them.”

  “Yes, if you please, Mr. Chambeaux. Were we done to death by slanderous lies? My troupe requires the services of a private investigator. While we go through the paperwork, fill out the insurance forms, and hope to reclaim some money from our very expensive set and all those lost props, I want to know who was responsible and bring them to justice.”

  “If the senator or his minions were behind it, I’ll be happy to help nail them,” I said, and before Robin could volunteer to do this case on a pro bono basis, I explained our fee structure.

  “Alas, I am Fortune’s fool.” When Shakespeare found his purse and pulled it open to show he carried not a single penny within, l suggested we take our cut from the insurance settlement. I knew Sheyenne would be proud of me.

  CHAPTER 12

  More and more human tourists were coming to the Quarter, happy couples who strolled down the main streets and peeped into the windows of friendly shops that catered to various types of monsters.

  The Timeworn Treasures pawnshop was not one such place.

  No one would pass the pawnshop by happy accident. Timeworn Treasures was tucked in a gloomy side street off the gloomy main drag, a dingy and cluttered shop filled with other people’s junk. Customers, or victims, slunk down the main street, ducked into the alley when they thought no one was looking, and slipped through the front door to negotiate with the furry proprietor.

  I understood that people ran into tough times and had to resort to desperate measures to pay the bills, or get that operation, or buy the shiny new RV they wanted so badly. To me, a pawnshop was a repository of lost dreams, a place where customers surrendered their precious possessions as collateral for high-interest loans, often for pennies on the dollar, hoping to restore their finances in time to retrieve their valuables before someone else bought them. In extreme cases, they sold their items outright.

  That was how Jerry the zombie had lost his heart and soul.

  I straightened the collar of my sport jacket, tilted back the fedora on my head, and pulled open the door. I hoped the pawnbroker was a reasonable person who would react favorably to a business proposition. That way, I could take care of this quickly and cleanly for Mrs. Saldana.

  Unfortunately, the shop owner was a gremlin, the unnatural equivalent of a pack rat who loved to collect esoteric objects for the sole purpose of having them. A gremlin pawnbroker wasn’t interested in making a profit from buying and selling these objects; he just wanted to surround himself with them. I had seen an episode about gremlins and all their junk on Unnatural Hoarders.

  After entering the shop, I let my eyes adjust to the gloom. I saw shelf after shelf filled with items on display, arranged in no order that I could discern: used spell books, fat leather-bound volumes as well as the more compact paperback editions; bone china hors d’oeuvre plates and entertainment sets for coven get-togethers; a Maltese falcon with a price so ridiculously high that I didn’t dare touch it; next to it, a shriveled and curled monkey’s paw that was marked down at a discount: Special Offer This Week: Only One Wish Left.

  There were racks of moldering o
ld clothes and a jewelry case filled with fashionable rings, necklaces, brooches, and bracelets. Zombies and vampires fresh from the grave often found themselves in a tight financial spot, forced to pawn the jewelry and clothes in which they’d been buried for seed money to start a new unlife. Timeworn Treasures was one of the places they went.

  Propped on a high wooden stool behind a chicken-wire barrier sat the gremlin proprietor. He was only about three feet tall, average size for a gremlin, with tiny teeth, a pinched face, and tufts of fur in all the wrong places. He was not a member of the silly fictional species that you weren’t supposed to feed after midnight. This guy was an old-school gremlin, the type that liked to hitchhike aboard planes and rip the cowlings off engines or punch holes through wings. After strict airline safety regulations made such mischief a thing of the past, the gremlin had found himself a new career as a pawnbroker.

  “How can I help you?” he asked, his voice nasal, his words blurred at the edges as if his lips and tongue were still fighting off the effect of a dentist’s anesthesia. “Looking for anything in particular?”

  Not bothering to look at more shelves of what the gremlin classified as “timeworn treasures,” I fished out my business card. “Actually, I want to see you. Dan Chambeaux from Chambeaux and Deyer Investigations. A client asked me to make inquiries on his behalf.”

  With small, clawed fingers, the gremlin reached through a gap in the chicken wire, took the business card, and perused it with yellow slitted eyes. He made a gurgling rumble in his throat, halfway between a purr and a growl. I didn’t think it was an indication of anger or displeasure, just the fact that he was congested.

  He scootched his butt on the small chair, and I could see that his little legs dangled high above the floor and he wore no shoes on his furry feet. He set the card down, as if unimpressed, made a coughing harrumph, then picked up a dirty rag, dabbed it in a jar of silver polish, and began vigorously rubbing an inscribed silver chalice along with its accompanying silver-handled sacrificial dagger. Around him, other silver objects gleamed. Though the gremlin was little, he had bulging biceps, probably from vigorous and constant polishing.